He wondered again about Lady Emma. Could he be both with her ladyship? It was no wonder she was so frightened: She had been twice denied her memories, first, with Lady Donoghue’s absence from her life, and then, with the beating she had sustained. Emma had had no “Elsbeth” to set her feet on the right path.
Richard asked, “Who should we approach regarding Miss Babbington when we reach Palmer’s Crossing?”
“I am thinking we should speak to the local watchman,” Duncan said. “If nothing less, someone noted a hackney driver from Hornsey, though, when we describe Miss Babbington, someone will know of whom we speak. Obviously, if the chit travels regularly to London to speak out against disenfranchisement, she is equally as vocal in Palmer’s Passage.”
When they steppeddown from the original carriage, Emma thought perhaps she could run or signal for assistance, but Miss Babbington kept a gun at Emma’s side as they left the original coach. They walked perhaps a mile in silence before they came to one of the busier streets in the small town. Under different circumstances, Emma would have enjoyed exploring the small shops with Lady Theodora at her side.
“Do not think it,” her companion warned.
“I was not,” Emma assured. “I was thinking how delightful it would be to enjoy the shops with a friend.”
“But not with me,” her traveling companion accused.
“There was a time I thought we were friends,” Emma admitted.
“But not sisters,” the woman countered. “Not someone with whom you dared to share your position in society or your clothes or your meals.”
“They were not mine to share,” Emma declared. “They belong to my father. Despite your apparent relationship with my mother, nothing at Donoghue House belongs to her. English law could place us both in gaol if I gave away part of Lord Simon Donoghue’s property. Even if Lady Maria Donoghue did so, she could be equally charged with theft. Women have no legal rights:Such was our cause. It was why we stood before earls and barons and viscounts and even dukes to demand they see women as more than property.”
“Grow up, Emma,” the woman hissed. “We were there to draw attention to our lots. You were the only one who really thought we hoped for enfranchisement.”
“I was not,” Emma declared righteously. “I know others believe as I do. Women should be treated with more respect.”
“You think your precious Lord Orson will treat you as more than simple property?” her sister snarled. “Just do yourself a favor and swallow your righteousness,” she ordered as she raised her hand to hail another hackney. “Do not think of alerting the driver. At this range, a bullet can tear a hole through your insides.”
Obediently, when the coach stopped before them, Emma opened the carriage door and set down the dangling steps. Placing her foot on the first rung, she hoisted herself into the box and turned to sit on the backwards-facing seat. It was then that a more recent memory arrived. It was the sound of Lord Orson’s voice, assuring her and reminding her that she was not alone. He was carrying her away from the chaos of Covent Garden while whispering that she finally had an ally. A protector. A friend.And perhaps soon, a husband and the father of my children, her mind announced.
Looking to her so-called sister, Emma realized in order to have it all, she had to survive this encounter. She could no longer be the victim—no longer depend upon others to rescue her: She must assist in gaining her freedom. Once her sister also stepped into the carriage, Emma demanded, “Did you do this to me?” as she moved her hair to the side to expose more of the cuts upon her cheeks and temples.
No immediate response came, but her carriage mate stared at her with what Emma would call apprehension. “What doyou want?” Emma continued. “And do not tell me the yellow sapphires, for I have no idea where to search for them. I will pay you to take your tale of woe and go away. Leave me be, and I shall leave you and your stratagems to reside elsewhere.” A long silence followed Emma’s challenge.
At length, a bit of laughter finally slipped over her sister’s lips, followed closely by a mocking salute as the coach rolled forward. Relationships did not matter to her coachmate. The threat was real, and Emma would likely be called upon to create her own opportunities to know freedom. Now, she had the backbone to do just that. Next, she must claim the chance to do so.
“And you areconfident this Mr. Clements took up two women, one dressed in a light blue gown?” Duncan asked. They had stopped where three hackney drivers had congregated along the main street in Hornsey.
“Aye, my lord. We’ve all seen the one not in blue previously. Many of those from London won’t carry passengers even as far as Hornsey. Those who regularly depend upon transportation to and from London proper speak of changing coaches, at least two, sometimes three, times.”
Another of the men said, “The two ladies came walking up from the main road. The plainer one raised her hand, and the one in blue crawled into Clements’s coach.”
“Do any of you know the ladies’ destination?” Duncan asked as he pressed a shilling in each man’s hand.
“Palmer’s Passage. I have driven the woman there upon several occasions. Near the end of the road. Next to the last house. Set back a bit from the road. Small cottage. Not a terracehouse. Fence about it. Three windows along the front. Most would only have one or two. Appears more prosperous.”
The last fewmiles to her destination had proven to be a wet, stained world as Emma looked out of the scratched glass of the let carriage. Hues of brown covered everything visible by moonlight, and a chill crept into the already dreary interior of the carriage. Drops of rain dripped from the eaves of all the buildings they passed, and as dark shadows reached across the road—the trees’ top branches were tangled together, creating a drape holding back the downpour—the tapping of raindrops on the coach ceasing momentarily. Even so, odors of damp soil and molding leaves crept into the closed carriage.
If she could have her wish, Emma would curl up in a ball and sleep, but such would be too dangerous with her present company holding a gun on her. She wanted to tell herself all this was a nightmare, but Emma knew otherwise. The threat was real. Her “sister” was real. The terror was real, so real the air she breathed felt as if she shared it with the Devil himself.
