EscapeWithMe (3 page)

Ryder was silent, certain that were Phillip sent to
Marshalsea, he would never recover from his debts. Starvation or the Tyburn jig
would see him dead by the end of the year. His father was on the cusp of
poverty, what with the ruination of his business, and as sick as he was, being
turned out of his own home would surely kill him. Ryder had already laid down
most of the money he had made in the war settling the most extreme of Phillip’s
debts. The other half was not enough to settle the rest and not nearly enough
to keep the business solvent.

“I’ll find him, Father. I promise.” Ryder stood.

“I don’t want your promises. Leave me. I tire of your
presence.”

As Ryder gratefully left the room, he wished for the
thousandth time to know what he could do to have a kind word from his father.
Tightness in his chest made it difficult to speak but thankfully, Mrs. Johnson
entered the room without a word from him. As he descended the stairs, he
hurriedly pulled off his gloves to have them cleaned and was determined anew to
locate and thoroughly thrash his older brother.

* * * * *

Sam wasn’t particularly shy in front of her own sex, but
being naked in front of four fully clothed women was uncomfortable. The candles
spread about the windowless room made the atmosphere even worse, as though they
were preparing her as a human sacrifice.

While a younger servant girl filled a tub with hot water,
Mrs. Hayes stripped her clothes from her, tossing the trench coat and blouse
into the arms of a young brunette named Ann, another of Mrs. Hayes’
mademoiselles
.
Mrs. Hayes marveled over Sam’s bra. She squashed and stroked the cups and
pinched the underwire like a doctor palpating a patient. Sam stood by the tub
with her arms crossed over her chest, red-cheeked and wishing she were
somewhere else.

“Those are like no breeches I’ve ever seen. Let us have a
look at those, Miss Reed.” Mrs. Hayes fluttered her hand at Sam’s legs. After
kicking off her brown flats, Sam kept one arm across her breasts and wriggled
out of her slacks with the other. Mrs. Hayes practically snatched the pants
from her to study their material.

“What’s this?” She squinted at the wash instructions.
“Machine wash cold with like colors only?” One look at Sam’s panties and her
voice went shrill. “And why are you wearing those tiny trousers?”

Sam squirmed with embarrassment. “Please, Mrs. Hayes. It’s
cold.” She wasn’t actually all that cold, but she wanted to avoid explanation
and any further inspection.

“Well, this is all very strange, dear. What
are
American men wearing these days?” Mrs. Hayes passed the remaining articles to
Ann. She then looked back at Sam with suspicion. “You did in fact obtain these
in America, Miss Reed?”

Sam nodded and hoped Mrs. Hayes never found out what
American men really wore. Mrs. Hayes plunged her hand into the pocket of her
skirt and pulled out a roll of measuring tape.

Sam’s eyes went wide. “What’s that for?”

“We’ve only a few hours to have one of Ann’s dresses
adjusted. I need to send along some measurements with Mr. Hull.” Mrs. Hayes
pulled her arms away from her chest to measure her bust size. Sam’s cheeks were
burning.

“Lovely diddeys. Those colonial men chased you aplenty, I
wager,” Mrs. Hayes said with a giggle.

“M-Mrs. Hayes!”

“The arms next and please call me Abby, dear. We’re very
well acquainted now, are we not?” She measured the length and thickness of
Sam’s arms. Sam asked the ceiling why she was letting this woman fondle her.
“You’ve much longer arms than Ann. We’ll need new
engageantes
to dress
the elbows.”

New what? The woman’s pronunciation of French was so poor
that even if Sam knew more than a smattering of French, she was certain she
would still be puzzled by the word.

“Que magnifique,”
Mrs. Hayes said with a gasp, her
eyes on Sam’s locket. “Such a unique necklace.” She reached to touch it and Sam
had to force herself not to step away. The woman gently lifted the locket and
leaned in close to study it. “What do you keep inside it?”

“Nothing really,” she fibbed. She prayed that Mrs. Hayes
wouldn’t ask her to open it, but it wasn’t Sam’s lucky day.

“May I take a peek? I adore lockets,” Mrs. Hayes said. Sam
wanted to stomp her foot in frustration. The woman was making every effort to
invade her privacy, but refusing to open the locket would make her even nosier.
Sam reluctantly picked up the locket and opened its face.

There was nothing inside. The blood left Sam’s face and she
was grateful she didn’t shriek or otherwise freak out.

“Ah, I see you were quite truthful, Miss Samantha. Perhaps
soon you’ll have a secret or two to hide?” Mrs. Hayes said with a wink. Sam was
able to nod but couldn’t bring herself to speak. Her heart was more than
pounding—it was practically jack-hammering. Where was the slip of paper? Had it
fallen out when she had last looked at it? When would she get a chance to
search for it?

The servants returned with the final pitcher of hot water.
After a few more measurements—and another exclamation regarding the length of
her legs—Sam was allowed to step into the tub. She pulled off her socks and
hurriedly sloughed her last meager layer of protection. She hissed and nearly
pulled her foot out when she found out just how hot the water was, but she made
herself get in.

Mrs. Hayes and Ann left with a promise to return once Mrs.
Hayes had sent off the dress with the apparently indispensable Mr. Hull. The
servant stayed behind and offered to wash her limbs for her. Sam declined and
did it herself. To finish, she leaned forward, put her head underwater, and
rubbed her hair and scalp for as long as she could hold her breath. When she
sat up for air, a fresh pitcher of nearly scalding water was dumped onto her
head. She yelped and nearly leapt out of the tub.

“P-pardon me,” Mary said. “I thought you wanted the rinse.”

Sam hurriedly pushed her sopping hair away from her face,
needing to see that Mary wasn’t holding a knife or something. “Where did the
other girl go?”

“She went downstairs. I brought the rinse.” Mary set the
pitcher on the floor. “You’re a very…clean woman. I’m not clean myself. Hot
water won’t wash me clean.”

Sam swallowed, crossing her arms across her bust. “Uh…”

“What’s your name? The one watching us won’t tell me.”

She almost didn’t want to say. “Samantha Reed.”

“Reed,” Mary said loudly as if it were an epiphany. Then she
repeated it over and over. After ten iterations, she seemed to give up. “I’m
Mary Powlett.”

“Really? I met a Peter Powlett today on the street.” Mary
gasped and crouched next to her. Sam squashed herself against the opposite side
of the tub.

“You did? Was he a boy about fourteen?” Sam nodded at her
question. Mary’s expression lifted into one of relief and joy. “How did he
look? Was his mind clean?”

Sam spoke past the heart in her throat, starting to understand.
“He looked fine. A little skinny, but he was fine.” Sam wondered if she should
tell Mary of his thievery. “Are you his sister?”

Mary shook her head hard. She opened her mouth to answer,
but then seemed to think better of it and said nothing.

Sam’s jaw dropped. “But you’re so young.” The servant didn’t
look more than thirty at the most. Mary shook her head again and stood. Peter
had said that he lived with his parents in Whitechapel though. Was Sam
mistaken?

“Already washed? Lovely,” Mrs. Hayes crowed. She entered the
room with Ann. “Out of that tub. We must get you dry and into the proper negligee.”
She wiggled her fingers. “Then we shall take tea in the salon, Miss Samantha.
I’m quite parched myself.” Mary was quick to get a towel. Once Sam had wrapped
it around herself, Mary draped a second one over her shoulders and Mrs. Hayes
beckoned her into the hall. Mary stayed behind to help Ann take her own bath.

“Mary’s a good girl,” Mrs. Hayes commented as they climbed
the stairs. “A bit touched in the head, but she’s been with me many years now.”

“How many has it been?” Sam asked.

“At least a dozen if my count is right. She was a
mademoiselle
once too—one of my first—but society did not agree with her and it affected her
mind. I kept her on as a servant only a few months after taking her in.”

They arrived at the third floor and entered the room
farthest from the head of the stairs. The four-poster bed was surprisingly
large for just one person and it left little floor space for the other pieces
of furniture. The bed curtains were thick and would keep out the morning light.
A small table sat between the door and the bed, as well as a plain chair. A
vanity and stool were squashed into the remaining space at the foot of the bed.
Sam spotted a closet door in the corner.

“What do you think?” Mrs. Hayes steered her toward the
vanity.

“It’s very cozy.” Sam sat on the stool and looked in the
mirror.

She had somehow expected herself to look different, but
besides wet hair, she was the same as ever. Dull eyes, pasty skin and the
shoulders of a football player. Dainty and delicate, she was not.

“I’ll have Mary arrange your hair this evening. A chemise is
here for you.” She patted the skirt of a linen shift behind Sam on the bed. “I
must visit Ms. Kenny to order tonight’s supper and request a tray of tea, but I
shall return promptly, dear.” Mrs. Hayes then left and shut the door behind
her.

Sam grabbed for her locket and pried it open, ready for the
dismay of finding it still empty, but she was met with a happy surprise. The
folded note sat inside.

She breathed a sigh of relief but couldn’t help a whispered,
“What the f…” How had she not seen it inside the locket just a few minutes ago?
Was it a trick locket? She tried to open and close the locket several times,
but the slip of paper never disappeared. Plucking it out of its hidey-hole, she
opened it up to read the rhymes again.

A gasp jolted her from the stool. She flung the note onto
the vanity, hit the bed and fell back. She pressed her hand to her chest,
fighting to calm down and breathe normally.

An injured dove was drawn on the paper. The dove was
sketched lovingly with careful, elegant lines. Above the bird was a pair of
wizened, grasping hands. The hands were drawn roughly, their talon-like nails
emphasized with thicker, sharper lines.

What was most frightening was that the hands moved, inching
closer to the delicate bird even as the ink in the drawing faded. After a few
seconds, the paper was blank.

Sam lay back on the bed, wiping a tear from her cheek and
covering her face with her hands. It was time to face facts and to start
believing her eyes. The locket was no ordinary piece of jewelry.

“I’m in some pretty deep shit.”

* * * * *

“Mr. Hull was able to secure us seats in the second gallery.
How exciting it is that you should see the theater in its new state, Miss Reed.
Mr. Richards redesigned the interior and it is much improved. More than several
times, I’ve been made to sit in the Pit and those who hadn’t a seat would stand
in the passages to either side and would block everyone’s view in the boxes.
Now it is of no consequence that some are made to stand. Oh! But the ceiling
has become such a wonder.”

Sam, Milly and Ann could only listen to their patroness
drone on about the elevation of the seats and the ventilator in the ceiling as
they made their way toward the famed Covent Garden theater. Mrs. Hayes was the
very definition of loquacious and the only thing saving Sam from a migraine was
the glass of wine she had consumed at dinner in “celebration of a new addition”
to their family.

What did threaten her health, though, was the tightness of
her corset. While she definitely appreciated the shape it had given her, she
had greatly underestimated just how uncomfortable it would be. She couldn’t
take a full breath and was forced to walk slowly to avoid overexerting herself.

Her dress, however, had been worth the breathless state she
found herself in. She stroked the red silk bodice, her fingertips enjoying the
texture of the floral embroidery. The intricate needlework was repeated along
the split in the skirt, which revealed the matching petticoat underneath. Even
her red silk stockings were embroidered, and she worried that the ribbons
securing them above her knees wouldn’t hold. White lace at the elbow of her
dress tickled her arms and more lace lined the square-cut neck of the gown,
which did little to hide her cleavage—or her locket. She felt naked despite
wearing twenty pounds of clothing.

Thankfully, she was saved the torture of wearing
eighteenth-century shoes—none on hand at Mrs. Hayes’ house were large enough
for Sam’s feet, which normally wasn’t something to be embarrassed about, yet
Sam still felt censured for it. Instead Sam wore her brown flats. Though they
weren’t the “pretty” things that Mrs. Hayes insisted on showing her, the older
woman proclaimed them to have “most excellent craftsmanship”.

They rounded the corner from Bow Street onto Hart Street and
the well-lit theater came into view, along with a sizable crowd of people
milling about at the entrance of the establishment.

Mrs. Hayes looped her arm through Sam’s. “Everyone attends
the theater, Miss Reed—gentry, nobility, politicians, merchants and the common
man alike. It is a place to see and be seen.”

Their party joined the throng of theater-goers and a peculiar
feeling filled her. It wasn’t the first time she had felt apart from everyone
else—she had always been the type to keep just a small circle of friends—but it
was the first time that she had felt completely alien. She didn’t know the
latest fashions or the current politics of Parliament. She knew the names of a
few of the more famous nobility and could only very clumsily follow
“precedence” between members of elite society.