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Lizzie opened her mouth to refute this offensive claim when he tugged the cap he wore on more firmly and shook the reins. “Let her have her head,” he called to the youth.

The lad sprang back, and then with a lurch, they were away. Lizzie gave a small screech and scrabbled to grab at Benedict’s arm. With her other hand, she reached for her bonnet, despite the fact she knew the ribbons to be firmly tied. Once she had a tight grip of both husband and bonnet, she felt a little better. His arm was so solid with muscle that she could not fail to feel securely tethered.

It was not until they reached the end of the street and swung out to turn into the next that Lizzie managed to relax her clutching fingers. She was surprised he had voiced no objection to her death grip, she reflected in embarrassment, though she could not bring herself to thank him for his forbearance.

Soon, Lizzie’s eyelids were drooping, despite her precarious perch. The clip-clop of the horse’s hooves was strangely soothing, and they were moving at such a sedate pace that the jolting of the wagon hardly jarred her at all. The cumbersome size and shape of the little house on wheels no doubt accounted for this, but even so, she was profoundly grateful for the fact Benedict Toomes was not reckless at the reins.

“Lizzie!”

Hearing her name so sharply spoken, Lizzie straightened up with a gasp. “What is it?” she mumbled.

“How much sleep did you get last night?”

Lizzie reddened. “Not more than three hours,” she admitted. “I had too much sewing to do for sleep.”

“Well you can’t sleep here,” he admonished. “Get along into the back.”

“What do you mean?” she glanced over her shoulder at the door.

“There’s a bed in there,” he said. “Go and get your head down for a couple of hours.”

“A bed?” she blurted in surprise, before realizing she was repeating his words again.

“Aye, go and get in it.” She stared at him stupidly for a moment before she managed to collect herself. “Reach up and open the door,” he instructed, “and then crawl in on your hands and knees.”

Lizzie gave herself a little shake and then reached up to open the little green door. It swung inwards and she turned about, placing her palms inside the door and then inching forward until she could swing her legs up onto the footboard. It felt vastly undignified, and she did not dare glance at Benedict Toomes. More than likely he got an eyeful of her petticoats in the scramble.

She had barely managed to maneuver herself inside when he yelled at her to close the door. Lizzie scrambled to her knees and did so maintaining a dignified silence. Once inside, she gazed about her with bemusement. As both windows were covered, the interior was dimly lit, and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the gloom. She could make out a bed and what looked like two large trunks.

Staying on her knees, for she did not trust the motion of the wagon would make a reliable floor, she made for the bed. To her surprise, she could feel fresh, clean sheets already made it up. Climbing onto it, she removed her cloak, bonnet and shoes, set them on the top of one of the large trunks, and then rolled onto her side, letting her weary eyes drift shut.

When next she woke, she realized immediately that they had come to a halt. She blinked a moment, rolled onto her back, and gazed up at the wooden roof above her. They must have arrived at whatever destination Benedict Toomes had intended. But why had he not roused her from her sleep?

She sat up and peered around her at the strange surroundings. She could hardly believe this wooden box with windows was his house. Betsy would have been appalled to find this as her new home, she reflected. As for herself, living in two shabby rooms with the six Napps and their four apprentices had taught her to be grateful for any roof over her head, however strange.

Tentatively, she set her foot over the edge of the mattress onto the floor and took a step. In her stockinged feet she tiptoed over to the covered window and, lifting one edge of the sacking, peered out.

To her astonishment, the sight that met her eyes was a great open field full of wagons and tethered horses and campfires. The field beyond in the distance seemed to be full of what she thought at first were canvas sails flapping in the wind, like little boats bobbing in the sea.

Had he brought her to the coast, she wondered with a lurch of excitement? Her aunt had once been persuaded to take a rest cure at Brighton after a bout of influenza, but Lizzie had not been permitted to accompany her. Then she frowned. Surely, they were not boats, but rather tents.

Then she remembered he had said they were going to Greenwich, not the seaside. Greenwich at Easter, she thought, piecing the puzzle together distractedly, when suddenly she let out a gasp. Surely, he could not have meant the infamous Greenwich Fair?

Her heart thudded as her spirits plummeted to her stockinged feet. Oftentimes, she had heard her uncle holding forth on the immorality and excesses of those springtime revels. No woman of respectability, he had always intoned gravely, would permit herself to be escorted to such a bacchanalia of wickedness. Of course, at the time, Lizzie had never thought there would be the slightest chance of her ever attending.

A sudden knock on the side of the wagon almost made her cry out with alarm.

“Lizzie, come out, my family’s here to meet with you,” called out her new husband’s voice.

Lizzie froze. His family? She did not recall Betsy ever mentioning that he even had one. Pausing only to shove her feet back into her ankle boots, she crossed to the door, squared her shoulders, and swung it open.

“Here she is, my four-day bride,” Benedict said in an expressionless voice, and Lizzie felt her color rise. Stood on either side of him were two men between whom she could see bore a very strong family resemblance to Benedict. They stood looking her over critically, Lizzie thought. Rather as if she were a mare one of them had bought at a horse fair.

When she stood hovering on the footboard, one of them was moved to speech. “Nay, lass, don’t be shy,” said the one stood to Benedict’s right who sported a fine pair of sideburns. “We’re your new brothers-in-law. I’m Frank and this here is Jack,” he said motioning to the third brother who had a moustache. Other than the facial hair, their coloring was like her husband’s, with their tanned skin and curling brown hair. Like him, they were tall and wore dark breeches and waistcoats, their shirt collars open at the neck.

“Cat got her tongue?” Jack asked rudely, sticking his hands in his pockets and looking at Benedict rather than to her.

Benedict smirked. “She’s usually got plenty to say for herself,” he said coming forward and, seizing her about the waist, swung her down onto the ground.