Page 11

“Eh, you do a wan, pale thing,” Lucinda told her critically looking her up and down. “Mr. Toomes will think you go in mortal terror of him.”

A mouthful of bread went down the wrong way and Lizzie went off in a coughing fit. When she could speak once more, she apologized and swiped at her watering eyes with her handkerchief.

“Now you look like you’ve been crying your heart out half the night too,” Lucinda added, clicking her tongue.

“I’m just tired,” Lizzie answered quickly. “I’m unaccustomed to large quantities of sewing under such time constraints.”

Lucinda nodded, accepted this. “You would have made a go of it, given time, I daresay.”

“Do you really think so?” Lizzie was doubtful. “I always thought myself a decent seamstress, but this experience has rather humbled me in my opinion of my abilities.”

Lucinda smiled wryly. “I’ll let you in on a secret, Mother threw you in the deep end. You should never have started on setting sleeves. You’re supposed to work up to it.”

“Oh!” Lizzie lowered the teacup in surprise.

“Me or Mother does it usually, so you’ve spared us a job,” Lucinda shrugged.

Lizzie felt a flash of indignation, but it quickly dispersed. After all, the Napps had taken her in when no one else would. “Well, you don’t have an easy time of it, earning a living through this means.”

“I won’t disagree with you,” Lucinda said easily enough. “But at least you’re out of it now.”

Lizzie shifted uncomfortably. “Yes,” she murmured, wondering if she was jumping out of the frying pan and into the fire.

A knock on the door startled them both. Lucinda started wordlessly to answer it, and Lizzie hurried to fetch her cloak, bonnet, and bag.

Five minutes later, she was following Benedict Toomes out into the street. He had hold of her bag and it was as much as she could do to keep up with his long strides.

“A post boy is holding my horse,” he said looking at her over his shoulder. “And I don’t mean to keep him waiting long.”

“Your horse?” Lizzie echoed blankly. He made no reply. “Are we travelling far?” she persisted.

“No,” he said briskly. “Only to Greenwich.”

“Greenwich?”

“Do you mean to repeat everything I say to you?” he asked, glancing back at her. He narrowed his eyes. “What ails you?”

“I’m just tired!” Lizzie said defensively. “I did not know you lived in Greenwich.”

“We will both live there for the next week,” he answered, and she thought he looked grimly amused by his own words. She was just opening her mouth to question him further when they rounded a corner and he hailed a muscular young man who was stood murmuring to a sturdy looking horse.

It was not the horses that captured Lizzie’s eye, but rather the strange contraption that it was hitched up to. At first glance she had taken it for a large delivery wagon, but now she noticed that in place of scrolling advertisement of wares on the side, there was instead a small shuttered window. Lizzie blinked. In shape it resembled a regular tin loaf and was painted a dull bottle green. Lizzie stared at it until it sunk in that it was a tiny home on wheels.

“This is your house?” she gasped incredulously before she could stop herself.

Luckily, her husband was addressing the youth and passing over a coin. “Lizzie, come!” he said turning impatiently and addressing her rather in the manner of one summoning a terrier dog. He held out a hand to her irritably. “I’m keen to be off.”

This snapped her out of her stupor. Hurrying forward, she accepted his hand and was helped up a step onto a footboard before a curious little door. Were they to go inside? she wondered. She tried to peer in through a little window at the top of the door, but it had sacking hung over it instead of curtains, obscuring her view.

“You need to sit on this,” Benedict said, patting the footboard and settling down on it to demonstrate. He had the reins in his hands and eyed her impatiently as Lizzie lowered herself with exaggerated care.

“Is this safe?” she blurted. “To sit perched here while we are in motion? There is no guard rail.”

“It is perfectly safe,” he answered coolly. “Brace your feet as I do, against the struts.”

Following his example, Lizzie placed her booted feet against the wooden contrivance by which the horses were attached to the wagon. This did help her feel more secure, she had to admit. “Yes, that is better,” she agreed cautiously.

“You had better put your arm through mine,” he said casting a disparaging look at her, “if you’re scared of tumbling off.”