A Lady in Hiding (11 page)

In the meantime, Sarah Sanderson had to forget. And Samuel Sanderson had work to do.

She opened the door to Mrs. Pochard’s boarding house, pausing in the entrance to listen. The girl who did for them was singing off-key as usual, as she cleaned the rooms on the first floor. Sarah didn’t see anyone else. Perhaps Mrs. Pochard had gone shopping with her daughter.

Moving as silently as a feather on the wind, Sarah glided to the stairway. She stayed as close as possible to the wall where the stairs creaked less as she climbed. She set foot on the first floor landing and sighed with relief. Then she cringed at the sound of Mrs. Pochard’s harsh voice.

“You there! Mr. Sanderson!” Mrs. Pochard called, her heels clicking sharply on the bare wooden floor. “Where are you sneaking off to?”

“I was just going to my room,” Sarah replied, placing a foot on the stairway leading to the second floor. “I wanted to make sure you got the rent today.”

Mrs. Pochard waved at her, her heavy face red as raw beef. “I warned you yesterday, Mr. Sanderson. You promised me my money last night. Where were you, hmm? I run a decent boarding house. I’ve a long list of gentlemen of better means than yourself wanting a room here.”

“I know—and I appreciate your forbearance—”

“
Forbearance
? Ha!” she interrupted, striding forward to grab Sarah’s arm. “You’d best be on your way, there’s no room for you here.”

“What? What do you mean?” Sarah asked, shaking her arm. Mrs. Pochard’s grip tightened.

“I told you—pay up last night, or you’d be out. You never came home—so I had to make do and assume you’d gone. I’ve rented your room already to a fine gentleman just come lately from Folkestone. So get on with you before I send for the constable.”

“You’ve rented my room? You can’t!”

“I can and did. I warned you about being late. None of my borders are late and stay.”

Sarah twisted her arm out of Mrs. Pochard’s grasp and climbed another step. “Then I’ll just get my belongings.”

“You’ve got no belongings in this house. I sold ’em to pay your rent.”

“You
sold
my property?”

“That’s right.” A crafty look sharpened Mrs. Pochard’s brown eyes. “They’re gone, so there’s no need to go up there.”

“Who did you sell them to? Where are they? There was a box—”

“That’s right, the little wooden box as was locked. I sold it for a sovereign to a gent down the street.”

“What gent? A
sovereign
? I only owed a crown— give me the rest.” She thrust out her hand, fighting back the urge to thrash Mrs. Pochard soundly. “And I know you'd never have given it up without opening it—there was money in that box. My money.”

“Oh, no. If you had money, you'd have paid the rent,” she said. Then she chuckled and partially turned, gesturing down the hall. “But if you wish to discuss the matter like a
gentleman,
I’d be happy to invite you into my sitting room.”

“I’ve no wish to discuss anything with you. Give me what you owe and tell me who bought the box.”

“The sitting room, if you please, Mr. Sanderson.” She walked away, her skirts swaying with each brisk click-clacking step.

Sarah swore as thoroughly as any good bricklayer. She reluctantly followed, wondering what Mrs. Pochard could possibly have to say.

No one was ever allowed into Mrs. Pochard’s private sanctum. Sarah glanced around curiously.

The sitting room was as gaudy as an oriental harem. Red velvet drapes, edged with gold trim, cascaded down a background of gold-and-red flocked wallpaper. The legs of the tables and chairs were carved like palm fronds and then gilded, making the room look more like some far-eastern opium addict’s nightmare than a sitting room in an English boarding house.

Several large peacock feathers emerged lavishly from tall vases, resting on pedestals on either side of the sofa.

Sarah stood in the doorway and shook her head when Mrs. Pochard waved to the chair next to her. Mrs. Pochard sat and arranged herself on a red sofa with gold tassels and pillows stripped in gold-and green velvet.

“Close the door,” she said when Sarah remained where she was.

“No need.”

“Be it on your head, then, if your business gets spread the length and breadth of London.”

“We have no private business, madam. Just give me what you owe and tell me who bought the box from my room. That’s all I want from you.”

“Perhaps so, but I want something from
you.
So perhaps you ought to close the door after all.”

Sarah hesitated. Then she kicked the door shut with her heel before crossing her arms over her chest. “There. Now give me the address of the man who purchased my box.”

“Not so quick,
Mr
. Sanderson. You're quite the most peculiar young man I’ve ever had here. But I’m willing to overlook a bit of oddness and give you back your room if you do me one small favor.”

“What favor?”

“Marry my lovely daughter, Letty. You’ll have free room and board and never a worry in the world.”

Sarah laughed. “Marry your
daughter
? I’ve no mind to marry her, or any other. Where’s her beau, Mr. Edwards?”

“Gone from London, it appears. Leastways that’s what my Letty says. Gone to the Colonies, I suppose. So there’s no fear Mr. Edwards would want a fight over her.”

“I’ve no fear on that score,” Sarah said, chuckling. “Left her with a little parting gift, did he?”

Mrs. Pochard’s eyes grew as hard and sly as a weasel’s. “What if he did? Your sheets have had blood on them two months in a row,
Mr.
Sanderson. I guess we both know the meaning of
that
.”

“Yes,” Sarah replied sweetly. “I work hard laying bricks.” She pushed aside her hair so Mrs. Pochard could see the fresh stitches. “I bleed often enough. And I’ve plenty on my hands already without your breeding daughter.”

Mrs. Pochard’s face grew even more mottled red as she gripped the arm of the sofa. “Not like the stains I've seen in your bed. And not regular-like each month. We both know you’re not a man, despite your pretense otherwise.”

“Madame, you are suffering from some pernicious form of hysteria. I suggest you speak to a doctor. Now, the name and address, if you please. Keep the money you stole for all I care. I’ve no wish to marry Letty, though I thank you for thinking of me.”

“You wish to speak plainly, so let me make this as plain as I can. If you want this little box so badly, you’ll agree to marry my Letty. I won’t have her bearing a child out of wedlock. I run a decent establishment. A boarding house for gentlemen.
I won’t have it, do you understand
?”

“Indeed, I do. But it’s no concern of mine. Find another gentleman who needs a comfortable berth.”

“I’ve found
you
. You’ll marry her, or the newspapers will discover that Mr. Samuel Sanderson is not a man, but a woman. How would your employer like that,
Mr
. Sanderson? How would
you
like it, eh?”

Despite her bravura, Sarah felt the blood drain from her face. Too many specters from the past had already been raised. She did not want her name announced in the newspapers under any circumstances.

“Who has my box?”

“Agree to marry my Letty, and I will tell you.”

“This is ludicrous. You believe I’m a woman, so you
know
any marriage would be a fraud and illegal. Why even suggest such a thing?”

“Because I will not have it believed Letty is with child out of wedlock. All of my guests here are gentlemen. Except
you.
And I made an exception for you, fool that I was, when you was so soft-spoken. Now I see you was so because in truth you’re a woman. So you’ve something to hide, yourself. That Letty is a feckless girl and will doubtless find more trouble before she’s through, but as long as she’s
Mrs
. Sanderson with the marriage lines to prove it, she can have as many children as she likes. And married to you, you’ll keep your mouth shut if she does as she pleases, for it will suit you both. You’ll be a man with a breeding wife, and she’ll have a husband. And I’ll have a respectable boarding house with none the wiser.”

Except Sarah was already betrothed to Kitty Hawkins, whose family knew a great deal less about Sarah’s circumstances than they realized.

And all Sarah wanted was escape.

“I can’t, and that’s a fact. I work for Mr. Hawkins, and he already expects me to marry his daughter. The banns have been read twice.”

“And what would he think if he was to read in the newspaper that you’re a woman? Would that please him, do you think? Make his business prosper?” Mrs. Pochard’s gaze flickered around the room as she considered the matter. “You will marry them both, then, and live here.”

“How am I to do that?” Sarah laughed. “It will all end in disaster—as soon as Mr. Hawkins and his daughter discover the truth.”

“No, no. I tell you, you’ll think of something to keep the women separate. You’re a smart lad—er, woman. Think on it. We’ll find a way for you to keep your employment and make a decent, married woman out of my Letty.”

Sarah shrugged. At the moment, she could think of nothing except how her head ached and how tortuous her life had become. “Agreed. Now, may I have the address of the man who acquired my box?”

Mrs. Pochard smiled, her ferret eyes gleaming. “That would be Mr. Manfred on Bond Street.”

“The shopkeeper?” Sarah asked, aghast. She had walked by Mr. Manfred’s establishment before, drawn to his bow windows displaying endless rows of silver candlesticks, crystal goblets, and other trinkets. Nothing ever stayed more than a few days in the window. “What if he’s sold it already?”

“Then you’d best be getting to his shop, hadn’t you?” She smoothed her dark green skirts. “The banns will be read this Sunday and twice thereafter. The wedding will take place April twenty-fifth, agreed?”

“Yes, yes,” Sarah replied, yanking the door open and striding into the hallway. “It’s as good a day as any—though you'd best make sure Mr. Hawkins doesn't find out. In any event, I doubt I’ll live long enough to worry overmuch about it.”

Manfred’s establishment on Bond Street was already overflowing with customers when Sarah arrived. A sheet of paper in the window declared that Mr. Manfred was pleased to offer the contents of Mr. James Wesley’s estate for sale that very day. A man carrying a small writing table pushed past her as she stood next to the door, trying to bring her disordered thoughts under control.

Sighing fatalistically, she went deeper into the shop. After slipping past a few customers conferring over a battered chest, she edged up to the counter. She waited patiently for the clerk to conclude his business with a plump lady clutching a brass bowl. Finally, the clerk pushed his glasses up his nose and turned to Sarah.

“May I be of assistance?” he asked. His thick glasses slid down his shiny, sloping nose. He pushed them up again, peering at her as if trying to gage the likelihood of her purchasing something.

“A wooden box. Mr. Manfred purchased a wooden box this morning. I’d like to get it back.”

“A box? Wooden box? Oh, yes. We’ve many of those.” He dived behind a counter and started pulling out various containers, placing them on the countertop. Cherry boxes, mahogany boxes, silver boxes, maple boxes, and even a red Chinese lacquer box with a phoenix of gold on the lid. Sarah almost picked up the last item, thinking of Mrs. Pochard’s Oriental room. The woman would adore it.

With firm determination, Sarah pushed the box away and leaned over. “It’s a plain box with a brass lock.” She considered for a moment and added. “It’s made out of maple, bird’s eye maple, about twelve inches by six.”

He pulled the rest of the boxes out of the bin and arrayed them on the counter in front of her. After examining them, he pushed the cherry one toward her. “Now, this is a fine box. Excellent craftsmanship.”

Sarah eyed him with disgust. His sparse gray hair stuck up like weeds growing over a splotchy marsh of skin. She wanted to grab a few strands and shake him until he listened. “I don’t want any of
these
. I don’t want any boxes except the one Mr. Manfred acquired this morning. It’s mine. I want it back.” She pulled the string around her neck until the brass key came free of her collar. “I’ve the key for it, you see. It was sold accidentally.”

He shook his head and waved away one of the customers crowding the counter. “I’m sorry, sir, but these are the only boxes we have. Are you sure I can’t interest you in this fine mahogany box?” He opened it so that she could see the red felt lining the inside. “Or, perhaps the Chinese lacquer?”

“No. I’m sorry. Is Mr. Manfred here? Perhaps I could speak to him?”

“He’s not here. There was a tragic event just an hour ago. He felt his presence might be required.”

Sarah’s dislike for the shopkeeper deepened. Apparently, someone else had died. Mr. Manfred did not want to miss the opportunity of picking over the household inventory before the other jackals scented the heavy perfume of death.

“Could he have put the box elsewhere?” she asked.

“All the boxes are kept in this bin. If you aren’t interested in them, perhaps something else?”

“No, I’m sorry. When do you expect Mr. Manfred to return?”

He shrugged, his eyes already peering over her shoulder in search of another customer. A portly gentleman pushed her aside and leaned on the counter, asking about a small, three-cornered chair sitting by the door. Sarah stepped away, searching the room, but she couldn’t find the bird’s eye maple box anywhere.

Where was Mr. Manfred? Had it already been sold?

Her heart pounded at the thought. That box was important—perhaps the only clue left to her past. Suddenly, she felt as if her life depended upon the contents of that small box.

She pushed her way out, unable to breathe in the close confines of the stuffy shop. The sidewalk outside was, if anything, even busier than the shop. London had awakened to another day, and the streets were thronging with hawkers yelling, gentlemen and ladies strolling, and the impoverished searching the gutters for anything the others had missed.

Buffeted and pushed from one side of the sidewalk to the other, Sarah moved to the corner and stood there in a daze. Her eyes focused on a heavy cart opposite, and she stared as if unloading barrels was the most fascinating activity she had ever seen. She didn’t move until someone in the apartment above Mr. Manfred’s shop emptied a bowl of what she hoped was only slightly used wash water into the alley a few feet away from her.

Without thinking, she walked back the way she came, passing Mrs. Pochard’s boarding house. She trudged on to Second Sons.

“May I help you?” Sotheby asked as he opened the door. “Oh,” he added when he caught her gaze. “Mr. Sanderson.”

“Is Mr. Trenchard available?”

“No. I’m afraid Mr. Trenchard is resting. May I take a message?”

“I—I don’t know.”

He stared down at her through supercilious, half-closed eyes. “Then I can hardly be expected to announce you. If you should find you
do
know, you are welcomed to return.”

“My box is gone!” she said as the door started to shut.

The gap was a mere six inches when the door stopped.

“The box,” she repeated. “It’s gone. All my papers—my money—everything.”

“I see,” Sotheby’s sepulchral voice drifted around the wooden panel. “Would you care to wait, sir?”

“I can’t. I’ve got to get to work. It’s nearly noon.”

The door reopened. “If you would care to wait in Mr. Trenchard’s office?”

“I can’t wait.”

“To be sure,” he replied, smoothly. “Just one moment, if you please.” His eyes were curiously kind when he waved her into the hallway. With quiet deliberation, he shut the door behind her.

“Please,” he said, opening the door to Trenchard’s office. “If you would care to have a seat?”

There seemed little alternative. She didn’t know what else to do. And as her nerves tightened, the pounding in her head became nearly unbearable.

Sarah trudged inside, noting irrelevantly that the breakfast dishes had already been cleared away, along with her bandage. The curtains had been drawn back and the windows opened, letting in the April air. The desk gleamed in the sunlight. She sat down, leaning her head back to stare at the murals on the ceiling. Half-naked women draped in transparent scarves floated around the central point where a chandelier hung ten feet above her head.

Their fatuous, smiling faces hadn’t a care in the world.

However, no matter how grand the house had once been, it had fallen upon hard times, just like Sarah. A newly erected wall cut off one poor cherub’s feet, dividing what must have once been a very large room. The splendid place was turned into cramped offices, presumably with apartments on the upper floors.

A deep kinship with the sad building seeped through her misery. Both of them had once known elegant, better times. Both were now working for a living, transformed by necessity, and not for the better.

Practicality always took precedence over beauty.

“Mr. Sanderson?” Mr. Trenchard’s languid voice broke the silence.

She stood and spun to face the door, clutching her forehead when her head nearly exploded in response.

“Are you well?” he gripped her shoulder.

Glancing up, she was surprised to find him so close. She was struck again by his sheer handsomeness and the force of his personality. His blue eyes glowed with concern that couldn’t mask a twinkling imp lurking in the depths. The golden stubble that had glinted over his hard chin earlier was gone, leaving a clean, hard jawline.

He looked relaxed and rested although she had scarcely been gone over an hour. A deep blue silk dressing gown, replete with navy blue velvet lapels and gold buttons, covered his broad shoulders. The only sign that he had been resting was his blond hair, tousled into a mess of curls that made him look like a mischievous little boy escaping from his bedroom.

When he pushed her into her chair, she frowned, revising her opinion. He was no adorable child. He was too self-assured and bone-lazy.

And far too handsome to do her any good.

“I’m well.” She shook off his hand. “The box is gone.”

“What? Stolen?”

“Might as well have been. Mrs. Pochard sold it when I didn’t return last night. For back rent.”

He chuckled, sitting on the edge of the desk again. His long legs were encased in black trousers and his dressing gown gaped open to expose a white shirt, open at the neck. He appeared to have just gotten out of bed. The warm scent of sleep hung around him, tantalizing and filling her with indescribable longing.

She straightened. He had been
sleeping
when he should have been working. The idea made the muscles in her jaw tighten.

However, he
had
watched over her last night. Grudgingly, she admitted she ought to be grateful for that. Apparently, he didn’t spend all of his time in peaceful slumber.

“Why are you here? You seemed so insistent upon building your garden wall today.”

“Not my wall, though I must finish it eventually. This week with any luck. No, the box is truly gone. Mrs. Pochard did indeed sell it for rent to Mr. Manfred.”

“On Bond Street?”

She nodded. “I went there. The clerk claimed he had never seen the box. Mr. Manfred was not in. What if—what if they sold it already?”

He stared at her for a moment before he ran a hand through his hair, ruffling the disordered curls even further. “Nonsense. He just got it this morning.”

“I think it must have been last night—when I failed to return home. Mrs. Pochard was waiting for the rent.”

“Nonetheless, it was not in Mr. Manfred’s hands for very long. The clerk probably had no idea your box was there. Misplaced most likely.”

She stood up. “You don’t understand—it’s not just the papers, there were nearly five pounds inside. Everything I had was in that box!”

“Ah, the treasure trove itself.” He smiled. “We’ll find your box, Miss Sarah Sanderson. Describe it to me.”

“It’s bird’s eye maple with oak trim. And a brass lock.”

“How large is it?”

“Not large. About twelve inches long by six inches wide and the same deep. The lock was special. A gryphon. You inserted the key in the belly.” She pulled out the string around her neck, showing him the key dangling from it. “I’ve still got this, but what if he opened it already? I’d lose everything—I can’t pay you without that box.”

At this, he laughed outright. “That is the least of your worries—“

“The
least
?” She stood up, pushing him back onto the desk when he rose. “Am I a charity, then? Or an amusement?”

He caught her hands. She twisted, trying to pull them out of his grip. After all the years of laying bricks she ought to have been stronger, but he seemed to hold her easily, all the while smiling down at her, his blue eyes glinting in the morning sun.

She couldn’t read his expression. Her heart fluttered. And for one, breathless moment she stilled in his grip—almost as if waiting for him to press his lips against hers.

As if he would do such a thing. He confused her, and that was a fact.

She twisted, turning her shoulder to him, trying to calm her rapid pulse.

He was free to think whatever he pleased. She had no need to understand what she saw in the depths of his eyes. If he could discover what Major Pickering knew, then Mr. Trenchard could keep his counsel.

“No, Sarah—Miss Sanderson. You know better than that,” he replied, his tone mild. “All I want is to keep you alive.” A devilish grin pressed a dimple into his left cheek. “And see you in a dress.”

She pulled away. “A dress is unlikely, sir. And staying alive may be just as difficult if we don’t get that box. Can you…do you think you could get it back for me? If it hasn’t been opened—if he hasn’t taken the money—I’ve enough to pay your fee as agreed. But I must get that box!”

“My fee is less important than the papers.” He held up his hand when she opened her mouth. “Unfortunately, I doubt your landlady would have sold the box unopened. Everything may be gone.”

“Perhaps not.”

“Don’t raise your hopes—”

“’Tis not that,” she answered, frowning with impatience. “I—I made a false bottom. The papers are in there.”
And my locket, wrapped safely in cotton
.

“I see.” He considered this, his eyes unfocused and fixed on a spot just above her head. “Then whatever the case, we must get the box. I shall do my utmost while you're building your garden wall.”

“You’ll find the box? Go to Mr. Manfred’s shop and get it back?”

“Yes, don’t worry, Sarah. I’ll get it.”

“And stop calling me Sarah—I never gave you leave to do so. And I haven't been
her
in nearly thirteen years. It's ridiculous.”

“Indeed,” Mr. Trenchard murmured. “Miss Sanderson.”

“And don't call me that, either. It's Mr. Sanderson, and that's all.” She stood and hesitated. Unconscious of her action, she reached out and gripped his wrist, relieved at his warm strength. “I should go.”