Escaping Notice

by Amy Corwin

  Or small boys, for that matter.

  She was particularly vehement about pets; especially if young boys expressed an interest in having one.

  “Well?” A speck of angry foam clung to her thin lower lip. “What have you to say for yourself?”

  He stared at her. “Nothing. You told me not to —”

  “Be quiet!”

  He obeyed, until quite illogically, she demanded yet again that he explain himself.

  He smiled patiently and took a deep breath. Then, as he did when reciting, he stared at a point just above the lace cap perched on her gray hair. “Betty wasn’t supposed to serve the tea yet, Aunt Esther. I was only using the pot to hold him temporarily —”

  “Enough! I warned you if you misbehaved once more, you would be sent to your cousin, Lord Monnow. He won’t tolerate such disobedience, or listen to your nonsense about running off to join the Navy, though you could stand a little discipline, young man. I would have thought that after losing both your parents to the sea you’d stay well away from it.” She sighed, before eyeing him with a hard glint in her gray eyes. “What can you expect from a boy-child? Your father was the very same. How many times did I try to talk some sense into my brother, only to have him laugh and do precisely as he wished?”

  “I don’t know —” Edward started to say. How could she reasonably expect him to have a count of her conversations with his father, when they occurred before Edward was even born?

  She ignored him. “I have tried to be a mother to you, Edward, and do my duty to my brother’s only child. But you have thwarted my every effort on your behalf. Perhaps a man will have better luck than I in guiding your footsteps. Be warned — the earl will not tolerate your tricks, and I am sorry for it. However, you’ll have to go to Lord Monnow by the end of the week. My health cannot bear this any longer, and I daresay my sister feels precisely the same way. Now, go to your room and consider what you have done.”

  Dismissed, Edward escaped from the chilly sitting room. He did not go to his room, however. Instead, he wandered down to the stream trickling through the bottom of the garden and reluctantly released his frog. His spirits sank further as he watched it kick out and swim away.

  His last friend, gone.

  When the creature disappeared from sight, he picked up a rock and threw it over the stream toward a tangle of bushes. It was a miracle Aunt Esther had not seen fit to get rid of the stream yet, since it afforded her nephew so many opportunities for enjoyment. As far as Edward could determine, Aunt Esther was a woman who disliked giving anyone opportunities of any kind.

  Savoring the word “opportunity,” which he had also learned earlier in the week, Edward stared at the water and kicked at a clump of mud. It fell with a satisfying plunk into the clear stream. Too bad he had failed to catch the otter he had seen slipping along the banks a few mornings ago. He could have released that into the house. The results would have been much more satisfying, and the punishment much the same.

  The Earl of Monnow is a bloody beast!

  Edward did not know much about him, except that Aunt Esther held him in awe and never lost an opportunity to threaten Edward with a reminder of the earl’s bad temper and unforgiving wrath. With a deepening sense of despair, Edward decided the earl was a nasty, strict old man with no sense of humor and a dozen canes for whipping disobedient young boys. He probably kept stacks of them — complete with sharp thorns — propped up in the corner of every room.

  Of course, Edward did not have a great deal of respect for Aunt Esther’s judgment, but he did believe Lord Monnow might prove to be a major impediment to his plans to join the Navy. He would probably refuse to allow it, just to spite him.

  Sitting back on his heels, he wriggled his fingers in the cool, sparkling ripples of the stream. What would Admiral Nelson do under such trying circumstances? He certainly would not let two old ladies, or even a foul-tempered earl, prevent him from going to sea. He would simply go.

  Edward decided that was precisely what he would do. He would run away to London, before Aunt Esther had a chance to bundle him up like an unwanted parcel and send him off to Lord Monnow.

  He returned to the house with a spring in his step and a brilliant plan running through his mind.

  That night, Edward sneaked down the servants’ stairs, clutching a small leather valise in his hand. The handle was already damp in his grip as he crept, staying close to the wall so the stairs wouldn’t creak under his weight. It was a tactic he had often used to slide down to the kitchens for a late-night bowl of clotted cream and crumbled biscuit, so he felt confident of success. He paused half-way down, listening.

  Nothing.

  The bag felt heavy, and he had not even left the house. He shifted it from his left to his right hand, watching the motes of dust sparkle in the moonlight coming through the semi-circular window above the door. The dry, dusty air tickled his nose.

  He hastily pinched his nostrils to avoid sneezing.

  Had he forgotten anything? The bloody valise weighed at least two stone. He had packed two spare shirts, extra breeches and his leather journal, together with the pocket watch his father had left him, along with his grandfather’s sextant, wrapped in an extra jacket at the very bottom. The solid brass sextant was the heaviest of the lot, but he could not leave it behind. It was the most important thing in his bag.

  Determination stiffened his resolve. While it would be difficult for a lad of eleven to join the Navy without parents to sponsor him, he had full confidence in his abilities to convince the Admiralty to sign him. They’d be lucky to have such a stalwart lad.

  They could not refuse when he already had a sextant.

  And although running off was a bit hasty, it seemed best after his recent misunderstanding with The Aunts. If he waited, he might discover that Lord Monnow intended to keep him in chains, as well as beat him daily. Escape might prove difficult, if not impossible.

  So he had to go now. Then one day, he would return as a famous admiral.

  His aunts would be truly sorry they had mistreated him then. And so would Lord Monnow.

  Truly sorry.

  Chapter Four

  “ … she should learn … to manifest good taste, by suiting the ornaments and decoration of her dress to the complexion ….” —The Complete Servant

  April 20, 1819, Oxford, Oxfordshire

  Helen Archer flung her dresses, petticoats and shawls onto her bed while she searched with increasing desperation through her trunks.

  The necklace was not there. She glanced around her room. She and her uncle were visiting relatives in Oxford, and she was to travel to London today to join her sister. What would her sister say?

  “Well?” her uncle, John Archer, asked. “Where is it? I trust you have not lost it.”

  “No, I —” She broke off, flushing.

  She had lost it — the Peckham Necklace — and she choked at the thought of admitting it.

  “Then you’ll just have to find it.” Her uncle crossed his arms over his chest.

  “I cannot! That is —”

  “Would you rather face the embarrassment of being the Archer who lost the Peckham Necklace after you sister so heroically found it?”

  Dearest Oriana had found the awful necklace while cleaning a closet — not precisely a heroic action. Nonetheless, everyone was appropriately grateful to the brilliant Miss Oriana Archer and once more looked down their noses with pity at dull Helen. The Archers unanimously considered Helen to be the pretty, but silly, sister, although they only held that high an opinion because she managed to dress well on a very slim allowance. They saw her lovely dresses and colorful ribbons and mistook them for prettiness.

  She knew better.

  When she looked in the mirror, she realized the falseness of that glittering impression. Her features adequately served their purpose, but did not add up to beauty. As for her wits, well, if she could lose the necklace after wearing it only once, then perhaps they were right about that part.

&nbs
p; “I could write, ask for its return —”

  “And have them gossip about how you foolishly lost it — when?” He cocked his head to the left and eyed her with a suspiciously amused gleam in his gray eyes. “Where, precisely, did you lose it?”

  “At the ball. At Lord Monnow’s ball.”

  “Then you will have to sneak back and retrieve it.”

  “I cannot do that!”

  “Of course you can. It is the only way to avoid the humiliation and embarrassment. Can you imagine the tales if you do not?” He raised his voice to a tittering falsetto. “Miss Archer lost her family’s most priceless heirloom, the famed Peckham Necklace, at the Earl of Monnow’s ball. One can only imagine what she was doing at the time to be insensible of the loss of such a magnificent item —”

  “Uncle John!” She wanted to laugh and cry simultaneously. He sounded precisely like Lady Hereford, the worst and most vicious snob in the Ton. “You’re positively cruel to remind me. Can you not help me to get it back?”

  He drew himself up. “Am I the one who lost it?”

  “No —”

  “Then I fail to see why I should involve myself in its retrieval.” Despite his words, his face fell with disappointment. “Besides, your aunt has plans. Otherwise, I would gladly go in your stead.”

  Helen smiled and hugged her uncle. “Oh, I know you would. You could never resist an adventure.”

  “Well, this time you’ll be the adventuress and bring home the coveted treasure.” He patted her shoulder lightly. “And no one will be any the wiser. I shall keep them befogged and befuddled as to your whereabouts.”

  “I’m sure you will.” She laughed and shook her head, wishing she had not agreed to do something so terribly wrong.

  Her uncle was well-known as the instigator of far-fetched schemes that invariably landed those involved in them in difficulties. Despite that, once one got through the messy middle, his adventures often worked out for the best – at least for him.

  But despite her wariness, part of her longed to stop being modest Miss Archer for a few days. She was tired of everyone treating her like a pretty, empty-headed child; tired of condescending comments that implied she did not possess even the smallest particle of intelligence.

  The loss of the Peckham Necklace was the last straw. They would frown, sigh and then pat her on the shoulder as they shook their heads. They expected such things from a girl like Miss Helen; they’d predicted just such a tragedy when her elder sister had allowed the irresponsible girl to wear the necklace.

  “Then you will search for it?” her uncle asked, his slender hand on the doorknob.

  “But I am traveling in the opposite direction today!” she protested. “Back to London.”

  “True.” He pulled his long upper lip. Then he snapped his fingers. “Go to satisfy your sister’s expectations and then return. The dowager duchess is in Cheltenham. You may say you must visit her. Even Oriana cannot refuse to allow that.”

  She nodded. “I suppose so.” She would find the necklace and no one would ever know, except Uncle John.

  “Excellent.” He smiled. “And try to enjoy yourself, kitten.”

  “I will be perfectly miserable,” she muttered to the closed door. Sudden doubts washed around her, as if she had just stepped into an icy stream.

  Dispirited, she sat on the bed, staring at the maelstrom of clothes she had torn through in her search for the necklace. As she moved, she heard a crackling noise under her shoe. She glanced down and winced. The edge of a newspaper protruded from under her heel. She did not have to pick it up to remember verbatim the article about the jewels.

  The famed Peckham Necklace, found after being missing for nearly fifty years, is again gracing the fair necks of the Archer family. The new Lady Dacy was seen wearing the fabled emeralds to several recent events, including the ball celebrating the return of His Grace, the Duke of Peckham, to England with his new wife, the American heiress and former Miss Haywood.

  Will the necklace bring misfortune once more to the remaining members of the Archer family who dare to wear it? Or has the curse finally been laid to rest? Only time will reveal ….

  The necklace had not brought Helen good fortune. She had worn it once, once, and lost it. The scandalmongers would be delighted. There was nothing they — or Lady Hereford — liked better than misfortune or a good curse, and they particularly appreciated the two combined. Lady Hereford would be positively salivating to discuss it with the bon ton.

  Helen was not going to allow it.

  Her resolution made, she finished packing and left the sanctuary of her room. Considering and rejecting dozens of plans for retrieving the missing jewels, she nervously bid adieu to her uncle and cousins, and climbed into the carriage with her maid.

  The servant settled into her corner and promptly fell asleep. Helen eyed her enviously, almost wishing she were a maid, too. If she were, she could lean her head against the squabs, close her eyes, and proceed to snore without a care in the world.

  Her gaze ventured longingly towards her cousin’s stolid, gray house, rapidly receding in the distance. If only her uncle had agreed to go with her to Ormsby, in lovely Gloucestershire.

  Well, she was an Archer, after all. She could manage it, alone. And she would not quit before coming to her first challenge. She forced herself to straighten.

  She would return to Ormsby at the first possible opportunity, find the necklace, and claim victory.

  Unfortunately, as she chewed on a fingernail and stared out of the window, she could not help thinking of a more unpleasant and likely result: death by mortification.

  Chapter Five

  “You now know all the inconveniences that attend your present situation ….” —The Complete Servant

  Standing on the steps outside his lawyer’s house in Bath, Hugh stared at the front door. He shifted feet and hummed under his breath. He looked like a beggar, but he could not find the will to care about his appearance.

  The glossy black paint of his lawyer’s door and the gleaming brass knocker mocked him and his disheveled state. As he raised a fist to knock, he felt the curious gazes of pedestrians brushing his back. One or two laughed at the sight of such a ragged specimen standing on Mr. Petre’s stoop.

  Damn you all! His anguish and fury struck out, uncaring. Let them laugh.

  Hugh thumped the door with his fist. To his surprise, it opened so quickly he barely had time to lower his arm.

  A rotund little man stared up at Hugh. Despite the man’s unprepossessing appearance, the butler knew his job.

  He shooed Hugh away like a stray tom-cat. “Here now, get away with you. You can’t come begging here.”

  “I must speak with Mr. Petre.” Hugh stuck his foot in the door.

  The butler ignored his request and tried to jam the door shut. When Hugh’s toes proved an impediment, he frowned and tried to crush them beneath his heel. Hugh winced and put his weight against the door. He forced it open and shouldered his way past the butler.

  “Here! You can’t do that! Get out or you’ll get a bloody good thrashing!”

  “Get Mr. Petre!”

  “I shall not. You’ve no business here, you filthy scoundrel. Now out, or I shall send for the constable!”

  He shouldered Hugh toward the door. But Hugh had the height and weight to remain like a boulder in the center of the hallway. “I’ve a message for him. If you value your job, Mr. Jarvis, you’ll tell him I’m here.”

  The butler stared at him, his mouth working as he tried to puzzle out how Hugh knew his name. Finally, in a strangled voice he asked, “What message?”

  “Bring me paper and something to write with, if you won’t bring your master.”

  “Paper? Ha!” The butler snorted, but he took a moment to study Hugh more closely, a shrewd gleam in his eyes. Hugh’s appearance did not reassure him, but he remained unsure enough to acquiesce to the visitor’s request. “Wait here. No moving, or you’ll receive the beating of your life before they ta
ke you off to gaol.”

  “I am not moving.” Hugh leaned a hip against the table in the center of the hall.

  After a final unsympathetic look, the butler hurried down the passage.

  Shifting his weight from one sore foot to the other, Hugh tried to control the impatience simmering inside him. The trip had not been as easy as he expected, and all through it, he kept thinking about Lionel and the deliberately damaged rudder.

  How could he have let go? He might have been wrong; Lionel might have been alive, might have survived if Hugh had not lost his grip on him and relinquished him to the storm.

  The butler returned just before Hugh decided to go in search of him. He puffed, sweating and red-cheeked, as if he had run all the way for fear that Hugh would be stuffing his pockets with the fine pastoral paintings lining both sides of the hall.

  “Here.” Jarvis thrust out a pencil and torn scrap of brown-edged paper, twisted into a corkscrew as if in preparation to light a fire. “Now if you can write, scratch out your message on this paper. Then leave.”

  Hugh took the items and bent over the delicate pedestal table. It wobbled a bit under his fist so he braced a foot against it to keep it steady. Licking the tip of the pencil, he considered what to say.

  The butler sniffed loudly and stepped around to watch him. A smug look grew over his pump face.

  With a slight smile, Hugh smoothed out the paper. Then he wrote a simple and direct message. There has been an accident. I must speak to you. He signed his name, Monnow, with a flourish before folding the paper carefully into a small square and handing it back to the butler.

  The butler took it and snatched the pencil away before Hugh could even lay it on the table. “There, now be off with you.”

  “I believe I’ll wait. Mr. Petre may have questions.”

  “Well, he’s not here. I’ll see that he gets your message.”