Chapter 6
We rode in silence, winding through the midnight streets of London.
Mr. Rawlings said nothing, only stared out the window, one hand splayed against his jaw.
For nearly thirty minutes, he did not look at me or acknowledge me in any way, as if he’d forgotten I was there altogether.
It would not surprise me if he had, really.
Eventually, the buildings around us faded into the blackness of the countryside. Our coach had lanterns, but I could not see beyond the sphere of light that enveloped us. We could be surrounded by anything—farms, quiet towns, sleepy meadows.
Or perhaps menacing figures on horseback, keeping pace with our coach and waiting for the right moment.
I shivered and pulled my cloak tighter around me. I needed a distraction. Silence had never been my natural state.
“I suppose the driver knows our destination?” I asked.
Mr. Rawlings did not glance my way. “The general direction.”
“What of me?” I pressed. “May I know to where I am being absconded by a near stranger?”
He dropped his hand and straightened in his seat. “Somerset.”
“And what is in Somerset?”
“A house,” he said.
“A house,” I repeated dryly. “Well, thank goodness for that. Will it have walls and a roof, do you suppose?”
His eyes finally turned my way, briskly inspecting every inch of my face. “You are rather mouthy for someone who nearly died tonight.” He spoke matter-of-factly, with no hint of insult to it.
“I’m always rather mouthy,” I said almost cheerfully. “I imagine that even dying would do little to change that.”
A shift in his expression, the slightest recalculation. This conversation was doing me good. It was challenging me, forcing me to think of his words and reactions instead of the threatening shadows outside my window.
“The house was my grandfather’s.” He abruptly turned the subject back. “Left to me on his death a few years ago. I visit but rarely. We will be safe there.”
“I see.” I leaned back. “But if no one knows where we’ve gone, how are they to contact us when the murderer is caught?”
“I told Drake,” he said. “He will send us updates on the case and pass along any letters.”
My brows lowered. “If you told Drake, why could we not tell Ginny and Jack?”
He shook his head. “Even those with the best of intentions can slip up. What if they spoke of it in private, but a servant overheard through a closed door? Or they sent us a letter, but the post office worker had been bribed to collect such information? If our murderer is determined, any tiny mistake could lead him to us.”
I felt somewhat insulted on my friends’ behalf, that Mr. Rawlings would think them so careless. “But Drake will not make such mistakes?”
Mr. Rawlings frowned. “I did not say that. Only that it is better for everyone if knowledge of our location is restricted as much as possible.”
“Better for everyone or better for you?”
I must be irritating him. The muscle ticking in his cheek was clue enough of that.
“I am trying to keep you safe.” His voice deepened as if he intended to intimidate me with pure masculinity. “It would be helpful if you allowed me to.”
“I wasn’t aware I had a choice in the matter.”
He closed his eyes briefly, no doubt to gather his remaining stores of patience.
Guilt pricked inside me. Yes, he was overbearing and abrupt and callous, but he had saved my life not two hours ago. He had put himself between me and danger.
He could have died.
A swallow caught in my throat as I observed him now—the darkening bruises on his face, how he held his injured arm close to his body. I dropped my gaze to my gloved hands, clenched in my lap. I relaxed my grip.
“I am sorry,” I said softly, seriously. “I do not mean to sound ungrateful for what you did tonight. I—I’ve never—” My voice cut out. Inhaling deeply, I retrieved Mr. Rawlings’s stave from my reticule and leaned forward to set it on the seat beside him. “Thank you, truly.”
He said nothing, staring down at the stave. Then he picked it up and slipped it inside his jacket.
“Get some sleep, Miss Lacey,” he said. “We’ve a long road ahead of us.”
I awoke to a violet sunrise, the barest brush of light.
I jolted upright, having lain across the bench sometime during the night.
My back ached, and my head pounded as the coach rattled down some country road.
How had I managed to fall asleep? I’d thought for certain that the residual energy from Vauxhall would keep me wide awake, but I’d dropped off quickly, my body giving in to my deep weariness.
I blinked across at Mr. Rawlings, my mind still fuzzy with sleep. He watched me, fully awake and not looking at all like he’d spent the better part of the night bouncing around inside a coach.
“Where are we?” My throat was dry and scratchy.
“We just passed into Berkshire,” he replied.
“When do we arrive?” It was too much to hope that it would be soon.
“Tomorrow morning, if we face no delays.”
Tomorrow? I barely stopped a groan. I had to spend another full day alone in this coach with Mr. Rawlings.
His gaze drifted over me, from my head to my boots, and a sudden awareness flooded me.
I gave myself a cursory inspection. My skirts had twisted themselves around my knees, revealing a shocking amount of stockinged legs.
The fabric of my dress was wrinkled beyond anything, and my hair—oh, I could not even begin to imagine what my hair looked like.
Blushing fiercely, I quickly straightened my skirts to cover my legs and asked the first thing that came to mind. “Did you sleep?”
He glanced back out the window. “No.”
Revelatory indeed.
“You ought to have slept,” I said. “No matter how ardently you protest, you do need rest to recover.”
“Yes, I am quite aware of what the doctor said,” he replied sagely.
My stomach growled, and though the rattling of the coach was loud, my stomach was louder. The corner of Mr. Rawlings’s mouth pulled back.
I refused to be embarrassed. “Shall we eat something?”
“Please,” he said. “I would have eaten earlier but you were using the basket as a pillow.”
“Oh.” I looked down at the bench beside me, and sure enough, there was the basket Ginny had sent with us, packed with food. My blush grew hotter. Perhaps it was good I was here with Mr. Rawlings and not Mr. Drake, considering how I continued to embarrass myself.
I sorted through the food and came up with a meal of thick bread and butter, cold sausages, and fresh apples. It was filling enough, but I would have given almost anything for a scalding cup of tea to warm my hands. The country air felt colder outside of London, autumn tightening its hold.
The sun had risen fully by now, and I found myself rather entranced by the passing countryside, soft and ethereal in the golden morning light.
It was difficult to feel the same fear as last night, when all had been hidden by menacing shadows.
This dreamy daytime made it seem impossible for us to be in any real danger.
After eating, Mr. Rawlings pulled out a copy of The Times and began reading without so much as another word in my direction.
I settled back into my seat and resigned myself to the dullest day I’d ever known.
I hadn’t thought to bring along so much as a book, and clearly, Mr. Rawlings would not be a willing source of entertainment.
When he finished with his newspaper, he folded it precisely and set it on the bench beside him.
“May I?” I gestured to the paper.
He tilted his head by the barest degree. “The gossip columns are not terribly interesting today.” Or ever, his tone seemed to say.
“I shall be the judge of that,” I said lightly.
He handed me the newspaper. “If you like.”
He was being so terribly polite that one could almost pretend he hadn’t said such stinging things to me last night about my reputation. But I could not quite forget it, nor the way he’d looked at me with that infuriating surety, as if he already knew everything about me.
It would do no good to resuscitate that argument now, though, not when we had to endure each other’s company for the foreseeable future.
I happily spent the next hour perusing the newspaper.
Taking my time, I pored over the advertisements, the political news, Society gossip, and announcements of births, deaths, and marriages.
I smiled when I spotted a notice touting Mrs. Travers’s upcoming appearance in Henry VIII, though that smile quickly faded.
I would not be there to attend—Ginny and I had planned to go only yesterday.
“What is it?”
I started. I hadn’t realized Mr. Rawlings was watching me.
“Oh,” I said. “Nothing, really. Only, I’d so looked forward to seeing Mrs. Travers play Queen Katherine.
I have heard she is unrivaled in the part.
” He scrutinized me with an angled brow.
Judging me, likely, for caring about missing a theatrical performance when our lives were quite literally at stake.
“But it’s not important,” I added quickly, dropping my gaze back to the paper.
“Of course it isn’t important any longer. ”
I could feel his eyes on me still, but I forced myself to continue reading.
I always enjoyed each section of the newspaper, though it might seem odd to some to see a lady reading the ship news from the London docks.
But every article, advertisement, and snippet was a glimpse into the lives of others—lives that were far more interesting and compelling than my own.
I craved even the smallest bits of information, desperate for connection with a world that seemed impossibly out of my reach.
My world was so small, so confined, in Little Sowerby.
Each day was the same—daily instruction from Mother, seeing to the household management, hosting callers and returning visits, attending church, embroidering handkerchiefs, avoiding Father, and trying very hard not to scream into my pillow at the end of every day.