Defiant Impostor (2 page)

Susanna shrieked in terror as her father dashed the
table out of the way with an enraged roar and lunged crazily at her.

"Bitch! I'll teach ye t' cross me! Do y' think I
care a whit about yer friggin' dreams? Ye'll do as I say, and like it! 'Twill
be over me corpse that ye become a bloody maid!"

If Daniel hadn't been drunk Susanna wouldn't have had a
chance, but the copious quantity of gin he had already consumed gave her the
slightest advantage. As he lost his balance and went down on one knee, she
eluded his flailing grasp and fled to the door.

"Oh, God. Oh, God, please 'elp me!" she
prayed, clawing frantically at the rusty latch.

It gave way just as she felt her father's large hand
clamp upon her shoulder. With raw fear flooding her body, she turned her head
and bit his nearest finger as hard as she could. He bellowed in pain and
practically ripped her dress from her back before he suddenly released her.
Panting like a wild animal and gripping her torn bodice to her breasts, Susanna
threw open the door. She scrambled up the damp stairs to the street and flung
herself into the foggy lamplit night.

"Whoa there, me pretty pet! Where do ye think yer
off to? I've come t' pay ye a little visit. Didn't yer father tell ye?"

Susanna stopped short just before crashing headlong
into a grinning Keefer Dunn, who materialized out of the swirling mists like
one of Satan's own evil minions. She gaped at him in horror, despair filling
her heart as her father cried out close behind her, "Catch 'er, Dunn!
Catch 'er. She's runnin' away!"

"Wot the 'ell?" Keefer's leering smile faded
instantly and he made a grab for her arm. "Come 'ere, girl!"

Without thinking and desperate to escape, Susanna
sidestepped him and ran straight into the middle of the street. She did not
hear the sharp clattering of hooves upon the paving stones, or the coachman
bellowing to make way. All she knew was that her father and Keefer Dunn were
hard upon her heels like rabid, slathering dogs, determined to bring her down.

It took a woman's high-pitched scream to jolt her from
her frenzied daze. She heard someone cry, "Look out, wench—oh, Lord, look
out! The carriage!" Glancing over her bare shoulder, she saw the black
hackney coach bearing down upon her at the same moment that she was pushed
violently from behind.

Gasping, Susanna pitched forward onto the cobbled
street and rolled over and over, striking her forehead against one of the posts
that railed off the pedestrians' walkway. As something warm trickled down her
face, she heard her father's voice eerily cut off as he cursed and shouted her
name, horses neighing in fright and carriage wheels grinding to an abrupt halt.
Then a stocky, blurred figure was standing over her and rasping breathlessly,
"Ye didn't think . . . ye'd get away from Keefer Dunn, did ye, chit? I
paid good money . . . fer yer favors."

Susanna's mouth opened in a soundless scream, then all
reality ceased and she was swallowed by blessed darkness.

***

"I believe she's waking up, your ladyship. Shall I
fetch her some hot tea and broth?"

"Not yet, Mary. Give the poor child a few moments
first. She might fall right back to sleep. I wouldn't be surprised if she did,
what with that nasty bump on her head and all those awful bruises. For shame! I
always knew London was a wicked town, but I'm more convinced of it than ever.
We'll be leaving in the morning for Fairford, of that you can be sure. Our
sleepy little Cotswold village may be quiet and provincial, but at least one
can walk safely in the streets."

"Aye, indeed. Ah, there we go, she's opening her
eyes, and what a lovely green color they are, too. Almost like Camille's,
wouldn't you say, your ladyship?"

"So they are. How are you feeling, child?"

Wincing at the painful throbbing in her head, Susanna
licked her dry lips and stared with confusion at the petite, gray-haired woman
sitting so straight beside the bed.

Dressed in shimmering blue silk with a triple strand of
gleaming pearls around her neck, she had a stern countenance but her hazel eyes
were kind and full of concern. Behind her stood another woman, stout and
dressed quite simply, with a starched cap pinned atop her brown hair and a
blindingly white apron tied around her ample waist. She smiled at Susanna and
said gently, "Answer her ladyship, child. You've nothing to fear from
us."

"Me—me 'ead 'urts," Susanna stammered, her
tongue feeling strangely thick and heavy. "Like someone's poundin' on it
with a 'ammer."

The silk-clad woman nodded sympathetically. "Yes,
I'm sure it's quite dreadful, but the physician has assured me the pain will
fade before long." She leaned forward in her chair and lightly patted
Susanna's head with a cool palm. "Now, my child, if you're feeling up to
it, perhaps we could talk about what happened earlier this evening. I must say
that you do look a bit better to me, not half so pale. Perhaps you've had
enough sleep for a little while."

As if she hadn't heard, Susanna's eyes wandered from
the older woman's direct gaze and patrician features to the quilted
ivory-colored canopy overhead, then to the embroidered satin spread covering
the huge bed. She fingered the smooth fabric, having never felt anything so
fine before. Soft down pillows cushioned her head; clean, sweet-smelling sheets
were tucked around her chest; and she was wearing some sort of fleecy white
garment that felt incredibly warm and soft against her skin.

Still caressing the bedspread, Susanna let her gaze
drift around the well-appointed room: rose-papered walls, a cheery fire in the
hearth, candles glowing in shiny silver holders, thick carpets upon the floor.
She had never seen such richness. Surely she must be dreaming, unless . . .

She gasped, her eyes darting back to the two women. She
looked incredulously from one concerned face to the other. "Yer angels,
ain't ye? I've died and gone straight t' 'eaven!"

"Good gracious, no, child," the older woman
said with a small laugh, glancing up at her quietly chuckling companion.
"I've garnered some praise for my charitable works in Gloucestershire, but
I've never yet been called an angel."

"Well, if yer not angels, then ye must be . .
." Susanna's eyes widened fearfully as she drew the bedding up under her
chin, her sense of wonder supplanted by dread.

Oh, no. Who could have thought the devil's lair would
be so lovely? She should never have picked those bloody pockets!

The sumptuously dressed woman's voice held a faint
touch of amusement. "My dear girl, whatever you may be thinking, you're
quite earthbound, I can assure you. You're very much alive and, as the
physician informed me, in amazingly good health, despite those bruises and
strap marks upon your back . . ." She cleared her throat delicately, her
expression sobering. "Mary, fetch the tea and broth, and some sweet
biscuits. I think Susanna Guthrie is ready for some nourishment now."

"Aye, my lady."

"How do y' know me name?" blurted Susanna,
her apprehension all but forgotten in her amazement.

"Mind your manners, child," Mary interjected
kindly yet with a firm, no-nonsense tone, "and address Lady Melicent
Redmayne, the Dowager Baroness of Fairford, as either 'my lady' or 'your
ladyship' from now on." Then she gave a wink. "I'm Mary Sayers, Lady
Redmayne's waiting-maid. You may call me by my Christian name." With that,
Mary bustled from the room, leaving the door slightly ajar.

"One of the witnesses at the unfortunate accident
this evening, a young woman who said she was married to the proprietor of a gin
shop, told me your name," Lady Redmayne explained, "and that you
lived with your father in their cellar. "

"Aye, that would 'ave been Nellie Brice,"
Susanna said, adding as an afterthought, "yer ladyship."

"Yes. Well . . ." Lady Redmayne paused,
drawing her lips together, as if she was uncertain how best to proceed.
"Susanna," she began after a long moment, "you narrowly escaped
being run down by my private coach this evening. My grandniece and I were on
our way home from the opera when . . ." Again she stopped, reaching for
Susanna's hand. "My dear child, I don't know how else to tell you this
other than straight out. Your father was killed tonight. He fell beneath the
wheels and was trampled before the coachman could bring the carriage to a
halt."

Thoroughly stunned, Susanna felt her face grow warm,
but she said nothing.

"The local constable was summoned, and between his
small knowledge of your family and the information Mrs. Brice willingly
offered, I soon gathered that you had led a most wretched life. Of course I
would not hear of it when the constable suggested that, as an orphan, you
should be sent to a workhouse. I feel responsible for what happened—it was my
coach, after all—but in your case, I do believe that divine providence
intervened and saved you from a cruel and brutal man."

Aye, Daniel Guthrie had been a cruel man indeed,
Susanna thought, feeling no grief at this startling news of his death. Instead,
euphoria mixed with relief was rising from some deep place inside her. It was
probably a terrible sin for her to feel this way about her father, but she had
the most unseemly urge to fling back the covers and jump up and down upon the
bed.

He couldn't hurt her anymore! Never again would he kick
her awake and shove her out the door to beg before the sun had risen. Never
again would he try to sell her for some man's pleasure!

Misreading Susanna's silence for shock, Lady Redmayne
gently squeezed her hand and gave a reserved smile, which appeared to be
something she was not accustomed to doing very often. "My child, I can
think of only one way to make amends for your loss of home and hearth. I offer
you a place within my household. I fully expect that, with proper training, you
will make an excellent waiting-maid to my eleven-year-old grandniece, Camille.
She's a good, gentle girl who also wants very much to help you. As we're
leaving London tomorrow, I can't give you much time to think it over—"

"I'd be 'appy t' live in yer 'ousehold,
milady," Susanna exclaimed in a breathless rush, astonished by her good
fortune. A waiting-maid! In this fine lady's home! And she had believed she'd
be lucky if she found work as a scullery maid, scrubbing dirty pots and pans.
"I learn fast, I do, y'll see. Y' won't regret yer kindness t' me, I
promise." Then a sudden shadow, black and menacing, fell over her heart,
and fear thickened like a lump in her throat. "Yer ladyship, there was
another man at the accident. 'E—'e must 'ave been the one who shoved me out o'
the way o' the coach."

Lady Redmayne shook her meticulously coiffured head.
"When I was helped from the carriage, I saw a man standing over you, but
he disappeared into the fog when shouts went up for the constable. Why, child?
Was he a friend of yours? Perhaps you would rather we find him—"

"No!" Susanna bit her lip at Lady Redmayne's
astonished expression, and she quickly sought to explain her rude outburst.
"Forgive me fer raisin' me voice, yer ladyship. What I meant t' say was,
well, 'e was no friend o' mine, no matter that 'e saved me life. 'E was cut
from a worse cloth than me father, if y' know wot I mean. That's why I was
runnin' away. Me father 'ad sold me t' 'im. That man wanted me to—to—"

"I can well imagine," Lady Redmayne
interrupted gently, her eyes full of pity which nonetheless quickly faded. She
squared her delicately boned shoulders, her spine ramrod-straight as her tone
grew brusque but not unkind. "So we're decided, then. You will remain with
us. As for this night's unfortunate incident and its unsavory cast of players,
we'll put it all behind us, shall we?"

Susanna nodded vigorously, grateful tears in her eyes.
God willing, she prayed, she had seen the last of Keefer Dunn and his filthy,
lusting kind.

"Is she going to be all right, Aunt
Melicent?"

As Lady Redmayne turned in her chair, her silk skirt
rustling stiffly, Susanna's blurred gaze flew across the room to where a young
girl with honey-gold curls peeked shyly at her from behind the door.

"Yes, Camille. Susanna is going to be just
fine." The baroness beckoned to the girl with a wave of her jeweled hand.
"Come closer, my dear. There's no reason to be so bashful."

To Susanna, the girl walking gracefully toward the bed
looked like a delicate china doll in her pastel-pink silk dress, slippers, and
matching lace-trimmed cap. And to her amazement as Camille drew closer, Susanna
found herself staring into a pair of deep green eyes that were remarkably like
her own.

"Camille, meet Susanna Guthrie. When she's ready,
Susanna shall be your new personal maid."

Camille rested her small white hands on the plush
wine-colored velvet back of her great-aunt's chair. "Hello."

" 'Tis pleased I am t' meet ye, miss."

"Camille has been living with me since she was
three years old. Her father, James Cary, sent her here to England for her
education, and rightly so." Lady Redmayne sniffed in disgust. "He
lives in the uncivilized wilds of Tidewater Virginia. Vile, barbarous,
unhealthy place. "

"The American colony?" Susanna asked, her
curiosity piqued. She had often overheard sailors and merchants telling
fascinating stories about America. Stories about red-skinned people who wore
feathers and beads in their hair and adorned their bodies with paint. Fearless
fur trappers who disappeared into the wilderness only to return months later
with hundreds of glistening pelts. And tale after tale about the amazing
richness of the land, and all it had to offer England.

Camille nodded solemnly, then, still half-hiding behind
the chair, she pointed to Susanna's puffy, bruised forehead. "Does it hurt
very much?"

Susanna shrugged. "Only a little." In truth,
it scarcely seemed to hurt at all anymore.