She spread out one skirt: muslin dyed forest green, trimmed at the hem and bodice with buds and blossoms made from ribbons of rose-colored silk.
It was lovely in a quiet, inviting sort of way, and Sophie’s heart ached to wear it. She’d had to sell most of her best gowns before they left London. “Maybe another day,” she said wistfully. “I’m not here today for myself.”
The door swung open, letting in a rush of air that cooled Sophie’s heated cheeks. Mr. Samson stood poised on the threshold. “Miss Narayan,” he said warmly, and gave a little nod acknowledging Sophie. Oh yes, he was definitely worth looking at closer up: light brown eyes that looked as though they were laughing, an expressive mouth that gave away his every thought.
A lot of those thoughts seemed to center on Miss Narayan, if the intensity of his gaze were any guide.
“I’ll be right with you, Mr. Samson,” Miss Narayan said. She moved unhurriedly to wrap up Sophie’s things, looking as cool and untroubled as spring water.
Sophie’s glance darted outside, where Miss Crewe was starting to disappear down the street. Those long legs of hers would carry her far away before too long. “Can you hold that parcel for me for a little while?” she asked. “I have a few more errands to run.”
“Of course,” Miss Narayan said, very carefully not looking at Mr. Samson, who was equally carefully not looking at Miss Narayan.
Sophie waved farewell, and tried not to sprint out the door.
Sophie kept pace, letting the crowd move between her and Miss Crewe, her eyes focused on the trailing end of the woman’s blue muffler. She didn’t have far to follow; only two turns away, the Mulberry Tree stood where the London road met the River Ethel. It was a lovely, expansive inn, rich in dark wood, plump with windows and gables.
Miss Crewe strode inside as confidently as if the building belonged to her.
Sophie hesitated on the far side of the street. She had not yet learned which taverns in Carrisford were welcoming and which ones were... otherwise. It was one thing to follow Miss Crewe down a public street—quite another to follow her headlong into danger and ruin.
She could see a few shadowy figures through the front window, and as she watched a pair of men in frock coats and polished boots emerged from the inn and strode down the street, walking sticks tapping. They seemed respectable enough to her: not fine enough to be gentry, but too well-dressed to be farmers. Tradesmen, most likely, or merchants. Another such pair entered while she stood debating.
She decided she could risk a look inside, at least. She moved quickly enough that she caught the door before it could fall shut, and slipped inside.
The warmth hit her first: a fire roaring on the hearth, light flickering merrily on old walls, scarred but clean tables, and sturdy chairs. Then the scents: ale and fresh straw and savory pies. Stairs led to the upper floor, and the bar stretched against the long wall at the back. A doorway there was propped open to catch the breeze from a small garden that fronted the river. The soft tick of a tavern clock measured the beats of banter and conversation.
Miss Crewe was leaning with one elbow on the bar, laughing cheerfully at something the barmaid was saying.
Sophie hurried to take a seat in a booth under the stairs, where the shadows were deepest. A pair of soberly dressed women were writing letters at the table in front of her; she mimicked their posture, curving her shoulders forward, hoping her brown clothing would blend unnoticeably into theirs.
Miss Crewe accepted a pint of ale from the barmaid, who winked pertly. She cast a quick glance around the room—Sophie held her breath, but Miss Crewe’s gaze passed over the booth without faltering or giving any hint of recognition.
Then, decisively, Miss Crewe rose and slipped through a doorway to a separate room.
In the space between the door’s opening and when it clicked shut, Sophie caught a glimpse of an older, unmistakably dignified figure sitting ramrod-straight on a small sofa.
The lady who’d been at Mr. Giles’s shop.
Sophie’s heart settled into a grim, steady beat. Whatever was happening, they were in it together. Mr. Giles was not destined to keep his windfall profits for long, it seemed.
The minutes ticked by, each one another small cut, shredding her patience. The women writing letters eventually finished their missives, gave the letters to the barmaid, and bundled themselves out the door. Sophie ordered a hot cider, and nursed it resentfully. About half an hour later, her cup empty and cold, the parlor door swung open again. The lady strode out, her turban today silk and velvet, the hem of her gown a foot deep in black silk trimming. She made her elegant way up the stairs.
Miss Crewe, however, did not emerge.
It was baffling and infuriating. Mind racing, Sophie had a sudden wild suspicion that there was a back exit to the other room. The thought had her up and moving across the bar, her hand on the doorknob.
She’d lain in wait too long to lose Miss Crewe now.
It was done in an instant: Sophie slipped through the door, quietly as ever, and pulled it softly shut behind her.
It was a small private parlor, the kind often reserved for the use of guests. Miss Crewe lounged on the sofa, at her ease—but sat straight up, eyes wide, when Sophie entered.
Sophie froze like a mouse before a hawk.
The only sounds were the crackle and pop of the hearth fire, and the hammering of Sophie’s own heart in her ears.
Miss Crewe’s eyes turned sharp, flickering with firelight. She took a long breath, in then out, in a deliberate way that made something in Sophie go quietly hot.
