Either might have been preferable, for instead he just looked stricken and fell silent.
She would rather tumble out the side of the curricle than cry in front of him, so she struck up her humming. She shut her eyes and put her breath into it, blocking out awareness of anything save the sound of her own voice.
It lulled her into sleep, a state she’d always found easy to lapse into, particularly when she wanted to be alone. This time, she did not dream.
When she woke it was to the carriage stopping. She started. Henry was down on the ground, fumbling with the harnesses. It was dark, and cold, and they were outside another inn.
Alice yawned, and Henry looked up at her. “Ah. Awake at last.” He offered her a hand to help her down. She took it, and noticed how strong and steady his grip was, like she was leaning on an iron rail.
“We’ll stop here for the night. I secured a private room for you.” He hesitated. “Told them you’re my sister, if they ask.”
“Thank you,” she said. She felt guilty enough for shouting at him earlier that she did not bother to inquire as to why he minded whoring but not lying. “I’ll just get my bag.”
“I carried it upstairs. They asked if you wished for supper, but I thought you might prefer a tray to dining in the public rooms. I asked them to bring you something warm. I hope you don’t mind the presumption.”
“No, thank you.”
She was surprised that he’d taken such pains after the harsh words she’d spoken to him. She should apologize. But the idea of it exhausted her, so she pretended she was accustomed to such kindness. That she was so spoiled from fine treatment she didn’t even notice it. That she was the type of queenly girl she’d once flattered herself she might someday become.
Inside the inn was warm and bright. Henry pointed to a door at the end of the hall and handed her a key.
“They’ve lit a fire for you and there should be clean linens.” He gestured at the room beside hers. “I’m here. Should you encounter trouble please don’t hesitate to wake me. I sleep lightly, and will hear a knock.”
It struck her that he must think her delicate, because of all her napping. The truth was that she was as sturdy as they came—just excellent at sleeping. Sleep was the only privacy one had when one shared a narrow bed with two squirming sisters, and since childhood it had been her best escape. Save, of course, for music.
“Thank you,” she told him, meaning for the room, for driving her, and for enduring her poor temper.
“Of course.” He paused, his face drawn with concern. “Good night, Alice.”
She nodded. “Good night.”
She shut the door so she would not have to withstand his look of pity. Her room was small and sparely furnished, but clean and neat. A step above the inns she used to stay at with her father as a girl, where bugs would skitter across her skin and bite her ankles. She removed her rain-damp cloak and changed into her nightdress. A maid came and brought her a steaming bowl of soup and a loaf of hot brown bread with butter. She ate a bit of it, dipping the bread into the broth, but she had little appetite.
She tried not to think of her mother.
She tried not to think of how frightened her sisters must be.
She tried not to think of the terrifying suddenness with which life could rip you open, snatch away all that was good.
She wished she were at home, tucked among her sisters in their bed, falling asleep to the sound of their breath and snores as she had done back before her father died. Back when they had all been together and secure and happy, and it had been no shame to be the strange one of the lot because life itself was not a risk.
She’d prayed at night, back then.
Back before she’d realized prayers were wasted breath.
She would not think of that.
She needed to soothe her mind, lest the bad thoughts take her.
It was too late for singing, so she fished inside her satchel for one for the books she’d borrowed and retrieved the one on top. The pages were coarse, the cover plain brown leather, with no author’s name or title.
She opened a page at random, and found that it was not a history, as she’d assumed. It was not a book at all, in the formal sense, though it was bound like one. It was some sort of account or journal, handwritten in the precise script of a clerk.
I have walked a great distance tonight to calm my mind, yet still, it churns with sinful thoughts. It brings me such despair to think that no matter how I endeavor to rid myself of frailty it emerges—as though my capacity for weakness is my most enduring strength. I shall pray for greater resolve, though I sometimes wonder if He tires of my prayers.
How odd. She could not imagine who among the artisans at Charlotte Street might have written such words. She flipped to the back cover, looking for a name, but there was only a date in the same precise hand, followed by a list of duties.
1. Practice intellectual honesty!
2. Account regularly to Reverend Keeper!
It went on just as cryptically, with strange, depressing edicts.
The next page was even worse.
* * *
Daily Regime for Renewed Perfection of the Mind and Spirit
* * *
0400: Wake and morning prayers
0430: Brisk walk, one mile
0500: Physical exercises for strength of body
0545: Breakfast
0600: Prayers and Bible study
0700: Commence work
1200: Luncheon
1230: Resume work
1900: Supper
1930: Brisk five mile walk
2100: Prayers and Bible study
2200: Sleep
She squinted at the book in pure horror. Imagine keeping such a schedule if one did not have to. She was no stranger to rising at dawn or to long days of labor—but if she could avoid them, she most certainly would.
All the time devoted to prayer reminded her of Henry, and his hourly offers to turn the curricle into her private chapel.
He was so strange.
There was a kind of charm to him— a touch of nerves, a dab of humor, a flash of kindness—beneath his arrogant exterior. She had not seen this side of him when she’d answered the door on his occasional visits to Charlotte Street, when he’d always seemed pained to be there. She’d certainly seen none of it when she’d given him his tour the week before. He’d spent the whole time with shifty eyes, looking at her as though she was a spider who might lay eggs in his ear at any moment.
It had offended her, for she’d done nothing salty—merely shown him the rooms and listed the services performed there, even humoring his insulting questions as best she could.
“People request such things?” he’d asked, looking queasily at a riding crop.
“Men ask for what?” he’d marveled, gaping at a dildo.
But in the middle of the tour he’d stopped talking altogether. And then, suddenly, he’d shoved past her and gone bolting up the stairs, looking so utterly disgusted you’d have thought she’d offered to rut him for a sixpence, and had foul breath besides.
At first, she’d been certain she’d done something wrong and landed them all in gaol. But then, when nothing came of it, she’d realized he’d not been so much scandalized as revolted.
And it made her bloody angry. For who was he, to come to their place, and judge them?