Mary, the old cook, came and piled steaming bricks around Alice’s feet, and a warm flask in her lap. “Cider for the chill.” She lowered her voice. “With a touch of gin in it to warm you, if the likes of hisself will let ye touch the stuff.”
Mary shared Alice’s opinions on the wisdom of consorting with the likes of Henry Evesham. All the servants did.
Henry smiled at Mary. “One could not judge Miss Hull for drinking whatever she likes in such circumstances,” he said in a kindly tone.
Alice glanced over at him. His cheeks were flushed. She wondered if he made this false display of charm because he was embarrassed he had flinched from her. Or perhaps it was because he sensed how everyone here resented him for the way he had threatened their livelihoods and walked about their home as if it—they—might infect him with low morals.
She took Mary’s hand and squeezed it. “Thank you.”
“I’ll be thinking of you, child,” Mary said.
Elena held up a hand. “We all will. Travel safely.”
“Onward, then,” Henry said, taking the reins. “You must be eager to get home.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
But as Charlotte Street receded behind them and the curricle wobbled its way over the cobbles heading north, she knew it was a lie. It had been years since she’d thought of home with anything like longing. The tension between herself and her mother had grown so sharp after her father’s death it had been like the pitch of tuning fork, a note that always trembled in the air. Don’t be odd, you little changeling. Stop wandering off, don’t mourn so, never look at men that way. You’ll become unruly like Papa’s people and give your sisters strange ideas.
She was not ready to leave Charlotte Street.
Because she knew—had always known—what leaving here would mean.
It would be a kind of death. And she wasn’t ready.
She’d only just begun to feel alive.
She shut her eyes and began to hum a filthy song about a high-prized pin-box, if only so she would not weep.
Chapter 3
Henry’s father had often bitterly complained that Henry was so dogged in his principles he ran roughshod over practical reality. Observing Alice Hull hunched to the furthest edge of the curricle, shrouded in her cloak and humming joylessly beneath her breath, he wondered if perhaps he’d been over-moved by the spirit in insisting on driving this young woman in a small vehicle on a two-day journey in bad weather.
It was clear she loathed him.
He held himself rigid, hoping if he kept his elbows wedged against his sides, kept his knees pressed up to his breastbone like a mantis, he might demonstrate he desired nothing more than her comfort, and win some small measure of her trust.
But she had not so much as looked at him. They’d been on the road ten minutes, and he was already sore.
He distracted himself with trying to make out the tune she hummed. He didn’t recognize the melody, but there was a pleasant timbre to her voice. He wondered if she hummed to fill the silence—and if so, if he should speak to her.
But what should he say? The rude way he behaved last week would make the usual pleasantries seem awkward, but to acknowledge the rudeness seemed more awkward still. Normally he took pains to move through the world respectfully, even when he disapproved of the parts of it he walked through. But that day last week, he’d been in such a state that he’d run all the way from Mary-le-Bone to the Thames and then across the bridge to Southwark, repeating Reverend Keeper’s counsel in his head: vigorous exercise quiets an unruly mind.
It hadn’t worked.
A gentle rain began to fall, veering sideways in the chilly wind. He glanced at Alice, worried she’d be cold. She looked like she was trying not to cry.
Poor girl. What would ease his mind, were he in her position?
Prayer.
But he was not her minister, and she hadn’t asked, and he did not wish to be presumptuous. Better to begin with lighter conversation.
“What’s that song you’re humming?” he asked her.
“You wouldn’t know it,” she said. She did not resume the tune, and the silence between them seemed heavier than the clop of the horses’ shoes against the cobbles.
“I didn’t mean to stop you. You have a lovely voice.”
She said nothing. Her silence was excruciating.
“I’d planned to stop for the night in West Eckdale,” he told her. “There’s a pleasant inn there, if that’s agreeable to you.”
She nodded.
“And we’ll take luncheon at a public house at noon. Though tell me if you’d like to stop before then for your comfort.”
As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted the intimacy of what he’d just suggested, for they were little more than strangers. He wracked his mind for something more to say, but he’d only ever conversed with fallen women to interview them about their work, or to pray with them when they came to him in supplication, wishing for God’s forgiveness. He could not fathom what he and Alice Hull might have in common.
He wished he had not spoken to her at all.
The curricle hit a puddle that he hadn’t seen, tossing them both up an inch into the air. He landed back on the padded bench with a thud, his arm falling heavily on Alice’s. Her teeth clicked with the impact.
“Are you all right?” he asked, scrambling away so as not to crush her.
But it was too late, because he’d already felt the softness of her cloak, the slightness of her body beneath it. Already noticed that she smelled sweet, like milky tea with honey.
He did not allow himself sweet things.
(Not anymore.)
“I’m fine,” Alice said, scooting so close to the side of the curricle that she was nearly hanging out the door.
“Had I known I would have a passenger, I would have hired a more spacious chaise for the journey.”
“I’m grateful for any transport. You need not concern yourself with my comfort.” She was polite, but stiffly so, as if the effort of being civil caused her strain. He wondered if this was due to her grief, or her suspicion of him.
“In that case, I’ll focus on my own discomfort,” he said, shooting a rueful grimace at his knees. “I feel like a grasshopper in knee breeches, crammed into this little cart.”
She turned to him and smiled, a sly smile, like a cat might wear. “Aye. Quite a delicate contraption for journeying on country roads in winter, this.”
She was just polite enough not to mention that the situation was made worse by the fact he was a giant. Kind of her.
Her voice held the Somerset twang he had grown up with, and her words the bluntness he knew well from his father’s people. He didn’t mind her directness. He was pleased she was saying anything at all.
“Yes, it’s quite a delicate gig for going anywhere,” he agreed. “I borrowed it from Lord Apthorp to economize on the expense of travel. I’m saving to marry, once I’ve fulfilled my duties to the Lords.”
He flushed. Why had he told her that?
“Congratulations,” she said tonelessly.
He flushed deeper, realizing she’d misunderstood him. “Oh. No, I have not yet had the honor of asking for a lady’s hand. I meant only that I intend to … to find a helpmeet and start a family of my own. Soon.”