He saw Amanda at their first meeting in this house, in pantaloons. Her insistence that her face not be seen suddenly made much more sense.
An odd emotion broke through him, one that combined raging anger and profound sorrow.
Chapter Fourteen
Amanda sat in her single chamber, waiting for the night to pass. The buckle, swaddled in muslin and set in a pasteboard box, faced her on the small table. Silence pressed on her.
She went to the fireplace and threw a bit of fuel in. The embers flared, then subsided. Warmth leaked toward her. She moved her chair closer.
The chills plaguing her did not come from the damp, although this cellar had proven far inferior to the last. The owner had agreed to let it for only two weeks, however. He probably thought her a whore. Certainly enough of those women lounged about the neighborhood. Two plied their trade in some of the rooms above.
If she were not a criminal, she could have gone to Bedford Square and slept in that fine chamber Mrs. Galbreath offered her. That would mean more lies, however, and she had tired of speaking them. Nor could she risk bringing scandal down on those women, and if she were caught, that would definitely happen.
She did not mind this cellar. After tomorrow, she hopefully would no longer live here. If her plan worked, she would probably not even remain in London another night.
She dozed off on her chair. A loud shout woke her. Outside, on the street, two men argued about a mule.
She went to the one high window and gazed out. Day had broken. She removed her dress and washed with water she’d carried in last night. She donned the ugly green garment that marked her as a servant, bound her hair into a knot, and tied on her simple straw bonnet. She had never unpacked her small trunk and valise, and she now returned to them those few items she had removed.
She again sat in her chair and waited for the sounds outside to indicate the city had fully woken. Then she picked up the box and left.
Morris’s Grocery did not lie far away. She had chosen her cellar due to its being in the same neighborhood. She reasoned that whoever would claim the box probably lived nearby too.
She placed the box on the shop’s counter. The white-haired, flush-faced man behind it finished serving another woman, then approached. He took her in with one quick glance, then set his attention on the box.
“Are you Mr. Morris?” she asked.
“I am.”
“I was told I could leave this with you so it could be delivered to its owner, Mr. Trenholm.”
“With what was offered in payment, I expected a box made out of gold.”
It relieved her that he had already been offered coin to do this service. She had feared she would have to pay herself. “The box may not be impressive, but its contents are important to Mr. Trenholm. I trust you will take good care of it.”
“I will, although it’s not likely anyone would steal it. See, I’ll put it down here out of sight. I can’t do better than that.”
“I suppose that will do. Mr. Trenholm should call for it today.”
“That is how I was told it would go.”
“Did he make the arrangements himself?”
“A gentleman came and did it. Voice thick with the country. I don’t know if it will turn out he is the same who comes for it.”
His reference to a gentleman gave her heart. With any luck, it was the same man who had her mother. She might even learn where her mother was held today and that she was right here in London.
Spirits high, she left the shop. She gazed the length of the street, deciding how to loiter without raising suspicions.Best to keep moving if you are watching a house, Mandy girl. If you just stand and stare, someone will notice.
She kept moving, slowly. She idled near shop windows and pretended to lust over the goods displayed. She strolled to the end of the lane like a woman with a destination. She peered in windows again. She trusted that, like Mr. Morris at the grocers, no one ever gave her more than a cursory glance.Dress down when choosing a house. Wear dull garments and nothing of note like a bright ribbon on your hat. No one sees the poor. No one remembers the face of a servant.
One person did notice. While she gazed for the third time at the sweets in a confectionary shop, the proprietor came outside and gave her a bonbon.
All the while, she kept one eye on Mr. Morris’s shop. Patrons entered and left, but no one carried out her box. She had deliberately made it too big to fit in a pocket.
Soon, after noon, a new patron caught her eye. He did not look like a gentleman, but his clothes showed better cut than those worn by most on these streets. His flat-crowned hat made him appear to be a middling country squire. Thick in build, he came on foot and walked down the street craning his neck to read the shop names. He entered the grocer’s.
She strode closer and waited. The man emerged quickly. He carried her pasteboard box.
