Chapter 2
Chapter Two
“ L ook out!” shouted a man.
She had scarcely enough time to press her back against the wall, out of the way of a pair of boys rolling a massive hogshead barrel down a ramp and into the street.
It was growing dark. But the inn yard was still as busy as it had been all day. Men and boys shouted at each other as they loaded and unloaded wagons and led horses to and from the stables.
Coaches arrived and coaches left—the largest and most heavily laden barely clearing the underside of the arched passageway that led to the street. People bellowed greetings and instructions and angry tirades down from the upper galleries that surrounded the inn yard. Two porters dodged through the chaos, carrying trunks. They were followed by a woman who was scolding them every step of the way.
So far, her impression of London was that everyone seemed harassed, everyone seemed short-tempered, and everyone seemed to know exactly where to go… and to be going there in a hurry.
Well, that was fine, she told herself. She didn’t have to know where everyone else was going. She only had to know where she was going.
Although… she had only the most general idea of where she was going. What she did have was a far clearer idea about who she was running from.
For a moment she almost lost her courage. She’d never been so far from home before. And now… well, she must not think of it now. She must keep her head and not cry. Because she couldn’t go back—even if she wanted to.
She took a deep breath. If you’d asked her only the day before whether she was capable of taking a public stagecoach—alone—to London, she would have doubted it. And yet here she was! She’d even found her way across the capital from the inn where the first stagecoach route ended to this inn, where another stagecoach route began. Why, she was equal to… well, almost anything!
The horses were being harnessed to the stagecoach when she found the driver standing next to the inn door in a vast caped coat that reached to his ankles. “One inside place for Lincoln, please,” she said.
He looked her up and down and finished his beer in a long swig. “Lincoln? Two pound twelve shilling.”
It was twice what she’d expected the fare to be. She tried to behave as though she traveled all the time and had expected to hear this. Hiding her dismay, she reached into her pelisse for her pocketbook.
And… it wasn’t there.
She patted the other pocket, then felt inside it, all the way to the bottom.
It, too, was empty.
Her heart began to pound in a sick rhythm.
“Ah.” The coachman nodded knowingly. “Has them Lunnon pick-pockets got you? You should ‘ave been more careful.”
She swallowed against the panicked nausea rising in her throat. “May I… may I send you the money after I arrive? I promise that I will.”
“Don’t think so, miss.” His pale eyes narrowed. “Cash on the old barrel-head is how this here world works.”
“But I have not got any money now.”
He shrugged. “I’d say that falls under the category of ‘not my problem,’ don’t it?”
“But I must get… home.” It wasn’t home. But it would be , she told herself—if only she could get there.
“I ain’t a charity. Now, move along. There’s passengers waiting.”
The loud woman who’d been scolding the porters tried to shove past. “There’s some of us as can pay!”
“But please, if I could just….”
“I said move along! ” All pretense of civility fell away now that she was revealed as being poor. “You’re in the way here.”
She stepped back. It had to be in one of her pockets. It had to be. She patted her pelisse and felt inside the pockets again and again.
But the pocketbook was gone. And with it had gone her money—all eleven pounds, five shillings and four pence of it. Which sounded like a great deal… until you factored in the reality that it had been all that she had in the world.
But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst part was that the letter had been hidden in her pocketbook, too.
She needed the letter. Without the letter, she might as well give up now. Without the letter, she couldn’t follow through on the plan that she’d secretly arranged for herself. Or, well… almost arranged for herself.
Without the letter, she might as well go home. And then she’d never have a chance to escape again.
She wanted to cry. She still hadn’t cried—not once—not even after Wilkes had told her. There’d been no time. The moment that he’d left, she’d started packing.
But she’d ruined everything. No doubt she’d been an easy target for any London pickpocket. After all, until today the largest town she’d seen had been Chichester.
The sharp-elbowed woman was waiting for the porters to load her trunks onto the coach. She shot her a contemptuous look and tossed her head. What a miserable person she must be, if she got pleasure from feeling superior to a young lady who’d had her pocketbook stolen!
But that sneer put the steel back into her spine. She stopped wanting to cry. She hadn’t come all the way to London simply to give up now.
This wasn’t the end. It simply couldn’t be. She wouldn’t allow it to be. She would go search for her pocketbook, and that was that.
The odds of finding it couldn’t be good. But she wouldn’t think about that now. Besides, if she simply gave up, the odds would be zero.
She had no idea where to go, alone in the streets of London with the early spring darkness rapidly falling. But she squared her shoulders and walked away as though she did.
The world hadn’t heard the last of… No. Wait. She must remember to think of herself by her new name—starting now: Ryder. Catherine Ryder .
The world hadn’t heard the last of Catherine Ryder.