EscapeWithMe (2 page)

“Is that so?” she asked absently. She hadn’t thought of
that. The War of Independence likely didn’t make Americans very popular in
London. “Is the war over?”

“I don’t know much about that, sir. On my birthday last
year, we had a party and my mum’s friend said the politicians voted about
something what happened at Yorktown.”

Sam searched her brain to remember her American War of
Independence history. College had been a few years ago and though she was
certain he was talking about the Siege of Yorktown, she didn’t know much of the
nitty-gritty. She had churned out a lot of papers for her history degree, but
the only one on a nearby time period had been on the French Revolution.

“Is the year 1783?”

Peter gave her a quizzical look, not surprisingly. “Yes
sir.”

They emerged from the alley. Peter turned to follow the
sidewalk and they passed a young man hurrying the other way. Sam ducked into
the upturned collar of her trench coat, but the man paid her no attention. They
then passed a very sorry-looking building that seemed as though it would
collapse at any moment. She peeked inside as they walked by the open front door
and was surprised to see people living there, vagrants by the look of them.

A couple of blocks later, they found a main thoroughfare.
Dozens of coaches, carts and chaises clattered up and down the cobbled street.
Men on horseback wove through traffic, and no one in the street seemed to pay
much heed to pedestrians or each other. There were no traffic lanes besides
what lines the horse-drawn traffic formed, and above the din of rolling wheels
and stomping hoofbeats against the poorly paved street, hundreds of people were
talking or calling out wares. The melodies of two different musicians warred
with each other in the air, and the sounds of pounding, clunking and clanging
rung out from shops all along the street.

She was strangely reminded of New York.

Peter turned to her. “This is the Strand, sir. Follow it
east,” he said as he pointed, “until you reach Southampton. Then you turn north
to Covent Garden. It’s not far.”

“Is this as far as you go?” The boy nodded at her question
and wiped his nose again. “How will I know Southampton when I see it?”

“I think you’ll know it.” Sam looked past him up the Strand
and swallowed. She was scared. Her disguise was flimsy at best and she didn’t
know what she would do once she reached Covent Garden.

“You’ve been very helpful, Peter.” He grinned, showing off
slightly crooked teeth that needed lots of fluoride. “I can’t repay you now,
but will you tell me where I can find you again?”

“I live with my parents in Whitechapel. You can ask for me
there.”

Sam cocked her head. “Whitechapel is in the East End, isn’t
it? What are you doing in Westminster?”

He scratched his cheek and dropped his gaze. “Earning my
keep.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You’re a pickpocket, aren’t
you? That’ll get you into trouble, Peter.” He looked back at her and shrugged.

“What else can I do?” He reached into his pocket and pulled
out the garnet earrings she had taken off. Sam gasped and reached for them. He
evaded her with another toothy smile and took off running.

She cursed under her breath. Those earrings could’ve bought
her at least a couple weeks’ room and board, if not an entire month’s worth. No
way was she selling the locket, though, not after what she had found inside it.
Unfortunately, the only thing left she could sell were the clothes on her back.

Hoping that Peter’s directions had been the truth, she
hunched into her trench coat and attempted her best impression of
inconspicuous. Even so, she felt eyes on her nearly every step of the way.

Keeping her eyes down and her feet moving should’ve been
first on her list of priorities, but her surroundings were too fascinating to
simply ignore. The crowd didn’t march past with their eyes on their watches and
a cell phone to their ears. They strolled, talking, pointing and chatting with
shopkeepers. Shop names and their trade were displayed in large gold letters
painted on or above the entrances. Clockmakers, tailors, coffee houses,
boot-makers, confectioners, tobacconists and a curious abundance of liquor
stores that merrily advertised,
Foreign spirituous liquors sold here
.
Church bells rang above the noise of the street. It was ten o’clock. It all
seemed so productive, capitalistic and full of potential.

However, a glance down narrow byways reminded her of the
poorly constructed buildings, the filth in the streets, and the assuredly real
dangers that lurked there at night when the only thing lighting the main
streets were oil-fueled street lamps. Pickpockets would be the least of her
concerns if she were out after dark.

The thought gave her pause, and she wondered if the locket
would give her any protection. It had healed or at least reversed her gunshot
wound as well as brought her through time. Perhaps it would lead her to
shelter.

At a T intersection she noticed the northbound street of
which Peter had told her. She could see carts loaded with produce at the far
end of Southampton Street in what was Covent Garden’s daily market. She walked
north toward the square and passed by a side street full of drays and horses
that had brought goods to the market. A pair of servants hurried past her, both
holding heavy baskets of produce they were probably bringing back to their
employer’s home.

The closer she came to the square, the better she could
hear—and smell—the doubtless daily raucous of the market with its produce
sellers singing out the price and freshness of their goods. A sweet and
powerful odor, something akin to rotting apples, pervaded the air despite the
open drains, one of which Sam nearly stepped in. She entered the piazza and,
having once visited the square more than two hundred years in the future, was
awed by how different yet familiar it looked.

St. Paul’s church still occupied the entire western edge of
the square. Gone was the large glass-and-steel greenhouse-like enclosure
containing gift shops and boutiques. In its place at the center of the square
was a long, rectangular produce exchange surrounded by squat one-story stalls
in which sellers could display their wares. Sam walked a wide circuit around
the piazza, occasionally dodging carters with their loads of fruits and
vegetables. Everywhere she looked, people milled about, talking about the
exorbitant price of tea or the newest print from some shop on Drury Lane.

Some people obviously weren’t there for the market. A couple
of hungover men emerged from a bathhouse and were bid good day by a hastily
dressed woman who quickly disappeared back inside. A very slovenly man sitting
outside a tavern was drinking from a half-empty bottle of alcohol, having
already vomited on himself.

Sam turned away from the sight with a grimace and looked in
on the market again. Nothing obvious could tell her why she had woken in this
time and place. She touched the spot where the locket sat, wondering if she had
missed something. Deciding to look at it again, she found a secluded section of
the square under the archways of a stone-faced building and fished out the
locket.

“Oh my God.” The inscription now read
Bow Street
.

The locket could change itself, and it was leading her
somewhere.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I haven’t seen him in at least a
month,” a man said. The apprehension in the man’s voice drew her attention.

Sam looked to the corner of the square where two men were
talking. The shorter one with greasy, graying hair was faced toward her. The
other had his back to her and was dressed impeccably—clean, straight clothing,
shined boots, and a well-shaped tri-cornered hat atop his head. His sandy-blond
hair was tied back with a black ribbon.

“He doesn’t come around here ever since his lady friend from
Katherine Street was seen down in a sal at Lock Hospital.” The short one spoke
in a very thick cockney accent she could barely parse, and his slang was beyond
her comprehension.

The tall man cursed and she had brief glimpses of his
profile as he paced. “Where else does he patron? Did he ever mention the faro
tables or a favorite actress from the theater?”

“N-no sir,” the short man said. The tall man shoved him
against the wall. “I-I mean, yes sir.” He put his hands up in surrender. “‘He
were fond of Miss Younge. She’s to play Viola in
Twelfth Night
. Th-the
performance is tonight.”

The tall man took a step back and all but glared at the
theater dominating the opposite corner of Covent Garden. He silently pondered
while the short man fiddled with his grimy coat.

“Another asked after him yesterday,” the short one
volunteered. The tall man turned to the shorter one.

“Did he give his name? His occupation?”

The short man shook his head. “But I could guess, sir. He
was a revenue man, kept asking about ships and your man’s imports.” The tall
man smacked his gloves on his leg. “I say his brains were in his ballocks. How
would someone like me know what your man plays at besides liquor and whores?”

“That’s enough,” the tall man said sharply.

The short man mumbled what could’ve been an apology, but his
eyes lit up when he was tossed a coin. Sam didn’t hear what the tall man said,
and then he was walking in her direction. She tried to keep her eyes down, but
he was the first man she had seen to look that good in the period’s clothing.
When his gaze passed over her, his bright-blue eyes were upon her only a
second, but then he came to a stop and looked at her again. He had seen through
her disguise.

Stupid Sam! She dropped the locket back under her blouse and
walked away, buttoning her trench coat as she went. She didn’t bother walking
in the direction of Bow Street, wherever it was. Just escaping the man’s
attention was enough for now.

The throng of people shopping for vegetables was her best
chance and she made a beeline for them, wondering where she might disappear in
the crowd. A man was loading a basket with goods while the merchant counted his
coins. An older woman was talking with a man selling apples. It seemed she was
haggling over the price. While they argued, another woman swiped two apples and
dropped them into the voluminous pockets of her skirt.

“Watch it!” a man behind her yelled. Before she could react,
a large basket slammed into her side and nearly shoved her off her feet. The
basket fell to the street. Heads of cabbage rolled in every direction. Sam
watched with horror as a couple even fell into the open drain nearby. The
surrounding chatter immediately ceased and the man who had dropped the basket
went ballistic.

“You clumsy churl,” he shouted. “Who’s going to pay for
that? My master’ll curry my hide, that’s who.”

“I’m so sorry,” she blurted.

“Hey!” The tall man was swiftly approaching. “You there.”

Panic was setting in.

“Sorry?” the cabbage man asked. “You’ll be sorry after I
give you a good basting.” She backed away, but the man grabbed the front of her
coat and jerked her forward.

Her hat went tumbling and her hair fell out like a long red
flag that rallied even more attention. The cabbage man’s eyes went wide. If it
weren’t already obvious, he made it so.

“You’re a woman!” The cabbage man released her and backed
up. She looked around at the shocked faces of the dozen people who had noticed
her unveiling. The tall man stood from the edge of the crowd. His face was
unreadable.

“Shit,” she whispered.

Chapter Two

“What is this?” the cabbage man asked.

“She must be an understudy.” The older woman haggling with
the apple merchant sidled up to Sam. The gray of age streaked the woman’s
dark-brown hair.

“Understudy?”

“Did you not hear, Mr. Massey? The theater is soon to
perform Shakespeare’s
Twelfth Night
, and as you know of course, it calls
for an actress to dress as a man.”

“Twelfth Night?”
Mr. Massey shook his head. “What a
bunch of rubbish.”

“’Tis true, sir,” the woman insisted with a firm nod. “Have
you not seen the playbill?”

Mr. Massey threw his hands in the air. “All the same, she
ruined my master’s purchase.”

The woman clucked her tongue and pouted as if she had
rehearsed it. “Oh they’ll be fine, sir. A couple lost to the sewers, and how
would your master notice two less than all of that? The rest just need a wash.”

“And who’s going to wash the lot? Me. I’ll be tossed out on
my ear with no supper.”

Sam couldn’t help saying, “You didn’t plan on washing them
anyway?” If not, she definitely never wanted to eat anything in the city. Mr.
Massey’s blotched face spluttered incoherently.

“Now, now,” the older woman soothed. “If your employer does
as you fear, then I invite you to dine with us at my home.”

Mr. Massey fidgeted. “Well, that’s very kind of you, Mrs.
Hayes.” The woman named Mrs. Hayes nodded graciously. She then looped her arm
through Sam’s and pulled her away from the scene. With a frown, Mr. Massey
began picking up his master’s many cabbages.

“My dear, you must tell me why it is that you are wandering
about Covent Garden dressed in such a fashion.”

“I—” Why would someone be dressed so strangely? Other than
having no other clothes to wear? The woman’s gentle grip on her arm was
distracting. Sam wanted to pull away from her. “Someone is looking for me,” she
hastily explained. Mrs. Hayes gasped and brought her hand to her lips.

“Are you here to speak with someone at the Bow Street
office?” Sam nodded. It was as good an excuse as any other. She glanced over
her shoulder at where the tall man had been standing, but he had disappeared.
“Are you from the colonies, dear? You’ve the hard
r
of a colonist.”

“I’m American by birth.”

Mrs. Hayes’s shapely eyebrows went up. “Have you a place to
stay?”

Sam shook her head, and if Mrs. Hayes was about to offer
accommodations, Sam wasn’t sure she wanted to accept. She didn’t know anything
about the woman. “Thank you for helping me, though.”

“Here’s your hat, miss.” The young woman who had palmed the
apples ran over and handed Sam the cocked hat. Her smile was bright as she
smoothed the stray blonde hairs away from her face.

“
Merci
, Miss Saunders,” Mrs. Hayes said with a poor
French accent.

Sam tucked the hat under her arm. “You know her?”

“Yes, Milly is one of my
mademoiselles
. I take in
young ladies and do my best to train them for society.” Sam felt uneasy. Had
Mrs. Hayes distracted the apple merchant while Milly made use of the
five-finger discount? “A kind patroness did the same for me when I was a young
girl. She taught me the proper way to speak and to understand the monitoring of
precedence, among many other talents. I now do the same for others.” Still,
Mrs. Hayes didn’t seem to be scrounging for an income. Her blue dress was clean
and well-fitted. Why would she stoop to stealing apples?

“I run a strict house. Quite like a nunnery,
n’est-ce pas
,
Miss Saunders?”

Milly nodded effusively. “Very strict, madam.” Or perhaps
Milly had done it without Mrs. Hayes’ knowledge? It could even be that Sam had
misunderstood what she had seen.

“Strict how?” Sam hesitantly asked. They entered a street
headed east out of the fruit market.

“Guests are allowed only with my personal express
permission. I introduce you into the higher circles of society—in fact, I may
introduce you as being fit for a lady’s maid—but part of your wages once you
are placed goes to the running of the house.”

“Is it normal for you to take in women like me? Right off
the street?”

“Not at all, dear, but I have a good feeling about you.
Normally, if I’ve an open room, I attend the Register’s Office and take in a healthful-looking
woman. I found Miss Saunders there. I also put out advertisements.”

Sam had a sinking suspicion and wished very much to be rid
of Mrs. Hayes and Miss Saunders. Something didn’t seem right and Sam had a
feeling that she knew the reason why.

“Here we are,” Mrs. Hayes announced. “Number nine Bow
Street.” Sam snapped to attention. Bow Street was on the new inscription on her
locket. Was she meant to take Mrs. Hayes’ offer, even while knowing that
something about the woman was criminal? She wasn’t likely to find another
source of shelter anytime soon.

“Shall I give you a tour of the house, Miss—oh my, I don’t
know your name, dear. Do forgive me.” Mrs. Hayes patted her arm.

Sam nearly bolted. Mrs. Hayes looked so kind, but she had
fed the cabbage man a rather smooth lie about why Sam was dressed strangely.
Then again, the locket’s inscription changed just before she met Mrs. Hayes.

Sam gave in with a sigh. “It’s Samantha Reed.” Very pleased,
Mrs. Hayes led her into the house. Milly closed the door behind them.

“My name is Abigail Hayes.” She weakly gripped Sam’s hand.
“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. A tour of the house is in order.”
Milly took Sam’s stolen hat off her hands and Mrs. Hayes led her through the
rooms on the ground floor. They turned right first.

“We usually take our meals here,” Mrs. Hayes said. The
dining room was typical for the era, baby-blue walls and a plasterwork ceiling.
An empty epergne sat in the center of the white damask tablecloth and a woman
about Sam’s age looked up from jamming a new candle in one of its branches. Her
brown hair stuck out of her cap as if she had slept in it. Her mouth gaped as
though startled by Sam’s appearance, no doubt due to the clothes. Her eyes
flicked to Mrs. Hayes.

“Something follows her,” she said in a cockney accent. “It
watches her.”

Sam’s stomach tightened. “Why would you say that?”

“Not now, Mary,” Mrs. Hayes scoffed. “You’re finished up in
here. Sara is no doubt in need of you in the kitchen.”

Mary pointed at Sam. “It watches us both, it does.”

“
Be calm
, Mary.” Mrs. Hayes went around the table.

“It’s been with me for years, waiting,” Mary said. Mrs.
Hayes corralled the servant to the back of the dining room.

“Go and help Sara. Hush now.” She firmly pushed the servant
through the door to the kitchen. The servant’s voice warbled on the other side
of the door as her emotions took over, and Sam heard another woman—Sara, no
doubt—exasperatedly telling Mary to heat some water.

As though nothing had happened, Mrs. Hayes flashed a
tight-lipped smile and led Sam across the front hallway to what usually might
have been a library. Instead of bookcases, other amusements occupied the room.
A square piano sat against one wall. A tray-top tea table sat between two
couches. Several more chairs were gathered around a card table still covered
with playing cards and chips. Romantic paintings adorned the red damask walls.
A knight presented a flower to a lady. A young woman reached down from her
balcony to a man who was climbing up.

“Here we take entertainment. Are you a card player, Miss
Reed?”

“Not really, ma’am.” She knew how to play whist but knowing
how to play and being able to play well were two different things. If she
didn’t find a way to return to her proper time and place, though, card playing would
be one of the few entertainments available to her.

“What is your passion then, Miss Reed?” Sam couldn’t answer
for a moment, too distracted by a painting that depicted several half-naked
women.

“The theater, ma’am.” Movies actually, but Sam couldn’t say
that.
Twelfth Night
was incidentally her favorite Shakespearean play.

“Excellent.” Mrs. Hayes clapped her hands. “I’ve so longed
for another
mademoiselle
who enjoys the delights and drama of the
theater. We shall attend tonight’s performance, and you shall witness the
talents of Mr. Henderson, who is—I dare say—the best I’ve ever seen in the role
of Malvolio. I shall send Mr. Hull to secure us seats and then I shall recruit
Milly and Ann to accompany us.”

Despite her reservations about Mrs. Hayes, Sam was excited
at the prospect of attending a play, to see how different an experience it was
to the shushing, pretentious crowds of the twenty-first century.

“But I don’t have anything to wear.” Sam gestured at her
trench coat.

Mrs. Hayes smiled coquettishly. “Not yet, Miss Reed.” She
sidled close and looped her arm through Sam’s again, pulling her out the room
and up the stairs.

* * * * *

“Damn.” Ryder slapped his gloves against his thigh and
stared out of his coach without really seeing anything. He had done everything
in his power to return to London as quickly as possible and already time was
running out. The sprawling city was ever-expanding, but there were only so many
taverns and brothels to search and the customs authorities had a head start. It
was simply a matter of days before Phillip was found, and merely a matter of
weeks until his family’s creditors would resort to prosecution. He didn’t have
time for distractions, no matter how strange or beautiful.

What he would’ve done once he caught her up hadn’t been on
his mind, but he did know that he would’ve asked her name, a name to affix to
her steady, knowing eyes and a pair of lips so full and well-shaped that he
wondered how she thought to pass herself as a man.

No doubt it was best that she had collided with the fellow
carrying cabbage. Nothing but trouble would have come of it had he attempted to
strike up an acquaintance. He stayed behind only long enough to be assured of
her immediate safety and then wrenched himself away, even though the bawd who came
to the woman’s aid surely had the devil in her eyes.

It was not far to his father’s house just off Ludgate Hill.
Ryder pulled on his gloves. The coach came to a stop in front of a modest brick
building with several plain white windows, a few of which were bricked up.

“Shall I wait here, sir?” his driver asked after he alighted
from the coach.

“We’ll not leave again until evening, Oliver. Take a meal
with Mrs. Foster in the kitchen.”

“Yes sir.” Oliver clicked his tongue at the horses and
pulled away. Ryder went inside the house where the butler relieved him of his
hat and jacket, but he kept his gloves on. He then mounted the stairs, taking
two at a time to the second floor.

His father’s caretaker Mrs. Johnson was leaving the bedroom
with a tray of empty dishes. She shut the door before coming to meet him.
“Lieutenant West.”

“How is my father?”

“His breathing has much improved, sir.” Ryder allowed
himself a sigh of relief. “He slept well last night and he’s eating. I believe
he shall improve for a time if he is careful with himself.”

“Is he awake now?”

Mrs. Johnson looked over her shoulder at the closed bedroom
door. “Yes, but as you know, the doctor said not to upset him. It’s not my
place to say anything, sir, but if you’re here to discuss the troubles with the
business…”

“I’ll be only a moment, madam.” He strode past her with a
frown and entered his father’s bedroom.

“Phillip? Is that you?” a weak voice called. Ryder pulled a
handkerchief from his pocket and held it against his nose and mouth as he
surveyed the room. It was as he had seen it last night, dark and quiet. One
candle sat on the table next to the bed. A rather unpleasant scent was in the
air, a mixture of sweat, dust and rot.

“It’s me, Father.” He approached the bed. It was still a
shock to see what the disease had done—the weight loss and the pallor of his
skin. The invalid on the bed was nothing like the robust man who Ryder
remembered before serving aboard his first ship of the line. His father hadn’t
been a heavy man, but the one lying there was nearly skeletal.

“Ryder? Damn it. Did you find Phillip? He is the one I
need.” His father struggled to sit up. Ryder tried to assist him, but his
father threw off his hand. “I can do it on my own, boy. I don’t need help from
the likes of you.”

He lifted his kerchief enough to speak clearly and sat on
the chair Mrs. Johnson normally used. “Phillip hasn’t been seen at that
particular public house for a month.” His father closed his eyes and cursed. “A
revenue officer named Webb has been a step ahead of me. Almost everywhere I
search, he has already been there.”

The news surprised his father. “That stupid boy! Only a year
he’s been at this and he’s as much a disgrace as you.”

Ryder was glad for the kerchief hiding his hard expression.
He was never under the misapprehension that his father bore any affection for
him. Father’s first marriage had been arranged and that wife had died of a
blood infection when Phillip was two. His second marriage to Ryder’s mother was
by choice but she had died in childbirth. Father still hated him for it.

“I had it from the publican that Phillip may attend a
performance at Covent Garden tonight to see a particular actress.”

“You think to look for him there? You’re more likely to find
him at a card table.”

“Perhaps,” Ryder said noncommittally. “Still, I might find
someone there who does know him and his whereabouts.”

His father sighed tiredly. “I taught Phillip all he needed
to know, gave him everything, and this is how he repays me. I’ve had creditors
at the door thrice this week.”

“I’ll find him.”

“You had better. Should the authorities find him first,
debtors’ prison would await him, or he may even take a ride to Tyburn.” A round
of coughs overtook his father, shaking his frail body and pulling what little
color there was away from his sunken cheeks. He sagged under an invisible
weight. “And then what would become of me?”