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That hollow futility flashed in the girl’s eyes. “I haven’t given it any thought. In truth,” she added in a voice so tiny it was barely audible. “I’m not sure it matters.”
Daphne blocked her path. “It matters to me.” She rushed on, desperate to intercede in a way she’d never before been allowed. “What is your name?”
“Sarah.”
“And your surname?”
“Cooke.” The maid took up her bag, surveying Daphne with wary candor. “Ma’am, I don’t mean to sound rude, but why would you care about my name? Or about me, for that matter?”
Sarah. At last. A name to put to the face. The identity of the girl, until now unknown, had, at last, been revealed.
Perhaps the fates are offering me another chance, Daphne mused, the wondrous prospect infusing her heart with joy and hope. Twelve years before she’d been her father’s prisoner, a child herself, unable to reach out to the little girl who’d stared with terrified mistrust, clutched her doll as if it were her very lifeline.
Now, Daphne was free.
With the help of fate—and Pierce—Sarah would be, too.
“ ’Tis not the first time we’ve met,” Daphne began carefully, praying for the right words, knowing she’d have but this one opportunity to extend her hand.
Sarah inclined her head. “You must be mistaken. You’re a lady. I’m a maid. Besides, I’ve only been at Benchley for two months.”
“And before that?”
“Before that I worked in a tavern. I doubt you’d know it by name. The east end of London is hardly an area you’d frequent.”
“Sarah,” Daphne closed the door, leaning back against it. “We haven’t much time, so I’ll be blunt. My husband is the Duke of Markham.”
An intrigued spark of recognition flashed in Sarah’s eyes.
“I see you’ve heard some of the gossip,” Daphne responded. “Residing with Lord and Lady Benchley, I rather assumed you had. So you know Pierce’s title is newly acquired.”
“I’ve heard only that he was a wealthy commoner and now he’s a wealthier duke,” Sarah replied carefully.
“A commoner of questionable parentage,” Daphne clarified.
“Yes.”
“His childhood was a nightmare, Sarah. A living hell that no one in that ballroom could possibly understand.”
“Why are you telling this to me?”
“Because you would understand.”
“I? Why? Because we both grew up without benefit of title or wealth?”
“No. Because you both grew up in the House of Perpetual Hope.”
Silence.
Slowly, Sarah sank down on the bed, pressing her shaking hands to her face. “How did you know that?” she whispered.
“Because that was where you and I met. A dozen years ago.” Daphne inhaled sharply. “My father is an unfeeling man who believes all those born without should be cast into the streets, and all who oppose that course of action should be beaten into submission. Sadly for me, I was a dissenter, then and now. When I was eight, he decided to alter my convictions by forcing me to witness the horrors of a workhouse firsthand. The workhouse he selected was the House of Perpetual Hope.” A painful pause. “I first saw you pumping water in the garden, then again when I was leaving. I picked up your doll.” Daphne gestured toward the nightstand and the only possession Sarah had yet to pack. “Father flung her aside. You rescued her—” Daphne broke off, tears clogging her throat. “I don’t expect you to remember. But I never forgot.”
Sarah’s face was pale, her lips quivering with emotion. “I don’t recognize your face. But the incident? That I remember. How could I not? I’d never seen anyone quite like you before, except in my dreams. I remember thinking how elegantly you were dressed, how beautiful you were—and how fortunate.”
“Fortunate,” Daphne repeated with hushed irony. “Then, no. But now? Yes, very. My luck has changed dramatically thanks to Pierce. He’s given me joy, hope, a future.” She lay a tentative palm on Sarah’s shoulder. “And, if you’ll allow us, we can do the same for you.”
“All because of one episode from your childhood?”
