Escaping Notice (9 page)

Much of the time, it was not safe for unprotected adults,
either.

She frowned. Seven minutes had passed. She rose and rapped
sharply on the door before opening it.

“Oh, what do you want?” Ned asked, his tone surly. His fingers
fumbled with the buttons of his jacket, and his brown hair stood up
in oddly-twisted spikes all over his head.

“It’s been seven minutes. I’m sure Mr. Caswell is waiting for us
by now.” She reached out and tried to smooth down his hair.

He twisted away. “Stop that!”

“You look like a beggar child, Ned. Do let me comb it.” An old
comb lay on the dresser. Before Ned could refuse, Helen picked it
up and ran it over his head.

“Ow!” He tried to duck, but she gripped his shoulder with one
hand and smoothed down his hair despite his resistance.

“Now, at least you look fairly presentable.”

“I’m not going.”

“Why not? At least you’ll have a dry place to sleep and food.
That’s more than you would get if you were roaming the streets of
London.”

“Umm,” he replied, clearly unconvinced. He flicked a quick
glance at her. “I want to visit Nelson’s grave at St. Paul’s!”

“When did you decide you wished to go to St. Paul’s?”

“I’ve always wanted to go. It’s why …. Oh, it doesn’t
matter.”

“It does matter and we will go some other time, never fear. For
now, we need to go to Ormsby with Mr. Caswell.”

He frowned but her argument did appear to mollify him slightly
because he picked up his leather valise and followed her into the
hallway. Once they started down the stairs, he sniffed and shuffled
and thudded along behind her as if he were being led to the barber
to have a tooth extracted.

“Cheer up, Ned. Last night, I asked Cook to pack us a lovely
dinner. And if you smile, I’ll even let you have a bun for
breakfast. They’re still warm, you know,” Helen said as they
reached the ground floor. The butler awaited them, armed with the
promised basket of food. She took it with a smile, but when she
turned to the boy, he grimaced. She pretended it was a smile and
nodded. “It’ll be a wonderful adventure, won’t it?”

“No,” he mumbled, following her out the front door.

Glancing along the street, Helen saw a small carriage at the end
of the block. There was no mistaking the fair-haired giant standing
next to the horses, rubbing their ears. Helen took Ned’s hand and
pulled him along after her, her eyes fixed on Mr. Caswell’s broad
back.

As they neared, he turned and examined them before opening the
door to the carriage and helping them inside. For the second time
that morning, Helen regretted her drab garb and severe hairstyle.
Mr. Caswell did not appear to notice any change in her appearance,
however, and never said a word about her efforts to appear like a
properly downtrodden maid. Her chagrin deepened.

“Did you have any difficulties?” he asked, climbing in behind
them.

“No.” She smiled at Ned before digging through the hamper filled
with food. A small bundle wrapped in a linen napkin occupied one
corner. The cloth was steamy and warm, exuding the yeasty fragrance
of fresh bread. She pulled it out and handed it to the boy seated
opposite her. He wasted no time unwrapping the buns and biting into
one. “Ned overslept and missed his breakfast,” she explained.

When she glanced at Mr. Caswell, she was surprised to see him
eyeing the bread with longing.

“Ned,” she said. “Give Mr. Caswell one of the rolls.”

Ned lowered his head and draped the loose end of the linen over
them. Then he wrapped one arm more tightly about the buns and shook
his head as he chewed.

“Ned! Don’t be rude.”

“Why not?” Ned asked after swallowing a large mouthful. “If he’s
going to pretend to be my brother, than I ought to treat him like
one, shouldn’t I?”

“He’s your
older
brother, Ned. Now give him a bun before
he behaves like an older brother and boxes your ear.” She frowned
at Ned, wondering if she ought to give him a discreet kick in the
ankles as a warning to behave. What would they do if he acted so
rudely at Ormsby? He would get them dismissed. A servant’s child
would never be so lacking in manners.

Mr. Caswell grinned at Helen before reaching out and gently
rapping his knuckles on the side of Ned’s head. It was not a hard
knock, but it made Ned gaze at him in a very considering way before
handing over one of the buns with obvious reluctance.

“Thanks, Ned,” Mr. Caswell said. He took a bite out of the
buttery roll and lounged back in the corner of the carriage with
his long legs stretched out diagonally. After a moment, he crossed
them at the ankles, apparently unaware that he took up most of the
room.

Helen tried not to stare at him, but she could not seem to find
a safe place to rest her eyes. She finally turned to look out the
carriage window.

“What is this object you lost at Ormsby, Miss Archer?” Mr.
Caswell’s deep voice broke the silence.

Helen turned back to find his gray eyes twinkling at her. “I —
um, a trinket.” She waved a hand airily.

“How did you happen to lose it?”

“It fell off. At Lord Monnow’s ball.” Her answers sounded curt,
impolite. She smiled and then glanced away hurriedly at the
answering gleam in his eyes.

“You were a guest at Ormsby, then?”

“Oh, no. That is, I was just invited for the ball. I stayed at
my cousin’s house. They live near Oxford.”

“Aren’t you afraid someone may recognize you?”

“No,” she shook her head. “My cousins rarely travel beyond the
end of their road. And no one pays attention to a maid. I’m hoping
I can escape notice until I find the … uh, trinket and return to
London.”

“But you know the other guests, don’t you?”

“Well, yes. That is, I was supposed to meet friends there. In
fact, that is why I went. But Susannah’s father came down with
pneumonia, and she could hardly abandon him just to go to the ball,
which meant Clara and her sister did not go, either. And then the
wheel on my cousin’s carriage broke, and I arrived late, so in the
end I did not even meet my host. So really, I didn’t know a soul,
except the few social acquaintances one meets at all those
events.”

He nodded and appeared to understand her rambling explanation,
even though, now that she considered her words, she realized she
had made very little sense. Mr. Caswell’s steady gray gaze
disconcerted her. She smiled nervously and glanced out of the
window, thankful for the calming view as London’s busy streets
gradually gave way to placid countryside.

They passed most of that day’s journey in trifling conversation.
None of them knew one another well, and all were reluctant to
reveal too much. When the sun began to set in streaming banners of
coral and red, they stopped for the night at a small inn set a
little way back from the dusty road. Helen shifted in her seat,
waiting for the coachman to open the door. Her throat felt parched
and when she touched her dry lips, they felt gritty with powdery
dirt kicked up by the wheels of the carriage.

Before climbing down, Mr. Caswell held them back with his hand
upon the door.

“Remember who you are,” he said, his gaze resting on Ned’s
sleepy face. “As brothers and sister, we’ll need to use our
Christian names. I apologize, Miss Archer —”

“Helen,” she replied. “And you are Hugh, correct?”

He nodded. “And one more thing. Since we’re travelling to go
into service, someone may ask how we came to have a private
carriage instead of travelling by mail coach. Lord Monnow’s lawyer,
Mr. Petre, sent this coach to London for some unknown reason. We’ve
been allowed to use it since it was coming back in this direction.
Is that clear?”

“Oh, yes.” Helen waited patiently while Mr. Caswell — Hugh —
studied both her and Ned. As if approving of their bedraggled
appearances, he gave them a brief smile before lowering the
steps.

Ned refused to wait any longer. He pushed under Hugh’s arm and
jumped down, stalking off to the side door of the inn. Hugh glanced
after him, but stayed to extend his hand to help Helen descend. She
followed in the direction Ned had taken, half afraid he would slip
in one door and out of the other in order to run back to
London.

The inn’s smoky interior rang with loud voices. Helen hurried
through the short back hallway into the main room, stopping on the
threshold. Her first impression was of a shifting mass of men, all
crowded around sturdy tables or straddling chairs bumping up
against the long bar. A few disheveled barmaids squeezed through
the gaps between the tables, carrying trays overflowing with dishes
and tankards, both full and empty. The air was thick with the
suffocating, musty odors of spilled beer, burning tobacco and
sweat-stained wool.

To her relief, Helen spotted Ned in the far corner, trying to
right a table which had apparently been knocked over by two men who
were jabbing at each other’s shoulders. The men grinned and cursed
as each hit the other with a slightly harder fist, until one man
slipped on a pool of spilled ale. The dark-haired man left standing
laughed while his downed companion wallowed around in the sawdust
before pushing himself up.

“Stay down, Tom, where you won’t hurt yourself.”

As the balding man on the floor righted himself, he snarled,
“We’ll see who gets hurt here, ye hind end of a cur.” He staggered
to his feet and took a more serious swing at his friend, who leaned
back to dodge the meat-handed blow.

Unfortunately, the dark-haired man lost his balance.
Windmilling, he fell back against the table which Ned was trying to
rescue. The other customers, sensing the excitement, crowded around
them, shouting encouragement to the two men.

“Get up and take ‘em, Jem!” a hoarse voice encouraged the
dark-haired man.

Afraid that Ned might get hurt, Helen started to move forward
when a large pair of hands gripped her upper arms. She jumped and
glanced over her shoulder. Hugh gently moved her aside.

When he stepped past her, the men in his path just seemed to
melt away like butter in the sun.

“There now. Enough.” He grabbed the collar of the man who had
fallen and held him back to prevent him from hitting his younger
opponent.

The other man, thinking to capitalize on the opening, hunched
forward and tried to land a punch, but before his fist could
connect, Hugh grabbed his shirt with his left hand. He straightened
his arms, holding the two men apart. Deprived of their amusement,
Tom, collar held in Hugh’s left fist, landed a short, vicious blow
to Hugh’s stomach.

There was no sound except a muted thud.

Helen held her breath, along with every other patron in the
place, waiting to see what Hugh would do. Since his back was to
her, she could not see his face. But the two men held in his grip
stared up at him and grew pale.

“Enough,” he repeated in his calm voice.

“Sorry, guv,” Tom said sheepishly. “Didn’t mean no harm. Just a
friendly bit o’exercise.”

“Exercise somewhere else,” Hugh replied, giving them a final
shake before letting them go.

Tom grabbed his friend’s upper arm and dragged him toward the
bar, flicking nervous glances over his shoulder at Hugh.

Picking up the table, Hugh gestured at the chairs which Ned
hurriedly collected. Helen flicked her handkerchief over the seat,
trying not to notice the way it kept sticking to the brownish spots
strewn over the surface. She sighed as she sat down and pretended
she didn’t feel anything cold and nasty seeping through her
skirts.

“I’m sorry, Helen, but we can’t afford a private room,” he said,
catching her gaze.

She nodded. They were servants and as such, wouldn’t have the
money for a private room, As it was, Hugh already seemed to be
flush with more than adequate funds. “This is satisfactory,” she
said in a cheerful voice. When she shifted, her skirts stuck.

The hush which had fallen over the place when Hugh broke up the
fight vanished in a renewed din of men calling for more ale and
food, and heaping insults upon the lineage of their closest and
dearest friends. A thick miasma of tobacco smoke, damp wool, sweat,
various kitchen odors and spilled beer filled the common room.
Helen sniffed and felt a headache starting to form just behind her
left ear. Surreptitiously rubbing it, she tried to appear happy —
or at least content — when Hugh brought her a pint of golden
beer.

“I’ve ordered supper. We’ll eat in here and then see what they
have in the way of rooms.” He studied her. She dropped her gaze to
the table, suddenly embarrassed for no clear reason. “We’ll have to
share. I’m sorry.”

“That’s quite all right,” she replied. “It’s precisely what I
anticipated.” That was a lie, but it sounded believable. In truth,
she had foolishly expected to have her own room and a lovely, soft
bed.

She would have to sleep in her clothing, of course, but with Ned
in the room, it would be almost respectable. And even if it was
not, as far as anyone knew, her name was Miss Helen Caswell, not
Miss Helen Archer, sister to the Duke of Peckham and irresponsible
misplacer of the fabled Peckham Necklace.

When Hugh raised a hand, a maid responded with surprising
alacrity, bringing them more beer. After slapping the pints on the
table, she coyly rested her empty tray on one hip and bent slightly
in Hugh’s direction, giving him an excellent view of her
cleavage.

Helen sipped the beer and imagined the maid turning and slipping
on the brew she had dribbled in a winding trail to their table.
With luck, she would knock out her sole remaining front tooth,
although it was more likely she would fall with a laugh into Hugh’s
lap.

“If you’re wanting anything else, sir, just you ask,” she said.
“We’ve some lovely pudding —”

Hugh grinned and winked. “We’ve more than enough, thank
you.”