Running footsteps raced past their door.
The women looked from one to the other as they waited, listening.
The footsteps clomped back, more slowly. A man shouted, “I’ll find you. And when I do, I’ll kill you.”
That night, Margaret shared the narrow pallet bed with Peg’s son. She didn’t sleep well. She was reminded of the days Gilbert would climb into her bed for a story, fall asleep, and then rob all the bedclothes.
In the morning, Margaret sat at the small table with Peg’s family, sharing a meager breakfast and strained silence. Even the children were unnaturally quiet. From across the table, sisters Joan and Peg exchanged a pained, meaningful look, which Margaret had no trouble interpreting. She had worn out her welcome already.
She opened her mouth, but Joan beat her to it. “I am afraid, mi—Nora. That after last night, it would be best if you took your leave. If those men see you and figure out whose place...”
Margaret nodded, though fear ran through her veins. “I understand.”
“And as soon as possible,” Peg added. “While that lot is still sleeping it off.”
“I know you meant well,” Joan allowed. “But I can’t have you bringin’ danger to my sister’s door.”
Again Margaret nodded and woodenly repeated, “I understand.” She rose, her legs weak and trembling. Where was she to go? And what if those men were out there right now, lying in wait?
She plucked her Oldenburg bonnet from the peg near the door, and tied it securely under her chin. She picked up her bag and bid farewell to each of the children and pressed one of her few coins into Peg’s palm. “For your hospitality,” she murmured and opened the door.
“Wait,” Joan called after her. “I’m going with you.”
Peg began to protest, but Joan insisted she needed to find work. “There aren’t any positions hereabouts anyway.”
Margaret swallowed a bitter pill of pride and humbling gratitude. She guessed Joan was making excuses. But Margaret was not brave enough to insist Joan remain, to bluster that she would be fine on her own. She would not be. And after the near-miss with those men, she was frightened of venturing out alone.
“Very well,” Margaret said, the wordsthank yousticking in her throat.
Joan embraced her niece and nephews, and quietly warned Peg not to say anything about them being there. Peg no doubt believed the warning due to the three would-be thieves alone.
Taking valise and carpetbag in hand once more, Joan and Margaret went quietly downstairs. They peered from behind the splintered door, and seeing no one about, stepped outside. They walked quickly down Fish Street Hill, turning from the lane as soon as possible to avoid being seen by any early riser glancing from his window.
Once they were several blocks away, Joan moderated their pace, leading the way toward the Thames and across London Bridge. The wide river teemed with boats—fishing boats moored midriver or docked to unload the morning’s catch—while sailing vessels of every size slipped between them.
On the other side of the bridge, they passed the Southwark Cathedral before turning left into the Borough High Street. There, Margaret glimpsed a three-story galleried coaching inn. Joan explained that many stagecoaches as well as a Royal Mail coach departed from The George each day.
From behind the railing of the first gallery above, a swarthy porter carried a bolt of fabric over one shoulder, and a well-dressed gentleman smiled down at them and tipped his hat. On the upper gallery, a woman in a low-cut nightdress blew kisses to a sailor trotting down the outer stairs.
The inn’s courtyard swarmed with activity. Dogs barked. Horses snorted and pranced in their braces. A large stagecoach with red wheels prepared to depart. Hostellers checked the horses’ harnesses. An official-looking man in red greatcoat and top hat opened the coach door and handed in a matron and her young charge. Once the door was closed, a brawny dark-skinned man strapped barrels to the side of the carriage.
The body of the yellow stagecoach was emblazoned with its final destination in bold and stopping points along the way in smaller lettering. Four passengers sat on its roof, and another shared the coachman’s bench. The guard climbed to his position at the rear and blew his long horn.
Joan led Margaret to the front of the clapboard inn, to a protruding half-circle structure with the wordsCoach Officepainted above its sash window. Boards listing routes and departure times lined its outer walls.
“Where to, miss?” Joan asked, studying the boards.
Margaret frowned in thought. “I don’t know...”
“How much money do you have?”
Margaret recounted the coins in her reticule, bit her lip, and pronounced the paltry sum.
Joan stepped to the office window and addressed the booking clerk within.
“Hello. There are two of us traveling together.” She laid the coins before him. “How far can we go?”
The clerk stared at her a moment without speaking. Margaret noticed one of his eyes was milky white. With no change of expression, he drew a chalk circle on a map on the counter. Margaret glanced over Joan’s shoulder at the circle of modest diameter around London. Not very far at all.
