by Sara Portman
“I do not.”
She released a disapproving huff. “Well then, you are on a scavenger hunt, and I have no way to help you.”
Juliana’s heart sunk as Mrs. Stone turned back to the task at her desk. She turned and started toward the door with the mending kit when Mrs. Stone spoke again.
“You are under no circumstances to visit the docks to find this shipping company, is that understood?”
Juliana swallowed. “Yes, ma’am. Quite clearly.”
She dipped her pen in her ink pot and tapped the excess. “Return the mending kit before dinner.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.”
As no further response came from Mrs. Stone, Juliana took the box and left the study.
Chapter Seventeen
The boarding house, Juliana discovered, was very quiet during the day as most of the girls were employed. Those who remained were allowed use of the front parlor—not in the mornings, but in the afternoons, after Mrs. Stone had completed her tasks for the day. Though Juliana would have strongly preferred to remain in her room as opposed to congregating in the parlor, she forced herself to attend, if not participate, so that she might speak to one of her housemates. She had considered during the prior evening’s meal, which of the residents might be most qualified to assist her and had one in particular in mind. Besides, she told herself, she had completed her mending and needed to return the kit.
There were four girls in the parlor when she entered. One was reading, one was sewing and the other two were huddled together whispering in the corner. The latter two looked up when she entered and she forced a hesitant smile. She recognized one of the two whisperers as girl with the raven hair and the sly manner from the evening before. She was called Kat. Of all the women in residence, she was the most intimidating to Juliana, but she also seemed the most likely to know the answers to her questions.
Juliana exhaled to calm her anxiety and made her way to the bookshelf, placing the mending kit on the shelf in the spot from which Mrs. Stone had collected it. She found an unoccupied chair and sat, glad that she had thought to bring her book with her. She opened it and it gave her something to look at, so she didn’t seem out of place. Mostly, she was waiting. She waited for the two women in the corner to finish their conversation. As the dinner hour neared, both women rose to return to their rooms before dinner and Juliana followed, keeping watch on Kat.
“Excuse me,” she said, after maneuvering to walk up the stairs nearest her. “Could I speak with you a moment?”
The girl looked back at Juliana and shrugged. She kept climbing the stairs. Juliana wasn’t certain if the shrug had been an agreement or not, so she followed. At the top of the stairs Kat turned and said, “Depends about what, I suppose.”
Juliana looked down the stairwell to make sure no one else was nearby, then returned her attention to Kat. “Would you have a moment to speak in my room?”
Kat looked over her shoulder as Juliana had done, then eyed Juliana curiously. “I suppose I do, as long as I’m not late for dinner,” she said and Juliana knew it was curiosity rather than helpfulness that had lured her in.
“I would like to ask you a question,” Juliana said once they were inside her room with the door partially shut, “but I am hoping that you will keep our conversation confidential.”
Kat shrugged again and Juliana decided it was likely not a promise of silence, but more likely meant that whether or not she would tell the others depended upon how interesting the secret turned out to be. With no other way to get the help she needed, Juliana accepted the risk.
“I need to get to the London docks,” she said, “but I don’t know how. And I can’t ask Mrs. Stone, because she wouldn’t like my going there.” She did not share that, in fact, Mrs. Stone had expressly forbid it.
Kat smiled knowingly. “The docks? Well, aren’t you a surprise.”
“I promise it’s nothing improper. I need to find a friend and my only way of doing so is through her husband’s shipping company.”
“Mmm hmm. There’s nothing proper about you going to the docks by yourself. There’s only one sort of lady down there, and she’s not the sort Mrs. Stone will be allowing here.”
“I just don’t know how to get there,” Juliana insisted, ignoring Kat’s opinions regarding the types of ladies at the docks.
Kat looked around the room. She spied Juliana’s mended day dress draped over the chair in the corner, then her eyes fell on the book on the bedside table, and the small satchel with the rest of her things. “I think you should find another way to locate your friend.”
“There is no other way,” Juliana insisted. She felt certain any help she gained from Mr. Peale would be a direct communication to her father and she hadn’t time to waste. “And it is terribly important that I speak to her.”
Kat put one hand on her hip and leaned her entire frame to that side. “If you have the blunt to spare, safest way is a hackney cab. But, in my opinion, if you don’t know enough to know how to get there, you don’t know enough to be going there at all.”
“I have to go.” Juliana was firm.
“Whatever for?”
“I have to find…”
She rolled her eyes. “I know, your friend.” She said it as though she knew it was false. Her eyes narrowed and she stepped toward Juliana. “You don’t seem the type to have friends what spend their time at the docks.”
“I don’t,” Juliana agreed. “I only hope to find my friend’s husband so that he can direct me to her.” It was actually the husband that mattered to Juliana, but if she clarified that now, Kat would believe something scandalous, she was sure.
Kat stood straight and again smoothed her skirts. Tongue tucked into the side of her cheek, she considered Juliana for a long moment. When she finally spoke, her tone was sharp. “Walk round the corner before you hail a hackney cab, otherwise Mrs. Stone will see you. Go in the morning. The drunks and whores will sleep late. When you get there, go directly to where you are headed. Don’t talk to anyone. Never look lost.” She crossed her arms and added, “And put your money in more than one place. That way, if someone picks your pocket, you’ll still have the coins to get home.”
Juliana listened carefully, nodding her understanding with each bit of sage advice. “I do have one question,” she said after Kat had finished. Kat tilted her head to one side, waiting, so Juliana continued. “The bit about hailing a hackney cab,” she said. “I don’t really know…that is, I’ve never…”
Kat leveled Juliana with a disapproving expression that would have done Mrs. Stone credit. “I don’t think this is a very wise idea.”
Juliana didn’t think it sounded like a very wise idea either, now that she’d received all of Kat’s cautions, but she didn’t see any alternative. “It’s the only way,” she told Kat emphatically.
Kat sighed again. “When do you plan to go?
“Tomorrow morning.”
“I will put you in a cab. You can see how it’s done. You’ll be on your own to get back, though.”
Juliana nodded. “I understand. I am very grateful for your help.”
“Hmmm.” She turned and placed her hand on the door, the turned back. “Don’t tell anyone I’ve helped you. If you end up dead or missing, I don’t want to be blamed for sending you there.”
With that, she left. Juliana sat on the bed, anxiety building. Was it really as bad as all that, or was Kat just trying to scare her? If it was the latter, it worked. She had to go, but she wished she had Michael and Gelert to go with her.
It was a silly thought. Of course they could not. She had promised to leave them alone. Besides, she wouldn’t even know where to find them. As she thought on it, she decided that was for the best. If she did know how to find them, she might be tempted to do so.
Scared or not, she needed to do this on her own. Independence, she decided, was considerabl
y more dangerous than she had anticipated.
Chapter Eighteen
The announcement that Mr. Thatcher and his daughter, Miss Lydia Thatcher, would be their guests for dinner that evening was a surprise to Michael. He had not communicated to his father any decision regarding the proposed arrangements for Alexander’s future—and by default, his own. He had not communicated a decision, because he had not yet made one.
There was risk involved, Michael thought with some detachment, in bringing Miss Thatcher to meet him before he had agreed to the bargain. Though she might prove perfectly lovely and thus aid the marquess in his cause, she might just as likely prove a disappointment and ruin his plans.
Nonetheless, the marquess, the marchioness, and Michael were assembled in the drawing room, awaiting the arrival of the Thatchers. Alexander was not yet old enough to dine with the family when there were guests. Michael churlishly wished he could be allowed to take a tray in the nursery as well, but that would thwart his father’s purpose and they couldn’t have that, now could they?
Bernard entered the room to announce the guests’ arrival. “Mr. Thatcher and Miss Lydia Thatcher,” he called to the room at large.
They walked into the parlor, he as large as she was small, and the marchioness floated over to greet them.
“Mr. Thatcher, how kind of you to come,” she effused. “And Miss Thatcher. How lovely to see you again. We are so glad to have you here. I am only sorry that your mother was not able to join us.”
“My wife is unfortunately ill,” Mr. Thatcher responded, “but we are glad for the invitation, Lydia and I.” When he spoke, each word thrust forth as its own separate burst of speech, giving the impression of shouting even though he was not being overly loud.
The marchioness took a small step backward. “Well, we are sorry to hear of it,” she said. “I hope that it is not too serious or long of duration.”
He harrumphed. “Knowing my wife it is not too serious, but it will most assuredly be long of duration.”
The marchioness coughed quietly. “Yes, well, some of us are more delicate than others.”
“I believe my wife endeavors to be as delicate as possible, Lady Rosevear.”
Michael waited, but apparently even the marchioness could not produce the appropriately diplomatic reply to this latest comment, so she simply smiled and turned to Miss Thatcher, who had stood quietly by through this exchange. “Won’t you come and meet my husband. And Mr. Rosevear,” she said, taking the lady by the arm and leading her into the room.
The pair of ladies, with Mr. Thatcher in their wake, stopped in front of his father and the marchioness made a show of introductions, as Michael watched. Miss Thatcher was petite, with blond hair, brown eyes, and a perpetually placid expression. She was trim and dressed to the height of fashion. He wondered if she would like hiding away in Yorkshire.
Once everyone had been properly introduced to the marquess, they turned their collective attention to Michael. “And this is Mr. Rosevear,” the marchioness said.
Michael stepped forward. He always found introductions to be awkward. He found his made-up surname rather silly, given everyone knew the family name was Brinley. Still he smiled graciously and pretended not to notice that the marchioness carefully avoided referring to his family position. “Good evening, Mr. Thatcher, Miss Thatcher. I am happy to make your acquaintance.”
“Very good to meet you as well,” Mr. Thatcher said with a wide grin.
His daughter smiled blandly. It was not a particularly sparkling beginning.
Thankfully they were called into dinner rather quickly. In Michael’s experience, a lack in topics of conversation could always be resolved during a dinner by commenting on the food, and he expected no shortage of culinary appraisal in this meal.
They were not yet halfway through supper when the matchmaking began in earnest by both fathers.
“Lydia is an accomplished rider,” Mr. Thatcher announced in his forceful brand of speech.
“Is that so?” The marquess took the bait, looking disproportionately eager at this bit of information.
“I’m not certain my accomplishments warrant comment, my lord,” Miss Thatcher responded, “but I do very much enjoy riding.”
The marquess grinned as though this was the best news he’d received in months. “Have you been riding in our parks, Miss Thatcher? London has so much parkland in which for you to ride.”
“A little, my lord, but not everyone in my family is such an enthusiast.”
“Well,” the marquess drawled, “I think we can remedy that, can’t we Michael?”
This unsubtle instruction to Michael as to the invitation he should be extending was sufficient to bring a tinge of pink to Miss Thatcher’s unruffled expression.
“Miss Thatcher,” Michael said, once again playing the obedient son, “I would be delighted to accompany you for a ride in the park this week, should you have the time and inclination.”
“Of course she should have the time,” Mr. Thatcher blustered. “What else would she do?”
This deepened the color on Miss Thatcher’s cheeks to apple red. She gave a delicate cough and directed her response to Michael, eyes full of apology. “I am certain I could make the time for a ride in the park.”
“Tomorrow morning,” the marquess proposed.
“Tomorrow morning?” Michael asked Miss Thatcher, as though the idea of this particular timing had only just occurred to him.
“Tomorrow morning would be fine,” she said, “but are you sure you would like to ride, Mr. Rosevear? There is no need. I think a drive should be just as pleasant.”
Michael required a moment before he realized she was making a concession to his injured leg. How the hell would she have known? He hadn’t used the cane that evening. Now that he was no longer trapped in a carriage for hours a day, he was barely even limping. What a callous negotiation his father must have had with Mr. Thatcher. He could only imagine.
Yes, the connection to the Rosevear name is quiet valuable, but it is on the wrong side of the blanket and the leg is lame as well.
What shall we deduct from the settlement, then?
And then, of course, Mr. Thatcher had broken the bad news to his daughter.
There’s an injury, dear, but remember you’ll be connected to a marquess.
To her credit, at least Miss Thatcher looked sincere in her desire to make an accommodation.
“I would much prefer to ride rather than drive, Miss Thatcher,” Michael said, “So if you would prefer to ride as well, we are in accord.”
She smiled widely for the first time that evening. “That sounds lovely.”
“Very good,” Mr. Thatcher said, beaming at his daughter.
“Excellent,” the marquess announced. Then he waved at his empty glass and a footman swept forward to fill it with wine.
Michael didn’t mind the prospect of a morning ride, but he thought the optimism of both fathers to be a bit premature. Additional time spent in the company of Miss Thatcher was not likely to change Michael’s mind when his primary objection was not the woman but his inability to return to Rose Hall. No outing with Miss Thatcher would change his views on that.
He conceded she seemed perfectly nice, if a bit tepid. To be fair, he’d not been particularly enthusiastic himself. She simply didn’t intrigue him.
He wouldn’t have thought he possessed a particular taste in women, but if he did, this woman didn’t seem to be it. She was pretty, he supposed, in the common way, with golden blond hair and large dark brown eyes. Her figure was perfectly formed, her smile pleasant. Her voice was even nice—lilting and soft. She just didn’t seem to strike him in any particular way.
She didn’t have auburn hair and jade green eyes.
No. No she did not. Neither did she tease him with an air of mystery that begged to be solved.
Then again,
that wasn’t entirely true. He knew nothing about her other than her love for riding. To be fair, she was more of a mystery to him than Juliana, but not a mystery that pulled at him, that demanded his preoccupation.
“I hope the weather will cooperate for your ride,” the marchioness said. “We’ve had so much rain in the past week, surely the skies must be empty of it.”
Michael rather doubted that was the case. And mention of the weather only reminded him of Juliana again. He could admit then that he deeply regretted not learning enough of her plans to at least contact her—to ensure that she was well and well taken care of.
And safe from her father.
Once he had broken down and freely allowed his mind to linger on Juliana, he was completely preoccupied with her safety. He barely paid attention to the conversation through the rest of dinner and he could tell his father was annoyed with him for not being more attentive to Miss Thatcher when she left with her father. The fact was, Miss Thatcher was clearly not in danger. He couldn’t think of her when he was worried for Juliana’s well-being. Why had he not considered that more seriously? They had discussed how she might preclude her father from accessing her funds in the future, but what if her father was en route to London even now? Where was she staying? Could her father find her there? The more he considered it, the more he felt a damned fool for ever allowing her to set foot out of his carriage without him.
He spent a second night thinking of Juliana. This time his thoughts were not pleasant memories but a burgeoning fear that she may already be in danger.
Chapter Nineteen
Juliana did not approach Kat before breakfast, but made a point to catch her eye during the meal. The other woman met her gaze blankly, with no meaning or recognition, and Juliana panicked. She had no inkling of how one went about hailing a hackney cab, or even how much it should cost. She would very likely be cheated.
She supposed overpaying was the least of her worries. That would at least mean she had gotten one to take her somewhere. She supposed she could watch the street for a while. Perhaps someone else would come along to hail a hackney cab and she could watch how they went about it. It was not a perfect plan, but it was the best she had under the circumstances. She just hoped Kat would not tell Mrs. Stone the details of her outing. She did very much like to whisper with the others and tell secrets. It had been a mistake to trust her.
