Chapter Three
Sophie’s eyes burned from searching the fog for the glow from Noah’s lantern.
“God bless the lad,” Dumfries said. “I hope he finds his way before the coachman finds ’im.”
“I would think missing a head would make it difficult to find anyone,” she snapped. “Though you had yours and still managed to hit every rut in the road.”
“What would you know about leading a team through the dark, missy?”
“I was my grandda’s eyes in London through crowded streets and shadowy gaslights.” Sophie put her fist on her waist, keeping her from striking the man when he was already down. “And I’ve managed teams since I was strong enough to handle the reins.”
She heard the words, flat against the fog, and clapped her hand over her mouth. No one knew that but Noah.
They had built a successful business on it, even managed to branch out. She owned a livery now, and a wheelwright. And she’d meant to speak to Noah about Lake’s harness shop, which was falling behind on its orders since old man Lake’s death.
Why in the bloody hell was she in Yorkshire trying to buy a coach company?
“You? Who in their right mind would hire…” His question ended on a racking cough that left him moaning in pain. Blood splattered his hand and dripped from his chin. “Look at me! I’m dying!”
Sophie tossed her handkerchief at him, and then felt guilty when it fluttered onto his chest. She knelt beside him and cleaned his hand and his face. It was easier to be gentle if she thought of him like her grandfather.
“You’ll fare better if you don’t get excited,” she said. “Stay quiet and rest until Noah returns.” She put up a hand to stop his rambling. “He will return. Noah always keeps his word.”
After all, his vow to keep her secret meant he spent his days lying to his family, half in the shadows. His commitment to her success was what had led her here. He saw something in Middleton Coach Company, and he was rarely wrong.
She needed to put her faith in him.
Sophie stood and turned toward the fire, closing Noah’s coat against the wind.
The sob was faint, but Sophie knew she’d heard it. And it continued, the broken cries of someone deep in grief. She scanned the horizon, looking for the woman. “Who’s there?”
Dumfries cackled from his makeshift sickbed. “Ain’t nobody there, miss. You’re hearing the lady cry for help.”
Gooseflesh bloomed on Sophie’s arms, but she didn’t dare rub them. It was a ridiculous notion, and the old man was half out of his mind. “She’ll need to save her breath if the coachman’s stalking Noah.”
“You can tease all you want, but you’ll see. She’s lured poor souls onto the moors for years.”
“I’m sure the stories got them free ale until their teeth floated.” Sophie was accustomed to pub stories that grew wilder when drink was plentiful. An irritated lord became a witless drunk waving a sword or a pistol at well-meaning drivers. Smiles became kisses. Flirtations became assignations.
“They’re never seen again.” Dumfries raised an eyebrow, mimicking her gaze. “Every pub on the moor has a story about a lad who started home in the fog and never came back.”
Wails floated on the wind.
“They probably decided to leave this dreadful place altogether,” Sophie grumbled as she retrieved the hatchet and wrapped her fingers around the very strong, very real, handle.
Then she went to the destroyed carriage and chopped into the splintered wood, using her free hand to pry the planks loose.
It forced her to turn her back on the fog and deaden her too-lively imagination.
She carried the armload of firewood back to the pile Noah had left them, feeling both better for having done something and silly for fearing they’d run through their supply and be left in the dark.
Hopefully they wouldn’t be here that long. They would need food otherwise, and she was better at stealing than hunting for it.
They wouldn’t need to go that far. A carriage would surely pass in the morning, if Noah didn’t return before then.
If Noah didn’t return at all.
Sophie rubbed her palms against the warm wool of his coat. He would be back. Noah wasn’t some cotton-headed lad raised on myths and tales told in pubs. He was levelheaded and solid.
He would be back for her.
The wind lifted her hair and chilled her neck and ears.
“Someone? Anyone?” At least, it sounded like that through the sobs.
Sophie caught herself before she answered. She didn’t want to listen to any more of Dumfries’s foolishness.
Instead she scrounged through the wreckage, looking for the flotsam from their trip. They would need to be ready to leave once help arrived.
She tossed her ruined hat on the fire, and thanked her lucky stars when she found her gloves near a nasty, large rock that had cracked the ceiling. She said another prayer of thanks that they had both avoided it during their tumble.
Noah’s writing slope had fallen with them, and while it was still whole, it had fallen open and the contents were scattered.
His inkwell caught the moonlight, making it easy to find.
Sophie tracked back up the hill until the light from the fire faded and the cold clung to her ears.
Finding nothing, she returned to more level ground.
She moved Noah’s bag and revealed a pistol nearly as long as her forearm, and so ancient that it might fall apart if fired. However, it could be enough to frighten off highwaymen. Sophie put it near the fire so it would be easy to find if there was an emergency.
The wind had pushed some paper nearer the fog and flattened other pages against rocks. It was damp, and even in the weak light it was easy to see how the moisture had blurred the ink. Still, she gathered it carefully and stacked it correctly.
Sophie opened the drawer and hesitated. “I can’t put wet paper in with new.” Even if the stack of unused paper was small, it was still safely stored. Instead, she opened the lid and expanded the folder beneath. “Blast. It’s not empty. How much can one man write?”
“Do you always prattle to yourself?” Dumfries groused, his voice weak. “How’s a man to get any rest?”
“And how’s a woman supposed to have any sensible conversation?” Sophie removed the dry letter and replaced it with the damp pages.
She opened the drawer to stash dry paper with dry, but caught sight of the words on the page.
My darling,
Sophie shoved the letter in the drawer and slammed it closed. The knot in her chest stopped her breath to the point she grew ill.
Noah had a darling.
Of course he did. Why would he think anything of a woman who spent too much time pretending to be a man and, even in skirts, tended to boss him around?
It didn’t matter that she used cream on her hands and ground down her calluses, or that she spent as much time observing the ladies in the Circle for their fashions and manners as she did for their business skills.
She didn’t have the time to read the right books or learn how to dance. The music at the opera was pretty, but she didn’t understand the story. Truthfully, she thought the performers died too often.
Sophie reached for the drawer, her fingers hovering just over the knob as though it would burn her. It would hurt, yes, but she wanted to know. “Grandda always said I was too curious.”
She opened the drawer.
My darling,
How I long to call you that where everyone can hear, to take your hand as we walk down the street. I want to know if your hair is as silky as it looks, and if your lips are as sweet as I imagine.
Those questions stir me from my sleep and distract me from my day. I find myself counting the hours, sometimes the minutes, until I can see you again. And I wish, dearest, how I wish, that I could simply open my eyes and see you next to me, your warm body within reach.
I long to confess that I love you, how much I love you, and for how long I have loved you. More than that, I wish everyone to know that you are mine.
There was more, but the words grew too blurry to read.
Sophie dashed her hot tears away, fearing they would dot the paper and reveal her secret. “That’s that, then, you daft girl. Nothing for it.”
She paid Noah. He worked for her. That was all it was. All it would ever be.
The cries across the fog sounded as though the girl’s heart was breaking, and Sophie briefly considered joining her.
“What good will that do you?” she asked. “Help will arrive and you’ll look like a panicked urchin. No need to make things worse.”
Sophie returned the letter to the slope and closed it tightly, flipping the clasp shut and giving a decisive nod. Out of sight, out of mind.
She arranged their belongings in a neat pile and returned to the circle of the fire. It kept the fog at bay, and the heat lifted her spirits just enough that she could bear her rumbly stomach.
They would die from exposure before they would starve, and Noah would have returned well before things got that dire. Indeed, if he wasn’t back by daybreak, she would leave as soon as the fog lifted.
If a lady haunted the moor, it was because she’d chosen to die out here rather than help herself.
Sophie, however, was perfectly capable of staging her own rescue. She had done it before.
She could do it again.
*
Noah stood near the fire at The Moorland Arms, the only building in Goathland that had lights in the windows when he had stumbled into town, and watched as a rescue party formed.
“You’d best stay in until sunrise,” one of the elders said over the rim of his pint. “If the road doesn’t get you, the coachman will.”
“Hang the coachman,” one young man replied as he stuffed fresh scones into his pockets. “We’ll not leave anyone out on the heather until morning. ’Specially not an injured driver. My da drove for Middleton, and…”
Noah wanted to shout at them, to urge them to go faster, but he couldn’t without his teeth chattering. And that would ruin any authority he had.
He’d been so focused on keeping up with his unwitting guide that he hadn’t noticed the cold. But it had fallen on him like a snowdrift the moment the innkeeper’s wife had pushed him in front of the fire and thrust a cup of tea between his stiff fingers.