Her father wasn’t a reader—he’d never learned how, despite having an uncanny head for numbers—so the crate of books he brought home with him was always eclectic: texts on animal husbandry, economic dissertations, travelogues, hunting manuals, four separate versions of the Book of Common Prayer. Once, he’d come home with an obscure collection of etchings from India that her governess had promptly snatched away and never returned.
To any other young girl, her father’s boxes would have been boring. But to Sophie, they’d been magic. The books had been leather-bound adventures, pages and pages of distant worlds and remarkable people and learning. And simple, unadulterated happiness. They’d piled up in her bedchamber, first on shelves, and then on the floor, and then, finally, in the armoires her mother had installed so the books could be hidden. But the book shipments had never stopped, so Sophie had always imagined that her mother hadn’t minded her opinions so very much. Until the Liverpool summer soiree, when her mother had been horrified by her opinions. Just as the rest of London had been.
Cold memory pooled inside her—London’s most powerful members simply turning their backs on her, as though she didn’t exist. Exiling her. Worse. Disappearing her.
She couldn’t go back; so she would go forward. And she would forge her own future by returning to the dearest memories of her past.
And if Robbie was still there, perhaps he’d make good on that long-ago promise. Perhaps he’d marry her. An ache began in her chest at the thought—at the idea of being married. Of being loved. Robbie had had a lovely smile. And he’d always listened when she told him about her books and her ideas.
If they married—well, there were worse things than marrying an old friend.
And if they didn’t—she’d have her bookshop. And there were much worse things than that.
She opened her eyes, meeting the gaze of the young mother in the seat opposite. Instead of looking away in embarrassment this time, however, the young woman tilted her head slightly, revealing her curiosity. The woman’s gaze slid down Sophie’s face and throat, stilling on the place where her coat buttons strained against her breasts, and Sophie couldn’t help but look down as well, following the perusal.
Discovering the button that had come undone, revealing a white chambray shirt and a swell that was decidedly unfootmanlike.
Sophie snatched the coat together, fastening the button once more, and met the woman’s eyes again. She nodded in the direction of Sophie’s cap. “You’re coming loose.”
Sophie reached up to find a long brown curl escaped from its moorings.
Sophie opened her mouth to explain, then closed it when she could not find the words. She shrugged.
The woman smiled, let in on her secret, then leaned forward to whisper, “I wondered why a fancy servant was riding by mail.”
It hadn’t occurred to her that the livery might draw attention to her in this world, when it made her so invisible in the world from which she’d come. “I suppose it’s obvious that I’m not a servant.”
“Only to someone who is looking. Most people don’t look,” the young woman said, before looking at the boy on the seat next to Sophie. “Give it back, John.”
Sophie looked down at the boy, who was grinning up at her, dangling her watch from his fingers. “I weren’t really going to take it.”
“No one knew that,” the woman said. “And you promised no more pocketing.”
“Yer not my mum, you know.”
The woman scowled at him. “Just the closest thing you’ve got to one.”
The boy returned the watch.
“Thank you,” Sophie said, belatedly realizing that she really shouldn’t be grateful for the return of her rightful possession.
“You’re welcome,” John responded with a smile before leaning forward and adding, “If I were going to steal something, I’d vie for your satchel.”
Sophie reached down and lifted the satchel between her feet to her lap. “Thank you for the warning.”
John tipped his cap.
The woman across the coach pushed one of her curls back behind her ear and laughed, the sound short and barely there, reminding Sophie that there wasn’t much humor to be had in a crowded mail coach. Meeting Sophie’s gaze, the other woman said, “I’m called Mary.” She extended her chin at the girl on the floor. “That’s Bess.” Bess smiled, and Mary indicated the boy. “And you’ve met John.”
Sophie nodded and opened her mouth to introduce herself before the other woman raised a hand and said, “And you’re a fancy servant.”
It was a reminder that to the rest of the coach, she looked the part of a footman. Sophie nodded. “Matthew,” she said, with a silent apology to the footman whose identity she was quietly appropriating.
Mary leaned back against her seat. “Pleased to meet you.”
Smell and crowd aside, the mail coach was not so bad as she’d imagined. Perhaps things would go smoothly, after all.
The moment the thought floated through her mind, the carriage began to slow. The girl at her feet sat up. “We’re there!”
“You don’t even know where ‘there’ is,” John snapped.
She scowled. “I know that if we’re stopping, we must be somewhere,” the girl said smartly.
“Shush, both of you,” Mary whispered, craning to look over the two sleeping women obstructing the view out the carriage window. Sophie followed her gaze, the trees at the edge of the road coming to a stop. “We’re nowhere.”
A muffled conversation came from outside as the other woman checked the opposite window before turning to Sophie. “Is it possible someone is looking for you?”
Considering she’d borrowed a significant sum from him without his knowing, Sophie imagined that the Marquess of Eversley would, indeed, be looking. She sat forward. “I hope not.”
“Out of the carriage!” a man’s voice boomed.
“Christ,” the other woman muttered.
“I know you can hear me!”
Dread pooled in Sophie’s chest. Eversley had found her. And once he had his hands on her, he would collect his money and march her back to London without hesitation. If he was feeling magnanimous there would be marching to London, she realized. If he was furious, he could easily leave her on the side of the road to fend for herself. Again.
And he hadn’t seemed overly magnanimous at their last meeting.
Of course, she had called him arrogant, vapid, and unintelligent. That did not engender magnanimity, to be honest.
“Let’s go, girl! We haven’t got all day!”
Sophie thought the “girl” was rather rude and unnecessary, but Eversley didn’t exactly eschew rudeness, in her experience.
Around the coach, women and children were stirring, asking questions about who was outside and what was happening. There would be no hiding for Sophie. She might as well not be a coward about the whole thing. Squaring her shoulders, she came off the seat, stepping gingerly around the little girl on the floor and reaching for the door handle.
“Wait!” Mary called out.
Sophie turned back. “There’s nothing to be done. He’s here for me.”
“Don’t open that door,” the young woman said ominously. “Once it’s open, it can’t be shut.”