by Amy Corwin
In four bites, it was gone.
She licked her fingers, suddenly finding the scent of eggs appealing, after all. She pulled the plate of eggs closer. When she picked up her fork, she was surprised to find Mr. Trenchard making a production of applying orange marmalade to pieces of toast that he carefully stacked on a small plate next to her coffee cup.
“I’m relieved you haven’t lost your appetite after all,” he remarked before finally preparing a slice for himself. “I was so impressed by it the other night.”
Mouth full, she smiled with tight lips and saluted him with her coffee cup. He took the opportunity thus presented to refill her cup, topping it off with a liberal dollop of cream and another spoonful of sugar. Minding her almost-forgotten manners, she carefully used the serving fork to spear a lovely piece of ham and add it to her plate.
Her head pounded whenever she moved. She wasn’t sure she would be able to keep all her food down once she stood up, but it was a lovely meal just the same. Every few minutes, her body quivered as she thought about Mrs. Pochard and Mr. Hawkins, both waiting for her. However for now, she had the sweet taste of oranges in her mouth and a large slice of salty ham to address.
And sky-blue eyes watching her with a warmth she had done nothing to deserve.
Mr. Trenchard finished long before she did, although she always thought she was a swift eater. When she finally placed her fork carefully on the edge of her plate, she glanced at him to find him staring at her over the rim of his cup.
“Miss Sanderson,” he began before she cut him off.
“Mr. Sanderson, if you please.”
“Sarah,” he replied.
“Never her.”
He paused. His finely shaped brows rose until they almost touched the wavy lock of golden hair falling over his forehead. In silence, he refilled his cup and then held the pot out to her.
“No, thank you.” She sat back in her chair with her half-filled cup cradled between her hands. She had almost forgotten the smooth, fragile feel of real china.
“Shall we begin again, Sarah?”
“No. I’m Samuel Sanderson, now. Sarah’s long dead. Forgotten.”
“I think not. Although, if we don’t take certain measures, she may well be. I visited several newspapers yesterday—”
Sarah snorted inelegantly and drank the rest of her coffee.
Eyeing her with a mild, amused expression on his face, she noticed Mr. Trenchard’s half-smile didn’t quite reach his blue eyes. “If you’ll allow me to finish?”
She shrugged and got up to pour herself a few more drops of coffee. The food in her belly had dulled the knife’s edge of her headache. She was starting to feel restless.
Time to go to work.
A crack of light glowed through a gap in the curtains as the sun advanced over the horizon.
The rest of the food stayed down so well, she took a rasher of bacon and another spoonful of the light, fluffy eggs that seemed to take no room at all in her stomach. Her gaze lingered for a moment on the last dollop of orange marmalade.
With an impatient sigh, Mr. Trenchard grabbed the remaining slice of toast, spread the marmalade on it, and thrust it into her unresisting hand.
She smiled at him and ate a quarter of the toast in one large bite.
“Now,” he said, pushing the dishes to side and folding his hands once more on top of the desk. “I visited the newspaper office on Strand yesterday. Several articles reported that the Longmoor fire may have been deliberately set—”
Before she could stop herself, she snorted. It took her a minute to finish chewing and swallowing the remains of the toast. “I already knew that. It was in all the papers after the fire. Major Pickering would hardly be trying to tell me something printed in all the broadsheets. Common knowledge.”
His blue eyes were much harder and colder when he continued. “And a few accounts indicated that the doors may have been wedged shut with wooden shims.”
Sarah shifted and lightly pressed her hand against the bandage covering her head. The headache stabbed behind her right eye. Her shoulders tightened as they did whenever she thought about that night.
“Where did you read about shims?” she asked, feeling truculent and not wanting to believe him.
She’d gotten out, hadn’t she? She couldn’t have done that if the doors and windows had been wedged shut.
“Why don’t you tell me what you remember?” He sat back in his chair, looking carelessly elegant with no neckcloth and his shirt open at the neck. There was something deceptive about him, something that hinted at strength and resolution that made her pulse rattle unsteadily. He reminded her of a large, sleepy-eyed tomcat, smiling and purring in the sun.
But then, she reminded herself, she’d never been overly fond of cats.
“I told you everything the other night.” She started to rise. “I’ve got to work. If you want to be paid.”
He ran a hand over the stubble on his chin. “You can go after you tell me what you remember. All of it, this time.”
When she didn’t sit down, he braced his hands on the edge of the desk and stood. He walked over to the double doors, shut them, turned a brass key and placed it in his pocket.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
The food in her stomach shifted and gurgled. She stared thoughtfully at the edge of the desk, wondering if standing was such a brilliant idea after all.
“Sit down. You’re not going anywhere until I’m satisfied that you've given me all the information you know.” He strode back to his chair and sat down. “Sit!”
Fingers resting gently on the bandage encircling her forehead, she sat, compressing her mouth into a mulish line.
“Now, begin again. What do you remember?”
“I don’t remember much. It was thirteen years ago.”
“It was your birthday.” He leaned forward with his elbows on the desk and his hands steepled in front of his mouth. “You must remember that.”
She really didn’t. Bits and pieces. Vague faces.
Feeling happy and secure. A new nightgown received that day and the locket engraved with her name that she wore around her neck until she cut her hair. “I— I honestly don’t remember much. Not of that night. Not of the days before, either.” She closed her eyes. How could she tell him what she didn’t know herself?
“Then tell me what you do know. However little. It may help. Someone tried to kill you yesterday. If you wish to live, you have to tell me whatever information you remember.”
“Can I have some more coffee?”
He filled her cup, topping it with cream and a spoonful of sugar. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, Sarah.”
“I’m not afraid. I can’t remember. There’s a difference,” she said, her chin rising. “I remember it was late, after midnight, and my cousin was hungry. She complained all evening that she’d been so excited she hadn’t eaten much all day. Anyway, she was afraid of the dark, so I told her I would go to the kitchen to get a jug of milk and the rest of the cake we had had that afternoon.”
“Your cousin, Mary Archer?”
She hesitated. That name always bothered her though she didn’t understand why.
“Yes,” she said at last. Her hand went to her neck even though she no longer wore the locket with her name etched inside. “We had rooms up on the third floor. I used the servants’ stair. I didn’t know where the grownups were, and I didn’t want to get caught out of bed.
“So, I went to the kitchen and cut us a few slices of cake and wrapped it up in Cook’s linen towel. I was pouring the milk when I smelled the smoke.” She stopped for a moment, her fingers prying at the linen bandage wrapped around her head. There was a shooting pain over her eye. She wanted to rub it away, but the fabric was in the way. She struggled to control a rising sense of panic. “I thought it was just a chimney smoking somewhere, so I started to go back upstairs. Two flights up, the smoke began pouring down on me. I—I didn’t know what to do. I opened the door to the s
econd floor hallway.
“There was this whoosh—or explosion—I don’t know what happened….” She paused, unable to explain something she couldn’t even understand herself.
How did one describe the confusion, a nightmare of smoke and fire?
“Is that when you got the scar?”
“My first scar?” She grinned, trying to make a jest to cover her confusion. Again, her hand touched the bare hollow of her neck. The locket alone told her who she was. After the terror of that night and the burning chunk of wood that had branded her forehead, she was not even certain of her name. “I suppose I’ll have another scar, now.”
“What happened after the explosion, Sarah,” he prompted.
“I, well, I suppose I woke up on the stairs. It couldn’t have been much later. Pieces of burnt wood were all over—smoke was pouring into the stairs, blowing upwards toward the upper floors like a storm.”
The hot air had scorched her face, swirling up the stairs. Her eyes and skin had been sticky and burning, and it had been so hard to breathe. Even now, she could feel the pain in her chest and the acrid taste of ash in the back of her throat.
“I could feel the heat of the fire—it seemed to be everywhere. There was screaming—and noise everywhere. Crashing and—oh, I just—I can’t describe it. I tried to get to the third floor where the others were, but there was too much smoke and heat. I—I just couldn’t. I tried, but I couldn’t.”
“So you went where? Downstairs?”
She nodded. “I went back to the kitchen. I didn’t know where else to go. I thought the cook—or someone….” Her voice trailed off as her fingers blindly picked at her bandage. “All I could hear was screaming and crashing, as if the walls were falling in on me. I ran to the door, but I couldn’t get out. I couldn’t breathe.” She coughed reflexively, remembering the taste of ashes and the way it lingered in her mouth and throat for days. No amount of water seemed enough to wash it away.
“Sarah!” he interrupted her thoughts. “How did you get out?”
“I didn’t—I mean—I thought I was trapped in the kitchen, but my father came. He was shouting—his face black and covered with blood. He thrust a box into my hands and made me go to the door. We couldn’t get out, so he took the cook’s best cast iron pot and smashed a window. The wind howled! I didn’t want to go—I didn’t want to leave him. I told him to go with me, but he wanted to go back. He wanted to find Samuel, so he pushed me through the window and yelled at me. He told me to run as fast as I could and hide.” She pulled at the linen bandages, trying to rip them off. She felt like they were tightening around her head, killing her. “I ran for weeks.”
She let a small, breathy laugh escape. Finally, her fingers found the knot and she unwound the bandage from her head.
Cool air threaded through her damp hair. She gingerly touched the painful lump, her fingertips finding the knots of the stitches amongst the hair. The wound felt fresh and vulnerable.
“Why did you take your bandage off?” he asked, getting up with a sigh.
“It itched.”
He took the cloth from her hand and gently moved a lock of her hair to examine her head. She was very conscious of the heat radiating off his chest and his scent as his jacket flopped open while he bent over her. He smelled of warmth and something that made her want to clutch at him. She looked the other way, staring out the windows, trying not to notice his nearness. Wishing he would notice her.
“It looks clean,” he replied, sounding gruff. Instead of going back around to the other side of the desk, he sat down on the edge near Sarah. He idly swung his booted foot. “So you managed to escape.”
She nodded, choking and surprised by tears.
After thirteen years, she thought the grief was over. Finished and buried like her previous life.
“I ran through the fields until I couldn’t run anymore. Then I stopped. I was in a nightgown with what was left of a lace collar and cuffs. Useless. So I found a pair of trousers and shirt on a clothesline and left my gown in exchange. Then I remembered he’d told me to hide. I was already wearing some farm boy’s clothes so what difference did it make if I was a girl of eleven? I cut my hair and became a boy. Then I stole a newspaper.
“No one survived.” She shrugged and met his blue eyes, wondering why it felt like she was falling through the sky. His gaze was so warm. She gripped her knees. “I kept walking. I knew I couldn’t stop. It took weeks, but I found my way to Clapham. And I slept in a barn. Found out later it belonged to Mr. Hawkins. His wife gave me an apple.” She grinned, trying to compose herself. “Like any stray dog, once they feed you, you stay. I ran errands for Hawkins, at first. For food. That was thirteen years ago. The rest you know.
“And I have to go to work,” she said finally, not wanting to get out of the chair. The padding was so comfortable to her aching body. While she sat, not moving, the throbbing pain behind her eyes seemed to ease.
“You didn’t read any other newspapers? Later?”
“No. Why should I? I knew they were all dead. There was nothing I could do. It was difficult enough just trying to get something to eat.”
“Then you didn’t see the later articles with the speculation that the fire had been deliberately set? Or that the doors had been sealed from the outside?”
“No, but it wouldn’t have made any difference. I knew something was wrong when I saw my father’s face—when he thrust that box into my hands and told me to run—hide.”
He nodded, his foot swinging faster. His blue eyes glowed. “The newspapers stopped printing articles about the fire after that speculation. I find that interesting. And there is your Major Pickering.” He dug into his pocket and threw a small object into Sarah’s lap.
She picked it up. It just looked like a mangled piece of lead. “What is this?”
“Someone tried to shoot you yesterday,” he said before adding in a dry tone, “In addition to the idiot who tried to kill you by throwing a jug of water at your head.”
Chapter Eight
“Well, they didn’t succeed, did they? So I’d best get to work,” Sarah said, bracing her hands on the arms of her chair, ready to rise and face the day ahead of her. Sitting there, listening to Mr. Trenchard unsettled her. She didn’t want to think about events that had happened thirteen years ago. And she didn't want to think about him. She couldn't think about any men—not any longer. It was impossible.
“You can’t go back to work.”
“Why not?” she asked, getting out of the chair and gesturing toward the locked door.
“Because one of the people who tried to kill you yesterday lives in that townhouse. I doubt they’re going to clap you on the shoulder and treat you as a long lost friend. I believe they recognized you when you initiated work on that wall. That’s what started this mess.”
After due consideration, she finally shook her head. “No. I’ve been watched for longer than that. I’ve been in London over two months now, doing brickwork. Anyone could have seen me. Anywhere.”
“Sit down.”
“Why?”
“We’re not done. I want to tell you something you’re not going to like.”
She grinned. “I’m not going to like it any better sitting down.”
“Just sit. It won’t take much longer.” He waited until she resumed her seat before he spoke again, his foot swinging ever more rapidly. “That townhouse—the one where you woke up—it belongs to an acquaintance of yours. I think they may have either known about the Longmoor fire in advance, or helped plan it.”
Sarah raised her brows. “I don’t require a lot of soft, coddling words and long explanations. Who do you mean?”
“Mr. and Mrs. John Archer.”
“Ar-Archer?” Her heart fluttered.
“Yes. They didn’t die in the fire. If you’d read the papers that came out a week later, you would have seen the correction printed. Apparently, they were at a neighbor’s house when it occurred.”
“At a neighbor’s?” F
eeling dizzy, her queasy stomach turned over and tightened. She pressed icy fingertips against her eyelids, trying to relieve the pounding thunder in her head.
The Archers were alive? How could that be? After thirteen years? How could she have not known?
“I don’t understand…” she said at last.
“I’m sorry, but it’s too convenient that they, alone, survived.”
“It doesn’t make sense,” she repeated, feeling lost. Her head ached, and her heart thudded uncomfortably in her chest. She couldn’t think straight. Couldn’t think at all—just like after the fire.
“They weren’t at Elderwood during the fire,” he continued without mercy. “They must have known about it in advance. Then, when you showed up to build their garden wall, they must have recognized you. Or discovered your name, somehow.”
“No,” she shook her head and winced. “You're wrong.”
“John Archer is the one who threw the jug of water at you.”
“Mr. Archer threw a jug at me?”
“Yes. So you see, you can’t go back. Not today, at any rate.”
All she could think about was the box her father had thrust into her hands.
When she was very young, she had opened it, trying to understand what looked like simple statements of accounts, or bills. She hadn’t looked through them again, not for years. There was no point when she didn’t understand their significance.
Now, she just kept her locket and savings locked inside the box. A mere handful of sovereigns and bank notes.
“I have to go to Mrs. Pochard’s. I owe rent. It’s late.” She got up and went to the door, waiting for him to open it. She had to get her box—hold it in her hands and look at the locket again. Reassure herself that her memories were not false.
She couldn’t believe the Archers were involved in the fire. But somehow, the terror of that night was returning as she sat in this beautiful room with painted angels on the ceiling and a man who was inhumanely handsome staring at her.
