Sleepless in Southampton by Chasity Bowlin

Chapter Two

“What do you mean dead?”

“I mean just that, Miss. Dead. Dead as a doornail. Ashes to ashes and all that bit,” the small rather puckish man offered with a slightly elfin grin. As he did so, he raised an apple to his chest and attempted to polish it on his shirt. It appeared that he deposited more dirt than he removed. Standing in the elegant doorway of Lady Parkhurst’s townhome, he looked remarkably out of place. Which begged the question, who had hired such a man? Surely it had not been the very discriminating Lady Parkhurst!

Sophie stared at him for a moment longer, willing the words to make sense. She’d been hired by a dead woman. Well, no. She’d been hired by a woman who had subsequently died. But the particulars of that did nothing to improve her current situation. She was miles and miles from London on the promise of a position that apparently no longer existed. There was not a soul in Southampton she could call on to ask for assistance. And she’d told Effie she would be fine.

“But I’ve come all this way. She hired me to be her companion!” Sophie protested, as much to the fates as to the poorly chosen caretaker in front of her. She’d braved the public coach, though really it had not been the ordeal she’d imagined it might be thanks to Mr. Meredith and his delightful company. Still, her nerves about it had been quite real and quite distressing.

“Well, won’t be much in need for company now will she? Nor, dare I say, would you have wanted to join her where she’s gone off to!” The little man cackled at that, thought about it for a moment, became even more amused at his own witticism and then cackled harder. When he’d managed to stop slapping his knee in amusement and his laughter had died away to a sort of wheezing, gasping rattle of a cough, he added, “Wicked old bird, she was. No one’ll be missing her. I reckon you dodged it, all right. Shame you’ve come all this way for nothing though.”

It wasn’t a shame. It was a catastrophe. A calamitous confluence of events that she might one day laugh about, but not this day. Nor likely any of the days that would immediately follow. This was the sort of very costly and very difficult situation that it would take years to appreciate the absurdity of, if ever. Shaking her head, Sophie began mentally calculating exactly how many coins she had remaining in her reticule. Would she even be able to pay the fare to get her back to London? To buy food while she waited for the public coach? A glance at the darkening sky was only a confirmation of yet more difficulties. It would be night soon and she was alone.

“Of course, I suppose there’s other types of work for a girl like you,” he offered suggestively. “Bit plain, but you’ll do.”

“I’m a lady’s companion. Or a governess. Those are the only positions that I would ever consent to,” Sophie stated firmly. She didn’t fully grasp what the man was implying but it was very clear to her that he was implying something.

“Can’t be a companion to a dead woman,” he remarked. Then, once again finding himself humorous, he cackled loudly. “Well, you can if you like, I guess! Might as well be a dead woman I’m cuddling up with my wife!”

“I’m sorry, but what are you talking about?” Sophie demanded.

“You can hear, can’t you?” the man asked. “Wouldn’t be much of a companion if you were deaf! She’s gone off to meet her maker, love, whether that be above or below. No work for you here now! Not the sort you’re interested in no ways.”

Sophie just stared at him. “But… I’ll need transportation back to London.”

“I need a miracle to cure my aching back and for my wife to be struck mute. We all needs things, Miss. Don’t rightly mean we’ll get them,” he chortled, clearly amused by his own low witticisms.

“Surely you can at least provide transport given the nature of the situation? I traveled here on good faith expecting a paid position,” she reasoned, but softened her blunt words with a smile, hoping to appeal to his higher sensibilities. Assuming he had them.

“No can do, Miss. Wish I could help, but it’s done for. Carriage she used has already been sold off on orders of the executioner of her estate.”

“Executor,” Sophie corrected automatically.

“What I said,” the man snapped, his puckish face now appearing quite belligerent as he crossed his arms over his chest and glowered at her.

“What am I to do? Perhaps you could reach out the executor of her estate and ask for assistance on my behalf?” she suggested.

“I could ask a hundred times and a hundred times that blighter’d say no. You’re on your own here, Miss. No transportation to be provided, I’m afraid! Next stage leaves in the morning and you’ll have to wait at the inn with the rest of the travelers!”

In the morning.After she, an unmarried woman whose livelihood depended on her ability to maintain a sterling reputation, spent the night at an inn without any sort of chaperone. “Sir, you must understand, I came here to be employed as a companion, but I am not the sort of young woman who would simply sit overnight in the common room of an inn. I’m a graduate of the Darrow School!”

At that, his expression hardened. “Well, you ain’t exactly the sort that can afford to do otherwise, now are you? The inn, Miss, or the street. Choice be yours.”

“Those are my only options?”

Apparently he wasn’t completely without sympathy, despite his earlier suggestions about what other positions she might be suited to. “The inn is your only option. Girl like you can’t be on the street. It can be a rough town here if you’re not careful. Take a right at the corner and keep walking until you see the church. The inn is just beyond it!”

With that, the elegantly carved door was closed in Sophie’s face with a resounding thud. If she were given to fits of hysterics or flights of fancy, she could imagine that it was the very sound of all future doors closing in her face when it was discovered that her reputation was not above reproach. All of Effie’s dire warnings about how important it was to always maintain the appearance of being a lady in public, even if they were only governesses and companions, all came rushing back in a veritable cacophony in her mind. She’d promised Effie she was ready, promised her that she could make her way alone in the world. Now she would have to return home, to the Darrow School, with her tail tucked like a whipped dog. And that was on the presumption that she could even get home!

Sophie sniffed, her eyes suspiciously damp. But she wouldn’t cry. Crying was pointless. It only wasted time and energy and left her with an aching head, a splotchy face and a red nose. Instead, she’d focus on doing what was required to get herself safely back to London with as little impropriety as possible.

No one knows you. Just because your name is Sophia Upchurch doesn’t mean you have to tell anyone it is. Women and men alike have certainly assumed identities for less honorable purposes than simply preserving their reputations. Use your head, Sophie.

It was as if Effie herself were speaking to Sophia. She could hear the dry and slightly amused tone of the other woman’s voice almost as if they were having an actual conversation rather than her own fevered imaginings leading her down a rosy path.

“I will be Miss Sophia Darlington,” she decided, whispering the new moniker aloud as if to make it more real. “No. Mrs. Sophia Darlington. A widow. NO! Not a widow. People might ask what he died of and then what would I say? No. He’s working in the city and I’m traveling to London to join him. Yes! I can make do. I can get through this without ruining my reputation and my employment prospects,” she declared, talking to herself. If the little man on the other side of the door had heard her, there was no indication of it. Just as well. Glancing down at the bags stacked by her feet, Sophie gave a weary sigh. It was only two valises but they’d be terribly heavy to carry for a long way. Still, she could hardly leave them on the doorstep.

Baggage in hand, Sophie turned and climbed carefully down the steps, following the man’s very vague directions on how to get back to the inn. She had very little in the way of funds, having been extravagant and hiring a hack to bring her from the coaching inn to Lady Parkhurst’s home. It would be a miracle if she had enough to see her back to London, and that was if she didn’t eat or drink anything between now and then. But she had no position. The letters of reference that had been written for her, one from Effie and one from Lady Broadmore, for whom she’d worked for a short time in town, filling in for another of Effie’s students, were locked away amongst Lady Parkhurst’s things, or heaven forbid, simply discarded as unimportant by the executor that had handled her estate. She had no references, no position, limited funds, and no prospects.

As if to punctuate the dire nature of her current circumstances, at that very moment, the heavens opened and a rain began to fall. It was cold enough to make her doubt that it was June. It splashed against the paving stones with such force that it seemed almost as if it were raining up and down at the same time. Surely such a rain could only fall in the midst of a harsh winter?

Sophie sighed, hitched her bags a bit higher, noting that the longer she carried them the heavier they felt, and marched on. As she did so, the street narrowed. The houses took on a less affluent appearance. The stone exteriors were no longer shiny and new, but stained with age and soot. There was an occasional gap in the shutters and bits of refuse on the street. Had she gone the wrong way? She must have gotten turned around leaving Lady Parkhurst’s and gone the opposite direction she should have.

“It will be all right,” she told herself, as she turned about and headed back the way she had come. “It is difficult now, but in two days’ time, I will be back in my comfortable room at the Darrow School and Effie will know exactly what to do.”

And then a tiny form barreled into her, sending Sophie and her bags crashing to the wet paving stones as her arms pinwheeled about her. She was too off-center, her balance beyond precarious, and Sophie went down hard, her backside connecting with the hard edge of the stone stairs of the house behind her and her head smacking against an iron railing.

Before she could even catalog her injuries or take stock of her damaged property, the child who had bumped into her reached down, snatched up her fallen reticule and made off with it. The little beast moved so quickly she had no hope of catching him. Or her. She honestly didn’t even know if it was a boy or girl. What she did know was that it was a disaster… a complete and utter disaster.

Half.Half her funds were in the reticule. The other half had been hidden in one of her valises which had thankfully been left behind. Still, it would not be enough to see her safely back to London. It wouldn’t get her anywhere. What on earth was she to do?

*

Henry was sippingan ale, still waiting for his cousin to arrive. He’d been assured by his cousin that Julian would be at the Duke of Wellington Inn. Horace had even shown him the last letter from the boy with that as his direction and every indication in the letter that he would be there for some time to come. Why the task of putting the boy on the straight and narrow had fallen to him when he was only a few years Julian’s senior was anyone’s guess. Though truthfully, Henry had been inheriting tasks and being volunteered for the duties no one else in the family wanted for years. And those tasks were many. That particular branch of the family were two things—incredibly stupid and incredibly fertile. They managed to produce one generation after another of utter imbeciles who courted disaster and ruin at every turn and each generation was significantly more numerous than the last.

Julian had inherited a rather particular brand of stupidity. He’d bet on anything. Literally, anything. And always, it was met with disastrous and expensive results. The boy was on the verge of ruin. He’d already squandered his allowance and was living off credit from friends.

A glance at his watch produced a sigh from Henry. He could not wait much longer. There was no sign of Julian. And there was every possibility that Julian was not there at all. If the boy thought he was in trouble, he might have tried to conceal his true location to avoid consequences. His cousin needed to take himself straight to London, beg his father’s forgiveness and pray that he could get back into University before his future was utterly ruined. But that required Julian to do the thing he was already struggling with—behaving responsibly.

The truth, of course, was that his current mood had very little to do with his would-be wastrel cousin or his other problematic relations. It had far more to do with the lovely young woman he’d met on the public coach that morning. A woman that, by his own albeit unintentional design, he could never see again. He had lied to her. He had presented her with a, not necessarily fabricated but certainly heavily edited, false identity.

He had, by the time the coach had reached its stop in Southampton, elected to tell her the truth and beg her forgiveness. He’d wanted to arrange to call on her. But in the bustle and turmoil with debarking and boarding of other passengers, just as the mail coach pulled in, he’d lost sight of her. He’d searched the common rooms and discovered, much to his dismay, that Miss Upchurch was nowhere to be found. She’d hired a hack and taken herself off to the home of her employer, as it should be. Still, he regretted not having a chance to set things right before she left. It would only make it even more impossible if their paths crossed again.

Perhaps, he thought, he could write to her at Lady Parkhurst’s and confess the truth of his identity. How on earth was he to explain it all? Oh, by the way, I lied to you from the moment of our first introduction. It hardly boded well for any future interactions. Of course, the option remained to continue embellishing the truth and he could compound one lie with others. He could tell her that he’d only recently come into the title and was not yet accustomed to using it. But the more lies told multiplied the risk of discovery, not to mention that it simply didn’t sit well with him, so that was not a favorable option. His lark had turned into something quite complicated.

“Damn it all,” he muttered to himself. She was the first girl he’d met since he’d come into the title who held any interest for him. And perhaps it was because he knew her shy, flirtatious smiles had been directed at the man and not the impending dukedom, but he found himself wishing fervently that he might see that smile again. He would have to find some way to repair the damage he’d inadvertently wreaked and find some way to further his acquaintance with Miss Upchurch. Based on things he had heard from her during their journey, he knew that his deception would not be easily forgiven. She was a forthright person to whom subterfuge was clearly foreign.

Determined to take some sort of action, whatever it might be, Henry was preparing to leave, had even gone so far as to get up from his seat and gather his coat and hat when the door opened. He couldn’t say what it was that prompted him to turn and look, to see who it was that had invaded the small inn at that moment. Some last minute hope, perhaps, that Julian hadn’t been fabricating everything he’d written to his father to avoid the consequences of his actions, but that was unlikely.

It’s because you are looking for her.The little voice whispering in his mind was more honest than he cared to admit. From the moment he’d parted ways with Miss Upchurch, he had been looking for her. Every second in her company had been a stolen bit of joy. Their short journey had been too brief for his liking and he’d have loved nothing more than to spend another few hours in her company. Or days. Or perhaps even weeks.

And it appeared his wish was to be granted, at least on some level. Standing in the doorway, disheveled and dirty, it appeared that in the course of seeking out her employer, Lady Parkhurst, she’d encountered some of Southampton’s more unsavory elements. It wasn’t the same as London, but it was a port town and there were always risks. Worried for her, Henry’s heart was pounding in his chest as his gaze swept over her, searching for injury.

“Miss Upchurch,” he called, rushing forward to relieve her of her bags. “You are injured!”

She looked at him, a mixture of relief and embarrassment on her face and a hint of tears in her pretty blue eyes. “Oh, Mr. Meredith, how happy I am to see you. I have taken a rather nasty fall but I am not really hurt… unless one considers the serious blow to my pride that is about to occur. I’m so grateful you are here, sir!”

“What happened?” he asked as he ushered her toward the table he’d just recently vacated. There was a small bit of blood on her forehead, more of a scrape than a cut, and her gloves were scuffed and dirty from the pavement no doubt.

“I’ve come all this way for nothing,” she whispered, her voice quavering. As she uttered it, her lower lip trembled slightly.

It was heartbreaking to see the positive and vivacious girl he’d met on the stage be brought so very low. “Surely it can’t be all that bad? Tell me. Perhaps we can, between the two of us, identify a solution to your problems.”

“Lady Parkhurst is dead,” she stated. “I have no position.”

Relieved that it wasn’t something worse, he smiled encouragingly. “Well, that isn’t so terrible.”

She blinked at him in confusion. “Of course it is! I’ve left London and my friends and my school and come all this way, and for nothing. She’s dead. I have no position. And my letters of recommendation have likely been tossed into the rubbish bin by whoever is executing her estate!”

“Well, that is worse,” he agreed. “But it is not an insurmountable setback. We can rectify this. I vow it.”

Her face crumpled then and tears rolled freely down her cheeks. “And now, I’ve been robbed and I do not even have the coin required to get back to London with any hint of respectability. Should I manage to get back to London safely, if word of this reaches any prospective employer they will refuse me on the spot!”

It was bad. It was very bad, but it wasn’t insurmountable. “There are other positions,” he offered, attempting to be cheerful. It was difficult in the face of her utter setdown.

“But not without references which are amongst Lady Parkhurst’s belongings and now completely inaccessible to me. I’ll never obtain any sort of respectable position without proper references and with such limited experience. Certainly, Effie will write another letter for me, but it’s just—I told her I was ready, you see? I told her that I was perfectly capable of making it in the world on my own. And if this debacle of a journey has shown me one thing with any certainty, I am not. I’m a terrible failure at being an independent woman of the world.”

He could help her. It would cost him greatly, Henry thought, but he could make all of her problems simply go away. He could get her a position, but not without disclosing the truth to her. He was not simply Mr. Meredith, but Viscount Marchwood, heir to the Duke of Thornhill. Would she hate him for it? Would she think him some sort of cad for lying to her? Would she ever trust anything he said to her again afterward? He’d been contemplating how best to tell her the truth, if he should tell her the truth, and it appeared that decision had been taken entirely out of his hands.

He looked at her again and saw the fear and desperation she felt. Did it really matter in the end how it affected him? He couldn’t let her face the kind of ruin she mentioned. He certainly couldn’t leave her alone and without any sort of guidance or protection in a strange city. Her opinion aside, that truly would make him a cad.

“What would you say if I told you that I can offer you a very respectable solution to your problem?” Henry asked.

“I would say you are a miracle worker, Mr. Meredith,” she answered tearfully.

Henry signaled to the innkeeper. “A meal please, for me and the young lady… and a pot of tea.”

“Aye, my lord,” the innkeeper answer back.

“Oh, you should correct him! He would be so embarrassed to address you incorrectly, but I imagine it will only be worse if allowed to continue,” Miss Upchurch said.

“He’s quite correct in his form of address, Miss Upchurch… I was not entirely honest with you when I introduced myself on the coach,” Henry admitted.

She frowned, her pretty lips turning down slightly at the corners and a hint of confusion shining in her eyes. “Then you are not Mr. Meredith?”

“I am Henry Meredith,” he answered. “But I am not simply Mr. Henry Meredith. I am Lord Henry Meredith, as a matter of fact. Viscount Marchwood at your service, Miss Upchurch.”

“Viscount?” she asked, her eyes wide and her lower lip trembling. “You are a viscount and—why on earth would you hide such a thing?”

“Have you never wanted to be someone else, Miss Upchurch? Even if just for a day?”

“I am, at best, the discarded bastard of a wealthy man whose name I do not even know. If not that, just a child abandoned by those who couldn’t be bothered to care for it,” she said. “I have wanted to be someone different every day of my life, but I have never lied about it or hidden it from someone intentionally. Though, to be perfectly honest, I was considering using a false name here at the inn to preserve my reputation.”

“So you do understand?”

She was shaking her head. “No. Not really. Why would you wish it? You are a man free to do as you choose without reprisal! And not only a man, but one with power and position. Why would you deny that? Why would you ever wish to be anyone else?”

In those terms, Henry couldn’t fathom it himself. “It doesn’t matter. Except that I am in a position to assist you. I am here to visit with my relatives, the Duke and Duchess of Thornhill and their daughter, Philippa. She is sickly and the sea air helps her tremendously. Her governess has retired and I know she is very lonely. I think having a companion for Philippa, someone who is close to her own age, would be wonderful for her. If you will trust me to do so, I will speak to my aunt and uncle and arrange things for you. You will be our guest and a companion of sorts to Philippa until you can reach your Miss Darrow and make other arrangements.”

“Why?”

“Why what?” he asked.

“Why are you helping me? We are practically strangers. In truth, given your deception at our introduction, we are strangers. So why?”

Because I can’t bear to see you walk away from me again.He didn’t say that, of course. How could he when she was so justifiably mistrustful of him? “Because it is the right thing to do.”

“That is your second lie, my lord,” she replied. “People in your position in society—well, they are rarely bothered with people from my position. Right or wrong.”

Her expression revealed her dismay It also revealed no small amount of disappointment. If there was any question that he had permanently damaged things between them, then her expression laid that doubt to rest.

Henry shrugged, belying just how much her response meant to him. “I told you my name but withheld my title because pretending, even for a day, to be someone else, was freeing. I never thought I’d—well, it doesn’t matter.” How could he possibly explain it to her? The weight of expectations on him, of people who were forever dependent upon him for decisions and guidance, became oppressive over time. But the woman before him had no one. It certainly provided perspective on his own situation. “Please, Miss Upchurch, let me help you.”

“Do I have any other choice?”

No, she didn’t. They both knew it. And it would forever alter things between them, he recognized. His lark, his need to have an adventure had put the perfect woman in his path, and he’d destroyed it with dishonesty.