Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
“Miss Graham, we’ll be leaving in ten minutes. Do make sure you have your cloak and bonnet.”
Eliza looked up from the linens she’d been folding, her stomach dropping. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Dawson, leaving for where?”
The housekeeper was already halfway out the door, a list in her hand and purpose in her stride. “I need to run several errands in town. Let’s see, the draper’s, the grocer’s, and we absolutely must stop at the milliner’s. I’ll need an extra pair of hands.”
“Perhaps one of the other girls…”
“The other girls are occupied with the spring cleaning.” Mrs. Dawson paused, turning back with a slight frown. “Is there a problem, Miss Graham?”
Yes. A very large problem. The problem being that venturing into the heart of London’s shopping district was precisely the sort of exposure I have been trying to avoid.
“No, Mrs. Dawson. Of course not. I’ll fetch my things.”
“Good girl. Meet me at the servants’ entrance.”
Eliza’s mind raced as she climbed the stairs to retrieve her cloak. Perhaps she could feign illness? But Mrs. Dawson had seen her not five minutes ago, perfectly healthy. A headache? Too convenient. An urgent task His Grace required? Too easily verified.
There is no way out of this.
She would simply have to keep her head down, stay close to Mrs. Dawson, and pray they didn’t encounter anyone from her former life. London was a large city, after all. The odds of running into someone she knew were…
“Miss Graham! We haven’t got all day!”
Eliza grabbed her plainest bonnet, one that shadowed her face, and hurried downstairs.
“Coming!”
The morning was crisp and bright, the kind of day that brought everyone out of doors. Bond Street was packed with elegant carriages, fashionable ladies examining shop windows, and gentlemen strolling with walking sticks tucked under their arms and puffing on pipes.
Eliza kept her head bowed, her bonnet low, staying as close to Mrs. Dawson as propriety allowed without actually treading on the woman’s bloody heels.
“First stop, the draper’s,” Mrs. Dawson announced, consulting her list. “His Grace needs new linens for the guest chambers. Lord knows why, he never has guests, but one must be prepared.”
They wove through the crowds, Eliza’s heart jumping at every familiar voice, every flash of fine clothing that might belong to someone from her past like a pistol shot. A woman laughed nearby, high and bright, and Eliza flinched before realizing it wasn’t her mother.
“Are you quite all right, Miss Graham?” Mrs. Dawson asked, glancing at her. “You seem rather jumpy.”
“I’m fine, Mrs. Dawson. Just… not used to such crowds.”
“Ah, yes. You’re from the country, aren’t you? Well, you’ll adjust. London’s quite safe during the day!”
Safe from cutpurses and thieves, perhaps. But not from the far more dangerous threat of recognition.
They made their way through the draper’s, Eliza keeping her face turned away from the other customers, and then to the grocer’s, where Mrs. Dawson spent an interminable amount of time discussing the quality of various preserves with the proprietor.
“Now,” Mrs. Dawson said, tucking her parcels under her arm, “the milliner’s is just around the corner on…”
She stopped mid-sentence.
Eliza, who had been studying the cobblestones with intense focus, nearly walked into her.
“Mrs. Dawson?”
“Oh my! Is that not Lord Ashford? And Lady Tayham?” The housekeeper’s voice had gone slightly breathless. “I haven’t seen her ladyship in ages. She was such a beauty in her youth, you know. Still is, I suppose, though age comes for us all eventually.”
Eliza’s blood ran cold. If Lady Tayham was here, then others from the ton might be as well. She needed to suggest they return to the house, immediately…
“Just a moment, Miss Graham. I simply must say hello!”
“Mrs. Dawson, perhaps we should…”
But the housekeeper was already moving away, drawn like a moth to the flame of aristocratic society, leaving Eliza standing alone on the crowded street.
She turned, intending to retreat into the nearest shop, when a voice stopped her in her tracks. A voice she knew as well as her own.
“Lord Whitfield, what a delightful surprise!”
Her mother.
Eliza’s vision blurred. She spun around, pressing herself against the brick wall of a nearby building, her heart hammering so hard she thought it might crack her ribs.
They were close. So terribly close. She risked a glance around the corner.
There, not twenty feet away, stood her parents. Her father looked older than she remembered, his face drawn and tired. Her mother was in a garish emerald silk dress, her posture perfect, her smile bright and entirely false.
And beside them, his silver hair gleaming in the sunlight, stood Lord Whitfield.
“Lady Ramersby, Lord Ramersby.” Whitfield’s voice was smooth as snake oil. “How fortunate to encounter you. I was just thinking I should call on you soon.”
“Were you?” Lady Ramersby’s laugh was practiced, musical. “How kind. We’re always delighted to receive you, my lord.”
“How have you been faring? I know these past weeks must have been difficult.”
There was a pause. Eliza pressed closer to the wall, straining to hear.
“We manage,” her father said stiffly. “One does what one must.”
“Indeed.” Whitfield’s tone held a note of sympathy that made Eliza’s skin crawl. “And Lady Eliza? I trust she’s recovering well from her… illness?”
Eliza’s breath caught.
“Oh, yes,” her mother said quickly. Too quickly. “Much improved. The country air has done wonders for her constitution. We expect her back in London any day now.”
“I’m very glad to hear it. I confess, I was quite concerned when I heard she’d taken ill so suddenly.”
“It was a shock to us all,” Lady Ramersby agreed. “But she’s a strong girl. Resilient.”
“She is indeed.” There was something in Whitfield’s voice that made Eliza’s stomach turn. “I hope she recovers as soon as possible, so that we can finally wed.”
Wed.
The word hung in the air like poison.
“You’re too kind, Lord Whitfield,” her mother simpered. “I’m sure our Eliza feels the same. The dear girl was simply overwhelmed by grief over poor her friend. She didn’t know what she was saying when she… well. These things happen.”
“They do indeed.” Whitfield’s voice had taken on a harder edge. “And I am nothing if not patient. When Lady Eliza returns, please do alert me as quickly as you can. I dearly miss her.”
“’We certainly will,” Lord Ramersby said, and Eliza could hear the desperation in his voice. The gambling debts clearly hadn’t gone anywhere. “I am sure she misses you too, my lord.”
“Excellent. Now, I’m afraid I must be going. I have an appointment at White’s. But it’s been a pleasure, as always.”
“The pleasure was ours, Lord Whitfield.”
Footsteps. Moving away.
Eliza remained frozen against the wall, her eyes squeezed shut, willing herself not to scream. Not to run. Not to do anything that might draw attention.
He’s still looking for me. They’re still trying to sell me to him. Nothing has changed.
“Miss Graham?”
Eliza’s eyes snapped open. Mrs. Dawson was standing a few feet away, parcels in hand, looking concerned.
“Are you ill? You’ve gone quite pale.”
“I…” Eliza forced herself to breathe. “I felt a bit faint. I am warm… I-I…”
“It’s not particularly warm, but come along. Let’s get you back to the house. We can finish the errands another day.”
“What about the milliner’s?”
“It can wait. His Grace won’t begrudge us one unfinished task if you’re unwell.”
Eliza nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She glanced once more toward where her parents had been standing, but they’d already moved on, disappearing into the crowd. As had Whitfield.
The monster who’d killed Abigail. The monster my parents want me to marry. The monster who is still waiting for me…
The walk back to the townhouse passed in a blur. Mrs. Dawson kept up a steady stream of chatter, something about the quality of the linens they’d purchased, about the outrageous price of good preserves these days.
Eliza heard none of it.
All she could hear was Whitfield’s voice, smooth and patient and utterly certain. He still wanted to marry her, even though she’d vanished. He was no fool, he had to know that the story about a sudden illness was only a cover-up. Which only meant that she’d be found quickly enough.
I must leave. Before he finds me.
She didn’t realize she was shaking until they reached the servants’ entrance and Mrs. Dawson placed a gentle hand on her arm.
“You should rest, Miss Graham. Go lie down for a bit. I’ll tell His Grace you weren’t feeling well if he asks.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Dawson,” was all she could manage
Eliza climbed the stairs to the servants’ quarters on legs that felt like water. She made it to her small room, closed the door, and collapsed onto the narrow bed. Eliza curled into herself, small and afraid, and wished desperately for someone to tell her what to do.
But there was no one.