Treasured Vows

by Cathy Maxwell

  For long moments the only thing she could hear was the sound of her own breathing. She stared so hard at the entrance of the alley, waiting for him, that her eyes watered.

  He called her name again. Someone yelled at him to stop bellowing. And then there he was, standing at the alley entrance.

  The set of his face reminded her of the keen, hunting glance of a hawk. He carried his hat and her trampled bonnet in one hand. Phadra pulled back, held her breath, and prayed, Not now, Lord. Please don’t let him find me now, when he’s so angry.

  As if in answer to her silent prayer, Grant moved on. She strained to listen for the sound of his booted footsteps until it disappeared in the distance.

  She let out her breath with a sigh of relief. Safe. Of course, she still had to find her way home. That prospect seemed a great deal less daunting than facing Grant.

  She had just emerged from her hiding spot when a noise startled her. Pulling back behind the barrels again, she watched as one of the alley doors opened and a greasy-looking man pushed an obviously pregnant woman out into the alley. She fell heavily to the ground.

  “ ’Ere, I told yer to get out and earn yer keep, and I meant it,” he said.

  “I’m so tired,” the woman begged. Her face was swollen with bruises, and Phadra realized that she was little older than one of the girls at Miss Agatha’s. “You told me that if I worked last night, you’d let me rest.”

  “We need the quid. Now, get on.”

  The woman was openly crying now, sobs of terror and exhaustion that tore at Phadra’s heart. When she didn’t move, the man kicked her. She cried out and scrambled to protect her swollen stomach.

  The knave pulled back his foot again, and Phadra had had enough. She came out from behind her rain barrels and stood tall and proud. “You leave her alone,” she commanded.

  Her intervention stopped the man in mid action. He raised one eyebrow and peered through the greasy strings of his hair at her as if surprised by her presence. “ ’Ere now, who do yer think yer are? This ain’t none of yer business.”

  Phadra was too angry to be intimidated by a man only a few inches taller than herself. “You have no right to beat this woman.”

  “She’s my woman. I can do wot I please.”

  Phadra quivered with anger. Her hands doubling up into fists, she took a step toward him. “You touch her again and I’ll call the magistrate on you.”

  “Call the magistrate on me? For touching ’er?” he asked, as if that was the most wildly preposterous idea he’d ever heard of. “Wot do yer think they’ll do? She’s my woman. No one cares.”

  “I care,” Phadra declared. “And I’ll make them care.”

  “Please, miss,” the girl at her feet whispered. “He’s terrible mean. He’ll hurt you.”

  “That’s right,” the man mimicked in a high falsetto. “I’ll ’urt yer.” He broke off into crude laughter that stopped abruptly, his eyes glittering dangerously. “So, the fancy miss’ll turn me in to the magistrate if I touch ’er. Wot yer mean? If I touch ’er loike this?” He poked a grimy finger at the girl’s neck. With a cry, the girl squirmed reflexively.

  He looked up and grinned at Phadra, a soulless smile that warned her he would give no quarter.

  He proved her right when he whispered harshly, “Or touch ’er loike this?” He dug those dirty fingers in the girl’s hair and yanked it so hard that her head was lifted off the ground.

  At the sound of the girl’s cries, Phadra was overcome by a red haze of uncontrollable anger. Acting without thinking, Phadra jumped forward, clasped both hands together, and punched him in his soft belly for all she was worth. He let go of the girl, doubling over in pain and teetering backward. Phadra lost her balance and fell heavily to the dirty alley beside the girl.

  Holding a hand against his stomach, the man whirled around, snatched up a good-sized piece of wood in his other meaty fist, and raised it into the air. “Bloody bitch! I’ll beat yer to a pulp!”

  He drew his hand back. Phadra covered the girl’s body protectively, closed her eyes, and braced herself for the blow—which never came. Instead she heard Grant’s harsh, angry voice. “What in the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?”

  She opened her eyes to see Grant—tall, strong, and angry—holding the man up by his neck against the brick wall of the alley.

  The man’s feet danced in the air. His face was turning a purplish color.

  Phadra rose up on one hand. “Grant! Grant, you’re killing him.”

  “Scum like him doesn’t deserve to live, especially when I’m having a bad day,” her husband responded succinctly, but then he loosened his hold, and the man slid down the wall to collapse in the dirt.

  Phadra scrambled to her feet and threw her arms around Grant’s waist. “I’m so glad to see you!”

  He pulled away slightly, his expression stern. “I can tell you are. You led me on a merry chase! It’s a wonder you didn’t get killed before I got here.” The man started to crawl away. Grant scowled and barked, “I haven’t given you permission to go anywhere.”

  The man cowered back against the wall. “Listen, guv, I didn’t know she was yer woman,” he wheezed out. “I wouldn’t ’ave touched ’er if I knew she belonged to someone.”

  Phadra marched forward. “Belong? Is that what you think? That this girl belongs to you, and you can do whatever you like to her?” She almost picked up the discarded piece of wood and beat the man herself, but Grant’s large hands came down on her shoulders as if he anticipated her thoughts.

  “My wife isn’t known for her sweet temper,” Grant said calmly. “I’d advise you to crawl quickly back into whatever hole you came out of.”

  The man scurried his way toward the still-open door. He paused in the doorway. “Come on, Sarah. Get back in ’ere.”

  His order sent the poor girl into another fit of sobbing hysterics. Phadra shook loose of Grant’s hold. “She’s not going anywhere with you!”

  Using the door for protection, the bastard shouted out, “Yer think yer so smart with that big ’ulking brute behind yer.” When Grant took a step toward him, the man slammed the door shut, and they heard a bar come down on the other side. “Yer can keep ’er!” his muffled voice shouted. “She’s no good to me breeding!”

  His cruel words only made Sarah cry the harder, but that didn’t bother Phadra, who fairly danced for joy. “Did you see that, Grant? Oh, I hope you didn’t hurt your shoulder, but we showed him, didn’t we? He’ll think twice before he bullies another woman.”

  She stopped for a second and gifted him with her biggest smile, letting him see her undisguised admiration. Then she declared, “You were wonderful!”

  To her delight, a dull red stain crept up his neck, as if he was completely unfamiliar with such open worship. He reached down and gently helped the girl up from the street.

  And at that moment Phadra fell in love.

  As she stood in a dirty alley on a bright summer’s morn, with stains on her canary-yellow skirt and a sobbing pregnant girl at her feet, love took hold of her.

  It swept through her like a great rushing wind and left a tingling sensation that told her she’d been changed forever. Love. Smaller than a hummingbird, brighter than a star, more mysterious than the folds of a rose. Poets sang its praises; souls died from the lack of it.

  And she’d found it.

  Grant reached down and picked up his hat and her discarded bonnet with a look of disgust. He clearly didn’t feel what she felt. Phadra could see it in his face, and the realization filled her with an inexplicable sadness. Why had she thought that a man such as Grant Morgan—a man who would run to the defense of strangers and attempt to rescue young women from their own follies, a man more handsome, worldly, and wise than she had ever dreamed possible—would fall in love with her?

  “Miss.” The girl’s shaking voice interrupted her thoughts. “If I know Mad Bob, he’s gone off to wake a few of his mates. He doesn’t like being crossed.”

  “Th
en we’d best be going, shouldn’t we?” Grant said easily, which was good for Phadra because she didn’t think she could find her voice at that moment. He shot her a strange look, apparently concerned by her sudden quietness.

  “Perhaps it’d be best if I stay here,” Sarah offered timidly.

  That snapped Phadra out of her contemplative mood. “So that brute can beat you again? Absolutely not.” She took one of Sarah’s arms, Grant took the other, and they walked out of the alley. “You can stay with us,” she announced grandly, and then felt the jerk as Grant stopped short at her words. The look in his eyes clearly said that he thought she’d taken leave of her senses, but there wasn’t any time to argue, because at that moment the alley door was thrown open and Mad Bob plus an assortment of disreputable characters stumbled out into the alley.

  “Run!” Grant shouted.

  They took to their heels, practically dragging the screaming girl between them. Phadra wanted to turn left, but Grant turned them right. Fortunately he was correct, and they found themselves headed for Knightsbridge, where Wallace waited docilely by the road with the hired carriage.

  “Wallace!” Grant shouted. “Look lively, man.”

  Wallace turned round at the sound of Grant’s voice, and then his eyes popped wide open at the sight of them being chased by several garbage-throwing arkmen. He climbed into the open carriage, ready to snap the reins.

  Phadra threw open the door and scrambled in, tearing her hem in the process. Grant followed, pushing the hapless Sarah in before him. Wallace already had the carriage moving into traffic as Grant banged the carriage door shut. Daring to look over her shoulder, Phadra saw Mad Bob and his friends come to a halt at the street’s edge. There were a few names called, fists raised, and fish heads thrown, but the riffraff didn’t follow. She sank back into the cushions with a sigh.

  “That was exciting,” Grant said dryly, echoing her thoughts. He rubbed his wounded shoulder.

  “Where are we going, sir?” Wallace asked.

  Grant looked askance at Phadra. She put her arm around Sarah, who wiped her face with the dirty hem of her skirt.

  With an impatient sigh, Grant reached inside his coat and pulled out a linen kerchief. He offered it to the girl, who burst into noisier tears. The drawing together of his eyebrows was a silent indication to Phadra that he would like to hear the watering pot between them silenced.

  Imitating Henny’s best comforting cooing, Phadra said, “There, now, it’s not that bad. You’re safe now.”

  “You don’t understand, miss.” Sarah sobbed harder.

  Phadra shot a look at Grant to let him know she was doing her best. He rolled his eyes. “It can’t be that bad,” she murmured again.

  “Yes, ’tis. I’ve done a terrible thing.” And with that pronouncement Sarah threw herself into Grant’s arms, crying and rubbing her face on his chest.

  He looked so stunned by her actions that Phadra would have burst into laughter were it not for a cool male voice that interrupted them. “Well, Morgan, it’s good to see you alive.”

  Grant and Phadra’s eyes met, and then both of them turned their heads to the three distinguished gentlemen out for an early morning ride in the park. Grant forced a strained smile and answered dryly, “Thank you, Sir Robert, it’s good to be alive.” He made as if to tip his hat, but apparently remembered at the last minute that it had been thrown aside in their flight from the alley.

  Phadra had never realized how naked one could feel without a proper covering for the head. She became conscious of the fact now—especially since the men sniffed the air as if smelling something unpleasant. Phadra’s cheeks turned hot. She had no doubt the alley’s fish smell lingered.

  Grant spoke up, sounding for all the world as though they were taking a pleasant morning carriage ride. “Sir Robert, may I introduce you to my wife? Phadra, Sir Robert Dumbarton is the governor of the Court of Directors. The other gentlemen, Sir Henry Sudbury and Sir Victor Hollywise, are members of the Court.” As he spoke he attempted to pry Sarah off him, but she only held on tighter.

  Dumbarton flicked an interested eye over Sarah’s hold on Grant and their stained clothing before he said, “It is my pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Morgan. I heard you made quite an impact on society last night. My wife promises you will become all the rage.” Obviously he didn’t expect any response from her, because he continued, “Morgan, I expect to see you later this morning at our meeting with Wakefield.”

  “Yes, Sir Robert,” Grant answered immediately. He attempted one more time to pry the girl off. This time he was successful.

  It was not a smart move.

  The expression on the faces of the bank’s leading members turned to shock as they glimpsed the size of the girl’s pregnant stomach. They looked over at Phadra, then back at Sarah, and lastly at Grant with undisguised curiosity.

  As if sensing their distress, Wallace discreetly urged the horses forward, and they pulled away from the bank’s directors as Grant said, “I’ll see you at ten, Sir Robert.”

  They drove off, but not before Sir Henry’s gruff, carrying voice declared, “That girl’s belly was as big as a tick!”

  “That sort of thing is supposed to run in Morgan’s blood, isn’t it?” Sir Victor questioned sagely.

  That pronouncement would have sent Sarah into tears again, except that Grant had apparently had enough. He pulled her hands from his shirt, set them in her lap, and said, “Would you shut up?”

  The stern command in his voice had the fortunate effect of bringing her to her senses. Her eyes opened wide in surprise, and her mouth shut.

  “Now,” Grant said, the voice of authority, “is there anyone you can go to, Sarah, who can help you? Relatives or friends, perhaps?”

  Sarah’s lower lip quivered dangerously. But when Grant raised a finger, a silent order for her not to break down, she took a second to compose herself and then answered, “My parents.” She folded her arms protectively over her stomach. “I’ve done something very foolish, sir. I ran away. I thought things would be better in London instead of living on the farm and marrying Tom Hooper. I was wrong.” She started to get teary again. Grant leaned back in the carriage with a sigh and handed her the kerchief that had fallen on the seat between them.

  After a few moments he said, “Sarah, we’ll get you home to your parents. Where do they live?”

  “Derbyshire, sir.”

  He patted her hand reassuringly. “Then we’ll get you to Derbyshire.” Almost as an afterthought, and with a quick glance at her stomach, he added, “And soon.”

  “Do you think that is wise?” Phadra asked. “I mean, letting her travel in her condition?” She cast a knowing look down at the woman’s stomach. “Maybe she should stay with us.”

  “Phadra,” he said through clenched teeth, his lips forced into a seemingly pleasant smile, “we need to practice economies. There is no extra for expenses such as a lady’s maid.”

  “Lady’s maid?” Phadra choked on the words. She supposed this was not the time to tell Grant about Jem’s milliner’s assistant.

  “Oh, I can travel, miss,” Sarah said eagerly. “Back home women milk cows and work the fields right up until their time. A stage ride will be nothing. Not if it means I’m going home.”

  “Will they want you?” Phadra asked gently. Her father didn’t want her at all. She couldn’t even imagine what he would say if she presented herself to him enceinte.

  Sarah didn’t mistake her meaning. “My parents are kind people. I know I made a mistake, and I’ll tell them so.” She rubbed her palm across her stomach. “I would have gone home sooner if I’d had the money. I want this wee one to have something more than a life on a London street.”

  “There, it’s settled,” Grant said. He raised his voice. “Wallace, take us to the nearest post house.”

  Putting Sarah on the first stage out of London for Derbyshire was not as easy as it sounded. The stage was full. Grant paid a man double the fare to secure a seat for the girl inside the
coach. He also slipped her a pound note to pay for food and expenses along the way. They stayed with Sarah until the stage left in case Mad Bob made an appearance.

  Phadra watched all this while caught up with pride that this man, her husband, would go so far for a stranger. But she also had a feeling of alarm. Once again her actions were costing them money they could ill afford.

  She had to tell Grant about the lady’s maid. And forevermore, she vowed, she would be the most up-standing and frugal woman in society. Never again would his position at the bank be jeopardized by her. Never, ever, ever.

  Grant leaned his head back against the carriage seat and gave a deep sigh of relief. “I’m glad that’s over. This morning feels as though it has gone on for two days.”

  “It has been eventful, hasn’t it?” she said noncommittally.

  He opened one eye and peered at her as if to ask whether she was joking. Phadra forced a smile, feeling sick to her stomach. She had to tell him about the lady’s maid. “Grant, we need to talk.”

  He’d closed his eyes as if trying to relax. “About what?”

  “About…,” she started, and then stopped. He looked so tired. Certainly he didn’t need to be upset—and she had a feeling that her hiring servants without consulting him might be something that would make him upset.

  His hand came down on hers, which was resting on the seat. “About last night?” he prompted quietly. He turned his head toward her and opened his eyes.

  What she saw in those bright, silvery eyes made her forget to breathe. He laced his fingers with hers. “In the attic?” He raised her hand to his lips. The touch of his lips brushing against the tips of her fingers seared a path straight to her soul and erased all thoughts of lady’s maids and economies.

  He smiled, and Phadra thought dizzily that no man should have the ability to smile at a woman and make her feel as if she’d been turned inside out.

  Wallace pulled up to their house, breaking the spell.