a swatter to? She doubted if they'd be back this day, so she could rest for a bit, but only a bit. One thing was certain: She'd die for real if she stayed there in the attic with no food and no fire. Rosellen did not want to expire smelling of the stables. That truly would have added insult to injury. She'd had enough of both.
When she woke up again, her mind was not so fuddled; thus, she felt it was time to make a plan. Considering she had absolutely no resources, her options were remarkably simple. She could stay there and starve or she could leave—and starve. Rosellen was hungry, which she took to be a good sign. So she decided to leave via the kitchens and fetch herself some bread and cheese. Lud knew she'd paid for them, with her fifty pounds and five shillings. Also, someone in the kitchens might know Fanny's whereabouts. She'd have to avoid Cook and the Merrihews, of course, and find some form of conveyance back to Brighton. Since the local officer of the law was Lord Vance, he of the midnight trysts with Miss Merrihew, Rosellen knew she had to go farther afield to present her case.
Miss Lockharte congratulated herself on the excellence of her scheme. Now all she had to do was execute it, which she admitted was a poor choice of words, considering the circumstances. Besides, considering that she couldn't raise her head off the pillow, this was easier said than done. She rolled over until her feet were off the bed. That was a start.
With agonizing slowness, Rosellen made the rest of her aching body follow. She could almost hear her joints creak their protest, saying they were not about to hold her up, not without a lot of encouragement. So, while she was on her knees on the dirty floor, she said a prayer.
"Dear Lord"—she began the way her father had taught her, expressing gratitude for her blessings—"thank you for saving me from the epidemic and the wild horses. I wouldn't want your efforts on my behalf to go for naught, so if you could just see your way clear to lending a bit more assistance, I would greatly appreciate it. If you'll help me down the stairs, I can take it from there, I think."
Clinging to the bedpost, Rosellen levered herself to a standing position. This time her knees did cooperate enough to keep her upright, if she hung on to something. Luckily, the room was so small that she could reach from the bed to the wall to the door frame to the bannister. One step down, two. Her head was spinning again, but she could do it. She had to do it Three steps ... four. How many of the blasted things were there?
Too many. She had to rest at the landing, gasping for air, clutching the railing as if it were a lifeline. But she'd made it out of the attic story. Now the steps were wider and deeper, with carpeting. She wouldn't have to hold on so tightly, thank goodness, for her cold fingers were growing numb.
Rosellen started counting again at the next set of stairs, this time out loud. So she never heard the footsteps behind her or the whoosh of air as hands reached out and gave her back a forceful shove. There were three more flights of stairs, with fourteen steps each, and Rosellen hit each and every one of them before landing in a heap at the bottom.
So God did answer prayers, Rosellen thought, even if His response wasn't quite what she'd had in mind. Now she prayed that the ominous crack she'd heard was the bannister, not her wrist. While she was at it, before losing consciousness, Rosellen prayed for help, for she wasn't getting any farther without divine intervention—or someone's.
Chapter Ten
Help was on the way, a circuitous, slow way to be sure, but it was on the way.
The Heatherstone brothers went on a detour at Woking, where they heard about an illegal prizefight being held behind an inn's stable. Timothy backed the winner; Thomas backed one of the tavern wenches into an empty stall. A fair was on in Guildford, so they had to stay to see the two-headed calf, the sword swallower, and
When she woke up again, her mind was not so fuddled; thus, she felt it was time to make a plan. Considering she had absolutely no resources, her options were remarkably simple. She could stay there and starve or she could leave—and starve. Rosellen was hungry, which she took to be a good sign. So she decided to leave via the kitchens and fetch herself some bread and cheese. Lud knew she'd paid for them, with her fifty pounds and five shillings. Also, someone in the kitchens might know Fanny's whereabouts. She'd have to avoid Cook and the Merrihews, of course, and find some form of conveyance back to Brighton. Since the local officer of the law was Lord Vance, he of the midnight trysts with Miss Merrihew, Rosellen knew she had to go farther afield to present her case.
Miss Lockharte congratulated herself on the excellence of her scheme. Now all she had to do was execute it, which she admitted was a poor choice of words, considering the circumstances. Besides, considering that she couldn't raise her head off the pillow, this was easier said than done. She rolled over until her feet were off the bed. That was a start.
With agonizing slowness, Rosellen made the rest of her aching body follow. She could almost hear her joints creak their protest, saying they were not about to hold her up, not without a lot of encouragement. So, while she was on her knees on the dirty floor, she said a prayer.
"Dear Lord"—she began the way her father had taught her, expressing gratitude for her blessings—"thank you for saving me from the epidemic and the wild horses. I wouldn't want your efforts on my behalf to go for naught, so if you could just see your way clear to lending a bit more assistance, I would greatly appreciate it. If you'll help me down the stairs, I can take it from there, I think."
Clinging to the bedpost, Rosellen levered herself to a standing position. This time her knees did cooperate enough to keep her upright, if she hung on to something. Luckily, the room was so small that she could reach from the bed to the wall to the door frame to the bannister. One step down, two. Her head was spinning again, but she could do it. She had to do it Three steps ... four. How many of the blasted things were there?
Too many. She had to rest at the landing, gasping for air, clutching the railing as if it were a lifeline. But she'd made it out of the attic story. Now the steps were wider and deeper, with carpeting. She wouldn't have to hold on so tightly, thank goodness, for her cold fingers were growing numb.
Rosellen started counting again at the next set of stairs, this time out loud. So she never heard the footsteps behind her or the whoosh of air as hands reached out and gave her back a forceful shove. There were three more flights of stairs, with fourteen steps each, and Rosellen hit each and every one of them before landing in a heap at the bottom.
So God did answer prayers, Rosellen thought, even if His response wasn't quite what she'd had in mind. Now she prayed that the ominous crack she'd heard was the bannister, not her wrist. While she was at it, before losing consciousness, Rosellen prayed for help, for she wasn't getting any farther without divine intervention—or someone's.
Chapter Ten
Help was on the way, a circuitous, slow way to be sure, but it was on the way.
The Heatherstone brothers went on a detour at Woking, where they heard about an illegal prizefight being held behind an inn's stable. Timothy backed the winner; Thomas backed one of the tavern wenches into an empty stall. A fair was on in Guildford, so they had to stay to see the two-headed calf, the sword swallower, and
Similar Books
