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CHAPTER ONE
AN ACCIDENTAL EAVESDROPPING
April 1806
Fifteen-year-old Elizabeth Bennet was attempting to exercise patience. Such a virtue did not come easily to her.
“Did you, or did you not, hear Mrs Gardiner tell you to accompany me to the warehouses?” She used her most imperious tone, a necessary embellishment when one was talking to a footboy two years her senior, who, like most young men, always thought he knew best.
“I did, miss. An’ I know for certain she did not mean Carmichael’s warehouse. It’s not in a part of town where she’d want her young relation to go,” Peter said stubbornly.
“That is where you are wrong—it is merely near a part of town where she would not want me to go. Does not Mrs Gardiner shop there? Have you accompanied her?”
“Aye. Which is why I know she’d not care for a niece of hers to go anywhere near Shoe Lane.”
Elizabeth refused to let him have the upper hand. Mr Carmichael’s warehouse was not quite in the squalor of the Shoe Lane rookery, and it had the very best selection of fabrics and trims at the very best prices—precisely because it was not convenient to more elegant properties. “Well, I will not force you, of course. I am going to Mr Carmichael’s, but if you are afraid, you may await me here. Come, Martha, let us be on our way.”
“Yes, miss.” Martha, one of her aunt’s maids—who was frightened of nothing and no one—grinned, obviously enjoying the boy’s discomfort.
Elizabeth simply began walking down Ludgate Hill.
Peter was furious at being countermanded, but he could hardly prevent her by tossing her over his shoulder and marching back to Gracechurch Street. It was not even a mile’s walk to the enormous—and, to be certain, dilapidated—Carmichael building, at least as it appeared from the outside. But inside, oh, it was wonderful! Elizabeth had never seen so many goods in one place, in every colour of the rainbow. It was chilly and gloomy within, for the lofty building was impossible to heat, and the windows were high and small, but Elizabeth and her companions had dressed warmly for the early April weather.
She knew that, had she asked permission to walk here, her aunt would have made her wait until the carriage was available, and possibly would have added another male servant. In spite of this, Elizabeth was determined; she had a definite idea in mind of what she was looking for, none of which had been available at the warehouses closer to her uncle’s, and she was to depart for home on the morrow. It was the middle of the day, the streets were full of people, most of whom were respectable, Peter was a burly lad who could be intimidating when necessary, and frankly, Martha was more fierce than he. In short, there was nothing, or at least very little, to fear. She could not resist giving the footboy a slight smirk when they arrived at the warehouse unmolested.
She had wandered towards the back of the warehouse and was sorting through some bolts of fabric stacked high on a table, near a barred exit. Martha amused herself by looking at what seemed like hundreds, or possibly thousands, of buttons loose in boxes. Peter was helping her sort them, obviously in search of a particular shade.
As Elizabeth thumbed through the fabrics, a man who was certainly employed by the warehouse unbolted the nearby door and, propping it open with a wooden stick convenient to his purpose, walked outside—presumably to smoke the pipe he had already in hand. Yet, no sooner had the man set foot outside than a bellowing voice of real authority halted him in his tracks.
“Morris! Where are you? I need you to fetch the forms down from the loft! Morris!”
With a muttered curse, the man shoved the pipe back into his pocket and turned on his heel towards his employer. As he passed through, he kicked at the stick propping the door open, but failed to notice that it remained ajar—he had not pushed it far enough.
Elizabeth could see that the door opened onto a much seedier alley than the street from which they had entered. It did not seem safe, somehow, leaving it unsecured, even a sliver. Peter’s and Martha’s attention was consumed by buttons. It seemed that the best thing to do was to pop over to the door, remove the obstruction preventing it from closing, and ensure it shut tightly. Putting thought to action, she moved to do so.
As she approached the exit, however, a voice from the alley just beyond it captured her attention.
“Please, George, do not leave me here!” a panicked, feminine voice cried.
Elizabeth’s natural curiosity got the better of her, and she moved closer to the opening to better hear just who was being left, where.
“I will be back, my little lamb. Believe me, you do not want to follow where I go now. Did I not tell you to bring money? What were you thinking? Private carriages to Scotland are not cheap! Or did you assume that they would take one look at your skinny figure and take pity on us, hiring out transport for free?” His voice was a cruel one, and Elizabeth shivered, putting her eyes to the crack. The speaker’s face was hidden, but she had a fairly good view of the girl’s profile; her frame was slight; she barely came to her companion’s shoulder.
“N-no,” the poor thing answered, subdued.
“Thanks to you, because you are too stupid to have even saved a single groat, acquiring enough money for marriage is up to me now, is it not?”
“Yes,” the girl replied meekly.
“You will wait here until I return for you. If fortune favours me, it will still be daylight. Whose fault will it be if darkness falls before I come back?”
“M-mine.”
“Correct. Perhaps you are not such a simpleton as you appear—even though you are too helpless to hire a hackney. Luckily for you, I do plan to return. Now, wait for me here like a good little angel. And if a man offers to pay you for a bit of a snuggle, you tell him yes, do you hear me?”
“Oh, George, no, please—”
The man slapped her, quick and sharp. “Believe me, dear girl, you need the practice,” he said nastily.
