by Amy Corwin
“I am Hannah Cowles—Miss Hannah Cowles, from Boston.”
The elderly lady shifted beneath her blankets and chuckled. “Well, Miss Hannah Cowles from Boston, it may have escaped your notice, but this is a private vehicle. You are intruding.” She sniffed. “And we have not been properly introduced. I am not in the habit of picking up strange women on the road. Now, if you will do me the kindness of descending from my carriage, we shall be on our way.” She gazed at Hannah with a bland expression, although, despite the shadowy interior of the carriage, Hannah could have sworn the elderly lady’s eyes held a mischievous light.
“No.” Hannah’s chin rose. “I insist you take me to the nearest…” She paused in consternation. Where exactly could she go? She had nothing… She shivered and rubbed her wet arms, wincing as seawater burned her hands.
All her clothing was in her luggage—her luggage! Her letters of introduction and more importantly, the letter to the bank, were inside her trunk. Without those documents, she truly had nothing and no way to prove who she was. Instead of arriving triumphantly in London as a rich American heiress, she was arriving destitute—completely ruined. A flutter of panic chilled her. She rubbed her arms faster.
“You are bleeding upon my upholstery, Miss Cowles.” The old lady sighed elaborately. "And I just had everything redone. What a nuisance.”
Hannah glanced down and sighed. A long gash on her right leg bled sluggishly, staining her white gown. Her sleeves were tattered, revealing cuts and abrasions on her arms and the palms of her hands.
All of that paled in comparison to her dress. Her best evening gown—her only gown at this point—was ruined.
She’d wanted to look her best for their last supper on the Orion, so she’d had Lizzy take out her white satin with its pale pink gauze overdress and bodice sewn with pearls and white silk roses. Oddly enough, her pearl earrings, necklace, and bracelet had survived her ordeal and felt warm against her chilled skin.
But her skirts were torn and smeared with mud. Only one white satin slipper remained, freezing into a sodden mess on her left foot. A long strand of blackish seaweed hung off one of the pearls in the center of her neckline. She plucked it off and, after a moment’s hesitation, flung it out of the door over the coachman’s bulky shoulder.
“I do apologize,” Hannah replied coolly. “It is a nuisance, indeed.”
“Lady Blackwold?” Beamish asked, holding his lantern up to peer at the elderly lady. He glanced from her to Hannah and back, clearly reluctant to drag Hannah out of the carriage by force.
A distant yell caught her attention. Hannah stared into the darkness beyond the coachman’s shoulder. The wreckers—that black shape rising above the edge of the cliff—she’d forgotten them. If they discovered her now, they’d know she’d escaped them.
She opened her mouth to warn the coachman about the men on the beach and to beg them to move on. She glanced at Lady Blackwold. The older woman was watching her, wearing a strange grin, as if she were well aware of Hannah’s predicament and found it amusing.
A stab of mistrust made Hannah snap her mouth shut. The storm was sufficient to explain what had happened to the Orion and her own condition. No need to mention the wreckers or what she’d seen.
Maybe they’d let her live if they thought she hadn’t seen anything.
Lady Blackwold’s smile widened. She shifted, poking around on the seat beside her. Finally, she picked up a gray bundle and tossed it to Hannah. “I dislike sacrificing a perfectly good woolen blanket, but your lips are blue, and I like that even less.”
“Oh dear, blue lips are très chic in Boston. I felt sure they would inspire a new fashion when I arrived in London.” Hannah shook out the blanket and wrapped it gratefully around her shoulders.
“Lady Blackwold?” Beamish asked again from the door, his gruff voice rising as his confusion increased.
“Oh, do be quiet, Beamish,” Lady Blackwold said. “And close that blasted door. You are allowing that filthy night air into the coach, and you know how unhealthy that is.”
He stared at her, his mouth sagging open. “Lady Blackwold?”
“Drive on, you fool! Drive on to Blackrock!” Lady Blackwold unearthed a cane from her bundle of blankets and pushed the tip into the center of his chest, forcing him away from the door.
“Lady Blackwold!” Beamish gaped, the lantern swinging wildly in his gloved hand as he tried to maintain his balance by grabbing the door with his other hand.
“Go on and be quick about it!”
“Yes, Lady Blackwold!” Beamish regained his footing and slammed the door shut, though Hannah could hear him mumbling an assortment of rich curses that proved the coachman’s dull appearance belied his vast and impressive knowledge of the English language.
The carriage jerked and dipped down as Beamish climbed into his perch, and with another wrenching jolt, it surged forward. The clatter of horse hooves made it impossible to hear if anyone shouted from the cliffs.
“Well, Miss Cowles, I cannot comprehend how you came to be wandering the roads at night, dressed like that,” Lady Blackwold said, clearly determined to catch Hannah out in a lie.
Hannah smiled blandly. “I wanted to look my best for my last evening aboard the Orion. We were to dock in Liverpool tomorrow morning, but the storm blew us off course. The ship wrecked—I was lucky to escape alive.”
“You are the only survivor?”
“I sincerely hope not,” Hannah replied, thinking again about Officer Trent’s kind smile. Sadness pulled at her, and she tightened the blanket around her shoulders as another sick tremor wracked her. She swallowed several times, her lips pressed together.
What of her companion and maid?
Poor Lizzy hadn’t wanted to come—she was afraid of the water and couldn’t swim—but Hannah had only joked about her maid’s fears as they boarded the Orion in Boston. Now, she wondered if Lizzy had had some notion of what was to befall the packet, barely eighteen hours before they were to dock.
“Did you see anyone else?” Lady Blackwold persisted, her round wrinkled face hidden in the deep shadows beneath her large black bonnet.
Hannah shook her head. “I managed to cling to a piece of wood and barely made it to shore. It was all I could do to climb up to the road. I hoped to find a village—assistance.”
“Is there any point in notifying the authorities? A Custom Officer, perhaps?”
“Oh, yes, the authorities must be informed,” Hannah said, trying not to shiver. “There may be others—and my trunk. I must have my trunk.” Her fortune depended upon the documents in her trunk.
Despite the scratchy folds of the heavy woolen blanket, she still felt frozen. Her body shook uncontrollably, and although she was wary, she had difficulties concentrating. Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment. She sat up with a jerk and blinked furiously.
The wheezy sound of Lady Blackwold’s muffled laughter aroused a brief, hot flash of anger in Hannah.
“You amuse me, Miss Cowles. You may be, as I suspect, an adventuress setting out to fleece an elderly lady who should know better, but at least you are no mealy-mouthed sycophant.”
“I am not an adventuress!”
“Of course not,” Lady Blackwold agreed with another laugh.
“I am an heiress—I booked first class passage on the Orion.”
“Of course. It is unfortunate, though, that unless I miss my guess, you can prove none of this?”
“I—my trunk…” Hannah sputtered to a halt.
“Naturally. The missing trunk. So very convenient,” Lady Blackwold murmured.
“It is not at all convenient! I’ve lost everything—all my letters of introduction, the letters to the bank and my London lawyer—everything!”
Lady Blackwold’s large bonnet dipped as she nodded.
“I could hardly have known that your carriage would be passing by at that particular moment. It would have been the height of foolishness to plan on such a thing. I could have died of exposure in the
rain before anyone came. I may be an American, but I’m not that much of a fool.”
“No. Anyone could see that,” Lady Blackwold agreed dryly.
Hannah bit the inside of her cheek to avoid the sarcastic reply hovering in her mouth.
“What are your plans now, Miss Cowles?”
“Now? Why I—” Her grip on the blanket tightened. She slipped her left hand over her hip and felt the lumpy pocket still tied at her waist.
She was not without resources, but that was truly a double-edged sword. If she sold her jewels, she’d have funds, at least until they ran out. And then what? The very presence of the jewelry gave some credence to her claim to be an heiress. Without them, she was just a woman making unsubstantiated statements.
And the diamond and emerald necklace had been her mother’s. Could she really sell that?
“Yes?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t had time to consider what I should do. If I could find my trunk and my papers, I could travel on to London as I’d planned. There is a lawyer there who expects me, and funds have been transferred to a bank—”
“But you have no papers, my dear. Have you met this lawyer?”
Hannah shook her head and blinked rapidly. She was so cold and tired—she couldn’t think anymore, didn’t want to consider the difficulties ahead of her. She just wanted to close her eyes and let go. Sleep.
Another chill shook her and her grip on the blanket tightened to keep it from slipping off her shoulders.
“Have you been introduced to anyone in London? Anyone in England?”
“No.” Hannah jerked upright.
“Pity.”
“If I could find my trunk—”
“Of course. Well, I am sure if it exists, it may float to shore with all the other flotsam and jetsam.”
Hannah nodded, too tired to parry Lady Blackwold’s verbal thrust.
“I have found it very boring of late,” Lady Blackwold commented when Hannah remained silent. “It would amuse me if you would be my guest.” She chuckled. “At least until this mysterious trunk is found.”
“Thank you.” Her shoulders drooped in relief.
“I have a great dislike of gratitude, so if you experience that emotion, I hope you will have the good sense to keep it to yourself.”
“Yes, Lady Blackwold.”
“And meekness. I was never given to understand that American girls suffered greatly from meekness. Was I mistaken?”
“No, Lady Blackwold.” Hannah tried to invest as much spirit as possible in her reply.
“I hope I will not be given cause to regret my generosity.”
“I suppose that will depend on just how generous you intend to be.”
Lady Blackwold’s chuckles turned into a cough, but she waved Hannah back when she leaned forward in concern. “I don’t know if I have any faith in this trunk of yours, but perhaps you will be fortunate and there will be a long delay in finding it.”
“Yes,” Hannah replied dryly. “That would be fortunate, wouldn’t it?”
With that, Hannah leaned back, shut her eyes, and pretended to fall asleep.
Chapter Three
The carriage jerked to a halt in front of a rambling house that rose in the darkness like an extension of the cliffs themselves. Hannah, shaking with a chill, glanced out of the window as Beamish assisted Lady Blackwold to descend. The cold had sunk its teeth so deeply into the marrow of her bones that Hannah felt she’d never be warm again. Her damp gown clung to her limbs, and the salty water had soaked into the blanket she’d wrapped around her shoulders, so even the heavy folds failed to hold back the penetrating February cold.
Trembling violently, she had to accept Beamish’s arm around her waist to assist her to alight and help her up the broad stone steps. Lady Blackwold had apparently given a great many orders concerning her guest, for Hannah no sooner set foot in the front hall than a stern-faced maid took charge of her and led her to a door just beyond the grand staircase. She was whisked into a small room near the kitchen, stripped, and thrust into a tin bath, which another maid was hurriedly filling with buckets of steaming water.
The stern-faced maid chafed Hannah’s hands and arms before dipping a coarse sponge into the steaming water and rubbing Hannah’s back. A prickling sensation rushed over her numb skin and gradually, the blue tinge faded to pink and then to the deep red of a boiled lobster.
“I be Mary, Miss,” the dour maid said as she dumped another bucket of near-boiling water over Hannah’s head.
Before Hannah could answer, Mary hauled her out of the tub, rubbed her down as if she were a sweaty horse, and bundled her into a huge flannel nightgown, robe, and slippers. With frightening efficiency, she wrapped gauze around the palms of Hannah’s hands and over the gash on her shin.
“Now off to bed with you, and I’ll have a tray of some of Mrs. Mundy’s veal broth—not that she’ll be pleased about it, this time of night—brought to you.” She wrapped an arm around Hannah and marched her back down the hallway to the grand staircase, up the stairs, and into a bedroom before she could say a word.
“Thank you,” Hannah managed to mumble as Mary tucked her into the bed and fluffed the pillows behind her. A huge yawn cracked her jaw. As she settled under the heavy warmth of the feather-filled covers, she could barely keep her eyes open.
The terrors of the storm, her plunge into the ocean, and dangerous climb up the cliffs had left her battered and so exhausted that she could barely remain awake long enough to eat the pale soup Mary fed to her or drink the steaming cup of tea. But at last, the maid picked up the tray, blew out the candles, and left her in peace.
“Good morning, Miss,” Mary said, startling Hannah out of a deep dreamless sleep. She thrust open the blue drapes to let a strong beam of wintry sunlight slap Hannah in the face.
Hannah blinked and held up a hand, surprised for a moment to see the thick bandage around her palms. The dreadful events of the previous night came rushing back as she turned her head away from the brilliant light.
“What time is it?” Hannah asked, glancing around the room for a clock.
She hadn’t noticed—or cared—about her surroundings last night, but this morning, she was pleasantly surprised. The bedroom was large, with two chairs and a low table forming a gracious sitting area in front of a fireplace with a lovely delicately carved white mantle. The walls were papered with a pale blue and white Grecian print and darker blue curtains framed a wide window. A swan-legged desk and chair stood near the window to take advantage of the sunlight for writing letters. A silver inkstand and pen holder sat on top, gleaming in the light, and a collection of quill pens, all ready for her use, sat in a milk glass vase. A huge wardrobe took up most of the space along the wall next to the door, and a chest rested on the floor at the foot of the bed.
It was a room designed to wrap the occupant in soothing, pale blue comfort.
“Eleven, Miss. The dowager figured as you’d rested enough. She be anxious for you to join her at her supper. She eats at noon, you see. Always has.”
Hannah threw back the covers and then paused, staring at Mary’s plain, dour face in consternation. “My gown?”
“I’ll do my best to mend it, but it’ll never look the same.” She lifted her arm, which had several articles of clothing draped over it. “I’ve worked over several of the dowager’s gowns—she were quite the article of fashion in her time—and I’ve trunks more if you decide they suit you.” Mary draped the items over the chest and selected one gown, a cerulean blue morning dress of jaconet muslin, and held it up, along with a darker blue Spencer.
The waistline of the dress was slightly higher than the current fashion, as was the short Spencer, and she eyed them with some misgivings. But although she knew it wasn’t quite the thing to wear a Spencer indoors, it would grant her some much needed warmth, and she ought to be grateful, as she had nothing else to wear.
Unfortunately, the short jacket would emphasize the too-high waistline of the old-fashioned dr
ess, but that couldn’t be helped. With her bare feet dangling over the edge of the bed, she was all too aware of the drafts in the room that even the cheerful fire crackling in the fireplace couldn’t vanquish.
“That gown looks lovely, Mary. I can’t begin to thank Lady Blackwold for her generosity. And you for altering those gowns for me.” Hannah walked quickly over to the small washstand, wriggling her toes against the icy currents of air. She quickly washed her face, trying not to notice the knotted mess of her hair, hanging down her back.
“In her day, the dowager were dark. You be so fair the colors aren’t the best.” Mary shrugged and waited as Hannah dried her face. “I brung you a shawl—in case you suffer from the cold.” She sniffed, clearly believing that a true lady of quality would never deign to allow a mere draft to affect her.
“The cerulean is beautiful.” At least the color would reflect the darker blue of her eyes. “Does the dowager live here alone?”
Hannah glanced over her shoulder to see Mary’s lips tighten into a thin line.
So there were limits to the kinds of questions she was willing to answer about her employer. Not that one was supposed to gossip with servants, anyway. Living in Boston had taught Hannah that much.
However, the maid’s reaction made Hannah wonder why she was so reluctant to answer the simple question of who else lived at Blackrock.
“Never mind,” Hannah said with a light laugh. “I’m sure I will meet whomever Lady Blackwold feels is appropriate.”
“There be no doubt of that, Miss,” Mary replied, holding a handful of stockings and undergarments, ready to assist Hannah to dress. The maid clearly underestimated Hannah’s curious and open nature, however.
“Is it very cold this morning? The sunshine looks so warm,” Hannah said.
Mary might not want to be amiable, but Hannah enjoyed making friends and was already prepared for the English desire to discuss the weather ad nauseum. She could talk about clouds, cirrus and cumulus, wind, and the possibility of precipitation until she cracked through the hardest shell.
