“I will be safe, Judy,” she said slowly. “I just need to find somewhere to stay tonight. I can travel by mail coach. That will be safe enough.” The mail coach would stop at inns along the way on the five-day journey northwards. The inns would be safe enough, particularly if she disguised her wealthy status by wearing ordinary clothes. “Would you know where I might stay? Somewhere safe?”
Judy took her hand, eyes pained. “Stay at Mrs. Brookham’s house,” she said swiftly. “It’s in King Street. It’s a boarding house that’s safe for women. My cousin worked there.”
Bernadette let out a breath. “Thank you.”
She asked Judy to repeat the address, or as much of it as she knew, and then wrapped an old shawl around her shoulders, disguising the good muslin of her chemisette. The money she would need for the journey she took from her monthly allowance, concealing her purse below the shawl. Then, lifting her travel case, she hugged Judy swiftly, blinking so that she would not cry, and hurried downstairs.
The street was quiet when she walked briskly down the steps outside the door, the air cold despite her shawl. The serviceable boots she wore clicked on the cobblestones and she hurried towhere the light from a torch bracketed to the wall would not reach her. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself. This was the most dangerous part.
“Hackney!” she called, holding up a hand as she heard horses’ hoofs. Her stomach knotted with fear. London—even Kensington—was not a safe place at night, not for a woman on her own. She let out a sigh of relief as the driver slowed and stopped.
“Where would you wish to be going, miss?” he asked, peering down at her. She blushed. A lady of any sort of reputation would not be on her own at night. He doubtless thought she was plying her trade in the wealthy houses and needed to get back to wherever she usually worked.
“King’s Street,” she said swiftly. “To Mrs. Brookham’s boarding house.”
The driver nodded, then jerked his head at the coach. “Ge’ yerself in, love,” he said with a strong Cockney flair. “It’s no’ safe out here.”
Bernadette nodded, needing no encouragement, and swung herself into the coach, setting her bag on the floor. She leaned back, eyes shut. Relief made her suddenly exhausted. The trickiest part of the journey was accomplished. She had escaped.
The streets became rowdier as they moved out of Kensington and into the poorer areas of London. Bernadette sent up a silent prayer of thanks for Judy and her useful advice. The information could make the difference between her surviving the journey or not. The streets outside the publichouse were lined with men shouting and laughing, and the sound made her shrink back against the wall of the coach in fear. Soldiers, drunk and weary, sang and laughed in the street and a watchman yelled at them to be quiet. Another man, sleeping in a doorway, cursed loudly in answer to his bellow.
The coach rolled down a long, wide street and then stopped.
“Here we are, love. Mrs. Brookham’s boarding house,” the driver said as he thoughtfully jumped down to open the door. Bernadette swallowed hard. It was dark in the street—by the light of the coach lanterns she could make out a brick building perhaps three floors high. It was on her left and she indicated it with a nod.
“That one?” she asked softly.
“Yes. The big brick one. Safe journey,” he added. “You owe me sixpence,” he remarked with a grin.
“Oh. Yes, of course,” Bernadette replied. She blushed, fumbling under her shawl, trying to retrieve the purse from where she’d tucked it into her bodice. He thoughtfully turned away and she found a sixpence and paid him, praying inwardly that nobody would round the corner of the street and see her, then hurried to the door, carrying her case in her hand. She stiffened as she heard footsteps, but when she turned around the driver was still waiting atop the coach until she went in. He was watching out for her. She knocked on the hard wood; breath held nervously.
“Who’s there?” A female voice demanded through the door. Bernadette swallowed hard.
“My name is Miss Rowland,” she said in a small, tight whisper. “I need lodgings for the night.”
“Oh. Well, then. Come in, do.” The woman’s voice changed instantly from hostile to kind. Bernadette let out a breath of relief as the door opened, and a pool of lamplight spilled into the street. She turned around as the driver got the coach moving, her heart flooding with gratitude for his kindness.
“Thank you,” she murmured as she stepped in over the threshold. She found herself in a narrow hallway, the walls plastered but unpainted. It was cold and she clutched her shawl around her, wishing she could have brought a cloak with her.
“I’ve a room upstairs you can use,” the woman told her. Bernadette assumed she was Mrs. Brookham, the owner. “It’s warm enough. Fees are six pence per night; a shilling with meals.”
“Thank you,” Bernadette said in a small voice. Mrs. Brookham was taller than her, with thick curly auburn hair covered by a cloth cap, a clean white shawl pulled tight about her shoulders. She had a soft face, but the expression in her eyes was shrewd rather than soft, her cheeks flushed from heat. Bernadette wondered if she had been working in the kitchen or the laundry—she was fully, and very modestly, dressed and clearly had not been sleeping.
“You can break your fast at six of the clock tomorrow,” Mrs. Brookham said kindly. “Now, get yourself upstairs. You’re almost asleep already.” She paused. “Room’s on the third floor.” She passed her a key, big and heavy-seeming.
Bernadette nodded. “Thank you,” she murmured again. She took the key Mrs. Brookham offered her and stumbled towards the stairway she indicated. She was on the landing of the attic floor when it occurred to her that she hadn’t asked which room was hers. She tried the key in the door in front of her, then in the next one to her left, and let out a sigh of relief when it turned.
Stumbling into the darkened space, she lay down on the bed, shutting her eyes almost at once. The room was warm—probably because the chimney formed part of the wall. Her thoughts wandered, skirting anything from the last few hours, and she was thinking about how close the boarding house might be to the Thames when she fell heavily asleep.
Chapter 25
Nicholas cursed aloud. The headlong ride down the street jarred his spine and jolted his weary head as they crossed the cobbled street.
“Hey! Not so fast,” a watchman yelled angrily. The man carried a lantern, and he swung round, trying to peer up at Nicholas, but his horse had already raced past, and Nicholas winced as they thundered up the pavement, heading up the London streets towards Kensington.
“Easy, easy,” he murmured, but his horse was racing, and he guessed it was his own tension that was making him run so fast. He leaned back, controlling his breathing. His horse started to slow. They were in Kensington, getting close to Rothendale House.
The street was empty. Nicholas felt his heart pound. It had been nine o’ clock when he’d raced from the ball, but it had taken him at least half an hour to firstly inform Lord and Lady Rothendale of their daughter being absent, who left straightaway. Then argue with his grandfather, ready his horse and ride from the townhouse, and at least another quarter of an hour to ride across town. He glanced around. The street was empty. Apart from a pine torch bracketed to the wall near the theater, there was no source of light.
