by Donna Hatch
In the time that it took her to speak with the opera manager, the streets had filled with the working class carrying boxes and baskets, some pushing handcarts, others driving horse-drawn conveyances. Horse hooves clopped, wheels clattered over streets, vendors announced their wares, and friends called greetings. In the distance, a child wailed. Closer, men laughed. Scents of meat pies and bread mingled with flowers, horses, unwashed bodies, and the unique aroma of the Thames.
Susanna headed in the direction of the bakery she had spotted earlier, too hungry to care if it had the best food or the most reasonable prices.
“Well, well, good day to you, Missy,” a male voice said in such heavy Cockney that she had to mentally translate to decipher his meaning.
If one of the footman back home hadn’t spoken in the same dialect, Susanna never would have made out the man’s words. She glanced around for the owner of that accent. A man dressed as a dock worker swaggered up to her. He smelled as if his clothes hadn’t been washed in a month.
“Looking for a little fun? A little coin?” he added in that same speech.
With barely a glance in his direction, she shook her head and stepped around him.
“I’m talking to you!” He grabbed her arm.
Alarm shot through her, lending her courage. “Release me at once.”
“Ooooh, you talk all fancy like a real lady. Think you’re too good for me, eh?”
She wrenched her arm out of his grasp and ran. In her haste, she nearly trampled a woman sitting on her doorstep.
“I’m so sorry,” Susanna gasped. She glanced back but the man was sauntering the other direction.
The woman squinted at her and said in equally difficult to understand Cockney, “Poor lamb, ye don’t belong ’ere, do ye? Come inside, pet, and I’ll fetch ye a nice cup of tea.” Though the words sounded kind, something in her tone and the gleam in her eye sent a chill through Susanna.
“No, thank you.” She quickened her pace, heedless of the direction she took. She had been fortunate to have passed the night untouched, but her luck appeared to have run out. Perhaps her guardian angel considered her work complete. Where was that bakery?
A tea shop appeared nearby. Perhaps they had food, too. She headed for it. Black spots exploded before her vision. No, not again. She could not faint. Not here. Grabbing onto the side of a building, she tried to breathe through her dizziness.
A voice called her name from a great distance. The black spots grew and swallowed her whole and she floated into darkness.
Chapter Five
Kit barely managed to catch the little harpist before her head hit the ground. Completely limp and with a pallor somewhere between white and gray, she might have expired on the spot.
He patted her cheeks. “Miss Dyer? Susanna?”
No answer. Her colorless skin made her appear as if she had been made of paper.
Good heavens, this was no mere swoon. She appeared to be completely unconscious. A few passersby stopped walking and stared. This would never do.
“As you were,” he snapped. He hailed a passing hackney. The jarvey eyed him as if he were some kind of villain who had just attacked the poor girl. “Take me to St. James place, at once.”
He swung the nearly weightless unconscious form into his arms, scooped up the battered portmanteau she’d been carrying last night, and carried her to the hackney. Inside, he lay her on the seat and chafed her wrists, continuing to call her name. A full moment later, she roused, blinking.
She let out a cry of alarm. “Oh! Release me!” She struggled to sit.
“Don’t be afraid, Miss Dyer, you are safe. Remember me? Kit Anson?”
She pressed a hand to her head and blinked at him. “Of course. I fear I…” She glanced about in confusion. “Where are we?”
“You fainted. Forgive me for my boldness, but I couldn’t leave you to fall in the streets, and besides a crowd was forming. I thought an escape by hackney the best course of action. Where would you like me to take you?”
She pushed herself up and swung her legs off the edge of the seat. “I…” she took another breath. “You can take me someplace where I may purchase a bit of bread.”
“Of course.” He rapped on the door and stuck his head out to give a change of orders to the jarvey. That finished, he eyed her. Even so sober and frightened, she was still pretty. In fact, with such delicate features, a shapely mouth, and large gray eyes, she would be lovely if it weren’t for her overly thin, alarmingly pale face and dark circles under her eyes. “Do you need a doctor?”
“No, not at all. I merely need to eat.”
He nodded. “My mother sometimes swoons if she doesn’t eat breakfast immediately upon arising, or if too much time passes between meals.”
She fidgeted with her fingers. “Yes, that’s it.”
“I was about to have breakfast with my mother. Would you care to join us?” Of course, his mother might raise her brows at him bringing a ragged stranger, but it seemed rude not to invite her. And she was probably hungry.
She held up her hands in a warding position. “Oh, no, thank you. Really, you may let me off anywhere. I feel much better already.”
He leaned back against seat cushions that had lost their padding years ago, and made a loose gesture out the window. “There is a nice little bakery on the next corner. He makes the best hot cross buns.”
With a shaking hand she smoothed back her hair. “Thank you for the recommendation.” She sat silently, tense and wary. Perhaps she feared for her reputation. Or his intentions.
“Do you have enough money for food?” He asked on a sudden whim. “If not, I could lend you—”
“Oh no, thank you. I have money for some bread.”
Only for some bread? Was the poor girl literally starving?
“Mr. Anson—”
“Kit.”
She faltered. “Kit. Do you happen to know where the Admiralty is located?” She fixed an earnest gaze upon him. She really did have the most remarkable eyes—gray with a little blue, and much brighter than one normally encountered, yet sad, almost haunted.
“Yes, I know where the Admiralty is. May I ask why?” It was bold of him to ask, but curiosity about the girl drove him to push the borders of propriety.
“I’m in search of news of my brother. He was a naval officer and he died at sea.” She swallowed. “I was hoping to find someone to give me more information about him—whether he was buried at sea, and what exactly happened to him. I wrote to the Admiralty, but I never received an answer. I had hoped if I asked in person, someone might help me.”
The carriage pulled to a stop in front of the bakery he had requested.
Strangely reluctant to part company with her, Kit stepped out and handed her down. “My brother-in-law works for the Admiralty. I could arrange for you to speak to him.”
Her eyes lit up. “Would you do that?”
“Of course.”
“I’m grateful to you. For everything.” She smiled so brilliantly that he was momentarily speechless. By Jove, she really was a pretty little thing.
She picked up her portmanteau and stepped out of the carriage with all the manners of a fine lady, despite her dirty gloves and shabby clothes. Heedless of her appearance, she curtsied, thanked him again, and disappeared inside the bakery.
Kit paused, then cast a glance at the jarvey. “Wait here, please.” He followed her inside and stood near the door behind her so she would not see him.
“How much for a loaf of bread?” Susanna asked.
Frowning, the baker gave her a once-over. “Two shillings.”
“Oh.” Her head lowered. “What can I buy with a farthing?”
“A plain brown bun.” The baker held up a bun that Kit could eat in two or three bites.
“That will do.” She handed over the money, accepted the paltry bite of food and turned away. She bit into it, closing her eyes and chewing as if she hadn’t eaten in days. Perhaps she hadn’t.
Kit stepped up to the
counter beside her. Engrossed in her bread, Susanna made no indication that she saw him.
“Mornin’, Kit,” the baker said with a grin. “Come fer me hot cross buns?”
“Two, in fact. And I’ll take two of your largest loaves of bread.”
Susanna glanced up and met his gaze. Her face reddened, more color than he had seen in her. She swallowed and asked, “What are you doing here?”
“Buying bread. This is my favorite bakery, remember?”
Blushing again, she nodded and went outside. As the baker got his bread and wrapped it in paper, Kit chatted with him, asking about his wife and sons, all the while glancing over his shoulder to keep track of Susanna outside the window. If she really were starving, he meant to do something about that.
Once outside, he gazed in both directions. Susanna had vanished. He looked down at the bread in his hand and sighed. He was too late to give it to her now, but he could give it to her tonight at the performance. Or better, yet, he would insist on taking her to the Silver Duck and see to it that she ate a full meal.
He gave a second set of instructions to the jarvey and sat lost in thought until the hackney deposited him at his parents’ house, a stately home built in the style of country manner houses long before the city limits of London had reached out so far to encompass it. Once the carriage traversed the long drive amid two hundred-year-old trees and careful landscaping, the noises and smells of the city fell away.
Inside, the butler greeted Kit stoically and took his hat and coat. “Welcome home, Lord Christopher. Your mother is expecting you in the breakfast room.”
Kit found his mother pouring tea. As he crossed the threshold, he stopped up short. She had aged. How was that possible? She hadn’t had so many gray hairs when he saw her last year. A sense of her very real mortality seized him, along with the realization that his parents would not always be there. Pushing back such maudlin thoughts, he pasted on a smile.
“Mother, you look radiant as ever.”
“Christopher!” She nearly knocked over her chair in her haste to reach him. He swiftly closed the gap between them and scooped her up for a hug.
“My darling boy,” she said in a voice rough with tears.
His eyes stung at the affection in her tone. “Come now, it hasn’t been all that long, has it?”
“A mother wants her children close by—even when they are grown. A year is far too long.” She pulled back and took a good look at him. “You look well, son. So broad through the shoulders now. That is not a Westin coat, though, I’ll warrant.”
“Westin is a bit rich for my pocketbook now but I don’t mind; there are precious few places I frequent where I would need to wear such a finely tailored suit.”
“Oh, Christopher, come home and you can wear all the suits—”
“Now, Mother,” he interrupted gently with a fond smile. “I’m not ready to relinquish my freedom just yet.”
“As you wish.” She laid a hand on his cheek and looked him over as if she had almost forgotten his features. “I’m so glad you’ve come. Do fill your plate and come sit.”
As he picked up a plate at the end of the buffet table, he looked over the abundant selection with some amusement. “Are we expecting a dozen more for breakfast?”
“No, of course not. I just wanted to be sure all your favorites were present and that there was enough.”
“Afraid I’m starving?” he quipped.
“Well, no … but I’m grateful to see that you are not.” She glanced at him. “You do have plenty to eat, do you not?”
He gestured to himself. “Do I look underfed to you?”
“No. Your color is good and you do look fit and well.”
He loaded his plate, including a healthy selection of strawberries, as she filled him in on news about his brother, the estate, friends, and a few social issues. She waited until after he had eaten to broach what was clearly on her mind.
“My dear, I know you wanted to get out from under your father’s thumb, but don’t you think it’s time to come home? I miss you.”
He kissed her hand. “Mother, I miss you, and I promise to see you as much as possible while you are in London. But I am not coming home to subject myself to that intolerable tyrant.”
“Your father only means to guide you to make the wisest possible decisions.”
“I couldn’t sneeze without his leave.”
She sighed. “It’s been two years. Perhaps there has been enough distance that he will allow you more liberties than before.”
“Twenty years may not be enough distance.”
A sad smile lined her mouth. “He means well, dear. He regrets his misspent youth and only wishes better for you.”
“I know. And I assure you, I did not misspend my youth, nor am I doing so now. I am quite content making my own way in the world, independent of his control. I have steady work, and have made friends who seem to like me for who I am rather than my family tree.”
She winced a little at his use of the word ‘work’ but only smiled gently as he finished. “You can’t stay away forever, my dear. You need to remain involved in matters of the estate.”
“Only Dunlap needs to involve himself in matters of the estate—that’s an heir’s purpose, don’t you know? I am only the spare, which means I’m spared from such responsibilities.” He smiled at his own pun.
A shadow passed over her face but she rallied. “You have never been merely the spare to me, son. I love both of my sons equally.”
He squeezed her hand. “I know, Mother.”
“Have you met a young lady yet, Christopher?”
The memory of the harpist with the clothes of a beggar and the smile and talent of an angel flashed through his mind. She was the only girl to have captured his interest in a very long time. “I don’t socialize in the right circles for any of those entanglements. As far as my associates know, I am merely Kit Anson, a violinist. I spend my days with the working class.”
She sighed delicately. “No, I suppose a suitable lady would not be amid that group.”
If she only knew that the closest he had come to a lady in years was Susanna—a lady in every regard except, obviously, financial means, nor did he know anything about her family. For all he knew, her father might be a physician or a banker or even a factory owner.
“You do have comfortable accommodations and plenty to eat?” she pressed.
That was the third time she had asked if he had enough to eat. He grinned. “I have comfortable bachelor’s rooms with a roof that doesn’t leak, plenty of coal and candles, all the food I could eat, and sincere friends who don’t toady up to me or try to outdo me—except, occasionally, my stand partner who wishes he were concertmaster. I couldn’t ask for anything more.”
“Except a relationship with your father.”
True, but he refused to discuss that. “It’s better this way. Tell me about yourself. Are you well?”
“Oh yes, except for the usual aches and pains and the annoying need to wear spectacles to read now.”
Voices from the great hall attracted Kit’s attention. His father. Time to leave. Kit kissed his mother’s cheek. “Thank you for breakfast.”
“I love you, Christopher.”
He paused and took her hand. “I love you, Mother.” He released her and departed through a side door.
Sooner or later he would have to speak to his father, but he planned to delay the inevitable as long as possible.
Chapter Six
Susanna awoke to voices and footsteps. Yawning, she stretched luxuriously. How lovely to finally sleep undisturbed, if only for a few hours. The floor of the opera pit had been a more comfortable bed than any she’d had in the previous ten days, ever since she left home.
“He’s sweet on you, isn’t he?” a feminine voice asked.
“Oh, aye,” replied a second.
“And by your blush, you like him, too?”
“Aye, but I won’t tell him. I must play coy lest he think I’m too easi
ly won.” A faint Irish accent gave her voice a musical lilt.
Susanna hurried to move out of the corner where she had napped away the afternoon, exhausted after spending hours looking for a room to rent. But with no money and no permanent position, she’d been refused at every turn. What would she do tonight?
They both giggled like school girls as they walked down the stairs to the orchestra pit. The only other female members of the orchestra walked past without noticing her. Susanna sat on the harp bench and ran her fingers up the strings in a soft glissando to check the strings’ tune.
“Oh, my goodness, you scared me!” one of the young women exclaimed, looking at Susanna. “I thought we were the first ones here this eve.”
Susanna smiled apologetically. “Forgive me for startling you. I arrived early. It takes a long time to tune.”
She flushed. She hadn’t exactly lied, just implied something other than the truth. She couldn’t very well confess she’d slept in the orchestra pit because she had no place to stay at night. Still, she felt deceptive.
“Aye,” said the other young woman. “I imagine with that many strings, it does.”
“I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself last night,” the first one said. She smiled, revealing the whitest teeth Susanna had ever seen. “I’m Jane. I play viola. And this is Nora, a cellist.”
Nora grinned and indicated the large instrument she carried on her back. “As if you couldn’t guess.”
Susanna smiled. “I thought it was either that or you were carrying a body.” As the others chuckled, she added, “I’m Susanna, the temporary harpist.”
Nora looked behind her and cocked her head. “Sleeping here, were ya?”
Susanna flushed and glanced back at the makeshift bed she had created out of her portmanteau, coat, and shawl. “I, er, took a nap. I wanted to be fresh before performance.”
“Not sleeping well at night?” Jane took a step closer.
Susanna let out a little nervous laugh. “Not really, no.”
