“Sir Harry?” Kitty recognized the shock in her voice. “I thought all of your siblings came from humble beginnings?”
“We did. It’s a story for another time.” Mr. Cooper took a sip of his tea, presumably giving her and Pa a moment to digest all this information.
“Will I… Will I be alone?” She imagined a dark room somewhere, biding the time with books, her piece work, and too much imagination. It would be the longest week of her life.
“We’ll send Terry with you,” her father said quickly.
“No, no,” intervened Mr. Cooper, “you won’t be alone. I can only say I think you will get on well with your hosts. And we’d trust them with our own lives.”
It was decided Mr. Walters would arrive the next morning. She would miss Sunday service. Hot tears burned the back of her eyes, but she refused to shed them. This man was doing his best, and she would not cause him additional concern. Or add more stress on her father. If only she could bring Terry.
But Mr. Cooper was right. The terrier might be more recognizable than she was.
Sunday morning
Her traveling bag was packed, and her basket for her accessories sat by the door. She rocked back and forth, breathing deeply, thinking of her mother. Was Mama watching over her now?
The knock came too soon, and her father growled at the sound as he opened the door.
“Good morn,” croaked the old man. “The Felton residence, I presume?”
Pa nodded to the man and granted him entrance.
Sir Harry Walters was a man of medium height and serious, dark-brown eyes. He wore a worn but presentable beaver hat and a black great coat in the same condition. His boots were dusty, along with the wooden cane he now leaned on. His gray hair was tied back at the neck, emphasizing his pale skin. Spectacles perched on the tip of his nose, and when he smiled, it appeared two of his teeth were missing. He leaned on a wooden cane with a black handle.
Her father gazed at the man in disbelief. “You’re the man who will protect my daughter?”
Mr. Walters stood straight, his voice changing from crackling and aged to deep, vibrant, and confident.
“Yes, sir, I am. Excuse the costume, but we thought it best.” He held out his hand to shake her father’s. An obviously strong grip.
“I see,” murmured Pa, still studying the man. “Will I at least get word somehow?”
“Aye,” said Walters, “through me or Cooper.”
Kitty crouched and scratched Terry’s ears, then picked him up and hugged him. “I will miss you, my sweet pup. Don’t forget me and take care of Pa.” He licked her face, his tail creating a small breeze as it flapped back and forth.
Then she hugged her father, squeezing him with all her might. “I love you, Pa. Please try not to worry too much.”
“I would take your place if I could. You know that, don’t you?” he asked, holding her face gently in his big hands and kissing her forehead. “We’ll be together again before you know it.”
She nodded, pasted on a smile, and turned to Sir Harry. To her surprise, he opened his great coat and untied what looked to be a black ribbon wrapped around his waist. He looped it onto the handle of her traveling bag, made a tight bow, then closed his coat. As he resumed his bent posture, it was barely noticeable.
“Can’t have it look like you’re going anywhere for long, eh?” he said with a wink, the aged voice returning. “The basket is often used for shopping, so that can stay visible.”
Kitty saw the approval in her father’s eyes, the relief knowing Mr. Walters was indeed good at what he did. She had on her mother’s cloak with the hood pulled low, not wanting to don the one she’d worn on the day of the murder.
“If we’re stopped for any reason, your name is Alice,” Mr. Walters said in his reedy tone. “Shall we?” He held out an elbow.
Kitty gathered all her courage, a last glimpse around her beloved home, and nodded. They walked out the door, and she refused to look back. The sight of her father and her dog watching her walk away would be more than she could bear.
She and the old man went two blocks before turning right, then another right turn onto Queen Street. They seemed to be going in a circle. The streets were fairly busy with vendors and shoppers, but no one noticed an old man with a young woman. They had to pause twice for carriages and wagons to pass as they crossed the road. When they reached Watling, Sir Harry stopped at the Clatterly Public House.
“I came here once with my parents,” she said as they entered.
The barkeep was an older man with a round belly, dark eyes, and a bald pate—except for a few tufts of gray hair around his ears. He and Mr. Walters exchanged a nod, but they kept walking toward the back of the room. In the kitchen was an older, plump lady, her brown hair streaked with silver. Her smiling brown eyes locked with Kitty’s, then she too nodded at Kitty’s escort. They passed a little girl, maybe six or seven, washing pots. She paused to push a blonde lock from her big brown eyes and smiled at them. Kitty smiled back, wondering if she was the owner’s granddaughter.
Leaving through the back as Mr. Cooper had described, Mr. Walters opened the door of a waiting hackney and assisted her in. Without any instructions to the driver, he joined her inside, sitting across from her.
