Page 15

Amelia pressed the girl’s hands. The odds that governed the chances of birth—or, perhaps, Providence, for His own mysterious reasons—had made Betsy born into a life of service and Amelia the long-lost child of a princess.

There was nothing they could do to alter their destinies, but they could choose to at least be kind to one another.

“Then go rest. I—I need to think.”

“You gentlefolk are funny, Miss Waters. One need not always think so very much.”

Amelia laughed. “I suppose.”

“Is that yours?”

“What is?”

Betsy pointed at the porcelain box in Amelia’s hands. Amelia struggled for a moment between hiding it and showing it. She chose the latter.

“It was my mother’s.” Amelia smiled as she lifted the painted box—high enough to show the maid yet tight enough between her fingers to avoid dropping it. “It’s the only thing I have of hers.”

“Is that a picture of her?” Betsy eyed the painted women with even larger eyes than usual.

“I don’t think so—surely, a princess would be served by other ladies rather than conversing with them like this.”

“Your mum’s a princess?” Betsy’s mouth dropped open.

Amelia cursed her carelessness. She hadn’t even told Jacob!

“Well, that is—” She quickly tucked the box back into her padded reticule. “I like to imagine that she was.”

“But she’s Chinese then?”

Amelia hesitated. Despite how comfortable she’d become in Mr. Hawthorne’s and Mrs. Wilmark’s company, she hadn’t exactly confided her origins to them. Somehow, it felt wrong to tell Betsy more than she told the others.

“I think she might be,” she said eventually. “I don’t exactly look entirely English, do I?”

“No, miss. You look right special, you do,” Betsy answered eagerly. “I’ve seen Master Jacob staring more than once.”

Now Amelia hedged for an entirely different reason. “I’m sure he doesn’t.”

“Oh, he does, miss. Mrs. Wilmark said so herself.”

“They are just being kind.”

“My mama said staring wasn’t very kind.”

Now Amelia had to laugh. “No, I suppose it isn’t.”

The sound of loud, bawdy laughter floated up from the main taproom.

Amelia’s nerves tightened. The inn had appeared moderately respectable when they’d first arrived—at least, as far as Amelia could tell.

But as the hours passed, a more boisterous crowd had seemed to gather downstairs.

Jacob—Mr. Hawthorne, that was—had insisted that they dine privately in her small sitting room.

She was understanding the wisdom of the expense and gesture now.

For a brief moment, Amelia let herself relive the memories of their private dinner.

With Betsy downstairs for most of its duration, the meal had felt unexpectedly intimate.

They were friends now, she’d like to think.

They’d become unexpected friends ever since he’d chased away her greedy hackney driver.

But, somehow, in the midst of sharing a simple meal of unimpressive traveling fare, they’d almost felt like family.

Amelia blinked. She missed Papa. She missed her cousins.

And she was infinitely relieved that she had Jacob Hawthorne with her—even if she might not get to keep him after everything was done.

A loud shout, followed by more raucous laughter, made Amelia jump. She eyed the door, the worn bolt looking rather pathetically small.

She swallowed.

“We’ll be all right here, won’t we, miss?” Betsy’s voice shook.

Amelia bit her lip. “I hope so.”

A loud knock cut through the room. Both maid and mistress startled. Amelia eyed the door again. Was that where the sound had originated? Who would be knocking this late at night ?

“Are you awake?” A familiar voice floated through the walls.

Amelia turned. Only then did she spot the second door in the room—one to the side that didn’t face the main hallway.

“Jacob?” She walked over towards the door. She thought to correct her address for a moment, but it seemed hardly a priority at present. She unbolted the even smaller bolt and slid the door open. “Is something wrong? Why would you?—”

Anything she’d been about to ask stopped short on her lips at the sight of Jacob Hawthorne in his shirt—no coat, no waistcoat, no cravat. Her eyes rested, rather naturally, at the chest that presented itself right in front of her before she craned her neck upwards to his face.

Whatever embarrassment—and, frankly, curiosity—she’d felt at his informal attire seemed to be mirrored right back at her twofold.

She stepped back, realizing only then that she was already in her nightdress and wrapper, her hair unbound and brushed.

“Is—” She licked her lips. “Is something the matter?”

He blinked a few more times before coming to.

“Ah, yes,” he said, almost stuttering, “there was, uhm, there—I heard some noises—and banging. There was banging—of other doors.”

“No one banged on our door,” said Amelia quietly.

“Ah, right, yes, good, that—that is good.” He let out a harsh, hollow chuckle. He seemed to struggle with some unknown thought for a moment before squaring his shoulders and meeting her eyes. “I should have thought that you might have retired already at this time. My apologies. ”

“Oh, only Betsy was sleepy.” Amelia smiled. “But, yes, we were about to rest. Is everything well? Is it unsafe here?”

Jacob’s eyes flicked to the door. “If no one has been disturbing you, then perhaps I was just unnecessarily worried. It’s just that, I have been thinking—” He looked back at her. “Perhaps we should hire our own post-chaise tomorrow. It would be better than being at the mercy of the stagecoach.”

“Yes, please,” she agreed readily, leaning forward in her eagerness. “It would be much better.”

He nodded, looking pleased with her concurrence. “I’ll, uhm—I’ll head back to sleep.”

“Certainly.”

“I should have—” He chuckled sheepishly. “I should have used the other door.”

“Why is there a door between our chambers?”

“This was the dressing room for your room.” His sheepish look continued. It flattered his boyish good looks. “I asked for it because there were limited lodgings—and it would allow me to be nearby.”

“And yet it is a bedroom?”

“It is a—” A flush crept up his neck. “Sometimes, they rent it out as a suite, apparently.”

“But to whom?” Why would anyone need a second door in their room?

“To couples—to married couples.” Jacob chuckled. “I didn’t think it quite possible to persuade them that we were brother and sister given the disparity in our coloring.”

Had Jacob Hawthorne allowed the innkeeper to think they were a traveling married couple? The very thought had Amelia both blushing and feeling a small, unexpected thrill .

She scolded herself for the latter instantly, of course. She was fleeing an arranged marriage with a man—not trying to run into the arms of another. Besides, it was only a temporary disguise for their safety. She couldn’t quite blame the man for that.

“Thank you,” she found herself saying, “for arranging everything.”

“It is nothing at all.”

“Goodnight, Mr. Hawthorne.” She looked up, smiling.

He smiled back. “Goodnight, Amelia.”