“How we are going to fasten the lid?” Miss Randall asked, hysteria bubbling in her voice as she hastily ripped dresses from her armoire and tossed them into a nearby traveling trunk. The trunk, covered in faded pony hide, was barely visible beneath a growing mound of clothing. “What if Mr. Morris comes back and I am still packing?”
“Lord Westwood and Mr. Reid will ensure our safety,” replied Sam. Her tight tone belied her confidence. What if? What Franklin killed Mr. Reid and Benjamin… and Edward?
“I just need one more dress,” said Miss Randall, diving back into the armoire.
“Do you only have the one trunk?” asked Sam warily as she tucked the haphazardly thrown frocks into the studded chest. The final dress, flung without aim, landed atop of Sam’s head.
“Unfortunately,” replied Miss Randall with a grimace. She spun around to survey the trunk and grinned when she saw the location of the last frock she threw. “My apologies, Miss Hastings, it appears I am attempting to clothe you as I pack.”
Sam laughed and pulled the gown from her head. Handing it to Miss Randall, Sam rose from her kneeling position while Miss Randall dropped the dress onto the pile.
“That should be the last item. Shall we give it a go?”
Sam agreed, flipping the trunk’s lid over; a five-centimeter gap remained between the lip and the trunk edge. Sam pushed it down. Studded letters, embellished on the lid, flashed in the lamp light. She paused mid-shove and looked inquisitively at Miss Randall.
“Who is D. R.?”
“My mother, Della Randall," Miss Randall replied, a hitch in her voice. She glided forward and traced the letters lovingly. “I rarely travel and therefore, have no need for luggage. However, Uncle Horace secretly gave this to me when I relocated to the cottage. He thought I should have something my mother owned.” Her glowing eyes flicked up, pleading. “I swore I would not reveal my possession of the trunk to Aunt Hattie.”
“Would she not see the trunk when she called on you?”
“Aunt Hattie would never deign to visit me.” Miss Randall’s eyes narrowed. “She hates this cottage.” Leaning forward, she slammed her hands on the lid, placing all her weight on the trunk, but the lid refused to catch the lock.
“Why? I realize the cottage is petite, but it holds a quaint charm.”
“I agree.” Miss Randall forced a smile and glanced up, blowing out an exasperated breath which ruffed the dark hair framing her face. “Aunt Hattie once told me her recollections of this cottage are horrifying; she never speaks of them.”
“What happened?” Sam whispered.
“I do not know.” Miss Randall shrugged. “Sequestered in this cottage for several weeks during my infancy, Aunt Hattie abhors anything associated with those memories, including me. I have my suspicions though.”
A light tapping echoed in the bed chamber. Miss Randall shrieked and shrank away from the sound. Sam’s heart hammered wildly as it jumped into her throat—a sickening lump of terror.
Franklin wouldn’t knock.
The door edged open gradually, and Miss Larson peeked her head into the room. Her hair, smoothed into an acceptable hairdo, was pinned underneath a white cap. She clasped a worn carpetbag tightly in her trembling fingers, which vibrated in a dingy blur as she slipped into the room. The lantern she carried also quavered uncontrollably.
“My apologies, Miss Randall, I did not mean to startle you,” Miss Larson said with a curtsy.
“Have you gathered all your personal belongings together?” Miss Randall asked, grunting as she attempted to push the chest lid closed again.
“I have.” Miss Larson paused, her eyes cast downward. “Miss Randall, I hope you are not too disappointed in my service.”
“Certainly not, you did admirably well for your first position. I understand this new development is alarming. I encourage you to return to your mother’s protection. Once this nonsense is resolved, I would be pleased if you resumed your post.”
“I would be honored, Miss Randall, if you would allow me to continue my service.” Miss Larson bowed low. “I would just like to tell my mother goodbye before we leave.”
“Would you like an escort to accompany you to the main house?” Sam asked softly, not wanting to frighten the girl further.
“No, thank you, Miss Hastings.” Miss Larson shook her head, speaking to Sam’s shoes. “I am perfectly capable of walking the short distance between the cottage and the Pierce residence.”
Abandoning her effort to force the trunk closed, Miss Randall rushed to Miss Larson, flinging her arms around the younger girl. “For my sanity, please allow Mr. Reid to convey you to your mother.”
“If those are your wishes,” replied Miss Larson, standing motionless in Miss Randall’s embrace.
“They are,” said Miss Randall, a hard edge in her voice as she released Miss Larson.
Miss Larson curtsied once again and evaporated into the hallway darkness, her lantern light extinguished immediately. Miss Randall leaned into the corridor to ensure Miss Larson complied with her demand to request Mr. Reid’s accompaniment to the main house. Satisfied, Miss Randall turned back to the room and blew out a deep breath, her hands resting on her hips as she glided gracefully toward the partially open chest. She tilted her head to the right and left as she contemplated the brimming crate.
“What do you propose we do about my trunk?”
Sam glared at the stubborn chest. “You could sit on the lid,” she said, gently pushing down on the top.
“That may actually suffice.” Charlotte giggled, glancing around the room as though they would be caught in their improper activity. “However, I believe we should try it together, our combined weight would be most effective.”
Both ladies sank onto the lid simultaneously. The lid groaned and touched the lip of the trunk, but did not close completely. Sam slid off the lid, poking excess material back into the chest. She chewed her lip absently as she worked around the edge.
“Perhaps we could jump on to it,” Sam said.
“From the bed?” asked Miss Randall, a gleam in her eye. Her gaze flicked from the bed to the temperamental lid, which she remained seated atop.
“Yes,” replied Sam. “Hopefully, we will not break the trunk lid.”
“It is fairly sturdy.” Miss Randall rose with a grin, the closure springing away from the lock. She climbed onto the bed and positioned her feet at the edge. Gesturing to Sam, Miss Randall held out her hand to pull Sam up beside her. Grasping Sam’s hand, she nodded once.
They jumped, landing deftly on the lid, their hands still linked. The lid moaned and clicked closed. Miss Randall leapt off the chest, sliding the key into the lock and wrenching it to the side.
“I think that will hold,” Miss Randall said. She walked around the three visible sides of the trunk; nothing protruded from inside.
Sam hopped down from the lid. “I very much doubt we will have enough strength to move your trunk.”
“Once Mr. Reid returns, he and your fiancé should be able to carry the chest,” Miss Randall said airily. “Since we have some time before Mr. Reid arrives, I should like to ensure the cottage is properly closed up.”
Sam trailed Miss Randall through the cottage’s small rooms, following the light emitted from her lantern. Beginning in the kitchen, Miss Randall methodically secured each window and door—including the well-stocked pantry door—as she moved through the minuscule living.
Four rooms in total—one kitchen, two bedchambers, and one sitting room which doubled as a dining area. The sitting-room window, through which Sam could see Lord Westwood pacing anxiously outside, must have been Miss Randall’s favorite view. An armchair, the most decadent object in the room, resided next to the window, angled toward the garden.
Over the fireplace rested a mantelshelf, decorated with tiny animal figurines which were intermingled with various novels and expensive dishware. Sam wandered over to the chimneypiece, reading the faded titles with curiosity. Her fingers trailed lovingly over the binding, marveling at their well-preserved state. She moved aside an elephant figurine to look closely at one title, pulling the book from the shelf.
“Have you read Miss Jewsbury’s novels?” Miss Randall asked as she sidled closer to read over Sam’s shoulder.
“I have not, but I am always intrigued by female authors,” replied Sam, craning her neck to glance at Miss Randall at the other books on the mantlepiece. “How many has she written?”
“Three, thus far,” said Miss Randall, pulling the book from the shelf. “However, ‘The Half Sisters’ is by far my favorite. Would you like to borrow it?”
“I would, thank you.” Sam accepted the book, leafing through the worn pages.
“Ladies, are you ready to depart?” Lord Westwood entered the sitting room, startling both women. Sam yelped, dropping the book. It bounced once, landing on her shoe. Sam leaned over and plucked the novel from the floor, wiping the cover carefully before turning toward Lord Westwood.
He raised his eyebrows silently, questioning the new addition in her hand. Sam grinned sheepishly and shrugged. He smiled. “The library at Westwood Estate is well stocked, Miss Hastings, as you already know. There is no need to pillage books from someone who possesses so few.”
“I doubt this particular book is in your library, Lord Westwood,” replied Miss Randall with a wink to Sam.
Mr. Reid bounded into the room. “Miss Larson is safely returned and seated atop the coach next to Mr. Davis. The main house is shuttered tightly, and Mrs. Larson will not allow any person outside the family into the home. Shall we be on our way?”
“There is one small matter left unattended,” Miss Randall said, her eyes sliding to Sam who covered her laugh with the book.
“Which is?” Lord Westwood asked, raising an eyebrow.
“My trunk.”
“That is easily remedied,” replied Mr. Reid gallantly, bowing low.
“Easy is not the word I would associate with Miss Randall’s trunk.” Sam snorted.
“Which word would you attribute?” Lord Westwood rumbled.
“Heavy.”
“However, it is not too heavy for two strapping gentlemen such as yourselves.” Miss Randall smiled, her eyes glittering brightly.
“I can manage.” Mr. Reid’s chest puffed with his claim. He grabbed the lantern and dashed to the bedchamber. Several grunts, followed by a few well-chosen curse words echoed down the hallway.
Lord Westwood stood patiently in the sitting room, an amused expression tickling his lips. Another profanity flew down the corridor. “There are ladies present,” he called, a smirk in his voice.
“Then perhaps you would like to assist me with this happy task,” replied Mr. Reid’s muffled voice.
“How much does this trunk weigh?” Lord Westwood glanced at Sam and Miss Randall. Both ladies shrugged, exchanging a grin.
“We had to jump on the lid to secure it,” said Sam before bursting into giggles with Miss Randall.
“I wish I could have witnessed that particular endeavor.” Lord Westwood laughed. He bowed to both ladies and disappeared down the hallway to assist his brother. Snatches of a muted conversation drifted into the sitting room.
“Shall we, Miss Hastings?” Miss Randall bowed ridiculously and linked her arm through Sam’s, dragging her toward the exit. Pausing, Miss Randall placed her hand against the door frame and took a deep breath. She glanced at Sam, one tear slithered down her flushed cheek. “I fear I shall be away a long time.” Her voice cracked.
Sam patted her hand. “Do not think on what you are leaving, but what you are heading toward.”
“A crowded country estate?” asked Miss Randall. She glanced around the cottage. “I do love my serenity.”
“A change of scenery,” replied Sam, squeezing her hand.
Miss Randall returned a tight smile. “It will be nice not to dine alone,” she said, her voice falsely bright.
“I felt the exact sentiment when Wilhelmina asked me to move to the townhouse,” Sam replied.
Miss Randall turned away from her cottage. “How long did you feel that way?”
Sam licked her lips. “I still do.”
“Ah, well, at least I will have you to keep me company,” replied Miss Randall. She nodded to Miss Larson and climbed into the carriage, claiming the forward-facing bench, indicating the cushion to her left.
“Miss Clemens is also staying at the manor with her aunt. I find her quite agreeable,” said Sam as she flopped less gracefully on the seat next to Miss Randall.
“I worry for my aunt and uncle,” Miss Randall burst out, smacking her palm on her leg. A tear streaked down her cheek. “What will I do without them? They are all I know.”
“Until we receive news, let us hold a positive outlook on the fate of your aunt and uncle.” She did not want to confirm Miss Randall’s worst fear. Past history showed Franklin incapable of mercy; the odds of survival were not in Mr. and Mrs. Pierce’s favor.
“If something horrible did happen to them,” said Sam, patting “you can take comfort knowing you already have financial freedom, afforded by your benefactor.”
“True,” replied Miss Randall, her voice small. “However, I will be alone, and I will lose my home.”
“Why?” asked Sam in confusion.
“The land belongs to Uncle Horace. As a woman—an illegitimate woman at that—I am not the next in line. It will pass to my cousin, Mr. Peter Pierce.”
“I have not met Mr. Pierce. Is he a kind gentleman?”
Miss Randall shrugged. “I know very little about him with the exception of the fact he remains unmarried.”
“Perhaps he will allow you to continue to live in the cottage.”
“No,” Miss Randall said with a sad shake of her head. “Aunt Hattie revealed to me one evening, after several glasses of libation, Peter’s mother, Mrs. Jane Pierce, is quite volatile. Peter kept her out of society due to her unstable condition—one of the reasons he cannot find a wife. He will want the cottage to keep her hidden from prying visitors.”
“I will ensure you are not turned out into the cold, Miss Randall,” said Sam emphatically. Even if that meant she became a permanent resident at the Westwood townhouse.
“Aunt Hattie most definitely underestimated your character, Miss Hastings.” Miss Randall smiled, her eyes shining with tears.
“That occurs fairly often.” Sam sighed.
Lord Westwood and Mr. Reid appeared in the doorway, the troublesome trunk balanced between them, hefting it onto the back of the coach with a collective groan. Twin grimaces appeared at the open carriage door when the brothers realized they would be sharing a bench with each other once again, instead of seated next to a lady.
Jostling his brother aside, Lord Westwood climbed up first, claiming the bench directly across from Sam, winking audaciously at her. She blushed. Mr. Reid followed closely, slamming the coach door closed with more force than necessary. Huffing, he grumbled for a minute, then flashed an enchanting smile at Miss Randall.
“No trouble at all, Miss Randall,” he said as Mr. Davis snapped a whip. The carriage rocked forward. No one noticed the black coach hiding in the foliage surrounding the cottage. Franklin stepped from the shadows, his mouth stretched into a sneer.
“Soon, Samantha.”