Char didn’t believe she’d ever been so happy to be here. She pulled the money purse from her pocket and practically stumbled over to the kitchen table, where she threw it down and, bracing her hands against the hard wood, allowed herself a moment of blessed relief. She’d done it. She’d kept her prize—
Footsteps could be heard coming down the hall.
“Char?” her aunt Sarah called.
What was she doing here?She had left for the theater hours ago and should not have returned until late evening. Char would never have left the house if she’d anticipated Sarah returning at this hour—and she knew better than to let her aunt catch her wearing breeches.
Sarah may be an independent thinker, but Char would wager she would draw the line at her niece parading through London as a lad, or a pickpocket.
Forgetting the money purse on the table, Char ran to the kitchen door. She had just closed it behind her when she heard Sarah in the kitchen, calling her name.
As quickly and quietly as she could, Char climbed the stairs. Her bedroom was the first closed door to the right of them. She raced into her room and shut the door behind her.
She yanked off her jacket and drew up the shirt, kicking her shoes off at the same time, which was not effective at removing either. Blinded by material, she fell onto her bed. Jerking the shirt off, she tossed it toward the wall behind her bed, threw each shoe after it, and fumbled with the buttons of her breeches—
A knock sounded on the door. “Char? Are you in your room?”
There was no time to completely undress. She also could not avoid Sarah. Her aunt was known for her persistence.
Breeches loose around her hips so that she had to hold them up, Char cracked open the door. She peered outside at her aunt.
Sarah Pettijohn was four-and-thirty and had flawless skin and deep red, red hair that she twisted into a heavy, thick chignon at the nape of her neck. She was quite simply the most wonderful, wisest person Char knew.
After Char’s mother, Julie, had died, Sarah had swept into her life and saved her when no one in the world appeared to give a care for her twelve-year-old self. Sarah had proved her wrong.
It hadn’t been easy for Sarah to take her on. Sarah was actually Julie’s half sister, having been born on the wrong side of the blanket, so to speak. At one point, long before Char had memory, Julie had insisted Dearne let her take in her half sister. That was when Sarah herself was thirteen.
“One act of kindness always kindles another,” Sarah liked to say. “When I heard that you had been turned over to that disgusting man Davies for no other reason than that he was considered your only kin, I knew I had to do what I could to help you. He has a terrible reputation around London, especially for young girls.”
Char hadn’t been certain what her aunt meant but she did know she did not feel comfortable around her uncle and decidedly did not like his wife. Her aunt May constantly complained about how much feeding Char cost no matter how little Char tried to eat to keep her happy.
Back then, Char had been afraid of everything. Losing both of her parents had been beyond painful and it had left her destitute. Sarah had encouraged her to be brave. “Your truth is what you believe of yourself,” she’d told Char until the words were engraved in her soul.
Under Sarah’s tutelage, Char had blossomed. Her aunt believed that a woman should seek knowledge. She was fiercely passionate about all aspects of life, especially the theater. Her one goal was to see her plays underhername someday performed on the London stage, or anywhere else for that matter. “I know it will happen,” she would say to Char, “as long as I don’t give up.”
Char admired her aunt so much, she had once tried writing plays as well, but she had lost interest. Writing was hard work and she didn’t have anything to say.
Instead, she had contented herself with taking care of their house, well, until she’d discovered the adventure of pickpocketing—and then something had opened up inside Char. She didn’t know what she exactly wanted out of life except she knew she rather enjoyed living by her wits—save for when her aunt was standing at the door and could, possibly, learn what mischief she’d been about.
For all that had happened in her own adventurous life, Sarah could be very moral. She would not approve of pickpocketing.
“Yes?” Char said, and rubbed her eyes as if she had been woken from sleep. Of course she had to let go of the breeches and they fell to the floor at her feet, but Sarah didn’t notice.
She was focused on Char. “Are you all right?”
“Of course. Why do you ask?”
“I’ve been calling you. In fact I knocked on your door not minutes ago.”
“Oh, that might be why I woke up. I was napping.”
“You never nap.”
“I did today. By the way, why are you here? Shouldn’t you be at the theater?”
Sarah grabbed the change of subject. “I should but Lady Baldwin came to me with such good news, I told Colman I had to go home. I was only the understudy tonight and Melissa has already arrived so I knew I would not be needed. Well, he wouldfindsomething for me to do—you know how he is—but he let me off tonight.”
Her aunt never missed a performance, even when all she had to do was stand backstage.
