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Benedict felt restless. It had been two whole days since the disastrous meal at Sitwell Place, and it had not been as straightforward to wind up affairs as he had initially imagined. He had been with his legal man for a full morning giving his new instructions. The house on Winchester street was now viewable by appointment to prospective tenants. Edwards thought he already had someone lined up who might be interested in taking it for a twelvemonth.

Then, and only then, had he devoted his energies to breaking off his betrothal. He had called at Sitwell Place directly after lunch the next day and then spent all afternoon needling its inhabitants into a state of self-righteous ire. The inevitable explosion did not take place until almost supper time.

In truth, he had enjoyed prodding their sore spot and had informed them with malicious amusement that he knew the whereabouts of their cast-off niece. The rigid displeasure they displayed at this information alone would have informed him they thought the subject off limits, but ignoring all social cues, he forged ahead regardless, disparaging Reverend Milson’s character at every opportunity.

Finally, old Josiah had not been able to stand it any longer and had informed him stiffly that unless he could guarantee such sensitive topics would remain off his lips, then he would not be welcome to join them. Benedict had paused at this. “Not welcome at your supper table or as a member of your family, Mr. Anderson?” he had asked deliberately.

Josiah had bristled up at this lack of tact. “Why, as to that, sir, I must answer to either or both as you may choose to take it!” he had responded wrathfully.

Benedict had glanced then at Betsy, who had raised her chin in defiance. “And you, Betsy?” he asked thoughtfully. “Do you agree with your father’s sentiments?”

“You have been most offensive all afternoon, Benedict,” she had answered crossly, and he wasn’t sure she didn’t stamp her foot. Her ringlets jiggled with agitation. “How dare you lecture my parents on their duty! I declare the words you have spoken about Reverend Milson this day have wounded me quite beyond repair!”

Her mother had patted her hand indulgently. “There now, daughter. I am sure Mr. Toomes needs only a little nudge in the right direction to modify his behavior to that which would please you. He surely did not mean to cause us all such grievous offence.”

“Beyond repair?” Benedict repeated loudly as though Hester Anderson had not spoken. “I am inclined to believe you are right about that. Indeed, I am starting to think things are beyond repair myself.”

Betsy stared at him, open-mouthed. “You mean – ” The dawning comprehension in her eyes as he levelly met hers caused a spark of anger to ignite in their blue depths. Wrenching her hand from her mother’s, she groped at her finger for the engagement sapphire cluster ring he had given her. “Then, sir, I must return this to you forthwith!” she cried in a high dudgeon.

Calmly, Benedict had held out his hand, and she dropped it into his palm. He had closed his fingers around the ring and dropped it into his inner breast pocket before she could change her mind. Then with a brisk bow, he had turned on his heel and headed for the door.

Behind him, all had dissolved into chaos as Mrs. Anderson announced in a shrill voice that quivered. “Josiah, the invitations have all gone out! The disgrace!” There was the sound of a wail and a crash as the small occasional table was overturned. Josiah bellowed, but whether it was his wife or his daughter that had gone off in a swoon, Benedict found he neither knew nor cared.

He had wrenched the door open and found the maid crouched down listening at the keyhole. She straightened up and took a hasty step back to make way for him. Benedict grabbed his hat and coat and got outside of the house as fast as his legs could carry him. When he got to the top of the road, he thought he heard running footsteps, and someone call out ‘wait’. He did not even hesitate but had sharply turned right and not looked back.

Benedict slept soundly that night for the first time in a long while. The next morning, strangely enough, his thoughts had turned to Lizzie Anderson and wondering how she was faring under Mrs. Napps’ roof. He smiled grimly, doubting a shared room and likely a bedroll on the floor would be suiting her somehow. How the mighty had fallen!

After breakfast, he headed on impulse to an auctioneer house and spent the rest of the day viewing horses and wagons. He felt restless. The idea of upping sticks appealed to him. More and more his thoughts turned to Greenwich Fair and the red and white boxing booth that would stand proudly among the fluttering tents. Why should he not join his brothers there? What was to stop him?

One last season under the canvas would give him time enough to ponder his next move and find a buyer for his third of the business. He could hardly consider himself out until he had sold his share. As he walked around the wagons and carts, with a keen eye for a bargain, he found himself making his mind up. He would go to Greenwich. He would settle things with his brothers, and he would complete one last season on the fairs.

His shoulders felt all the lighter now he had made his decision, shed his fine house, and cut loose his fiancée. He was footloose and fancy-free. He was his own man again. He had sold the engagement ring that morning and wound up purchasing a sturdy Irish cob and a wagon with the proceeds. It had been lived in by farm laborers while travelling for work and was a bit beat up and tatty looking, but Benedict didn’t want anything showy or new for his last season. What was the point? He had no one to impress, and besides, it did not do to encourage folk to think you might have something valuable inside when you were leaving it unattended all day to work the booth. The previous owners even threw in some cast iron cooking utensils and pots, and he was satisfied he’d got himself a good buy.

The wagon had two large fixed wooden trunks to store everything away inside and a wooden bed frame of decent size. That afternoon, he bought a sprung mattress, new bedding, a basin and jug, a hurricane lamp, and a box of candles and thought himself well-equipped. Why then, did something niggle away in his mind telling him he had forgotten something?

It wasn’t until he lay abed that evening that he realized what nature the unfinished business was that tugged at his memory. Tomorrow was to be his wedding day. He doubted very much that anyone at Sitwell Place had thought to let the parson at St. Mary’s know the ceremony was no longer required. The Andersons had very much looked down on that humble church of red brick, so different to the austere gray stone of their beloved St. Joseph’s. At eleven o’clock, it was likely the vicar would don his cassock and look in vain for the bride and groom.

Once again, his thoughts turned to Lizzie Anderson. He would go and see her on the morrow and see how she was bearing up, he thought with cruel amusement. He smiled to himself, and it was not a particularly nice smile. She would likely be fit to drop by now, as the true hopelessness of her situation dawned on her. Or maybe not, he thought with a twinge of interest. She was no coward, to give her, her due. She would fight alright, and go down fighting to the death sooner than admitting defeat.

She was a scrawny, sanctimonious, holier-than-thou know-it-all, but craven was one thing Lizzie Anderson was not. He recalled how gamely she’d swung that tatty carpet bag of hers at her attacker’s head. She had not shrunk from confrontation as so many with her upbringing would. If he hadn’t been there, she would have suffered a nasty blow for her pains, but he doubted even that would have daunted her for long. No, she was not faint-hearted, he thought with a flicker of something he could not quite identify, as the clock struck midnight in the quiet house.

In fact, if she’d only agreed to take back her testimony against Reverend Milson, she could have remained in the familiar comfort of Sitwell Place. She must know that as well as anyone, but Lizzie Anderson would never retract a statement she knew to be true. Even on their slight acquaintance and despite the fact he did not like her, he knew this for a fact. She had faced down that table full of detractors and hypocrites with a stout heart, even though her face had been red and her expression dismayed.

Even under duress, she would not alter her story. Though it cost her, her home and her family and every friend she’d ever possessed, Lizzie Anderson would not tell a convenient lie. Unlike Betsy, who must know deep down that the precious reverend was guilty as sin and her flesh and blood quite blameless. Placing his hands behind his head, he pondered that two first cousins could be so unalike. One so full of grace and charm, the other full of piss and vinegar. They could not be more dissimilar.

Betsy and Lizzie. Lizzie and Betsy. Despite the obvious differences, their names were, in fact, the same, Elizabeth Anderson. He remembered once that Bets had told him both were named in memory of their shared paternal grandmother. A cog somewhere turned slowly in his brain. Elizabeth Anderson. The banns that had been read at St. Mary’s the last three weeks had been for Benedict Toomes and Elizabeth Anderson.

He sat up in bed, frowning into the dark. Why did that thought now strike him as significant? He was breathing hard, his brain racing as he let his mind run amok over the crazy scenario that now occurred to him. After all, why should he not substitute one bride for another? The vicar would likely not notice, especially if Lizzie wore a veil. She was a little taller than Bets, two years older, and her figure decidedly sparer, but again, in a dimly lit church, would the vicar make that distinction? Neither one of them were members of his regular congregation.

Benedict ran over the details they had given the clergyman at the time of their registering. Elizabeth Anderson, spinster of Sitwell Place, Pimlico, to marry one Benedict Toomes, bachelor of Winchester street, Clapham. That much would still be entirely factual, and none could say different. He doubted very much that any of the Andersons friends and acquaintances would turn up now. In fact, he was damn sure that among their circles precious little else would have been discussed for the past three days.

The church would likely be empty, and it would not be until signing the register that things such as their date of birth and parent’s names would be recorded. Ben fell back on his pillows. Had he gone stark raving mad? Or was he seriously considering suggesting Lizzie Anderson take her cousin’s place by his side at the altar?

His heart thudded in his chest at the prospect, though why that should be, he had not the faintest notion. He frowned. Having a wife in tow would fend off unwelcome questions from his brothers about what he had been doing with himself since he had been out of jail. He could use a new wife as a welcome deflection. Given what a thorn in his side Lizzie Anderson had been for the past couple of months, it would serve her right if he used her now for his own ends.

Didn’t she deserve some retribution for the many freezing looks and cold blasts of disapproval she had directed his way? An unholy gleam entered his eye. He wouldn’t be bored while he extracted his pound of flesh from her, that was for certain. If he meant to get her up the aisle, he would not have to mention how he intended to spend the next nine months. She would not like the wagon nor the noisy fairs, he reflected. Nor being the wife of a common fairground bruiser. He contemplated the prospect of her humiliation with some relish. But after all, what choice did she have left? Her own stiff-necked principles had left her wholly without future or prospects.

He stared up at the shadowy ceiling anticipating her reaction to his proposal and how he would counter every argument she might make. Because for some reason, it now seemed he was set on taking Lizzie Anderson to wife.