“Fuck,” Sam muttered, dropping the letter on top of the others. He crossed the room to pour another drink, but paused with the decanter in mid-air as he stared unseeing at the plaster in front of him. “I’ll be damned,” he said as a truly outrageous idea occurred to him. Without even quite realizing it, he set the decanter down, though he tossed the heavy crystal stopper carelessly from hand to hand as he paced the length of the room, thinking furiously. He never heard the soft knock of the housekeeper or the sound of her entering with a tray of food, didn’t notice when she glanced sideways at him in concern as she set the tray on a table and set out the food.
He paced for many minutes until he decided he needed to put pen to paper to make any sense of his ideas. He fetched both from his leather case and only as he looked about for a flat space on which to write did he notice the table of food.
He pushed the covered plates aside and dipped his nib in ink before absently grabbing a roll and chewing on it while he scribbled figures and notes. He paused at some point to pull a ledger out of his case, consulted some numbers, and then returned to his note making. Several hours later he stood and stretched, twisting his upper body until he got a satisfying crack out of his spine. Only then did he realize how hungry he was and lifted the lids from his plates to devour the now-cold beefsteak and roasted vegetables.
He glanced at his stack of paper, now neatly organized, with some corners turned down to mark particularly important ideas. As he shoved a chunk of potato in his mouth, he realized his fingers were ink-stained, but he smiled because he had a plan that. Two plans, really; one to enable him to return to England and another to win back Sarah.
He paused, mid-chew. Truthfully, he only had one very sound plan that would take him to England and that’s what was outlined on the sheets in front of him. The plan to regain Sarah’s favor was more of a bone-deep, heartfelt conviction. He really hadn’t the faintest idea how to go about the actual practice. Always before in his affairs du coeur when things had soured, even briefly, he took it as his cue to make a speedy departure. Never before had he actually sought to solve the problem. But never before had he cared so deeply.
He glanced up at a rumble of thunder and caught sight of himself in the full-length mirror. He’d forgotten to shave in the bath and his beard, several shades darker than the hair on his head, left the lower half of his face shadowed. His hair was a rumpled mess from running his hands through it distractedly while thinking, and it stood on end, adding to his crazy appearance. But his eyes, as he thought about Sarah, were full of steely determination. Never before had he loved a woman as he loved her, he reminded himself. Never before had the rest of his life felt as if it was on the line.
He looked for his waistcoat and pulled his pocket watch out. It was nearly midnight and while he was invigorated with his business plans and his hopes regarding Sarah, it had been a long day, followed by his near-marathon walk in the sleet, and then his brainstorming session. All in all, he was done in, but as he climbed in bed and blew out the candle, he decided it had been one of the most productive days of his life and he couldn’t wait to implement his plans.
As his eyelids grew heavy, he now welcomed instead of dreaded the idea of dreaming about Sarah.
Chapter Thirteen
Three weeks later, across the Atlantic and staring out an equally rain-spattered window, Sarah was not feeling so positive. It had been a night full of dreams about Sam and birthing babies, some of whom turned out to be hers, but then instead of Sam being there, Peter Greene was present, demanding she give him a baby since his wife couldn’t bear one.
As a result, she hadn’t got much rest and she felt groggy and out-of-sorts. At least she didn’t have to be at the kitchen first thing this morning. Eleanor’s ever-improving gift for raising money, added to the organizational skills she’d honed while helping Sarah for two years, had led to a large paid staff that took care of the actual cooking and serving at the kitchen. Sarah still went in everyday to make sure new people were trained properly, to pay bills, and to plan for future projects, but it had been weeks since she’d pared a potato or kneaded dough.
Turning from the window, she finished winding her hair into a knot at the base of her head, smiling wistfully as she used way too many hairpins to secure it.
She buttoned the collar of her dress, a wine-red muslin, one of the gowns Sam had purchased. She’d kept them packed away after he left, loathe to wear them, loathe to part with them. But then she’d had to wear one of the silk chemises when her old linen one simply couldn’t be repaired any longer and after that, it just seemed silly not to wear the dresses. Though they could not be further apart and she would never have admitted it to another soul, wearing the gowns somehow made Sam feel closer to her. Then, too, it felt wonderful to wear a day gown that hadn’t been turned twice, whose cuffs and collar were frayed, and whose hem was marked with random stains that no amount of soaking would remove.
She would never have chosen a gown of this color on her own and somehow that made this dress all the more special. She only wore it for important errands.
Today she was on her way to make an appearance at a ladies’ luncheon where Eleanor was giving a speech, ostensibly about “Remaining a lady in every situation,” but which was, in actuality, a subtle reminder that “nobless oblige required those descended from kings and queens do all they could for those servants of the of the crown less fortunate than themselves.”
Sarah had rolled on the bed with laughter at that line when Eleanor had practiced her speech in front of her yesterday.
“What’s so funny?” Eleanor asked, clearly confused and yet delighted to see Sarah overcome by the giggles.
Sarah finally sat up and wiped the tears of mirth from her eyes.
“I’m sorry. It was the ‘descended from kings and queens part.’ Half of the nobles in the ton only have a title because their twice-removed cousin from their father’s aunt’s half-brother died before he could manage to convince some equally blue-blooded woman to marry him in the hopes of providing a blue-blooded heir.” At that, Sarah erupted into more giggles and the occasional snort. Eleanor tilted her head and frowned with an expression that was at once perplexed and amused. Seeing her cousin that way set Sarah off on another spurt of hilarity until Eleanor, with a little frown, said, “But that’s how father came into the earldom.”
Sarah choked as she stifled a laugh, horror seeping through her veins. “Eleanor, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—that is—“
At which point Eleanor herself shrieked with laughter, giggling so hard she had to hold her stomach and gasp for breath as she said, “Oh Sarah, you should see your face! I thought you were going to expire from mortification! Oh!” she whooped.
Sarah threw a pillow at her cousin but couldn’t hold back a smile.
After Eleanor’s laughter trailed off (not without a few snorts of her own), Eleanor said, “Forgive me, but I simply couldn’t resist. You are quite right, of course, but I’ve found certain ladies of the ton respond far more generously when I let them pretend they are direct descendants of Queen Elizabeth rather than reminding them they are probably more closely related to the people in Southwark.”
“Queen Elizabeth didn’t have any children,” Sarah said. “She never married.”
Eleanor’s left eye twitched. “Dear, are you being deliberately obtuse?”
“Sorry,” Sarah said, biting her cheek to keep from laughing again.
“Perhaps tomorrow it will be best if you simply smile and nod and allow me to do all the talking.”
“Of course,” Sarah murmured with a small smile. It was all she ever did at these luncheons Eleanor dragged her to. Though she’d grown more comfortable at the society events in the last months, she’d not been brought up in that level of society, and especially after years in Southwark, she was never completely at ease with the members of the ton.
Now she gathered her gloves and hat and glanced out the window to see if Eleanor’s plain, unmarked coach
had arrived. It was just turning the corner and she turned to leave, picking up her umbrella as she did so.
Sarah’s cheeks ached from smiling so much throughout the luncheon, but true to her word, Eleanor had coaxed a dozen substantial donations from the ladies present.
“I promised Alex I would be home early today,” Eleanor said. “Do you mind taking the drafts to the bank?”
“Of course not,” Sarah said. Though she’d had more outings to the city in the last three months than she had the previous five years, it was still nice to have a day away from Southwark and her endless responsibilities there.
She followed her trip to the bank with a visit to two of her favorite apothecaries and then a walk down Bond Street. A few months ago, she’d have viewed the exclusive shops selling fine clothing, jewels, and tobaccos as the epitome of excess and wastefulness. She smiled to herself as she thought of how judgmental she’d been. Now, however, with the financial worries she’d long battled eased by the influx of donations, Sarah could simply enjoy the displays of fine lace or beribboned hats as she might enjoy a sunrise or a garden of flowers. There was still a great deal of excess amongst the rarefied wealthy members of the ton, but she had also met some genuine people and made, dare she say it? a few friends.
By the time she returned to her flat that evening, she was pleasantly worn out. It wasn’t the bone weariness that came from a day of toiling in the Southwark kitchen all day, cooking, serving, and cleaning. Nor was it the mental exhaustion that followed setting a bone or stitching a wound or helping a patient battle a fever. It was simply a relaxed peacefulness of just enjoying a day to herself and walking miles in the fresh air. She’d been fortunate the rain had stopped and while it had been cloudy, it was a quiet kind of overcast, peaceful in its own way.
The bothersome mood with which she’d awoken had disappeared and as she climbed the stairs to her set of rooms, she thought of Samuel James for the first time since this morning. Now, however, with a newfound tranquility, she could view her short time with him from a position of peace and equanimity, grateful she’d had even a short time of love.
She shook her head and laughed at her whimsy as she entered the darkened rooms. She’d had a few such bouts of peaceful thoughts and they were inevitably followed by equally strong feelings of regret or anger, but for some reason this time, she thought the peaceful feeling might last a bit longer. She lit a single candle—influx of donations notwithstanding, she would always be frugal in her own life—and undressed for bed.
As she lay beneath the covers, waiting for the sheets to warm, she allowed thoughts of Sam to fill the darkness around her. She remembered the feel of his body next to hers in this narrow bed, the smell of his neck as she nuzzled it, the taste of his skin as she kissed it. For once she refused to chase away such memories with thoughts of the terrible way they had parted, refused to wallow in regrets or what ifs. Instead she simply enjoyed her memories as she had enjoyed her walk along Bond Street today. And with that philosophical mindset, she fell into an easy slumber.
“Sarah! Sarah!” Sam yelled, which was strange because in her dream she’d been right beside him and there was no need for him to raise his voice.
“Sarah, wake up!” This was accompanied by a loud pounding, which was also at odds with the tenor of her dream. With tremendous effort, Sarah dragged her eyes open, only to have them burn from the smoke seeping into her room. She sat up as the door burst in, allowing a billow of smoke to pour in from the hallway.
“Sarah?”
“Sam?” she called, convinced she was still dreaming. When he rushed across the room and grabbed her, however, she’d never felt anything more real in her life. “Sam! What are you doing here?” she asked, then coughed as the smoke thickened.
“We’ve got to get you out of here! The building is on fire.”
Sarah allowed him to pull her out of bed and across the room.
“Wait! I must dress!” she said, tugging her hand out of his grasp and turning to look for her gown.
“There’s no time! Come with me!”
“But—” When she hesitated, confused and disoriented, he swung her up into his arms and strode from the room. The smoke in the hallway was so thick, Sarah didn’t know how Sam could see. She buried her face in his neck and smelled not burning wood, but the achingly familiar scent of him.
Above her, he coughed and she pulled a length of her nightgown up to cover his mouth and nose. The move exposed her legs well past her knees but such a concern was completely irrelevant now. Sam made a slow descent, carefully feeling for the next step down and Sarah realized that between her in his arms and the billowing smoke, he had no idea if the step below him was still there or had been burned away. She wondered how long ago the fire started. Holding her breath, she glanced over his shoulder and saw bits of burning building falling into the landing outside her rooms. The tinder dry flooring and old walls quickly burst into flames. The heat was oppressive, pressing in on them, as if trying to convince their very skin to accept the flames.
It normally took her perhaps a minute or two to descend from her floor to the front stoop of the building but this time it felt like hours as Sam carried her to safety. Her eyes burned from the smoke and her ears were filled with the roar of the fire that screamed and roared about them like a living thing. Once outside, the heat and oppressive smoke was replaced with fresh air—bitterly cold air pushed by an unforgivingly sharp wind. Sarah’s teeth chattered and she burrowed as close as she could get to Sam’s body heat as her body went from being baked to being frozen in a matter of seconds.
Sam strode across the street and set her inside a waiting coach, wrapping her in the lap blanket before pulling off his jacket and tucking that around her as well.
She looked through the open door to see the windows of the top floor illuminated with the blaze inside. The feeble light of daybreak made it’s tepid way through the low hanging clouds and Sarah scanned the crowd of people in the street.
“Mrs. Bidwell! The children!” she cried, moving to get out of the coach.
Sam restrained her. “Everyone from the top floor is out and safe,” Sam said.
“What of the other residents? Has everyone been accounted for?”
“I’ll go find out if you’ll promise me you will stay in the carriage.”
“But—very well,” Sarah said as a shiver of cold made her clutch his coat more tightly around her. He touched her cheek briefly, and moved to close the door.
“Wait!” She tore a strip from the hem of her nightgown for him to cover his mouth and nose. He tied it about his face as he sprinted to the building entrance. She watched him talk to the other men there before going into the burning building. Sarah held her breath as long as she could as if that would help, hoping Sam wasn’t choking on the thick smoke billowing from the doorway and upper windows of the building. A figure emerged from the building and then another, but neither was Sam.
She glanced at the crowd of people huddled in the streets again, trying to tally up her neighbors and see if anyone was unaccounted for, but the light was still too dim and even with the cold wind, the smoke made discerning faces too difficult. She tried to imagine where Sam was in the building, how long he could remain in there. It felt too long—his life wasn’t worth her need for reassurance. She was about to get out of the carriage and go in after him when Sam staggered out of the building. He doubled over coughing and Sarah jumped out of the carriage and ran to him, heedless of the frozen ground beneath her bare feet or the bitter wind cutting through her thin nightclothes. She pulled his arm around her shoulder and urged him to lean on her as she helped him back to the carriage. A heavy rain started to fall as they climbed in and she prayed it was enough to keep the fire from spreading to other buildings. There was no fire brigade in The Mint.
Once inside, Sam coughed again, deep racking gasps as his lungs tried to expel the smoke he’d inhaled. She looked him over for injuries in the dim light but could see nothing other than a rent
in his shirt and a nasty scrape on his forehead. She tore another strip from the hem of her gown and dabbed at his brow. He started, as if coming out of a trance.
“I’m fine,” he said in a raspy voice.
“You’ve a cut here,” Sarah replied, dabbing at the blood.
“It’s nothing,” he said. He gave direction to the driver and then pulled her to him, collapsing back against the squabs.
Sarah relaxed completely against him, relieved he was well, still discombobulated by being awoken by a fire and his rescuing presence. She smiled wearily; she wasn’t sure which occurrence was more shocking. How had he come to be there at just the right time? How had the fire started?
She felt the coach lurch into motion and sat up. “Wait! I must see if anyone is injured.”
“Doctor,” Sam mumbled. “There’s a doctor there. Kendall.”
Sarah pressed her face to the window. “Oh,” she said. Dr. Kendall would have things well in hand. As the driver eased the coach through the crowds of humans, animals, and carts, she saw people from neighboring buildings helping the displaced residents into their homes.
The rain began to come down harder and Sarah could see that the fire was either completely out or soon would be.
She turned back to Sam and her heart surged at the sight of him. His eyes were closed and in the pale light filtering through the clouds she thought he looked leaner and a bit wearier than he had when she last saw him; but his face was every bit as dear to her. She reached out to touch his cheek, but stopped an inch away, suddenly shy and uncertain of what his presence meant.
The cold, which the initial shock of the evening had blunted, sank into Sarah’s bones and her teeth chattered before she was able to clench them.
Lady Disdain Page 19
