Joy in God’s providence warmed him like a flame had been kindled in his belly. He needed this. A reminder of the foundation of his faith.
He inclined his head down to Alice’s height, so that he could speak softly to her. “I’m headed that way, Miss—” he did not know her surname.
“Hull,” Mistress Brearley provided.
“Miss Hull. If you do not mind traveling by open carriage in cold weather, it would be no trouble to take you to your family.”
Her face twisted, in some reaction he could not precisely read, but which was not gratitude.
“I could not impose upon your kindness.” Her eyes darted to Mistress Brearley’s, as though looking for confirmation.
“’Tis no imposition whatsoever,” he said in his most reassuring voice. When she did not look soothed by his tone, he stepped nearer and tried a joke. “I’m a minister by training, Miss Hull. We never turn down the chance to play the Good Samaritan.”
His quip did not a thing to ease her look of worry. She stepped backwards, away from him. He remembered, too late, that his prodigious stature was not often regarded as soothing by petite young women. He was crowding her. He moved away and rounded his shoulders, making himself smaller to give her space.
“I’m afraid I can’t promise much comfort, but I can get you to your family by tomorrow evening. You have my word.”
Alice once again gave a beseeching look to Mistress Brearley, but her employer looked reflectively at Henry. “Alice, the mail coach will take twice that much time in winter weather,” she said quietly. “You’d do well to consider Henry’s offer.”
Some silent understanding passed from mistress to maid, and Alice dropped her shoulders, immediately acquiescing to her employer’s wishes.
“Thank you,” she said, turning to him, her face resigned. “If you will grant me a moment, I will gather my things.”
“Of course,” he said.
She quickly left the room. Even in distress, her movements were as precise as the words of a poem. Not a single footstep wasted.
“You are very gracious to look after her,” Mistress Brearley murmured, her eyes following Alice. “She’s the eldest child and the family will need her.”
“’Tis my pleasure to do a kindness for a woman in need.”
And a recompense, to make up for the sinful thoughts he’d had of her. And perhaps, more selfishly, a way to reassure himself he was still the godly man he wished to be. The one he had so nearly lost to the lapses that had gripped him this last year.
He would get her home.
He would not fail himself, nor Reverend Keeper, nor the Lord.
Not again.
Chapter 2
Singing stops the tears, Alice’s father had taught her as a girl, whenever she’d skinned her knee or suffered a child’s momentary sadness. Sing a little song, and before you know it, you’ll be smiling. And so, as she climbed the steps to her room at the top of the house, she forced out the first tune that came to mind.
* * *
My Pin-Box is the Portion
My Mother left with me;
Which gains me much Promotion,
And great Tranquility:
It doth maintain me bravely,
Although all Things are dear:
I’ll not let out my Pin-Box
F’less than forty Pounds a Year
* * *
Mama would murder her for singing vulgar tunes at such a time—take it as proof that despite her daughter’s supposed London polishing, Alice was still strange, like Papa’s people. Even in the best of times, Mama’d hated the broadsheet ditties Alice’s father had always hummed as he’d tinkered in his workshop. Her mother preferred ballads. The kind about death and doomed love affairs and the forgiveness of the Lord.
But none of those subjects were likely to keep Alice from crying, so she opened the door to her chamber and sang the next verse louder as she found her traveling satchel and began to gather her possessions.
* * *
My Pin-Box is a Treasure
Which many Men delights;
For therewith I can pleasure
Both Earls, Lords, and Knights,
If they do use my Pin-Box,
They will not think it dear,
Although that it doth cost them
A hundred Pounds a Year.
* * *
Her voice caught as she yanked her formal receiving dress from its hook. It had been made for answering the door at Charlotte Street. She would likely need it for her mother’s funeral.
Her mother’s funeral.
Her hands shook too badly to fold the garment properly. She pressed her face into the fabric.
How could this be? A month ago her mother had been her usual forceful self, sending preserves and knitted mittens and a pointed letter declaring it time for Alice to come home and have herself made Mrs. William Thatcher before some other, cleverer, girl claimed the title first.
Alice had resented it, this unsubtle hint that she should end her time in London and return to the drab life that awaited her in Fleetwend, where everyone thought her perverse and loose and willful. She’d made excuses not to come for Christmas, sending a box of candied cherries in her stead.
Candied cherries. Of all the awful things.
She’d thought if she stayed away long enough her mother might come to prefer the money her daughter sent home from London to the prospect of William Thatcher for a son-in-law.
And if not, she’d thought that she had time to seek forgiveness.
Years and years to make her case by a slow process of simply not returning.
But she’d been wrong. If the doctor was correct in his assessment, her mother had, at most, a week.
She pulled her trunk from beneath the bed and rummaged through her letters and books until she found a silver chain buried at the bottom. She fished it out and rubbed the harp-shaped pendant on her dress. Her father had given this necklace to her mother when they’d married. When Alice left for London, her mother had pressed it into her palm. He loved you so, child. And so do I. Don’t forget it. A sentiment so shocking in its uncharacteristic sweetness that she’d not been able to answer. She’d buried the necklace in her trunk and hadn’t looked at it since she’d arrived here.
Now it was dull and tarnished.
She kissed the little harp, feeling like the most ungrateful girl who’d ever lived. “Forgive me, Mama,” she whispered, looping the chain around her head and under the high collar of her dress. “Wait for me.” Her voice was hoarse with the sadness that seemed determined to seep out as tears, so she squeezed her eyes shut and started up another verse.
* * *
I Have a gallant Pin-Box,
The like you ne’er did see,
It is where never was the Pox,
Something above my Knee:
O ’tis a gallant Pin-Box,
You never saw the Peer;
Then would not want my Pin-Box
For forty Pounds a Year.
* * *
Elena peered into the room, holding a cloak. “Oh, Alice. Only you would sing bawdy songs with grief.” Her mistress’s face, usually as serene as the surface of the moon, was taut with concern.