“It is God’s will. Repent, Lily Trehearne. Pride and vanity are sins for which you will rightly suffer in hell for eternity.” His eyes burned and flecks of saliva flew from his mouth when he spoke. “Repent! Fall to your knees and beg almighty God’s forgiveness.” Before she could move he seized her shoulders and forced her to kneel again. On his knees beside her, hanging onto her flailing hands, he started to pray.
The words sounded mad now, the voice rabid. She pulled and hauled at his hands, but he wouldn’t release her. Thoughts gone, acting on instinct, she bit him on the back of one giant paw. He yelled an irreligious oath and let go. She got one foot on the floor and sprang up, but his fingers snaked out and captured her ankle. He gave a vicious tug and she fell backwards, almost on top of him. When she cried out, he put a hand over her mouth. Once again she used her teeth. He jerked away and she twisted, shoving at him with both hands, thrusting against his chest with all her strength. The push caught him off balance; he fell sideways with a thud as some part of him struck the fireplace. Lily saw her chance, staggered to her feet, and ran for the door.
She stopped to look back, amazed because he wasn’t following. She saw him sprawled across the hearth, motionless and open-eyed. The left side of his head ran bright red with blood.
She screamed.
The impulse to run again was all but irresistible. She conquered it and crept across the room, forcing herself to crouch beside him. She reached out to touch his neck, but her hand shook so badly she had to steady it by clamping down on her wrist with the other. She found his pulse, strong but unsteady, and after that her own heart seemed to start beating again.
His legs were tangled under his heavy body in an unnatural-looking way. She pulled them straight, appalled at their leaden inertness. He was breathing, she saw, but his face was gray. She shook him lightly by the shoulders. “Cousin! Reverend Soames!” No response. Would he recover? Would he die? Either way, they would think she had tried to kill him.
She stood up, hugging herself to control the shaking. What should she do? A constable was on his way to her house. She would tell him what had happened, of course. Surely he wouldn’t believe she’d tried to murder her cousin. Would he? If only she had close friends or family here, people who knew her and could speak up for her! She dashed at tears that began to spill down her cheeks. “Oh, dear God,” she said out loud in a strangled voice, feeling the prickly edge of panic nudge deep inside. Once more she bent over her cousin’s body. “Please, please, please—” Four violent knocks thundered against the street door, and she jolted upright.
“Open up!” A man’s voice, gruff and imperious. But they couldn’t get in until she let them—the door was locked on the inside. She backed out of the room, eyes still on Soames as if even now he might leap up and grab her. In the dark hall she stopped, listening to the knocking grow louder, angrier. An image of the faces of the men behind the door froze her in place. “This is the constable! Open the door in the name of the law!”
Lily spun around, lifted her skirts, and ran.
Down the basement steps and across the kitchen floor to the service door, shoes clattering a panicky rhythm on the flagstones. Outside, she hurried through her tiny back garden to the alley. The fringe of her shawl caught on the gate hinge; she had to stop and untangle it, choking back a scream of frustration. A knot of children broke off their game of catch-Meg-on-a-snag to stare at her as she brushed past. “Miss Trehearne—” said one, a little black-haired boy who had never seen his pretty new neighbor without a smile. But she kept on and didn’t look back.
Out of their sight, she broke into a run. The dark maze of alleys here near the harbor was completely unfamiliar to her; within minutes she was lost. Dogs barked and snapped, following her, chasing her out of their territory. Men stared; she hurried on with her head down. At last she came out into a wide, traveled street that she recognized. The afternoon sun in her eyes was a shock. She lifted her shawl to cover her hair and set off, away from the water, looking straight ahead and stepping smartly as if her destination were imminent and important. Her heart pounded hurtfully, almost deafening her.
She saw a fat carriage up ahead, in front of an inn. When she was almost abreast of it, she saw that it was the mail coach. The white-haired driver flung a last bundle on top and slammed his boot against the wooden fender.
“Wait!”
He paused and looked at her.
“Have you room for one more fare?”
“Aye, if ye’ve no baggage.”
“No, none.” Suddenly she went limp. And no money! But then she remembered, and reached into the pocket of her gown. “I’ve got three and a half shillings. How far can you take me?”
He scratched his beard and squinted. “Three an’ a half? Reckon that’s about Bridgwater.”
“Bridgwater. Is that in Somerset?”
“Aye.” He blew a gusty, surprised laugh. “It’s mayhap halfway between here an’ Bristol, where I’m bound.”
She hesitated no longer. “I’ll go, then.” Handing him the coins, she stepped back. He opened the door, pulled down the step, put her in with a hand on her elbow, and slammed the door behind her. In the dimness she had an impression of men moving over to make room. Then she was sitting by the window, smoothing down her skirts and staring out at the brick building opposite. The coach gave a jerk and they were on their way.
“Will you take a cup of tea and a biscuit, lovey, while you wait?” Lily pretended to consider it. “Oh … I don’t think so, thanks very much. I had my dinner about an hour ago.”
Mrs. Bickle, the landlady of the White Cow, gave her a nod and a smile and bustled off to see to her other customers. Lily leaned back against the settle. She’d eaten a piece of bread and butter early this morning, nothing since, and if she hadn’t folded her arms across her stomach Mrs. Bickle would have heard it growl. Why hadn’t she kept something back from the coachman, if only a few pennies? Too late now.
One of the men from the mail coach was staring at her. He’d been doing it for the past hour; she’d hoped this quick stopover in Chard would jar him out of his infatuation. Apparently it hadn’t. She twisted around to look out the window, away from his rapt but surreptitious peering, just as another coach bumped and rattled into the inn yard. Because there was nothing else to do, she watched the passengers alight. Only after they were all out and straggling toward the door did it occur to her that one or more of them might be looking for her. A sliver of fear cut through her then, leaving her skin prickly and her palms damp. But the five travelers who entered the common room were so obviously not enforcers of the law—in fact, one or two looked quite the opposite—that she relaxed.
They found seats among the other company, and Mrs. Bickle called for the potboy to help her with the new crush. Two of the latecomers, a woman and a young man, sat down at a table near Lily’s bench. She studied them idly, struck by the dourness of their very similar countenances. Mother and son? Aunt and nephew? Whatever they were, they looked as if nothing good had ever happened to them in their lives. Or if it had, they would steadfastly refuse to admit it. But they were neat, clean, respectably dressed—poverty wasn’t the cause of their discontent.
Her thoughts were interrupted as Mrs. Bickle bustled over to the man and woman. “You’ll be wanting a bit of tea, won’t you, loveys? Poor dears, you’ve half a day’s journey still before Penzance, at the least.”
Lily’s admiration for Mrs. Bickle’s professionalism rose several notches: the pinched-face pair across the way were the least likely “loveys” she’d ever seen. The woman was stout, with wide shoulders and no visible neck. Two pure white streaks in her dark hair began at the temples and blazed all the way back into a tight, fat chignon, a style that made Lily think of a skunk. Or a snake. Even the landlady’s exuberant friendliness couldn’t coax a smile out of her.
“We don’t go to Penzance,” she snapped, “we go to Trewyth and will be there by midnight. Now we’ll have scones with our tea, not biscui
ts, and take care they’re hot or I won’t pay.”
The young man, a black-eyed, hulking replica of his companion, looked across at Lily, and she glanced away, pretending she hadn’t been eavesdropping. It was obscurely comforting to know that she hadn’t misjudged them, that they were at least as unpleasant as she’d though.
She put her head back against the high settle and tried to think what to do. She’d never heard of Bridgwater, and in a few hours she would be there. She was literally penniless, and in all probability she was wanted by the law, at least for stealing, probably for assault, perhaps even murder. She had no family, not even close friends—the rather vagabond existence she’d led with her father for the last ten years had prevented her from making lasting attachments. Mrs. Troublefield was the closest thing she had to a friend, but an hour ago Lily had left Lyme Regis and her kindly next-door neighbor behind.
The wisdom of that act troubled her again, as it had at least a dozen times since she’d climbed into the mail coach. If she’d stayed, they might have believed her. She was a respectable woman, had never been in any kind of trouble. Her father had occasionally made himself known to local law-keepers for minor infractions, but surely they wouldn’t have held that against her. But it was too late now. Running away had insured the appearance of guilt, and there was nothing to do but make the best of things. But how? How was she going to… .
Her thoughts tapered off. She kept her eyes unfocused on the middle distance while the tail end of a conversation brought her to rigid attention.
“… afraid I wouldn’t know of anyone who’d suit you just now,” Mrs. Bickle was saying. “But why would you be wantin’ to hire servants from so far away? Are there not girls much closer to home who would do? If your master’s house is in Cornwall, why don’t you look—”
“Because the estate is isolated, and it’s hard to find any but slovenly country girls who’ll stay past a month or two. The master’s particular and won’t put up with sluts. It was only an idea,” the sour-faced woman added ungraciously. “I thought to ask, though I didn’t really expect you to know anyone who would do.”
Mrs. Bickle’s smile finally wavered, and her curtsey was the merest bob of the knees before she turned and left the room.
She was hardly out the door when Lily stood up and followed her.
She found the landlady in the inn’s private parlor, pouring tea for an old man who was reading the newspaper in front of a coal fire. When she saw Lily, her smile came back. “The privy’s behind the house, dear, just through this—”
“Mrs. Bickle, I have a favor to ask you. I have no money, nor am I likely to get any soon, so I won’t pretend that what I need is only to be a loan. I want to write a letter. It—it’s rather urgent. I don’t need a stamp, just pen and ink, and perhaps an envelope if you—”
“Is it a piece of paper and a quill you want?”
“I—yes.”
“Well, for goodness sake.” She looked relieved that it wasn’t more. “Come over here, lamb.” She went to a writing desk in the corner of the parlor. “Can you see in the murk? I can light a candle if you want it.”
“No, this is fine. Thank you so much, I can’t tell you—”
“Nonsense, help yourself and take as long as you like.” She gave Lily two bracing pats on the arm and went out.
She sat down. The paper was plain but surprisingly good—an unhoped-for piece of luck. She found the newest-looking quill and dipped it in the well inset in the desktop. After a minute’s thought, she began to write.
“Lily Tr—” She stopped short, amazed at the stupidity of what she’d almost done. What would her name be, then? T-r what? A tiny smile pulled at her lips and she set the pen to paper again. “Lily Troublefield has been in my employ for the last year and a half. During that time she has shown herself to be a biddable, honest, and able girl in the capacity of maid-of-all-work in my household. She leaves my employ because”—she paused again and tapped the quill against her lips thoughtfully—“because I am about to embark on a year-long journey on the European Continent, and Lily is unwilling to continue in service away from home for so long a time. I know her to be of good character and cheerful disposition; she is naturally industrious and uncommonly intelligent for a girl of her class. My recommendation of Lily is unqualified.”
Had she overdone it? Probably, but she couldn’t help liking the “uncommonly intelligent” part. With a self-conscious flourish, she signed the paper, “Dow. Lady Estelle Clairton-Davies, Marchioness of Frome.”
There really was such a person—she owned a country house outside Lyme, and once Lily had seen her rather grand coach-and-four waiting beside a jeweler’s shop in the town. But she’d skillfully gotten rid of her ladyship by shipping her off to Europe, so the likelihood of anyone writing to her to verify the truthfulness of this reference was small—a risk worth taking. She sprinkled silver sand across the paper, waited a moment and blew it away, folded the letter, and tucked it into an envelope. It looked too crisp, too clean. She massaged it between her fingers for a few seconds, folded it in half, unfolded it, folded it again. Better. She slid it into her pocket and stood up.
How did she look? Her dark-blue dress of cotton cambric was shabby enough, but was it too fine nonetheless for the likes of a humble maid-of-all-work? Perhaps, but then again, perhaps not for one who had worked in the home of so illustrious a personage as the Marchioness of Frome. It didn’t matter, she had nothing else. And there were other ways to convince the prune-faced lady from Cornwall that she was a maid. She squared her shoulders and started for the common room.
She wasn’t there. Lily searched the room frantically with her eyes. She wasn’t there!
“Did you write your letter, dearie?”
“The lady in the black coat, she came in the coach after ours and there was a man with her, younger—”
“They’ve gone out, love. The Penzance coach is just leaving. You can catch her if you—”
She broke off when Lily spun around and dashed for the door. Halfway through it, she remembered to stop and call back over her shoulder, “Thank you for the paper! Good-bye!” The startled landlady lifted a hand to wave, but Lily had disappeared.
The young man was already handing the woman into the coach. “Oh, Mrs.—madam! Excuse me!” she cried, breaking into a run across the rutted dirt yard. She reached them out of breath. The hostile looks they turned on her had a diminishing effect on her confidence. She took a breath and plunged in.
“Beggin’ your pardon, mistress, but I chanced t’ overhair what you were sayin’ t’ the landlady just naow, an’ I was after wonderin’ if you’d be thinkin’ o’ meself for housemaid, like. I’ve a wonderful good character from me last lady, so she told me, an’ I’m a nate an’ tidy parson by nature an’ would wark tremendous hard for you. Would you be wantin’ t’ see me character?”
Well, it was sort of Irish, or at least more Irish than anything else. She hoped. Without waiting for the woman’s answer, she took out the envelope and thrust it into her hands, smiling a big, respectful smile. The woman returned it with a suspicious scowl, but Lily decided it was her natural expression and not meant personally. Yet.
She shrugged one massive shoulder with irritation and opened the envelope. Lily waited, praying the ink was dry. She hazarded a glance at the man. They had to be mother and son; the resemblance was too strong to be accounted for by any other relationship. But he was smiling, something she hadn’t seen his mother do. It wasn’t a nice smile.
The mother finished reading and looked up. She had small black eyes, slightly protruding, and narrowed to slits now with skepticism. Lily spoke quickly. “Is it a good one, then? I’m not much for raidin’,” she said with a little embarrassed laugh, “but me mistess did say ‘twould sarve me well when th’ time came.” When the toime came, I should’ve said, she fretted, wondering if the accent was such a good idea after all. Her father was an Irishman, but he’d lost most of his lilt after all the years lived in Engla
nd. But sometimes, when he’d drunk too much whiskey, he would lapse into an exaggerated brogue, and it was her imperfect memory of that accent that Lily was relying on now to see her through this interview.
“If it’s true, it’ll serve.”
She widened her eyes in innocent protest. “Oh, ma’am, it’s true, be Jaysus, as God is me witness—”
“Hold your tongue! Would you take the Lord’s name to my face? How dare you!” Her scowl blackened and her bulldog eyes snapped with indignation. “If you come into my service, that sort of talk won’t be tolerated. What kind of household did this great lady of Frome manage, then? A godless one, I’m bound, if you’re the result.”
“Oh, no, ma’am, don’t be thinkin’ it! It’s a daycent garul I am, truly, only sometimes me tongue gets away from me. It’s because o’ me dear departed father.” She made it rhyme with “lamer.” “He were a good man at heart, but a terrible blasphemer. Naow when I’m in distress, like, out pops the very wards I used t’ scold ’im about.”
“So you’re in distress, are you?”
“I—” She thought fast. “Not distress, as you might say, but more like anxious. I was after stoppin’ in Axminster t’ visit me old friend Fanny, her as works as housemaid for th’ pastor’s wife, an’ while we was traipsin’ around the market fair in th’ taown, me pocket was picked! Pure an’ clane, an’ turned outside-in like a pilla case. Well, ma’am, it shortened me holiday considerably, you can understand, an’ put me in nade of anither post sooner than I was plannin’. Would you be thinkin’ of hirin’ me, naow?”
The fat coachman came around in front of the horses and glowered at them. “You’ll have to get up now, I can’t be waiting any longer.”
Lily turned winsome eyes to her prospective employer. But that lady was not to be persuaded by winsome eyes, nor hurried by an impatient coachman. “If I gave you a job, you’d start in the scullery. It’s three shillings a month, and you must buy your own cap and aprons. You’d work hard and have Sunday mornings off—to go to church, not Mass—as well as an afternoon a month for yourself. I’m Mrs. Howe, housekeeper to a viscount; Devon Darkwell is his name, Lord Sandown. Is that your only dress?”