Someone to Love

A few times she tried determinedly not to think. She tried instead to marvel at the unfamiliar sensation of being in a carriage, of actually leaving Bath, climbing the hill away from it until it was no longer in sight behind her when she peered back. She tried to marvel at the passing countryside. She tried to think of this experience as the adventure of a lifetime, one she would remember for the rest of her life. She imagined how she would tell the children at the orphanage about it—about the tollbooths and the villages through which they passed; about village greens and taverns with quaint names painted upon their swinging signs and small churches with pointed steeples; about the posting inns at which they stopped, the food they ate there, the lumpiness of the bed in which she tried to sleep, the bustle of hostlers and grooms in the innyards; the deep ruts in the road that rattled the very teeth in one’s head and even occasionally made Miss Knox look less like a sphinx.

Soon enough, however, her mind would spin back to the great, frightening unknown that lay ahead of her. What if she was about to meet the person who had taken her to the orphanage all those years ago and paid to keep her there ever since? Would it be the man with the gruff voice? What if she really was a princess and a prince was waiting to marry her now that she was grown-up and out of danger from the wicked king—or witch!—from whom she had been carefully hidden all these years? The absurd thought made Anna smile despite herself and almost laugh aloud. That had been nine-year-old Olga Norton’s theory after she had listened to Anna’s letter the night before last. It had been eagerly espoused by several of the other little girls and soundly ridiculed by most of the boys.

All she could do, Anna thought with great good sense for surely the two hundredth time in the last few days, was wait and see. But that was more easily said than done. Why had the summons come through a solicitor? And why was she traveling in a private carriage when stagecoach tickets must cost far less? And why had she been provided with a chaperone? What was to happen when she arrived in London?

What did happen was that the carriage kept driving and driving. London was endlessly large and endlessly dreary, even squalid, for what seemed like miles and miles. So much for the story of Dick Whittington and the gold-paved streets of London town, though admittedly it might all look more inviting in full daylight instead of the dusk that was falling upon the outside world.

But the carriage did stop eventually outside a large, imposing stone building that turned out to be a hotel. They stepped inside a reception hall, and Miss Knox spoke with a man in uniform behind a high oak desk, was handed a large brass key, and led the way up two broad, carpeted flights of stairs and along a corridor before setting the key in the lock of a door and opening it wide. There was a spacious, square, high-ceilinged sitting room beyond it with doors on either side, each standing open to show a bedchamber within. There was a lamp alight in each of the three rooms, a great extravagance to Anna’s weary mind. It was a huge improvement over last night’s accommodations.

“I am to stay here?” she asked, moving sharply to one side when she realized that another man in uniform had come along behind them, her bag and Miss Knox’s in his hands. He set them down, looked expectantly at Miss Knox, who ignored him, and withdrew with a scowl.

“The bigger room on the left is yours, miss,” the older woman said. “The other one is mine. Dinner will be fetched up soon. I shall go and wash my hands.”

She disappeared into the bedchamber to the right, taking her bag with her. Anna carried hers into the other room. It was at least three times larger than her room at the orphanage. The bed looked wide enough to accommodate four or five sleepers lying comfortably abreast. There was water in the jug on the washstand. She poured some into the bowl and washed her hands and face and combed her hair. She ran her hands down her dress, which was sadly wrinkled after two days of sitting.

By the time she stepped back into the sitting room, two servants had come to set the table with a crisp white cloth and gleaming china, glass, and cutlery, and to deposit several covered tureens of something hot and steaming and delicious smelling. At least, Anna assumed it would smell delicious if only she were hungry and not so desperately tired.

She wished with all her heart that she was back at home.

* * *

Having a superlatively efficient secretary, Avery, Duke of Netherby, mused, was both a good thing and occasionally a bothersome one. On the one hand, one came to rely upon him to conduct all the troublesome and trivial business of one’s life, leaving oneself free simply to live and enjoy it. On the other hand, there was the odd occasion when one found oneself forced into something tedious that might have been avoided if one had been left to one’s own devices. It did not happen often, admittedly, for Edwin Goddard was well acquainted with what might be expected to bore his employer. This, however, was one of those infrequent occasions.

“Edwin,” Avery said with a pained sigh late one afternoon as he appeared in the doorway of the secretary’s office. “What is this, pray?”

He held aloft between a thumb and forefinger a card Goddard had left on the library desk with two other memos, one reminding His Grace of a ball he would wish to attend tonight because the Honorable Miss Edwards was to be there, and the other informing him that a pair of new boots for which he had been fitted last week was awaiting his pleasure at Hoby’s whenever he chose to go and try them on to make sure they fit like the glove that was always said to be so comfortable upon one’s foot. If it were really so, Avery mused, then it was strange that men persisted in wearing boots rather than gloves. But his thoughts had digressed.