Chapter Seven
Since Sunday’s church service was giving thanks for the survival of those who almost died in the storm, Tillie thought she should go at first.
Then, when the vicar mentioned Captain Smith’s name at breakfast on Sunday morning, another idea came to her. Neither Major Doverton nor Mr. Grant seemed to trust his honesty, and if there was the smallest chance of him knowing anything about her, Tillie wanted him to tell the truth. If Doverton couldn’t make him—or Mr. Grant with God behind him—then Tillie stood no chance of persuading him.
On the other hand, she knew he was staying at the hotel, and everyone seemed sure he would go to church.
And so, Tillie said casually, “I think I will go for a walk, if you don’t mind. I hope I’ll be back in time for church, but don’t wait for me!”
After several days in the sea-stained gown and her chemise and stockings washed every night, it felt rather decadent to be wearing her third different dress in four-and-twenty hours. She had worn one of Mrs. Grant’s altered evening dresses for dinner last night, when they were joined by Dr. Lampton and Princess von Rheinwald—though not, sadly, Major Doverton, since his family was in town.
“Are you acquainted with his family?” Tillie had asked them.
“No, I’m not sure they’ve ever been here,” Mr. Grant said. “But then, I don’t know the major well.” He frowned. “Which I suppose is odd when he’s been here as long as I have.”
Dr. Lampton lifted his glass. “The man isn’t sociable. Nothing wrong with that. He’s always been there when it matters.”
There was some mystery about Major Doverton that intrigued Tillie. She resolved to get to the bottom of it. However, the mystery of Captain Smith seemed more urgent right now.
Thanks to Little’s magic, Tillie wore one of Kate Grant’s day dresses and felt rather pleased with it. She was also quite pleased with her own deviousness. For, wearing the borrowed cloak and bonnet, she walked round to High Street and pretended to gaze in shop windows until she saw the man she was looking for stroll out of the hotel.
Captain Smith crossed the road, going in the direction of the church. Tillie walked to the hotel door, nodded in a superior kind of way to the doorman who opened it for her, and sailed through the foyer as if she had lived there all her life.
Of course, she had never been here before and had no idea of the arrangement of the building. She had thought about demanding to be taken to Captain Smith’s rooms, but she suspected no one would obey. Worse, they would remember her.
So, she merely took in as much as she could as she crossed the foyer with the most confident demeanor she could manage. From all she could observe with secret glances, the bedchambers seemed to be upstairs. On the ground floor, she saw only a coffee room, a restaurant, and a large hall just visible through half-closed double doors. A young clerk watched her surreptitiously from behind a desk, but otherwise, there seemed to be no staff around.
She climbed the stairs without pause to the first landing. It seemed she knew something about hotels, though, for as she had guessed, the maids were taking the opportunity to clean up while guests were out. She heard two women gossiping from an open door on the left, and as she passed, she saw them making up a large bed.
“Is Captain Smith in?” she asked innocently.
The maids stopped talking at once, dropped their sheet, and curtseyed. “Captain Smith, ma’am? He’s upstairs on the next floor.”
“Oh, how foolish of me. Thank you.”
She walked quickly upstairs to the second floor and walked along the passages until she found another half-open door. She peered inside. One girl was dusting energetically while another swept the floor. And under the window stood a large, water-stained seaman’s trunk.
Tillie whisked herself out again. She took a deep breath, then knocked sharply on the door.
“Hoi!” she said stridently. “There’s an angry woman in the kitchen shouting blue-murder for you two!”
“Oh, lumme!” exclaimed one of the women inside. Tillie fled around the corner, from where she watched the maids race out of the captain’s room. As she’d hoped, they did not turn the key in the lock.
Tillie walked smartly back to Captain Smith’s door and let herself in, leaving the door half-open so she would hear the maids’ return. She doubted she would have long, so she went hastily to the trunk. It opened easily, but it was empty. She found a wardrobe with two suits of clothes and a few shirts and handkerchiefs, but after rifling them hastily for anything hidden, she turned instead to the desk.
A half-finished letter to his wife made her feel guilty for looking. Instead, she opened one of the drawers and found maps and charts and, beneath them, to her delight, a list of The Phoenix’s cargo for Ireland and Sweden.
Cotton cloth, manufactured garments. And French cognac.
She didn’t know what else she had expected, one crate of young lady of indeterminate origin?
Hastily, she hurried around to the other drawer. Here were more private letters from his wife and friends, it seemed, mostly stained with sea water. And then she found one in French, which she drew out, frowning. But there were footsteps in the passage outside and she froze.
At least it wasn’t the maids. The steps sounded too masculine. Go on, go on, she prayed to whoever the feet belonged to.
They stopped at the door.
Her heart racing, Tillie slid the drawer closed and bolted through the inner door into what must have been a servant’s chamber. Fortunately, there was no one in it. But the door to the passage creaked slightly, and the footsteps entered the main room.
It was a man’s boots that crossed the floor unhurriedly yet relentlessly. Captain Smith? Drat the man, why couldn’t he stay in church for an hour? What on earth could she say to him?
Nothing. Worst of all, she hadn’t replaced his letter in the desk drawer.
The door to her little chamber swung open. She gasped, jumping back out of the way and snatching the purloined letter behind her back.
Major Doverton stood in the doorway, gazing at her without surprise. Or any expression at all.
Tillie sagged with relief. “Thank God. I thought you were Captain Smith.”
“Fortunately not. What the devil are you doing here?”
“Oh, I must put the letter back,” she exclaimed, trying to brush past him. But he didn’t move, merely gazed down at her. His large, solid body barred her way. She could not read his eyes. For the first time, she felt she didn’t have his approval.
Well, she’d entered a man’s private room without permission and read his correspondence.
She flushed, only slightly ashamed. “It’s in French,” she said defensively.
Something flickered in his eyes. He stood aside, and she hastened into the main room. Feeling his eyes burning into the back of her head, she paused at the desk, scanning the words in the letter before folding it once more and replacing it in the drawer.
“Hurry,” he said grimly, seizing her by the hand and pushing the drawer shut with the toe of his boot. “Someone’s coming.”
It was the maids returning. She could hear their voices along the passage, still wondering who on earth had called for them if it wasn’t Mrs. Manners—whoever Mrs. Manners was, presumably some dragon of the kitchen.
Running, she and Doverton whisked themselves out of the room. He dragged her hand through his arm and they slowed to a walking pace for the benefit of any observers. Still talking, the maids went into Captain Smith’s room. An elderly gentleman with a stick walked toward them, and they all exchanged polite nods.
Before Tillie could speak, Doverton knocked peremptorily on another door and pushed it open, pulling Tillie inside with him before kicking it shut again.
“What the devil were you about?” he demanded furiously.
“Trying to find out about Captain Smith,” she retorted. “You are all convinced he is dishonest in some way. I was merely discovering what way. I wondered if it was to do with me, an
d even if it wasn’t, I–I wanted to help.”
He stared down at her, his angry frown fading. He dragged his hand through his hair. “And what if he’d come in, Tillie? What, then?”
“I thought he had,” she confessed. “Only it was you, thank God. I was desperately trying to concoct a story, but nothing seemed terribly convincing. I had been going to say the maids let me in to wait for him and hope they didn’t come back to give me away.” She forced herself to stop talking and closed her mouth.
“Please don’t take risks like that again,” he said.
“Listen to who’s talking,” said another voice entirely. The major’s friend, Mr. Ashley, walked through from the room beyond, closing the door behind him. “Miss Tillie, how delightful to see you again. You didn’t tell me you were bringing her on a visit, Dove.”
“I didn’t know until a moment ago.”
“Please, sit, Miss Tillie,” Mr. Ashley invited. “While Dove fetches his sister-in-law to play propriety.” He glanced from one to the other. “We are playing propriety, aren’t we?”
“Yes,” Doverton said.
“No,” Tillie said at the same time. “I have to go to church.”
“Looking bad for you, Dove,” Ashely commented.
Doverton let out a hiss of laughter. “Shut up, Ash. Tillie, I’m truly grateful for your help, but please will you discuss it with me, or at least with the Grants, before you do anything else?”
“Pot,” Ashley observed obscurely. “Kettle. Black.”
“Will you hold your damned tongue?” Doverton demanded.
But Tillie had caught on to the thread of his friend’s interruptions. Frowning at Ashley, she said, “Are you saying Major Doverton takes dangerous risks, too? You’re right, of course, since he rescued me and many others during the storm.” She smiled at Doverton. “I’ll make a deal with you, Major. I’ll tell you my risky plans if you tell me yours.”
Doverton blinked, then stared at her. A breath of laughter seemed to catch in his throat.
“I’d take it, Dove,” Ashley recommended.
Doverton held her gaze. “You are a minx, my waif,” he said softly. “Come, I’ll escort you to church.”
“Don’t you want to know what was in the letter first?” she blurted.
He paused, the frown back between his brows.
“It wasn’t water damaged like his other documents,” Tillie said. “I think he received it since being in Blackhaven. It was asking him to continue to Sweden as soon as he could find another ship.”
Doverton’s frown deepened. “And written in French. Together, that is…interesting.”
A hurried knock at the door heralded the arrival of a well-dressed man in buff pantaloons and a blue coat. He might have been in his late thirties and was certainly a good-looking man. But what drew Tillie’s attention was his resemblance to the major. He had the same bone structure, the same shape of eyes and mouth. In the newcomer, the features seemed softer, less defined, the eyes less piercing, the body rather less lean. But she had no difficulty in recognizing Major Doverton’s brother, even before he spoke.
“Ashley, is Dominic—” The newcomer broke off as he took in the presence of the major and Tillie. “Ah.” He opened the door wide and a lady walked in past him.
The lady paused, her nostrils flaring with distaste. Certainly, it was not good for an unmarried lady’s reputation to be discovered unchaperoned with two gentlemen in private rooms. Tillie tilted her chin, refusing to admit wrongdoing.
Doverton said easily. “Excellent timing. We are about to leave. Miss Tillie is on her way to church, so we can all walk together that far. Let me introduce her to you, Ellen. This is Miss Tillie, our waif from the sea. Tillie, my brother and sister-in-law, Mr. and Mrs. John Doverton.”
Tillie curtseyed. Mrs. Doverton inclined her head very slightly, while her husband gave a rather shallow bow.
“I think you would rather walk with your family in private,” Tillie said. “I shall not intrude. Mr. Ashely.” She inclined her head to her host and hurried out of the room.
For an instant, it seemed the major would detain her, but she flashed him a look of pleading and he merely stood aside, his expression one of rueful understanding. Clearly, he recognized a desire to escape when he saw one.
Tillie hurried out of the hotel as fast as she could while maintaining her dignity and walked briskly toward the church. She didn’t want to dwell on what Major Doverton’s family thought of her. She shuddered to think of it, but she couldn’t even be angry because even if her crime wasn’t what they might be imagining, she had still behaved badly, shocking even the major. It made her cringe. Anxiety clawed at her stomach, because it seemed she didn’t know how to go on in society after all. Either that, or her past was not a terribly moral one.
The church service had already begun. To her surprise, she had to stand at the back with several domestic servants and farmers, for the pews were all filled and must have been even before the service started. Mr. Grant, it seemed, was a popular vicar. And besides, the rescue of The Phoenix seamen was a great thing.
She could see the captain and his sailors toward the front of the church. She wondered if they just had an impatient importer in Sweden. Or if there was some other reason for the captain in particular to be there. Was his purpose really to transport cotton garments and brandy? Or to betray his country?
*
On Monday, the day before the much-anticipated ball, Tillie went sick-visiting with Mrs. Grant to various homes around the town, from a genteel lady housebound by arthritis, to a one-legged soldier who seemed to be dying, and a fishwife with a fever. They brought gifts of soup and a little company for each.
Although it was difficult to see their suffering, Tillie found her role surprisingly easy, almost familiar.
“Do you think you have made such visits before?” Mrs. Grant asked her as they walked on toward the hospital.
Tillie frowned with the effort of remembering. “I think I might. Only the illnesses were different. Infected lungs, epidemics of cholera that spread around whole neighborhoods.”
“Which neighborhoods?” Mrs. Grant asked casually.
Tillie thought, then sighed. “I don’t know. They’re just words, names. I can’t see the faces that go with the suffering people, or their houses or who I was with. But I don’t feel it was I who was ill.”
At the hospital, she was happy to renew her acquaintance with Annie Doone and little George. Annie exclaimed in delight to see her. “And goodness, how smart you look! Are you a great lady after all?”
“I don’t know, but Mrs. Grant is! How is little George?”
“He’s getting fatter,” his mother said proudly. “And so am I. They might let me go soon.”
Tillie sat on the edge of her bed. “Where will you go, Annie? Back to your mother?”
“They don’t want to deal with crying babies no more,” Annie said carelessly. “I’ll find something else.”
But without work, she’d have nowhere to live. And how could she work and care for little George at the same time?
“A creche,” she said suddenly.
“I beg your pardon?”
Tillie rubbed the side of her head. “Children from several families looked after in one place while their mothers work. The mothers take it in turns to watch the children.”
“In someone’s house?” Mrs. Grant asked, arriving in time to hear the tail end of the conversation.
“No.” Tillie frowned. “At their place of work. They had a room, a bit of a yard…”
“There’s no employers like that around here,” Annie said with certainty.
“Where did you come across this?” Mrs. Grant asked as they finally made their way out of the hospital again.
“I don’t know.” In frustration, Tillie bumped her fist against her forehead. “I don’t remember. It just doesn’t seem fair, though.”
“What doesn’t?” Mrs. Grant asked.
“Why, that you—” She
broke off, appalled by the impossibility of saying what was truly on her mind to this woman who had been so kind to her.
But it seemed Mrs. Grant was no fool either. “That I don’t need to work and yet have servants to care for my baby whenever I want to go out even on the most frivolous of pretexts. While Annie, who needs to work to live, cannot leave her child to do so.”
“An accident of birth,” Tillie said lightly. “We need Big George! I wonder if Major Doverton has heard anything back from Manchester.”
“I think he would have told you if he had.”
Everywhere they went that day, Tillie kept hoping to run into Major Doverton, but she didn’t. Nor did he call at the vicarage. It was the first day since the storm that she had not seen him, and his absence depressed her.
She wondered if she had truly disgusted him by snooping in Captain Smith’s rooms. Or perhaps he had simply been induced to see her through his sister-in-law’s eyes. As nothing, no one. Certainly no one worthy enough to be in the same company as Major Doverton.
In all, she looked forward to the ball with a tense mixture of excitement and anxiety. Under no circumstances could she dream of not attending, and since it would go on until late, she knew she should retire early as Mrs. Grant suggested, in order to be at her best.
However, once in her own chamber, she was too restless to settle. Little had come and unlaced her gown and stays, but she could not bring herself to go to bed. She paced around the room for a while, then sat by the window gazing out at the stars. From her window, she didn’t have much view of the sea, mere glimpses through the lower rooftops and between buildings, but somehow, it seemed to call to her. Which was surprising considering her recent experience at sea.
Tonight was calm and clear, though. On impulse, she rose and wrapped a shawl around her shoulders before donning her borrowed red cloak and slipping quietly out of the house. The Grants had given her a key to allow her to come and go as she pleased. In Blackhaven, it was not uncommon for respectable ladies to go out alone in daylight, but she doubted such leniency extended to nighttime. So, she pulled the hood of the cloak right over her head and hurried through the frosty streets toward the town beach.
The Wicked Waif Page 7
