The Lord I Left

by Scarlett Peckham

  “Not my usual conveyance,” he allowed, smiling. “It’s borrowed—but it’s built for speed. We’ll be in Fleetwend by tomorrow night with any luck.”

  He stepped up into the curricle, causing the entire seat to shift with his size, and Alice to topple against his shoulders, which were as wide as two of her.

  “My apologies,” he murmured, whipping his arm to his side like she might pollute his clothing.

  She inched away, offended that he should recoil when it had been him who jostled her. She tucked herself into Elena Brearley’s regal ermine, wishing it could protect her pride from his judgement.

  Mary, the old cook, came and piled steaming bricks around Alice’s feet, and a warm flask in her lap. “Cider for the chill.” She lowered her voice. “With a touch of gin in it to warm you, if the likes of hisself will let ye touch the stuff.”

  Mary shared Alice’s opinions on the wisdom of consorting with the likes of Henry Evesham. All the servants did.

  Henry smiled at Mary. “One could not judge Miss Hull for drinking whatever she likes in such circumstances,” he said in a kindly tone.

  Alice glanced over at him. His cheeks were flushed. She wondered if he made this false display of charm because he was embarrassed he had flinched from her. Or perhaps it was because he sensed how everyone here resented him for the way he had threatened their livelihoods and walked about their home as if it—they—might infect him with low morals.

  She took Mary’s hand and squeezed it. “Thank you.”

  “I’ll be thinking of you, child,” Mary said.

  Elena held up a hand. “We all will. Travel safely.”

  “Onward, then,” Henry said, taking the reins. “You must be eager to get home.”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  But as Charlotte Street receded behind them and the curricle wobbled its way over the cobbles heading north, she knew it was a lie. It had been years since she’d thought of home with anything like longing. The tension between herself and her mother had grown so sharp after her father’s death it had been like the pitch of tuning fork, a note that always trembled in the air. Don’t be odd, you little changeling. Stop wandering off, don’t mourn so, never look at men that way. You’ll become unruly like Papa’s people and give your sisters strange ideas.

  She was not ready to leave Charlotte Street.

  Because she knew—had always known—what leaving here would mean.

  It would be a kind of death. And she wasn’t ready.

  She’d only just begun to feel alive.

  She shut her eyes and began to hum a filthy song about a high-prized pin-box, if only so she would not weep.

  Chapter 3

  Henry’s father had often bitterly complained that Henry was so dogged in his principles he ran roughshod over practical reality. Observing Alice Hull hunched to the furthest edge of the curricle, shrouded in her cloak and humming joylessly beneath her breath, he wondered if perhaps he’d been over-moved by the spirit in insisting on driving this young woman in a small vehicle on a two-day journey in bad weather.

  It was clear she loathed him.

  He held himself rigid, hoping if he kept his elbows wedged against his sides, kept his knees pressed up to his breastbone like a mantis, he might demonstrate he desired nothing more than her comfort, and win some small measure of her trust.

  But she had not so much as looked at him. They’d been on the road ten minutes, and he was already sore.

  He distracted himself with trying to make out the tune she hummed. He didn’t recognize the melody, but there was a pleasant timbre to her voice. He wondered if she hummed to fill the silence—and if so, if he should speak to her.

  But what should he say? The rude way he behaved last week would make the usual pleasantries seem awkward, but to acknowledge the rudeness seemed more awkward still. Normally he took pains to move through the world respectfully, even when he disapproved of the parts of it he walked through. But that day last week, he’d been in such a state that he’d run all the way from Mary-le-Bone to the Thames and then across the bridge to Southwark, repeating Reverend Keeper’s counsel in his head: vigorous exercise quiets an unruly mind.

  It hadn’t worked.

  A gentle rain began to fall, veering sideways in the chilly wind. He glanced at Alice, worried she’d be cold. She looked like she was trying not to cry.

  Poor girl. What would ease his mind, were he in her position?

  Prayer.

  But he was not her minister, and she hadn’t asked, and he did not wish to be presumptuous. Better to begin with lighter conversation.

  “What’s that song you’re humming?” he asked her.

  “You wouldn’t know it,” she said. She did not resume the tune, and the silence between them seemed heavier than the clop of the horses’ shoes against the cobbles.

  “I didn’t mean to stop you. You have a lovely voice.”

  She said nothing. Her silence was excruciating.

  “I’d planned to stop for the night in West Eckdale,” he told her. “There’s a pleasant inn there, if that’s agreeable to you.”

  She nodded.

  “And we’ll take luncheon at a public house at noon. Though tell me if you’d like to stop before then for your comfort.”

  As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted the intimacy of what he’d just suggested, for they were little more than strangers. He wracked his mind for something more to say, but he’d only ever conversed with fallen women to interview them about their work, or to pray with them when they came to him in supplication, wishing for God’s forgiveness. He could not fathom what he and Alice Hull might have in common.

  He wished he had not spoken to her at all.

  The curricle hit a puddle that he hadn’t seen, tossing them both up an inch into the air. He landed back on the padded bench with a thud, his arm falling heavily on Alice’s. Her teeth clicked with the impact.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, scrambling away so as not to crush her.

  But it was too late, because he’d already felt the softness of her cloak, the slightness of her body beneath it. Already noticed that she smelled sweet, like milky tea with honey.

  He did not allow himself sweet things.

  (Not anymore.)

  “I’m fine,” Alice said, scooting so close to the side of the curricle that she was nearly hanging out the door.

  “Had I known I would have a passenger, I would have hired a more spacious chaise for the journey.”

  “I’m grateful for any transport. You need not concern yourself with my comfort.” She was polite, but stiffly so, as if the effort of being civil caused her strain. He wondered if this was due to her grief, or her suspicion of him.

  “In that case, I’ll focus on my own discomfort,” he said, shooting a rueful grimace at his knees. “I feel like a grasshopper in knee breeches, crammed into this little cart.”

  She turned to him and smiled, a sly smile, like a cat might wear. “Aye. Quite a delicate contraption for journeying on country roads in winter, this.”

  She was just polite enough not to mention that the situation was made worse by the fact he was a giant. Kind of her.

  Her voice held the Somerset twang he had grown up with, and her words the bluntness he knew well from his father’s people. He didn’t mind her directness. He was pleased she was saying anything at all.

  “Yes, it’s quite a delicate gig for going anywhere,” he agreed. “I borrowed it from Lord Apthorp to economize on the expense of travel. I’m saving to marry, once I’ve fulfilled my duties to the Lords.”

  He flushed. Why had he told her that?

  “Congratulations,” she said tonelessly.

  He flushed deeper, realizing she’d misunderstood him. “Oh. No, I have not yet had the honor of asking for a lady’s hand. I meant only that I intend to … to find a helpmeet and start a family of my own. Soon.”

  Reverend Keeper had counseled him to marry, urgently, to avoid another scorching laps
e. ’Tis better to marry, Henry, than to burn.

  He glanced at Alice again, to see if she had reacted to his strange admission, but she just stared out at the passing streets, like he’d said nothing. She no doubt had more pressing things on her mind than his bachelor status. He was being an oaf, babbling about himself. He offered her the only comfort he could think of.

  “Alice, would you like to say a prayer? For your mother?”

  She looked down at her lap, her face inscrutable. “If what my sister wrote is true, my mother is past the point of prayer.”

  “Prayer is not merely to ask comfort for the ill, but also solace for the bereaved.”

  “I don’t pray,” she said flatly.

  How impossibly sad. “That need not stop you now,” he assured her. “It is never too late to seek a relationship with God. Or to re-sow the field, if it has fallen fallow, as it were.”

  “With respect, Mr. Evesham,” she said curtly, “I am long past saving.”

  His heart ached at so young a person believing she had consigned herself to Hell. The vehemence of her voice bespoke a history. People did not turn their backs on God without a reason, and sometimes that reason was in fact the way towards faith.

  Was this part of the Lord’s plan? Had Alice been put in his path for a greater purpose than mere transportation? Was he meant to remind her of God’s love?

  He hesitated, thinking of a delicate way to tell her no one was past saving. But suddenly she turned and looked him directly in the eye for the first time since they’d left Charlotte Street.

  “But then, you know that already, don’t you, Lord Lieutenant? Your views on my character seemed clear enough last week.”

  Her eyes held his, demanding he acknowledge her words.

  Demanding he remember what he’d sworn to himself he would not think about again.

  His cheeks went hot.

  He had offended her by not acknowledging what had happened. A misjudgment, for of course it was better to make amends than sit in silent guilt, and to convince himself otherwise was intellectual dishonesty. He’d chosen his comfort over hers. He must make it right.

  “Miss Hull, I worried it would be ungentlemanly of me to even speak of such a thing, so forgive my silence, but I am sorry for my unmannerly behavior last week. It weighs on me. You were only doing me a courtesy and I regret the disrespect I showed to you by leaving so suddenly.”

  The resentment in her expression become something sharper, like amusement. “Quite a mouth you have on you, Lord Lieutenant. Right poetry.”

  He was taken aback. “Well, I am a minister. We do sermonize.”

  “And I keep order at a whipping house. You need not apologize to the likes of me. I’ve seen far worse behavior than a scandalized man running away in fear. But let’s not pretend you think I’m the type for prayers.”

  Oh, bother and bog. He’d made it worse.

  “I was not afraid,” he felt compelled to say, though his tone sounded fussy even to his own ears. “Not precisely.”

  In truth, he had been terrified—not of her, but of himself. But he certainly could not explain the distinction, for her comfort on this journey would not improve if she knew what he’d been thinking, then and after, night after night.

  “Ah. Ashamed, then?” she countered.

  And then it was his turn to stare fixedly, determinedly ahead in silence.

  For maybe she already knew what he’d truly been thinking as he’d fled.

  And that would be far, far worse.

  Chapter 4

  Her accusation quieted the lord lieutenant.

  Good.

  Prayer was Alice’s least favorite topic, and she did not wish to discuss her low opinion of the Church with the likes of Henry Evesham. She preferred to spend her final moments in London taking in the crowds and shops and smells and sounds of life. She already mourned the barkers’ cries and the clattering of carts, the lopsided eaves and medieval walls and twisting alleys in which one could get lost half a mile from one’s doors.

  She should be grieving for her mother, but what she grieved was London.

  “Do you attend a church, Miss Hull?” Henry asked.

  She tore her eyes away from the streets, begrudging his intrusion into her sadness. The man’s determination to engage her on religion was so relentless she would be impressed by his determination, were she disposed to credit him with any favorable quality aside from looks.

  “No.”

  “I saw you looking at that chapel—” he gestured at a church she’d scarcely noticed they were passing— “and I thought to mention that if you are looking for a congregation, I worship with many former members of your trade.”

  Members of her trade? She knew what he implied, but she disliked that he would not say the words directly, like they would filthy up his mouth.

  “You worship with other housekeepers?”

  He furrowed his brow. “I meant…” He coughed. “Er, that is, prostitutes.”

  “I’m not a whore, as it happens,” she drawled, not because she cared that he might think she was, but because it would be pleasant to embarrass him for making the wrong assumption. “My wicked nature extends to giving tours and polishing keys.”

  Of course, she was training to do more. But the precise nature of her ambitions seemed irrelevant, now that she was doomed to be an organ maker’s wife in Fleetwend. A fate from which church, unfortunately, could not deliver her.

  “My apologies,” he said quickly. “I only mentioned it because many of the girls I’ve met during my interviews feel they are estranged from God by the nature of their livelihood, and they needn’t be. You could attend a meeting, if you desire an accepting place to worship.”

  “Lord Lieutenant, what women like myself are most commonly estranged from is a decent income. Whoredom is not caused by a lack of faith in God. It’s caused by the desire to eat. You’d do well to understand this, if you wish to improve our lot with your report.”

  He straightened, clearly taking umbrage. “I do understand that the motive to sin is complicated. It always is. I did not mean to imply otherwise. I run a charity for prostitutes, and their welfare is important to me. I merely wanted to offer you—”

  She held up a hand. “Sir, if your intention is to preach to me on this journey, I shall have to take my chances with the mail coach. I am grateful for your offer to drive me home, but my soul is not your concern.”

  Her voice rose more than she liked. She knew she should be doing what Elena said, trying to make a friend of him, to influence his views. But the clergy had lost her good opinion long ago, and she lacked the patience in her current state of agitation to feign tolerance for foolish bluster.

  Henry looked like he’d been slapped. “I see. Forgive the intrusion.”

  He looked back out of the road, rearranging his face into a bland expression. She disliked how good he was at that—covering up his pique. She’d never had the skill of hiding her own feelings. She comforted herself that his face was not nearly so intriguing when he made it so unfeeling, and she was less inclined to steal glances at him and wonder who this ‘helpmeet’ was he wished to marry.

  She could gaze at London instead. The streets were wider now that they neared the edge of town, lined with trees and farms instead of people. Her grief expanded with the open road. London was the opposite of Fleetwend, where every encounter in the village square was heavy with familiarity that went back generations. Somehow, she’d left the place her people had lived for a century and found herself at home.

  And just as suddenly as she’d found it, she was leaving it.

  She knew she would not have this place again. The furtive, selfish steps she’d been taking to make her life here permanent would not work if her sisters were orphaned. They could not afford her mouther’s house without her widow’s annuity, and even if they could, Eliza was too young to look after it alone. The girls were Alice’s to care for, and she could not care for them while training to be a governess.
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br />   It had been wild to consider it. She’d always known her real future was in Fleetwend. But she had not known, before she left, that there was another world—one that dazzled her, filled her mind with so many thoughts she sometimes felt like she was flying through the air.

  She wished she had not learned.

  To know and give it up was so much worse than never having known of it at all.

  She began to hum the tune about the pin-box. Henry Evesham drove in silence.

  Except for the rumbling of his stomach.

  She pretended not to hear the sound, but she noticed him go pink at the evidence of his mortal body needing sustenance. He said nothing, but after an hour of this he cleared his throat.

  “I could use refreshment,” he said. “Would you like to stop for luncheon?” He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, as though he was nervous to look at her full on.

  “The very idea of food makes me feel sick,” she said, without thinking.

  He looked at her with alarm, like he had mistakenly offered her poison instead of nourishment. Oh dear. She had not meant to snap at him. Politeness was apparently beyond her in this state. Sense was beyond her.

  “But you must eat,” she said quickly. “Let’s stop.”

  He helped her down from the carriage and insisted on leading her to find a comfortable seat by the hearth indoors. It was hot beside the fire after hours in the cold, and the sudden comfort lulled her.

  She closed her eyes and snuggled down into the plushness of the ermine cloak. The weight of it upon her shoulders was almost like a man’s embrace. She hugged herself, and let the feeling carry her out of this chilly inn and into a half-dreaming state, where she was not fleeing London, but tucked in bed in Mary-le-Bone, with a fire roaring in the hearth and a lover’s arms draped around her neck.

  Her lover touched her gently on her back, murmuring something sweet to her, her name, some tender words of caring. She sighed and murmured back to go away and let her sleep, and he touched her more insistently, rousing her awake. She smiled and moved to kiss him, for if she did, perhaps he’d let her doze.