EscapeWithMe Read online

  “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 h
er 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.