Page 5

What a perfectly exhausting day.

Thank God, it would soon be over. Willow Harwood released a long-suffering sigh as she tramped along, intent on finding Taylor’s Lodging and Board. She’d been wise to make the arrangements for her accommodations in advance of her arrival in London this afternoon.

Unwilling to spare coin for a hackney, she’d been obliged to walk several miles in the unfamiliar city, becoming lost three times. She was tired, hungry, and her feet ached in her practical half-boots.

Nevertheless, a tiny jot of optimism lightened her step. She always tried to find the silver lining in clouds. That had been difficult to do of late, however.

Her boot heels clicked rhythmically on the worn cobbled stones as she marched along, suppressing a yawn. She’d been up since before dawn. Though this was a well-maintained neighborhood, the air hovering over the city lay thick, cloying, and foul.

She’d been warned of London’s stench. It was to be expected, she supposed, with so many people living within a condensed area. Still, from what she’d seen so far, the town possessed charm.

More importantly, it also boasted bookstores, parks, and museums aplenty.

Tomorrow, her search for a position would begin in earnest. She’d start with the registry offices recommended to her in Cambridgeshire and, to which, she’d already sent her resume and letters of recommendation. She also meant to purchase several newssheets and scour the adverts.

For certain, someone with her educational background could find a position as a governess. Her ultimate goal was to return to Connecticut, where she’d been born and teach at a girls’ school there.

She might be half-English, but her heart and sentiments lay entirely with America.

A sudden, acute wave of loneliness beset her, and she closed her eyes for a blink. How much her life had changed these past eight years. Her father had died shortly after her fourteenth birthday.

Grief-stricken, Mama had decided she wanted to return to her native England, to her father’s house. Like Papa, Grandpapa was an esteemed professor. Papa had taught at Yale University, Grandpapa, at Cambridge.

Her mother had sold their comfortable house, and they’d packed their belongings and sailed to England. Willow had been relatively happy those first years. She’d come to adore her curmudgeon of a grandfather, and he’d continued to tutor her in a myriad of subjects.

Mama had died three years after returning to England, and Willow had taken on overseeing her Grandfather’s household. Later, she’d volunteered at their parish and taught a few local children—mostly the offspring of servants and the working class—their letters and numbers in the makeshift classroom that had once been the house’s drawing room.

Cambridgeshire’s residents had been polite—more so when Grandpapa had been alive—but held her American heritage against her. Pray God that wasn’t also the case with prospective employers in London.

After all, the war between Britain and America had ended nearly three years ago. Nevertheless, she’d been unapologetic in her sympathies for her homeland. Britain had violated the United States’ maritime rights and pressed thousands of American sailors into service, to boot.

For two years, she’d diligently tried to obtain a teaching position at a girls’ school in England. To no blasted avail. Willow strongly suspected her American heritage was to blame. Familiar frustration battered her, and her steps faltered for a breath. Eyebrows drawn into a scowl, she muttered. “So blasted unfair.”

Then her beloved Grandpapa had grown ill with what she’d at first believed was a bad case of indigestion. If only his ailment had been so inconsequential. Rather, it had been advanced cancer.

Aggressive and unmerciful. Unrelenting and fatal.

He’d passed away two short months later. She’d found herself alone in a country that had never felt like home with no means of support.

Now, she was in this strange city she’d heard so much about, lugging her stuffed valise with its hidden pocket containing her small bag of coins. The contents of which wouldn’t last more than three, or perhaps four, months if she were extremely frugal.

Hopefully, her small trunk had already been delivered to the boarding house.

Even after selling all the furniture and most of her possessions, there hadn’t been enough funds to purchase passage to America, let alone start over there.

Adjusting her clasp on the umbrella she toted in her other hand, she arched her spine and winced. Her back also ached from the coach’s hard seat and the incessant pounding on the long journey here.

She’d been squashed between a corpulent matron reeking of ale and vinegar and a shy soldier’s wife holding a chubby, cantankerous toddler with an unfortunate fondness for violent kicking.

Anticipation quickening her steps, Willow rounded a corner. She was nearly to the boarding house. Her stomach growled, and she glanced downward, pressing her hand to her hollow middle. This morning’s small repast had long since been digested.

However, she’d packed meat pies, apples, rolls, and hard cheese to hold her over for the first few days in London. Her mouth practically watered at the thought of the simple fare neatly wrapped in brown paper inside her valise.

She supposed it was too much to expect a bath tonight, especially at this late hour. Perhaps she could persuade the proprietor to provide her with warm water, and she could wash the worst of the grime from her person. Arriving at her first interview looking travel-stained and smelling less than fresh wouldn’t bode well.

Squinting in the muted half-light, she released a vexed sound.

What was that mark on her cloak? It looked suspiciously like the imprint of a child’s shoe. The little devil. How could she have not noticed before?