For a few moments, Sophia could do nothing but stand there. She heard the key turn in the lock. She listened to the footsteps hurrying away. She felt the pounding of her heart against the confines of her chest. And yet, for those first few moments, she could do nothing.
Then her fury returned. Hot, restless, frenetic fury. Those were not her banknotes. She knew that without a doubt. When Mr. Ord had brandished them like some kind of hunting prize, Sophia had only had to look twice to see they were on common printing paper, not the thin gauzy paper the Bank of England used. She would swear she had never so much as held them, else she would have noticed immediately they were not like the other notes swimming about her reticule.
Whoever the counterfeiter was, they had very little skill in their art.
Sophia seized her pillow and tore at either end, as if rending it in two would dissipate the helplessness rising in her chest. It didn’t rip at all, which made her feel worse.
Someone had placed those notes in her purse. More than that, they had implicated her family so that she would be the one to fall under suspicion.
It did not take a genius to put two and two together. Mrs. Edwards was the one who had been crowing for weeks about the demerits of paper currency. Mrs. Edwards was also the one who thought the Prestons walked on water. And Mrs. Edwards was the one to whom Sophia could never quite manage to be polite.
She banged on the door with both fists. “I must explain!” She hit again with the meaty sides of her hands, making the old oak door quake in its hinges.
No one came. Not after she counted to thirty, and still not after she counted to one hundred.
At least they hadn’t arrested her right then and there. If Mama were alive to see this, that would be the first thing she said. “Well, Sophia, you see what you are afforded compared to the common man. Why, if this had been poor Mrs. Chow, she would be in the gaol awaiting the assizes quicker than you could snap your fingers.”
Sometimes, Sophia found it comforting to imagine Mama following her around and proffering commentary on the daily things in life.
This was not one of those moments.
For even though Sophia was not in gaol, she was locked in a tiny room. The whole household would have heard by now. Soon, word would escape Robin Abbey, and then it would make it to London, and then Sophia would be forever known as the criminal Preston.
If she emerged free from this situation, then her options for forging a path without the help of a father or husband would be much more limited. She might not even have a path with a husband, anymore. She might be at the mercy of her family for the rest of her days.
And if she didn’t emerge free, then she would hang at the gallows.
Wilted against the door, Sophia shut her eyes. If only it were so easy to press out the world. To erase everyone else and every other concern so that all that existed was herself and her body. And maybe Mr. Anderson.
If he wasn’t completely repulsed by a woman with nothing but a criminal accusation and a box of contraceptive pessaries to her name.
There was no point waiting for someone to open the door for her. Sophia knew she was innocent, and she knew who had done it, too.
Her writing table was, unfortunately, a mess. Sophia cleared a little space for her blotter, then pulled out her correspondence kit. Out tumbled letters from Nate and Benny and Ellen. She hadn’t read the latest yet, and she still hadn’t responded to the ones that had arrived two months ago. There were too many unasked questions and too little that she wanted to share of her life. Sophia let them land in a jumble on the floor.
Then she got to work. Sophia would rather not ask for help from anyone. But in this particular instance, she knew what she needed to do.
She had to beg her family for help.
❧
By suppertime, Sophia’s determination had hardened around her soul like a steel casing. When her mind tried darting out into a future where she was arrested, it clamped down, smashing out the imagination before she could conjure a dungeon or straw pallet. She had a plan, it would work, and there was no need to worry about anything going wrong.
The first part of her plan went wrong when Lady Widlake herself arrived alongside Sophia’s supper. Sophia had hoped to bribe the maid into handling the three letters she had written, but now Polly deposited the tray on top of Sophia’s blotter and backed out of the room, while Lady Widlake lowered herself onto Sophia’s mattress. “Well, Miss Preston, this is quite the bind.”
Lady Widlake’s palms rested on either side of her belly. Her hair had recently been coiffed by her maid, Sophia could see, for the pins were in precise position. Lady Widlake was otherwise afflicted with soft, springy hair that escaped Shaw’s designs, and by the end of supper, her face would again be framed by wayward tendrils. For now, however, she was composed and imposing, staring imperiously at Sophia even from her half-lying position on the mattress.
Sophia ducked her chin. “I am beside myself. I know I am innocent of any wrongdoing, yet still I apologize for this tremendous interruption to your household, my lady.”
“I cannot imagine what anyone is thinking, holding you responsible for those notes. I cannot understand a law where using such money is a crime. However, my husband assures me I do not need to understand it in order to respect it.”
It was not often that Lady Widlake resembled her mother in any expression or manner. Yet in that pause, Sophia felt as if she were speaking to Mrs. Edwards, and she knew the pause was not to be filled by her own response. It was there for effect, to make her feel her own impotence as a listener. Had it been Mrs. Edwards, Sophia would have barreled through.
For Lady Widlake, she bit her lip to keep from speaking.
“Lord Widlake has decided you will remain in this room until the matter can be cleared up. That leaves my daughters without anyone to mind them. Nurse attempted to this afternoon, which resulted in the twins getting into more mischief than one would have thought possible in the span of mere hours, not to mention the neglect of poor baby Jacob. I haven’t the energy to spend the whole day with them. For tomorrow, I have arranged for Mr. Anderson to see to their lessons, which triggered such a look of terror in the poor man. Anyhow, you see that I am in crisis over this.”
This time, Lady Widlake looked at Sophia with a raised eyebrow, as if demanding a response. “What of Mrs. Edwards, my lady?”
Lady Widlake grimaced. “My mother is not suitable company for young ladies. She herself knows this, which is why she sent me away to school when I was their age. She is a much better companion for a married woman who needs advice on how to manage a household.”
Sophia didn’t see that the woman was much good for that, either. Especially since she suspected it was Mrs. Edwards behind this crime.
“What I am trying to express, Miss Preston, is my ardent wish that this matter be cleared up immediately. If you are guilty, confess so that I may hire a new governess. If you are not, then how did those banknotes end up in your purse?”
“I cannot confess, for I am without guilt, ma’am.” But Sophia could not tell Lady Widlake her suspicions. Not without some modicum of proof. Guilty or not–annoying, frustrating, maddening or not–Mrs. Edwards was Lady Widlake’s mother.
She decided instead to attempt what she had hoped to do with Polly. Reaching into the top drawer of her desk, she took out two of the three envelopes: one for her father and another for her sister, Ellen. “I have written to my family for assistance. Perhaps they will be able to help us find a solution. Would you post these for me?”
Lady Widlake had to heave herself forward in order to accept the letters. She inspected their addresses before saying, “I suppose this is all we can do for the moment.”
Sophia wondered if perhaps she should bring Lady Widlake further into her confidence. Perhaps Mrs. Edwards wasn’t the person involved at all. Perhaps this all returned to the mysterious sounds in the bell tower. If she mentioned that theory, then Lady Widlake could be the one to discover the truth of the matter.
Except to mention the intruder was to confess to her own presence in the bell tower. The culprit could simply question how Sophia knew about it in the first place, and it would become a question of whom the household would believe.
“You are not eating,” Lady Widlake said, her voice a little gentler now.
Sophia looked at the tray. It had not seemed polite to eat while Lady Widlake expressed her displeasure. The plate of food featured three sausages, cauliflower ragout, and sliced potatoes. There was also a small bowl of broth soup, a glass of wine, and a cup of water.
Her mouth watered at the sight of it, let alone the smell. But she forced herself to turn away from it. And, in a weak voice, to say, “No, my stomach aches too terribly for me to even think of food.”
Lady Widlake did not immediately jump to Sophia’s bait. “You are upset from today’s events.”
“Perhaps. Though these pains began last night. Oh, but do not worry about me, my dear lady. I am sure I will be fine after a bit of rest.”
“What kind of pains?”
Sophia brought her palm up to the top of her stomach. “Rather like stabs just beneath my ribcage. It was every now and then last night, but now it feels like it is almost every minute. Perhaps some chamomile tisane would help.”
And then she winced for effect, as if currently afflicted with a pain.
At last, Lady Widlake reacted as Sophia hoped. “I shall ring for Mr. Anderson.”
“Oh, I hate to trouble him.” Sophia slumped against the chair as if she was growing too tired to even hold herself up.
Lady Widlake struggled onto her feet, lumbered to the corridor, and flagged down a servant to fetch Mr. Anderson. Sophia took advantage of the moment to slip her third letter from the drawer into her palm. A good thing, too, for when Lady Widlake turned back, she directed, “You may lie down, Miss Preston. I shall take your seat.”
It was funny how dire straits brought out new sides of people, Sophia observed as she followed directions. In the months of her service at Robin Abbey so far, Lady Widlake had hardly issued a single order. She had been soft-spoken, gentle, deferential even in dealing with those in her employ. Only now, stretched to the ends of her patience, did she resemble a baroness.
Mr. Anderson did not take long to present himself, looking pristine as always in his black dinner jacket. Sophia felt the usual wave of desire at his appearance. Her fingers touched each other, remembering how it had felt to stroke his silky hair. She had hardly spoken to him since storming out of his room the other night, and now Sophia couldn’t remember why that argument had felt large enough to stop her from inviting him on another nightly adventure.
But this was not about her carnal desires. Sophia closed her eyes, the better to look sickly, and curved both palms around her stomach.
Lady Widlake summarized Sophia’s complaints. There was a drip of accusation when she said, “abdominal pains,” and Sophia wondered if in fact the lady suspected her of something far worse than a stomachache. Perhaps she had heard of the contraceptive box. Perhaps she had not believed Mr. Anderson’s lie about it.
What Sophia would give to be hiding a pregnancy instead of being accused of a crime she had not committed.
Mr. Anderson knelt by the bedside. He maintained a respectful distance even as his fingers probed her stomach, his gaze on his actions and not on her. But Sophia could see the dark stubble whispering its way up his neck.
His eyes met hers. “Could you describe your pains, Miss Preston?”
Sophia wondered what he thought of her. There was no hint of emotion in his gaze, so she could not tell. Did he believe her guilty of counterfeiting? Had he already condemned her? Could he tell her stomachache was a lie? Did he count that as the latest in a large string of counterfeit actions?
“They are like knives. Just here.” She moved her hands to show him. And–just as she hoped–he lowered his palms over hers. She twisted her palm to deposit the letter into his grasp.
Mr. Anderson’s breath hitched. His gaze flicked sideways, towards Lady Widlake. But he didn’t turn his head. He kept up his examination and–in a movement so smooth that Sophia almost didn’t see–he tucked the letter into his pocket.
He probed her stomach for a few more moments, massaging her entire abdomen with expert fingers, before proclaiming the pains to be a symptom anxiety. “A supper of clear broth, chamomile tea when you are thirsty, and plenty of rest.”
“It is not a long-term condition?” Lady Widlake asked as she gripped his forearm to rise.
“Nothing to worry about. I’m sure it would have passed earlier if not for the disruption today.” Leading Lady Widlake to the door, Mr. Anderson turned back, his hand patting the pocket with her note. He smiled at Sophia–a delightful, kind smile upon which she could get drunk. “I shall see if I have my special stomach potion in my kit. If I do, I’ll fix it up and bring it to you with your tea.”
And she knew she would see him in the silence of the night.