Page 10 of The Maid of Fairbourne Hall

Margaret bolted up the stairs as fast as her feet could carry her.

She tripped at the first landing and felt her stocking tear.

Her ankle and knee screamed complaint as she rounded the first newel-post and shot up the second pair of stairs.

Below, the bar splintered and the door crashed open.

Footfalls, threats, and curses gained on her as she hoofed it up the remaining stairs and down the passage.

She ran into number 23 and shut and barred the door behind her, hoping the men had not seen which of the many doors she had disappeared into.

“What is it?” Joan asked.

“Shh.” Trembling all over, Margaret picked up a cumbersome oak chair and propped it against the door.

Peg asked, “Is it those ruffians?”

Margaret nodded.

Peg’s eyes grew wide, and she wrapped a protective arm around the child nearest her.

Running footsteps raced past their door.

The women looked from one to the other as they waited, listening.

The footsteps clomped back, more slowly. A man shouted, “I’ll find you. And when I do, I’ll kill you.”

That night, Margaret shared the narrow pallet bed with Peg’s son. She didn’t sleep well. She was reminded of the days Gilbert would climb into her bed for a story, fall asleep, and then rob all the bedclothes.

In the morning, Margaret sat at the small table with Peg’s family, sharing a meager breakfast and strained silence.

Even the children were unnaturally quiet.

From across the table, sisters Joan and Peg exchanged a pained, meaningful look, which Margaret had no trouble interpreting. She had worn out her welcome already.

She opened her mouth, but Joan beat her to it. “I am afraid, mi—Nora. That after last night, it would be best if you took your leave. If those men see you and figure out whose place...”

Margaret nodded, though fear ran through her veins. “I understand.”

“And as soon as possible,” Peg added. “While that lot is still sleeping it off.”

“I know you meant well,” Joan allowed. “But I can’t have you bringin’ danger to my sister’s door.”

Again Margaret nodded and woodenly repeated, “I understand.” She rose, her legs weak and trembling. Where was she to go? And what if those men were out there right now, lying in wait?

She plucked her Oldenburg bonnet from the peg near the door, and tied it securely under her chin. She picked up her bag and bid farewell to each of the children and pressed one of her few coins into Peg’s palm. “For your hospitality,” she murmured and opened the door.

“Wait,” Joan called after her. “I’m going with you.”

Peg began to protest, but Joan insisted she needed to find work. “There aren’t any positions hereabouts anyway.”

Margaret swallowed a bitter pill of pride and humbling gratitude.

She guessed Joan was making excuses. But Margaret was not brave enough to insist Joan remain, to bluster that she would be fine on her own.

She would not be. And after the near-miss with those men, she was frightened of venturing out alone.

“Very well,” Margaret said, the words thank you sticking in her throat.

Joan embraced her niece and nephews, and quietly warned Peg not to say anything about them being there. Peg no doubt believed the warning due to the three would-be thieves alone.

Taking valise and carpetbag in hand once more, Joan and Margaret went quietly downstairs.

They peered from behind the splintered door, and seeing no one about, stepped outside.

They walked quickly down Fish Street Hill, turning from the lane as soon as possible to avoid being seen by any early riser glancing from his window.

Once they were several blocks away, Joan moderated their pace, leading the way toward the Thames and across London Bridge. The wide river teemed with boats—fishing boats moored midriver or docked to unload the morning’s catch—while sailing vessels of every size slipped between them.

On the other side of the bridge, they passed the Southwark Cathedral before turning left into the Borough High Street. There, Margaret glimpsed a three-story galleried coaching inn. Joan explained that many stagecoaches as well as a Royal Mail coach departed from The George each day.

From behind the railing of the first gallery above, a swarthy porter carried a bolt of fabric over one shoulder, and a well-dressed gentleman smiled down at them and tipped his hat. On the upper gallery, a woman in a low-cut nightdress blew kisses to a sailor trotting down the outer stairs.

The inn’s courtyard swarmed with activity.

Dogs barked. Horses snorted and pranced in their braces.

A large stagecoach with red wheels prepared to depart.

Hostellers checked the horses’ harnesses.

An official-looking man in red greatcoat and top hat opened the coach door and handed in a matron and her young charge.

Once the door was closed, a brawny dark-skinned man strapped barrels to the side of the carriage.

The body of the yellow stagecoach was emblazoned with its final destination in bold and stopping points along the way in smaller lettering. Four passengers sat on its roof, and another shared the coachman’s bench. The guard climbed to his position at the rear and blew his long horn.

Joan led Margaret to the front of the clapboard inn, to a protruding half-circle structure with the words Coach Office painted above its sash window. Boards listing routes and departure times lined its outer walls.

“Where to, miss?” Joan asked, studying the boards.

Margaret frowned in thought. “I don’t know...”

“How much money do you have?”

Margaret recounted the coins in her reticule, bit her lip, and pronounced the paltry sum.

Joan stepped to the office window and addressed the booking clerk within.

“Hello. There are two of us traveling together.” She laid the coins before him. “How far can we go?”

The clerk stared at her a moment without speaking. Margaret noticed one of his eyes was milky white. With no change of expression, he drew a chalk circle on a map on the counter. Margaret glanced over Joan’s shoulder at the circle of modest diameter around London. Not very far at all.

“Stage rates are tuppence to four pence per double mile. Royal Mail is faster, but costs a bit more, and don’t leave till tonight.”

Joan said, “We prefer to get out of... that is, to be on our way as soon as possible.”

He turned his milky gaze from Joan to Margaret. “The Northampton line will take you as far as Dunstable for a crown—if you take an outside seat, which is cheaper. It leaves in twenty minutes. Or, the Maidstone Times leaves in thirty.”

Joan glanced at her. “Which shall it be, miss? North or south?”

Margaret thought quickly. Her old home, the village of Summerfield, lay to the south, though outside the chalk circle. Would Sterling look for her there? “South, I think.” She hesitated. “Unless you prefer north?”

“Maidstone has a hiring fair, I understand,” Joan said. “So that would suit me.” She lowered her voice. “But remember, it’s you what has to get out of town. Once we are safely out of London, you shall go your way and I mine. Understand?”

Margaret felt chastened by the cutting words of her once-docile maid. But she nodded without retort. She needed Joan too much to risk complaining.

Joan turned back to the man. “Two for Maidstone, please.”

He took the money, gave them their change, and directed them inside. “Marsh is the coachman you want.”

They would go south. Not as far as Summerfield, but as far as their meager coin would take them.

Half an hour later, Margaret found herself, for the first time in her life, sitting on a bench atop the roof of a stagecoach, in an outside seat no less.

She gripped the metal handrail so hard her knuckles ached, and they had yet to set off.

In front of her, the coachman sat at the ready in his many-caped coat and top hat.

Beside her sat a soldier, Joan on his other side.

The soldier turned his cheek toward first Joan, then Margaret, pointing out a long scar. “See that. Not from the war, no. From being struck by a coachman’s wild whip.”

Margaret swallowed and inched back on her perch as far as the low leather backrest and the baggage behind would allow.

When the guard had assisted the last passenger, he climbed up to his box at the rear and blew his yard of tin—first the “start,” then the “clear the road,” signal. Margaret cringed. The horn had never seemed so loud from inside a coach.

The coachman called to his horses, “Get on lads. Walk on.”

Soon, they were trotting down Southwark streets, gaining speed as they left the metropolis behind.

The roads worsened, but this seemed no deterrent to the coachman, snapping his whip and urging his horses faster.

Margaret sent up a prayer and held on tight.

The careening coach rocked to and fro over the rutted road, and Margaret feared she would lose what little breakfast she had eaten.

A man’s hat flew off, and the gusting wind pulled at her bonnet and wig.

She could not imagine how the wind must bite and torture in winter.

She risked loosing her handhold only long enough to tie the ribbons tighter before gripping the rail once more.

At every turn, the coach pitched and the soldier’s body pressed against her side. He needed a bath.

The stage stopped to pay tolls at several tollgates. The polite soldier leaned near and said, “I prefer traveling by Royal Mail when I can. They don’t have to stop and pay tolls.”

Margaret nodded her understanding but did not mind the brief stops. They gave her a few moments to rub her aching hand and check her wig and spectacles. Joan, she noticed, bore the journey without complaint.

Margaret leaned forward, mustered a smile, and said to her, “Could be worse. At least it is not raining.”