Page 42 of A Secret Correspondence
Oliver nodded. He returned to his carriage and pulled the lantern from its loop on the side. “Wait here,” he repeated before pulling the door open and lighting the shop. It appeared empty and in order.
“What is it?” Ruth asked, appearing at Marguerite’s side after Oliver had let himself inside.
“The door was open.”
Ruth drew in a quiet gasp. “Has it been pillaged?”
“It does not appear so.”
The women leaned closer together to better see.
“Come, let us look for ourselves. It must be safe, or Oliver would not have passed through.”
“He asked me to wait outside.”
Ruth blew a puff. “He is overly cautious. Where do you keep your candles?”
“There is one just beside the door.” Marguerite passed Ruth and lit the candle she had left to help her find her way upon returning home. The room illuminated and the women walked together, looking about to verify all was in order.
“They’ve ruined nothing,” Ruth said.
Marguerite shook her head in confusion. “They’ve taken nothing.”
The stairs creaked overhead as Oliver made his way down them again. He pushed through the parlor door, his brow furrowed. “I found a note on your bed, and I believe they left this.” He held out a pale wooden doll with a painted white face and a red dress.
Marguerite gasped, her grip on the candle going slack. It fell, but Ruth moved quickly, reaching for the stick and catching the holder before the flame could hit any of the nearby fabrics or spread along the floor.
“You know this doll?” Oliver asked, concern knitting his brow.
“Know it?” Marguerite swallowed against a scratchy, dry throat. She did not merely know it. It was central to one of her final memories with her mother, after her father had been carted to the guillotine and it was time to flee. Maman had told her to kiss its wooden cheek and together they had placed the doll in the trunk that would travel ahead and meet them in England. She looked at Oliver. “It was mine.”
Chapter Fifteen
The ballroom lost its appeal after Samuel’s friends left. Miss Farrow’s conversation was pleasant, but she had been called away to dance the next few sets, and Samuel found he did not relish standing with his mother and watching Miss Farrow move about the floor with other men.
He thought of the first letter he’d ever found of hers, the words that had tied them together like two vines wrapping around one another to create a strong rope. He stood in the sea of people and no longer felt lonely, knowing she was there, knowing her loneliness was abated by his presence as well. Together, they assuaged one another’s inward isolation.
Miss Farrow threw her head back and laughed at something her partner said, and Samuel faced his mother. “I will take my leave now. Good night, Mother.”
She sighed, evidently unable to find an argument for him to remain. “I shall see you at home.”
He called for his curricle and was on the road shortly after. The moon was waxing, growing brighter each evening and making it easier to see the lane ahead of him. He turned onto the High Street and pulled his reins, commanding his horses toslow to avoid the conveyance parked in the road. What the devil was Oliver’s carriage doing stopped in front of Marguerite’s shop?
Samuel slowed further, searching the windows as he passed, and saw all of them standing in the shop, Oliver holding a torch, and Ruth holding a candle. It was difficult to see from this distance, but Oliver’s countenance appeared grave. Samuel pulled his curricle in front of Oliver’s carriage and leaped to the ground. He caught the eye of Oliver’s groom. “Watch my pair too, eh?”
“Yes, gov.”
Samuel ambled toward the front door. The scene he found looked morose. Oliver held a doll out that seemed to have seen better days. Marguerite stared at it as though it was the specter of Queen Elizabeth, and Ruth held a candle carefully in both hands, glancing between them.
“This is a frightening scene,” Samuel said plainly.
All three of his friends startled. Marguerite glanced at him and let out a relieved sigh.
“You should not sneak up on people, Sam,” Ruth chastised, clicking her tongue.
“I didn’t. You are all acting as though…” He looked around the shop. “Has something awful occurred?”
Oliver looked at Marguerite, maintaining his silence. It was proof, however, that she had something to share, and he was leaving it up to her to do so.
