The Queen’s Arms sat opposite the Floral Hall, an exquisite display of glass and iron. By contrast, the small pub was dingy and run-down. At night, the place indulged a most distasteful crowd of individuals.
On the third day of our stakeout, already impatient from waiting around, I decided to take action.
“I’m going to nip over and get us a bite from the market, Emma, do you want to come?” Eileen asked.
“No, I’ll wait here just in case,” I lied. I knew if I told her I was going in she would surely forbid it and I wasn’t in the mood for confrontation. My plan was simple. Go in and ask about Mr. White. Done.
The smell of stale beer hit me as soon as I opened the door.
Not at all rustic and charming like some of the country pubs. It was dark and dank.
A few men sat at the bar nursing pints of ale. Eyes downcast, not a lively crowd. These were men with troubles, that was the feeling.
The man behind the bar gave me a sideways glance. “Are you lost, love?”
His question caused some of the other patrons to take notice.
“No, I believe I’m exactly where I want to be.” My hackles rose at the man’s condescending tone. “Can I have a pint of ale?”
“Sorry, miss, but have you not read the sign above the door?” he said, pointing. “‘Gents only,’ it says. I’m afraid you’ll have to leave.”
“Right, well, before I do, I was wondering if you could help me with something. I’m looking for an old friend of mine, a Mr. William White, and I have reason to believe that he comes here.”
“What do you want him for?” a large burly man asked from the other side of the bar.
He stood and walked towards me, revealing a severely pockmarked face. His manner was grotesque. Not too dissimilar from Mr. Jacob’s. My heart beat a little faster.
Maybe my mother was right. Maybe this had been a bad idea.
“What’s a handsome lady like you doing in a place like this unaccompanied and in the middle of the day?” he jeered.
“Only making an inquiry, sir, not that it should be your concern,” I said with confidence I did not feel. My hand rested on the hard surface of my knife inside my jacket.
“Well, it does concern me, you see, when you’ve come calling on my mate.”
I hadn’t seen that coming. Oh, shit!
His large frame crowded me towards the corner of the bar. None of the other patrons came to my defense.
A small bell alerted that another customer had just walked in, but my back was to the door.
“Ah, Mr. Pluckrose—”
Henry’s voice caught me by surprise and I turned towards him. His own expression was one of shock at seeing me there.
“Henry?” I blurted, half relief and half surprise.
“Mr. Bromsgrove,” Mr. Pluckrose said at the same time.
Henry flashed a stilted smile.
Mr. Pluckrose, sensing that something was untoward, made a move to grab me. But before I’d even managed to free my pocket knife, Mr. Pluckrose went crashing to the ground.
With his cane still in the air and a most satisfied grin, Henry took my hand and pulled me out of the pub.
What in the devil? Who was this guy? What had happened to Henry the gentleman?
I kind of liked this other side of him, looking disheveled and tough. A rogue.
We hurried down the street and smacked right into a man.
“Excuse us,” Henry said politely, hardly taking notice of him, more preoccupied with fleeing the scene of danger.
And then I realized that the man was none other than Mr. William White.
“William!”
He turned to look at me, recognition flashing across his face.
“Mr. White?” Henry said with a certain amount of surprise, never having laid eyes on the fellow before.
And just like that Mr. White took off running towards the market, hoping to lose himself in the crowds.
Without even a second thought, Henry and I took off after him.
William ran right through the market and straight down Barleigh Street. A couple of times he looked back to see if we were still on his tail.
Dodging carriages, we raced across the Strand and then saw him heading for Waterloo Bridge.
Henry, an impressively fast sprinter, was easily fifty yards ahead of me and gaining steadily on poor William, who seemed to be losing momentum.
It was hard to keep up running in a dress. If I’d had my ASICS shoes and Lululemon running gear I’d have creamed both men, I was sure of it.
But Henry seemed like a man possessed. He did not falter even with his injured leg. It was as if the adrenaline had caused him to forget it completely.
Crowds of people had stopped in their tracks to enjoy the spectacle.
The constables, a little late in the game, caught on and their shrill whistles could be heard behind us.
William hit the bridge first with Henry not far behind.
Once I was a third of the way, Henry caught up to William at the halfway mark. Both men were breathless but I could tell that words were being exchanged.
As I drew closer, the only words I caught was Mr. White yelling, “I’ll not allow you to take me alive,” before throwing himself off the bridge.
I stumbled only a few more steps before I collapsed from the shock.
Henry immediately searched for me through the growing crowd of gawkers, who looked down to the River Thames with horrified fascination.
The first constable reached me at the same time Henry did.
“Are you okay, miss?” the constable asked with concern.
No, I wasn’t at all. Our last hope of proof had gone. Not to mention the violence of it all.
Waterloo Bridge with its nine arches was known as a preferred place for suicides and I could see why. The drop was significant with little chance of survival. Pretty much a sure thing.
“Yes, thank you,” I lied.
With his hand firmly under my arm, Henry helped me to my feet. His lips brushed the top of my hair in a strictly taboo public display of affection.
His arm snaked around my waist as we made our way back towards the market.
“Had he stolen something from you, sir?” the constable called out to Henry.
“I suppose he has, sir,” Henry said, a feeling of loss echoing through his words.
His limp was far more exaggerated. Clearly he could feel the pain.
Both of us could.
Chapter 34
What Now?
“Do you not see how foolish that was, Miss Clayton?”
Henry had brought Emma and her mother back to his townhouse. The resemblance between them was alarming. More alarming still was their close proximity in age. A mere six years. That alone threw him for a loop.
“Emma,” she corrected. “And what about you? Who is this Mr. Bromsgrove you were pretending to be?” Emma shot back, a small smile tugging on her lips.
“I don’t see the humor in this,” Henry said in a huff. “You were in grave danger. Why did you come to London? In my letter I told you I had things in hand and I’d come for you once it was sorted. Why would you completely disregard my request?”
“Your letter?” Emma looked puzzled. “I didn’t get a letter.”
Eileen took a sudden interest in the eighteenth-century porcelain vase she was seated next to.
Both Henry and Emma noticed.
“Mom?”
“Yes, sweetheart?” she answered as if she hadn’t been listening to their conversation.
“Did you by any chance come across a letter from Henry before we came to London?”
Henry’s eyes bounced between the two virtually identical woman, their distinctly different accents one of the few indications as to their identity. Eileen had a refined, educated English accent to Emma’s subtle American one.
“Honey, must you bog me down with such details? There are so many—”
“Did you?” Emma was clearly not in the mood to be side
stepped.
“Yes, I did.” Eileen gave an apologetic half-smile.
“Why?” Her voice was suddenly like thunder. Henry himself felt quite startled by the shift. He’d remembered how suddenly she’d turned on him at the inn.
“I did it to protect you, believe me. I had your best interests at heart.” Eileen sounded pleading. “Please don’t take offense, Lord Drake, I’m sure you’re lovely.”
“No one has my best interests at heart except for me! Everyone keeps telling me what is best and what I have to do but I don’t want to hear it. This is my life and you”—Emma gestured to both Eileen and Henry—“don’t get to decide that for me, understood?”
Both of them nodded.
“Jesus Christ, Mom,” Emma continued on her tirade. “I trusted you. If you’re going to suddenly appear in my life again we need to get a few things straight. I am not eight years old anymore and I don’t need you to fix things for me, but instead just be there for me if they fall apart.”
Henry was slightly terrified of this new Emma and aroused by her at the same time.
“I’m truly sorry, honey.” Eileen walked towards her daughter and folded her into her arms.
“Now that we have that sorted, I am desperate for a peanut butter sandwich.”
Henry and Eileen cringed. That sounded positively revolting.
“I’d settle for a scone,” Emma said hopefully.
“That, my dearest, could be arranged.” His hand brushed her cheek affectionately.
None of them had brought up Mr. White’s premature demise. His unforeseen plunge into the River Thames had certainly dashed their hopes short of a confession from Henry’s sister, which was as likely as pulling hair from a bald man’s head.
With everything lost, what future could he ever hope to have with Emma?
The thought of losing her tore holes in his chest, making even his breathing feel stilted. He would sacrifice everything for her. Every fiber of his being told him that. Perhaps their only option was to leave England and build a life somewhere far away. He was an educated man, could find employment. They would not live a life of privilege but they could live together. Maybe even go to America—a terrifying idea to Henry, but he would do it if it meant that he could be with her.
“Darling, now that our prospects have taken a turn, I’ve been considering our options,” Henry said delicately.
“Henry, you can do what you must with my blessing but please don’t ask me to be your whore,” Emma said with a tinge of sadness in her voice.
Henry could feel his eyes bulge at the mere suggestion of something so vulgar and so far from his character.
“Why on earth would you consider that something I might even suggest? Honestly, Miss Clayton, I’m appalled and quite frankly insulted.”
“Well, to me, a kept woman is someone you pay for and have your way with when it’s convenient.”
Eileen smirked in her hand as Henry’s expression showed absolute disgust.
“Never have I given you the impression that I meant to treat you with such disregard.”
“You may not have said the words specifically but that was the general idea.” Emma’s eyes narrowed in a challenging manner.
Henry stood still for a moment and then walked towards the window. He felt at a loss for words.
Was this what she thought his feelings were for her? Did she think him capable of such things?
The world she came from was obviously vastly different. She needed to understand the depth of his feelings for her, how he craved her body and soul for all eternity and through all time.
With a slight limp in his gait he walked to Emma and knelt down in front her, taking her hand in his. He could tell that Eileen studied him with curiosity but he did not care.
“Emma, I wish to be joined with you for all time. To be your joy, your lover and your equal,” he said with a broad smile. “I will not rest until I make you the happiest woman in the world. Our child, which was made with all the love I have for you, will be adored and cherished for as long as I have air to breathe.”
Emma’s free hand cradled his face.
“You will never doubt my devotion and adoration. Our souls and bodies will be joined until my last days. I never wish to be parted from you from this day forth if you’ll accept me.”
There was a moment between them.
Would she reject him?
“Now that was a proposal.” Emma’s eyes were full of emotion. “Henry, I accept.”
He kissed the hand that he was holding tenderly and then stood abruptly.
“Well, now that that’s been sorted, no more talk of vulgar things. As our current situation with my father has not changed, we need to consider the possibility of moving to… America.”
“Wait… what?” Emma exclaimed.
“You’re not serious!” Eileen interjected.
“I don’t see another option.” Henry ran his hand through his hair. “We could go to France, but my French is hardly adequate.”
“Before we jump the gun, I do have an idea,” Emma said with a smile.
While he’d no idea what she meant about jumping guns, he knew with absolute certainty that he did not like the sound of it.
“How long do we have before your sister learns of Mr. White’s untimely death?”
Henry puzzled over the question.
“She’s only just returned to Farthington Manor, I was told, and being not too fond of reading the paper, I’m guessing the gossip should reach her in about three days.” Henry shrugged.
He wasn’t sure he liked the glimmer in Emma’s eyes. It certainly meant that she was plotting something.
God help him!
“That should be perfect!”
Emma rubbed her hands together.
Chapter 35
The Grieving Daughter
Isobel plunged the cloth in cold water once again, wringing it out before dabbing her mother’s brow.
What a bore, she thought. How long was she expected to play the doting daughter? Why did her brother not have to take a turn?
She knew very well that if she was going to be the center of attention should her mother pass then she needed to seem devoted. How long could these things take?
Lost in thought, she imagined the scene playing out before her. Her mother’s body dressed in her finest and laid out for all to pay their respects. Isobel would be unable to leave her side, her beautiful black gown displaying her figure to the best advantage. The tears would be a continuous flow.
All those who paid their respects would give her words of encouragement and condolence. Mr. Dudley would surely make the trip. Alone, as his wife would be too frail for such a journey. His eyes would catch hers and he would come to her side just in time to catch her as she swooned.
A moan interrupted her otherwise perfect daydream. She looked at her mother with annoyance.
“Isobel?” her mother’s weak voice called out. Her hand flailed, looking for something to grab hold of.
Is this the end?
Are these to be her last dying words?
“Yes, it’s me,” Isobel said encouragingly as she took her mother’s hand in hers.
“Would you get Edmund? I want to see him.” Her mother’s words took all of her energy.
A sudden thought of smothering her with a pillow drifted through Isobel’s mind. It would be so easy and take nearly no time at all. Of course, there was always the possibility of discovery. She’d hardly be able to play the grieving daughter then.
She bit down a wave of frustration and rose to fetch her useless half-brother.
Drat!
When would the torture end?
Once at the doorway she called out for one of the maids.
“Could you fetch Edmund, please?”
“Yes, Lady Isobel, right away.” The young maid bowed and hurried away in haste.
For several days fever had ravaged her mother’s small frame. Surely the woman couldn’t go on like this for much longer.<
br />
Mrs. Barnsby arrived carrying a tray of food. She brought the tray in without a word to Isobel and settled it on a nearby table.
“Would you be feeding her this evening, Lady Isobel, or would you like me to do the honors?”
“I’m afraid I’m quite exhausted at present, Mrs. Barnsby, and would hate to deny you the privilege.”
In reality she couldn’t bear to watch the soup dribble down her mother’s chin like a small child. Not to mention the possibility of ruining one of her favorite dresses.
“I see, you must be quite tired indeed from these last ten minutes at your mother’s side. Do rest yourself, dear.”
“Very well, thank you, Mrs. Barnsby, I shall do just that.”
“A letter has come for you,” Mrs. Barnsby said, digging it out of her cream apron.
Isobel took it greedily, hoping, praying it was from Mr. Dudley. Her fingers moved quickly to rip the seal.
Disappointment flooded her at the realization it was from Mr. White.
Perhaps her previous love letter had done more than satisfy him for a time, it had invigorated his feelings towards her with renewed passion.
He wished to meet in Oxwich?
What a fool!
This had to end. He needed to be put to pasture, but how?
It would have to be done delicately, she realized, otherwise she risked him spreading lies about her character. Lies that would involve her with Mr. Jacob and her brother’s shooting.
She had to meet him tomorrow. Perhaps she could lead him to believe she was quite ill and would not see the year’s end. That he should abandon all hope of having a future together.
He would then feel sorry for her. That could work to her advantage.
She congratulated herself on being so clever.
With renewed vigor, she went to her bedchamber to respond to Mr. White’s letter.
So far the weather had managed to hold. Large dark clouds threatened a downpour any minute.
Isobel arrived at the small stone bridge in Buleigh Common ahead of schedule. The town of Oxwich was bustling with its usual Sunday market and so she was relieved to meet in a deserted location.
The Wayfarer's Daughter: A Time Travel Romance (The Wayfarer Series Book 2) Page 14