“How dare—”
She held up her hand again. “Really, Father, I’ve had a lifetime of shouting. And what you don’t seem to realize is that by casting me out you’ve given me the whip hand. You’re a clergyman, for goodness’ sake. Throwing your daughter out onto the street after she was accosted by a man—”
“Accosted by a man! That’s what you call throwing yourself at a man like that?”
For half a heartbeat, she wondered if he actually believed that. Then she decided it didn’t matter because he didn’t matter: she already knew he had neither loyalty to nor affection for her, and she was content to return the compliment. “Yes, Father. I call it that because that’s precisely what it is. And it’s precisely what everyone else will think when I tell them.” She wasn’t entirely sure about this. The sad fact was that women were seldom believed in these situations. But she was willing to call her father’s bluff. “To be perfectly clear, I plan to tell everyone—including Lord Malvern—that you threw me out after Mr. Tenpenny attempted to assault me. I’ll do it in the kindest possible way, you understand, warning ladies not to let themselves be approached by him, counseling mothers not to let him dance with their daughters. They’ll listen to me, because I’m the very picture of respectable spinsterhood. I’ll leave your name out of my story if you give me my dowry.”
“This is blackmail.”
“I truly don’t care what you call it, so long as you give me my money.”
When Alice had arrived at the vicarage, she hadn’t been certain whether her plan would work. She supposed it was possible her father really had drunk all his income or lost it at the card table. But she knew she had to try, to let her father know that he was in her power. Still, she had to school her face into an expression of indifference when her father brought a bankbook out from his desk and handed her a draft for fifty pounds.
“And the rest?” she asked.
“I’ll give you fifty pounds next year as well,” he said.
“You’ll make it out as an annuity. Fifty pounds annually, and then the balance of a thousand pounds to be paid on your death.” She nearly asked for interest. “I’ll take a promissory note to that effect, please. And,” she added, inspired, “understand that I’ll have my eyes on you. You’ll hire a proper servant—not an impressionable child—and you’ll pay her wages and treat her well. If I hear about any of your servants having so much as a paper cut, I’ll be at your bishop’s doorstep within the hour, and if the bishop doesn’t act promptly, I’ll come here myself. You’d much prefer the bishop,” she added darkly, in precisely the tone she had heard Molly use when scolding the young man in the street. “Do you understand me?”
She wasn’t even surprised when her father assented almost meekly.
She left the house with fifty pounds, a promissory note, and an underfed housemaid.
Chapter Nine
The problem with having spirited away the housemaid was that Alice didn’t know where to go. She could hardly return to Eastgate Hall with a scrawny urchin in tow—Mrs. Wraxhall was kind, but she was not the mistress of Eastgate Hall—but no more could she have left the girl in her father’s keeping. The girl needed feeding, however, so they walked to the nearest inn.
While the child—Patience—ate a shocking quantity of bread and cheese, and Alice had a medicinal quantity of sherry, Alice formulated a plan. She dashed off a note to Mrs. Wraxhall, assuring her she was well, but in possession of a child who needed bathing and looking after, and that if Mrs. Wraxhall would be so kind as to send Alice’s belongings to—
That was where Alice’s plan got a little hazy. The London house was closed up, empty except for those servants who had no family to visit during their holiday. Alice could afford one night at this inn, a new frock for Patience, and then the stagecoach journey back to London, but where would she go? And how would Molly know where to find her?
There really was only one answer. There was only one place in the world where Alice knew Molly would return. Part of her wanted to make Molly see her out. That way if Molly wanted to abscond with the diamond, then Alice would never need to know about it. Instead she could remember the way Molly had looked at her and know that even for a short time, Molly had wanted her, had valued her, no matter what happened afterward.
But that was cowardice. Not only cowardice, but an insult to both Molly and herself. Alice had to have faith that Molly would keep her word, that she valued Alice more than she valued a diamond pin.
Alice finished writing the rest of the letter.
It was evening the next day when they arrived in London, and it took quite a bit of winding through unfamiliar streets before Alice found the house where Molly’s little girl boarded.
Mrs. Fitz, carrying Katie on her hip, remembered Alice from her visit last month, and let her into the tiny sitting room.
“Thank you,” Alice said. “Am I correct that you let rooms? My maid and I need to board somewhere for a fortnight, and the friend I had been living with is in the country.”
The older woman looked at her shrewdly, taking in the fine wool of her gown and the kid leather of her boots, then examining Patience, who had been scrubbed, combed, and dressed in a clean frock. “You can have my spare room for two shillings a week, supper with me and Katie included.”
In the stagecoach from Norfolk, Alice had studied advertisements for boarding houses and knew that this price was on the steep side, but not quite highway robbery, so she assented.
“Just sit there while I fetch you some tea,” Mrs. Fitz said, gesturing to a chair next to the fire. “Your maid can make up your bed.”
“I can hold Katie, if you like,” Alice offered.
“Thank you, my dear,” Mrs. Fitz said. “She’s just at the age where she can’t be let alone for a minute.”
The girl came to Alice willingly, but seemed more interested in untying Alice’s bonnet ribbons than in anything else. Her progress was impeded by something she was clutching in her hand. It was a piece of white linen, or at least it had been white at some point but now was gray with grime. But beneath the dirt, Alice could make out flowers that looked impossibly familiar.
“She won’t let me take it away to wash,” Mrs. Fitz said, poised in the doorway. “Even though she has four just like it, that’s the one she wants. She sleeps with it clutched in her hand.”
“Let me see that,” Alice asked, her voice strained. This couldn’t be what she thought it was. Molly had sold her handkerchiefs over a month ago and had given her the proceeds.
