The Lord I Left

by Scarlett Peckham

  He was relieved she hadn’t found it. God alone should be privy to the writings in that book.

  He must have dropped it somewhere else after he’d rushed off in his ooze of guilt. Losing it in some anonymous alley or bank-side muck would be infinitely preferable to losing it here. It would diminish his authority for such people to know the nature of his private struggles. And if they knew, they might expose him.

  He bowed and took a slip of paper from his pocket. “Please write to me at this address should it turn up. Thank you for your time. I must be on my way.”

  He moved toward the door, but before his fingers reached the knob, it flew open with such force that the wood cracked against the plaster wall behind it.

  He jumped back just in time to avoid being struck on the chin. The serving girl, Alice, rushed blindly past him toward her mistress’s desk, breathing like she’d taken a bullet to the lungs.

  Mistress Brearley stood abruptly. “Alice, what is it?”

  Before, the girl had always seemed impassive, betraying no emotion beside an occasional touch of perverse playfulness beneath the solemnity of her appearance. Her beauty was in the intelligence of her eyes, which danced in a way that made you long to know the private thoughts that made them flicker so.

  But now, her eyes were wild, and she clutched a piece of paper to her sparrow’s chest so tight that her knuckles glinted blue. Her hands, he noticed, were so small he could fold both of them inside one of his large paws. (But he should not be thinking of fleshly contact with a woman. Not ever, but especially not now, when the girl in question was so upset she could hardly breathe.)

  “It’s my mother,” Alice choked out. “She’s suffered an attack. Her heart. My sister writes—” she frantically shook her head, as if unable to speak the dire words aloud, and held the letter out to Mistress Brearley.

  “We expect she has but days,” Mistress Brearley read aloud. “Oh, my dear girl.”

  “My sympathies,” he murmured, without thinking.

  Alice whipped her head around, and he realized, belatedly, she had not noticed he was here.

  “Oh—I was not aware you had a—” She edged closer to her mistress without finishing the thought, her expression indicating she would have been more pleased to see a beggar pustuled in contagious pox than Henry.

  He no doubt deserved that look, and longed to shrink away, but the minister in him could not help but see the anguish in her shoulders and wish to comfort her.

  “Miss Alice, I’m so sorry you’ve had bad news.” He pushed a chair toward her, for she seemed unsteady on her feet. “You should sit down,” he said in a low, soothing voice. “You’ve had a shock. Perhaps you’d like to pray?”

  Alice looked up at him in bemusement, then quickly turned back to Elena without answering, as if she could not waste time in making sense of him. “I have to get back—my sisters …”

  Elena came and bolstered Alice against her arm, rubbing her back. She stood half a foot taller than the girl, whose head would not meet Henry’s breastbone.

  “I’ll need to find a mail coach right away,” Alice said, speaking rapidly. “It’s at least three days home and if I miss it today, I may not get there in time to—”

  A sound escaped her that was not speech so much as heartbreak.

  “Breathe, my girl,” Elena murmured. “I’ll have the boy run and fetch the timetables to Fleetwend while you pack.”

  Fleetwend. The name was familiar to Henry. He’d been there once, on a revival.

  “Fleetwend’s in Somerset, no?” he asked. “On the River Wythe?”

  Elena looked at him over Alice’s head. “Yes, that’s correct Alice, is it not?”

  Alice nodded a tearful assent into her sleeve.

  He felt a chill run up his spine. God is great.

  Her town was only a few hours’ drive beyond his father’s house. This was no coincidence. He had lost his journal for a reason: so that he might be in this very room, on this very day, when he happened to be on his way to Somerset just as a young woman found herself in desperate need of passage there.

  Joy in God’s providence warmed him like a flame had been kindled in his belly. He needed this. A reminder of the foundation of his faith.

  He inclined his head down to Alice’s height, so that he could speak softly to her. “I’m headed that way, Miss—” he did not know her surname.

  “Hull,” Mistress Brearley provided.

  “Miss Hull. If you do not mind traveling by open carriage in cold weather, it would be no trouble to take you to your family.”

  Her face twisted, in some reaction he could not precisely read, but which was not gratitude.

  “I could not impose upon your kindness.” Her eyes darted to Mistress Brearley’s, as though looking for confirmation.

  “’Tis no imposition whatsoever,” he said in his most reassuring voice. When she did not look soothed by his tone, he stepped nearer and tried a joke. “I’m a minister by training, Miss Hull. We never turn down the chance to play the Good Samaritan.”

  His quip did not a thing to ease her look of worry. She stepped backwards, away from him. He remembered, too late, that his prodigious stature was not often regarded as soothing by petite young women. He was crowding her. He moved away and rounded his shoulders, making himself smaller to give her space.

  “I’m afraid I can’t promise much comfort, but I can get you to your family by tomorrow evening. You have my word.”

  Alice once again gave a beseeching look to Mistress Brearley, but her employer looked reflectively at Henry. “Alice, the mail coach will take twice that much time in winter weather,” she said quietly. “You’d do well to consider Henry’s offer.”

  Some silent understanding passed from mistress to maid, and Alice dropped her shoulders, immediately acquiescing to her employer’s wishes.

  “Thank you,” she said, turning to him, her face resigned. “If you will grant me a moment, I will gather my things.”

  “Of course,” he said.

  She quickly left the room. Even in distress, her movements were as precise as the words of a poem. Not a single footstep wasted.

  “You are very gracious to look after her,” Mistress Brearley murmured, her eyes following Alice. “She’s the eldest child and the family will need her.”

  “’Tis my pleasure to do a kindness for a woman in need.”

  And a recompense, to make up for the sinful thoughts he’d had of her. And perhaps, more selfishly, a way to reassure himself he was still the godly man he wished to be. The one he had so nearly lost to the lapses that had gripped him this last year.

  He would get her home.

  He would not fail himself, nor Reverend Keeper, nor the Lord.

  Not again.

  Chapter 2

  Singing stops the tears, Alice’s father had taught her as a girl, whenever she’d skinned her knee or suffered a child’s momentary sadness. Sing a little song, and before you know it, you’ll be smiling. And so, as she climbed the steps to her room at the top of the house, she forced out the first tune that came to mind.

  * * *

  My Pin-Box is the Portion

  My Mother left with me;

  Which gains me much Promotion,

  And great Tranquility:

  It doth maintain me bravely,

  Although all Things are dear:

  I’ll not let out my Pin-Box

  F’less than forty Pounds a Year

  * * *

  Mama would murder her for singing vulgar tunes at such a time—take it as proof that despite her daughter’s supposed London polishing, Alice was still strange, like Papa’s people. Even in the best of times, Mama’d hated the broadsheet ditties Alice’s father had always hummed as he’d tinkered in his workshop. Her mother preferred ballads. The kind about death and doomed love affairs and the forgiveness of the Lord.

  But none of those subjects were likely to keep Alice from crying, so she opened the door to her chamber and sang the next verse loud
er as she found her traveling satchel and began to gather her possessions.

  * * *

  My Pin-Box is a Treasure

  Which many Men delights;

  For therewith I can pleasure

  Both Earls, Lords, and Knights,

  If they do use my Pin-Box,

  They will not think it dear,

  Although that it doth cost them

  A hundred Pounds a Year.

  * * *

  Her voice caught as she yanked her formal receiving dress from its hook. It had been made for answering the door at Charlotte Street. She would likely need it for her mother’s funeral.

  Her mother’s funeral.

  Her hands shook too badly to fold the garment properly. She pressed her face into the fabric.

  How could this be? A month ago her mother had been her usual forceful self, sending preserves and knitted mittens and a pointed letter declaring it time for Alice to come home and have herself made Mrs. William Thatcher before some other, cleverer, girl claimed the title first.

  Alice had resented it, this unsubtle hint that she should end her time in London and return to the drab life that awaited her in Fleetwend, where everyone thought her perverse and loose and willful. She’d made excuses not to come for Christmas, sending a box of candied cherries in her stead.

  Candied cherries. Of all the awful things.

  She’d thought if she stayed away long enough her mother might come to prefer the money her daughter sent home from London to the prospect of William Thatcher for a son-in-law.

  And if not, she’d thought that she had time to seek forgiveness.

  Years and years to make her case by a slow process of simply not returning.

  But she’d been wrong. If the doctor was correct in his assessment, her mother had, at most, a week.

  She pulled her trunk from beneath the bed and rummaged through her letters and books until she found a silver chain buried at the bottom. She fished it out and rubbed the harp-shaped pendant on her dress. Her father had given this necklace to her mother when they’d married. When Alice left for London, her mother had pressed it into her palm. He loved you so, child. And so do I. Don’t forget it. A sentiment so shocking in its uncharacteristic sweetness that she’d not been able to answer. She’d buried the necklace in her trunk and hadn’t looked at it since she’d arrived here.

  Now it was dull and tarnished.

  She kissed the little harp, feeling like the most ungrateful girl who’d ever lived. “Forgive me, Mama,” she whispered, looping the chain around her head and under the high collar of her dress. “Wait for me.” Her voice was hoarse with the sadness that seemed determined to seep out as tears, so she squeezed her eyes shut and started up another verse.

  * * *

  I Have a gallant Pin-Box,

  The like you ne’er did see,

  It is where never was the Pox,

  Something above my Knee:

  O ’tis a gallant Pin-Box,

  You never saw the Peer;

  Then would not want my Pin-Box

  For forty Pounds a Year.

  * * *

  Elena peered into the room, holding a cloak. “Oh, Alice. Only you would sing bawdy songs with grief.” Her mistress’s face, usually as serene as the surface of the moon, was taut with concern.

  Alice shrugged, grateful that Elena never cared when her behavior was strange. “Better to sing than to weep.”

  Elena looked at her tenderly, like she was going to embrace her. Alice shook her head and darted over to rummage in her satchel, because Elena’s kindness would make the tears fall down, and once they came they wouldn’t stop.

  Elena knew her well enough not to press emotion on her. She tipped up Alice’s chin instead. “In any case,” she said with a sly smile, “don’t let Henry Evesham hear you singing about your pin-box.”

  The thought of shocking the judgmental lord lieutenant lifted Alice’s mood. She returned Elena’s mischievous expression and leaned into her ear to sing her favorite verse.

  * * *

  The Parson and the Vicar,

  Though they are holy Men,

  Yet no Man e’er is quicker

  To use my Pin-Box, when

  They think no Man doth know it;

  For that is all their Fear

  Although that it doth cost them

  A hundred Pounds a Year.

  * * *

  Elena threw back her head and laughed. “Hush! If Evesham hears you, the poor man will go running for the street again.”

  “The poor man,” Alice scoffed. “Please. It’s scarcely worse than the filth he wrote in his paper.”

  Evesham had found fame as the editor of the evangelical news rag Saints & Satyrs, which he used as a pulpit to decry London’s sins and vices. He’d nearly exposed this club two years before, riding the pressure on their necks to a plum position for himself with the House of Lords, who’d made him a lieutenant tasked with investigating the flesh trade.

  “Do you really think it’s wise for me to travel with him? After all he’s done to us?”

  Alice had been horrified when her mistress had invited Evesham to the establishment to learn more about their practices. He’d promised them discretion, but the more he knew about this place, the more evidence he had to imperil all their lives.

  Elena just smiled in that mysterious way she had, like she’d already read the ending to the story of your life. “He’s the pious sort, Alice, but I suspect he’s a decent man. You’ll be safe with him.”

  “I don’t doubt for my safety. Just my sanity, stuck beside a sneering Puritan.”

  “I believe he’s a Methodist,” Elena said mildly.

  “Whatever he is, he looks at me like rancid meat, and I am too distraught to pretend to be pleasant to him.” Her voice quavered. She was tempted to sing another verse about her pin-box to steady herself.

  Elena only shrugged. “Well, you ought to try. He’s traveling to the countryside to write his report, and I sense he’s still undecided on his findings. Perhaps you can help sway him to the merits of reform. You’ll have the advantage of the final word. It could be an opportunity.”

  Alice did not need to be reminded that Evesham had the power to make things far more difficult for them if he urged harsher laws. She was flattered her mistress thought her capable of influencing his views. But she did not for a moment believe it to be true.

  “I doubt the lofty lord lieutenant would welcome my opinions on the law. He acts like merely breathing the same air as me is sinful.”

  “You might be surprised,” Elena said. “You never know what lurks beneath the surface of a man.” She paused, and bit her lip. “Though, perhaps you’ll agree his surface is … remarkable. Ironic, that a man so disdainful of the flesh should be so singularly blessed in its bounty.”

  Alice groaned, relieved she wasn’t the only one who’d noticed Evesham’s looks—his burly arms, his lantern jaw, the almost obscene fullness of his thighs beneath his breeches.

  She shot Elena the smallest hint of a smile. “It isn’t right, a man like him looking like that.”

  Elena’s eyes twinkled. “At least you will be able to enjoy the scenery he provides, if not the company.” She held out the cloak. “Here, take this for the journey. It’s terribly cold.”

  Alice took the heavy garment, a lustrous, purple velvet lined with ermine. It was the kind of robe a queen might wear—no doubt one of the many outrageously fine gifts from Lord Avondale that Elena stored unused and unacknowledged in her dressing room. Elena found Avondale’s relentless attempts to win her affection tiresome, but Alice thought the intensity of his devotion to his whipping governess was rather touching.

  What do you want, Alice? Mama was always demanding in her letters. You’re never satisfied. Here, she’d found it. She wanted a life like Elena’s. Freedom to rule over a kingdom of her own, surrounded by people who would delight in her eccentricity, rather than wishing it away.

  Elena patted her hand. “Come.
Evesham is waiting. Write to me as soon as you can and take the time you need with your family. We’ll delay your training until you are able to return.”

  Alice nodded. She did not say what she feared: that her training as a governess would never happen, for the life she had been planning would not be possible if her mother died.

  She wouldn’t think of that right now. For now, she must simply get home.

  She followed Elena down the stairs, pausing at a shelf of books the artisans here passed among themselves. She treasured this modest collection of well-paged tomes on history and philosophy. The presence of ideas had been a second form of payment here, and the one she’d miss the most. She grabbed two volumes she’d not yet read, not much caring what they were, and tucked them in her bag.

  Downstairs, Evesham was waiting by the stairs. His bright green eyes rose at the sound of her footsteps. “Ah. There you are. Allow me to take your bag.”

  He lifted it as though it were no heavier than a house cat. Perversely, she felt a little thrum at the sight of his long legs ambling toward the door. Perhaps because she had the stature of a dormouse, something in her always lit up in the presence of large men.

  She immediately snuffed it out. She would not do Henry Evesham the great honor of lusting after him.

  “The groom brought Henry’s curricle around,” Elena said. “And Mary will bring some bricks to warm you.”

  Alice stepped out the door to see a vehicle more fit for a fashionable gentleman of leisure than a renegading man of God—a slight, gold-lacquered thing on thin wheels pulled by two elegant horses.

  Evesham held out his hand to help her step from the mounting block to the seat. Noting her expression, he let out a sheepish laugh. “Not what you were expecting.”

  Alice shook her head, surprised he was perceptive enough to see what she’d been thinking.