Authors: Heather Cullman
He released a much put-upon sigh. “I mean no insult, miss, for you look to be — ” his gaze swept her travel-rumpled length ” — a, uh, decent sort of gel, but Mr. Bomphrey is a wealthy and exceedingly well-known gentleman here in Exeter. As such there have been numerous ladies over the years who have sought to cozy into both his graces and fortune. Indeed, he had two so-called nieces show up just last month. Them, he turned away without so much as a glance.”
The servant paused to shake his bald-pated head. “I got the distinct impression then that he had no nieces. Had he, I am certain he’d have at least looked at those gels.”
“Not if neither of them were named Sophia Barrington,” she retorted, growing curt in her desperation. “Besides, he has one, not two, nieces. And that niece is me — ” she thumped her chest to indicate herself ” — Miss Sophia Barrington.”
“Well, then. If what you say is indeed true, he shall no doubt send for you the instant I present him with your card.” With that, he nodded and again tried to close the door.
Sophie tightened her hold on the edge, foiling his attempt. She had to convince him to take her in. She simply had to! She had nowhere else to go. Panicked almost to the point of weeping, she argued, “But he won’t know where to find me.”
“Then, I suggest you leave your address.”
She bowed her head, as much to hide her tears as in shame at her confession. “I-I have no address to leave. I thought to be s-staying here.”
“Well, you thought wrong. Now, I suggest that you go and find other accommodations. I believe that Mrs. Wilson on Bear Lane has suitable lodgings to let.”
Sophie released her grip on the door to extend her hand in a gesture of appeal. “Please — “
“Good day, miss.” Taking advantage of his opportunity to do so, the butler slammed the door in her face.
For a long moment Sophie stood on the stoop, not knowing what to do or where to go. Bath. Uncle Arthur was in Bath. Considering her lack of funds, it might as well be China. She heaved a dispirited sigh. Had she known he was there, she could have gotten off the coach at that stop and saved herself the torment of having to travel the extra sixty miles here.
Like the hackneys in London, her experience with the public coaches had proved singularly unpleasant. Not only was the vehicle smelly and crowded, if it had springs she hadn’t felt any evidence of them. Indeed, she was certain she was black-and-blue beneath her clothes from being tossed about over the rutted roads.
Wanting nothing more than to lie in a hot bath and soothe her aching bones, Sophie picked up her overstuffed valise and lugged it down the steps. By the time she’d hauled it down the long carriage drive and through the gates onto Northernhay Row, her arm felt quite ready to fall off.
Miserable and frustrated, she dropped her burden at the edge of the road and flexed her stiffening elbow. Ignoring the burning pain emanating from the joint, she looked first up and then down the deserted lane, trying to decide which way to go. Well, since she hadn’t the funds to seek her uncle in Bath, or take the recommended lodgings at Mrs. Wilson’s house, she had best go seek what meager quarters her remaining half crown would buy her.
Feeling like the proverbial lost lamb, she hoisted her bag again and trudged toward the crumbling city wall. Uncle Arthur’s large yet homey-looking half-timbered manor house stood just outside the wall, and as she knew from her wretched walk there, it was a goodly distance back to the heart of town.
Yet back to town she went, her hopelessness growing with every plodding step. Exactly where she should look for lodgings once there, she couldn’t say. All she knew for certain was that it would be dark in an hour or so, and that she would be far safer in town than traveling the desolate road outside.
The sun was just setting as she limped through the ruins of the ancient gateway, irradiating the sky with glimmering streaks of scarlet, pink, and gold. After pausing to remove a stone from her flimsy velvet walking shoes, she veered left down a road marked St. Paul Street, wandering toward what she hoped was the heart of town.
Lined on both sides with uniform rows of brown brick houses, St. Paul proved a pleasant but unremarkable street. It also proved a short one, abruptly ending before a large, rather grand stone building at whose purpose she could only guess.
Aggravated, not for the first time that day, by her atrocious sense of direction, Sophie pivoted on her heels and wearily stalked down the abutting street. Like St. Paul Street, Gandys Lane, too, was edged with houses. These, however, were smaller and markedly older, the sort of dwellings occupied by a class of people a full step below the brown brick crowd.
She was halfway down the lane, being rudely jostled by urchins chasing a ball, when she was struck with a disquieting sense that she’d again taken a wrong turn. Wanting to scream her frustration, she looked around for someone to ask directions. The only person she saw was one of the ballplayers, a runny-nosed creature who stood a few feet away, hitching up his ragged breeches.
When he noticed her watching him, he stuck out his tongue, then dashed off.
Sophie sniffed her affront. Filthy little beggar. Seeing no one else, save an old man conversing with himself, she continued on her way. It wasn’t until she neared the end of the lane that she encountered anyone she deemed appropriate to ask.
That anyone consisted of several chattering clusters of people on a common across the street. Judging from the makeshift stalls and the partially laden wagons, carts, and horses, the common served as the marketplace. And today was market day.
Or had been, she amended, watching a gaily painted wagon advertising cheese and other fine comestibles roll from the grassy square. No doubt one of the departing merchants could give her directions. With luck, he might even be able to recommend an inexpensive but genteel inn.
After waiting for a produce cart and two pot-festooned packhorses to pass, Sophie stepped into the street. She was halfway across when there arose a deafening clatter. Startled, she looked up. To her right, careening drunkenly around the corner on its left two wheels, was a wagon. A speeding wagon, to be exact. One bearing down on her at an alarming rate.
Shrieking her terror, she dropped her valise and dashed from the road, blinded as her whole life flashed before her eyes.
Smack!
“O-w-w!” Her shins slammed against something hard.
Plat!
“Oomph!” She stumbled back and fell upon her already bruised backside. Then everything went black.
For several dazed moments she lay sprawled there, certain she was dead. Then she saw pinpoints of light piercing the dark and realized that her straw hat had fallen over her face. As she yanked the modish confection back atop her head and secured its Paris net ties, she heard the wagon thunder to a stop several yards away.
“Damnation,” growled a masculine voice, followed by the sound of someone jumping from the vehicle. There was the stomp of rushing footsteps, then, “Good heavens, miss. Are you quite all right?”
“If you call being scraped and bruised within an inch of one’s life all right, then yes, I suppose I am,” she snapped, angrily surveying her soiled and torn blue sarcenet pelisse.
“My humblest apologies, miss. I didn’t see you until it was too late to stop.”
“At the speed you were driving, I can’t say I’m surprised.” She sniffed and pushed aside her pelisse to examine the striped muslin gown beneath. It, too, was filthy, and one of the costly lace frills trimming the hem was all but ripped off. Excellent. Not only was she as poor as a pauper, she now looked like one.
“You are right, of course. I was going much too fast,” the voice acknowledged in a chastened tone. “Indeed, I ought to be thrashed for racing so in town.” Abruptly a white-gloved hand appeared before her eyes. “Please do allow me to assist you.”
For the first time since her brush with death, Sophie looked at her assailant, her tongue primed with a stinging rebuff … a rebuff she forgot to deliver the instant she glimpsed his face. She’d expected to see a rakish man of say, twenty-five or thirty, one with the wild eyes and demented expression of a Whip Club member. But this … this … boy! Why, despite his impressive height, he couldn’t be a day older than herself.
It was while observing his stature that she noted his attire. He wore livery, an exceedingly splendid deep burgundy one, lavishly trimmed with gleaming gold braid. By the quality of both the cloth and trim, he was clearly in the service of nobility.
Sophie frowned as she studied his coat. There was something about that particular shade of burgundy, something she found exceedingly disquieting. Wherever — “Please, miss. Do allow me to assist you,” he repeated. There was something in his voice, an odd, almost breathless quality that made her glance at his face in wonder.
He stared down at her with the same moonstruck look of admiration she’d seen countless times on countless men’s faces during the Season. Smiling timidly, he nodded his white-wigged head at his outstretched hand. “Please?”
What remained of her anger melted away beneath his shy adoration. Returning his smile with her forgiving one, she grasped his hand and accepted his aid. Stoically trying to ignore the pain in her shins, she let him pull her to her feet.
Apparently her misery showed on her face, for the youth frowned and said, “Perhaps you should sit a bit longer. You did plow into that mounting block rather hard.”
“Mounting block?” she repeated blankly.
He peered down at her face, visibly alarmed. “Ad-zooks! You don’t remember?”
She blinked. “Remember what?’
“That you tripped over the mounting block there.” He jerked his chin to her right.
She blinked again, then looked over to where he indicated. A groan escaped her at the sight of the solid stone cube. No wonder she hurt as she did. Indeed, considering the force with which she’d hit it, she was lucky her legs hadn’t snapped on impact.
Staring at her as if expecting her to keel over and cock up her toes at any moment, he murmured, “Perhaps I should drive you home, miss. You are clearly in no condition to walk.”
Home. Sophie bowed her head, wanting to weep at the reminder that she had no place to go. But of course she couldn’t, not in front of a stranger. It simply wasn’t done. Equally loathe to admit her vagrant state, she swallowed back her burgeoning tears and somehow managed to say, “Thank you, but that isn’t necessary.”
“But I insist,” he countered, taking her arm.
She pulled it from his grasp. “No. Please. You are most kind, but I really must decline. Besides, gauging by your rush, you are evidently overdue for an appointment.” “Oh. That.” His broad shoulders drooped as he glanced at the last of the departing merchants. “I’m not merely overdue, I look to be far too late.” Sighing as if the world were at an end, he returned his mournful blue gaze to her. “I was to attend the Mop Fair at the market today and bring back a new maid. But as you can see, it ended long ago.”
If possible, his spirits seemed to sink even lower. “This is the first time Mrs. Pixton — uh, she’s the housekeeper — entrusted me with an important task. And I failed. Miserably so. It shall be a wonder if I don’t lose my position when I return alone. We do so need a maid, what with Carrie up and eloping last week.”
On and on he lamented, his words inspiring Sophie to view him with new eyes. Shrewd, speculative ones. He needed a maid. She needed a place to stay until her uncle returned. Was this accident God’s answer to her desperate prayers? Hmm. Perhaps, though working as a maid was hardly the deliverance she’d envisioned.
Only half listening as he rambled on about rutted roads and a broken wheel, she considered a servant’s lot in life.
From what she’d observed, it didn’t seem so dreadful. Indeed, aside from scattering a “yes, my lord” here and a “yes, my lady” there, with a bit of fetch and carry in between, there appeared to be little to it. It was certainly nothing she couldn’t endure for a month, especially when one considered her alternatives.
Her mind made up, she opened her mouth to tell him of her decision. Before she could speak, however, she was struck by a most chilling thought: What if she knew her new master and mistress? Considering the lofty circles in which she had moved over the years, it was entirely possible.
Panicked by that thought, Sophie glanced at the footman, who was complaining about the ineptness of some wheelwright. The only way to know for certain if it was safe to take the position was to inquire as to the family’s name. Thus, she cut into his moaning barrage asking, “Who is your master?”
He stopped mid-sentence, his mouth hanging open as if stunned by her interruption. “Huh?”
“Who is your master?” she repeated.
His mouth snapped shut and he blushed, as if suddenly aware of his whining. “Uh, the Marquess of Beresford.”
Beresford. Hmm. The name sounded vaguely familiar, though she couldn’t put a face to it. Deciding that further investigation was in order, she inquired with a casualness she didn’t feel, “Why is it that you didn’t accompany his lordship to London? It is the Season, you know, and he shall no doubt require your services.”
The footman shrugged. “Neither Lord Beresford nor his wife have been to London in years. They don’t much fancy it or the ton.”
Excellent. That meant there was no chance of them recognizing her face. Wanting to shout her delight, Sophie took the first step toward acquiring the position. “Is his lordship a good master?”