Heart Strings (Music of the Heart Book 1) (3 page)

Susanna considered. “I know where the nearest posting inn is. But once I reach London, I wouldn’t know where to begin. I don’t know all the theatres, nor how to go about getting a position, nor even where I’d stay.” The unknowns all loomed before her like an endlessly high wall.

“I can’t help you with getting a position, but I know the theatres.” Martha started counting off on her fingers. “There’s the King’s Theatre, Covent Garden, Drury Lane, Lyceum….”

Susanna smiled at the sweet maid. What a dear she was for trying to help her! “I can see I should have spoken to you sooner.”

Martha added, “I still can’t like the idea of you traveling all the way to London alone, miss, but I admire your courage.”

Courage or desperation? Either way, the more Susanna thought of it, the more determined she was to flee. Fear and excitement and anticipation tugged at her from every side, creating nervous anticipation. She’d never felt so terrified. Or so alive.

Martha helped her plan her route, told her where to exit the mail coach upon reaching London, and drew her a rough map of various theatres and opera houses.

“I only wish I could help you with a place to stay,” Martha said. “I have no family and I doubt the missus at my former position would be of a mind to help; she wasn’t exactly charitable by nature. You might try Mrs. Griffin’s boarding house in St. James’s Place. I hear she’s respectable.”

Susanna smiled. “Mrs. Griffin. I’ll remember.”

Excited that she had a better idea of what to do now, she and Martha went through Susanna’s clothes, choosing her best ones to sell. Martha suggested Susanna dressed as a poor servant girl to help aid her anonymity, but after viewing Susanna’s clothing, Martha clucked her tongue, shook her head, and declared her clothing shameless for the daughter of a gentleman, but sufficient for her new life.

Susanna glanced at the clock. “You’d best get back to your duties before you’re missed. If anyone questions you about my disappearance, you don’t know anything about where I went or when I left.”

“I understand, miss.” Martha nodded eagerly.

“Thank you.” Impulsively, Susanna hugged Martha.

Martha hugged her back. “I hope you find what you need.” She backed up, curtsied, and slipped out.

After Martha left, Susanna spent the remainder of the day scouring her bedchamber for anything which would be of value in a pawn shop, but only came up with her mother’s wedding ring. She put it on her finger and admired it. The gold and sapphire ring glittered, fitting as if it had been made for her. It had been so lovely on her mother’s graceful hand. Susanna hugged it. Could she part with such a cherished possession?

If it meant her only means of freedom, then yes—not easily, but she could. Mama would understand. Heavy of heart, but resolute, Susanna grabbed her pins and her best clothes, piling everything onto her bed.

Her parents’ miniature sat on her dressing table, their smiling faces reminding her of a time when she was loved. She used to dream of being as beautiful as her mother—they shared the same abundant dark hair, but Mama’s complexion had possessed an inner glow, and her eyes, the color of forget-me-nots, sparkled with laughter. Susanna was a colorless shadow of her mother. No wonder the only two men who expressed desire for her wanted her for all the wrong reasons. Honestly, it was a wonder they had any interest in her at all.

Martha returned with a threadbare portmanteau that smelled faintly of mothballs. “I found this up in the attic, miss. And I brought you some more food from the kitchen.” She held out a small cloth bundle. “Cheese and bread and two apples. I took them when the cook wasn’t looking. It won’t last you the entire journey, but it will give you a start.”

When was the last time someone had shown such kindness? If their situation had been different, she and Martha might have been fast friends. “Martha, what would I do without you?”

The maid hesitated, her smile turning sad. “I wish I had more to give you.”

“You’ve done so much already. Thank you.”

“Good luck, miss.”

Alone again, Susanna wrapped the miniature in a chemise, she tucked it into the portmanteau. Finally, she packed the letters from her brother, Richard, the only thing she had of him. On top of the stack bound with ribbon lay the letter from the Admiralty informing her of his death and another from his captain expressing his condolences.

A storm of sorrow and regret, and even anger blew over her. If only Richard had come home sooner, he would be alive, they would have each other, and Susanna would never have had to endure years of her aunt’s abuse. She pictured his lopsided smile, recalled the pure joy in his laugh, remembered the way he used to tug on her hair and call her Susie Bug. He’d taught her to swim. He’d even challenged her to walk into a dark room when she was afraid. If he could speak to her from the grave, he would urge her to take this chance in London.

She stared at the portmanteau. She was doing this. She was really going to leave her childhood home—the only home she’d ever known. More importantly, she would leave Aunt Uriana’s dominion and have the freedom to pursue her own course, perhaps even choose her own husband—provided any man would want someone like her. It seemed a bit unreal—like a dream.

To pass the time until she could leave undetected, she curled up in the window seat and pulled out one of her Sweet Memories, a term her mother used to describe those times to cherish and to recall whenever she needed to cheer herself. Today, Susanna immersed herself in memories of sitting in this very window seat, holding a china doll and listening to her mother read to her from a book of Perrault’s Fairy Tales. She had adored the story of the Sleeping Beauty, whose brave prince saved her and her kingdom from an enchantment, and of Cinderella, who had risen from difficult circumstances to marry a charming prince. Most of all, she had loved resting her head on Mama’s lap, listening to her lovely contralto voice paint vivid pictures with her words of magic and adventure and love.

“Adventure and love,” she repeated with a sigh. Perhaps London offered those as well. She let out a scoff. She’d settle for honest work and a place to sleep.

Tonight she’d walk to the village, sell what she could, and catch the mail coach. Once she reached London, she’d present herself to every theatre and opera house in London. Surely someone would need a harpist of her skill, or would know of someone who would. Her plan depended on a bit of luck and not a few prayers, but new confidence filled her.

The very singular day faded into night. Still Susanna waited. Outside, owls hooted and frogs sang in a rough chorus as the house sank into utter stillness. Hours later, the hall clock chimed two o’clock in the morning. Finally, Susanna donned her only bonnet, coat, and gloves.

Her pulse throbbed. With shaking fingers, from both excitement and trepidation, Susanna unlocked the door and opened it. The hinges squeaked. She held her breath. Moments passed. No sound indicated anyone had heard.

This was mad. What was she thinking? She couldn’t run away in the middle of the night. She would be entirely alone, and had only a few coins in her pocket. Even if she managed to reach London safely, she had no position and nowhere to sleep. Aunt and Uncle and their horrid son and nephew were her only relations. She had been cut off from friends for years—they had probably all forgotten her.

What choice did she have? Staying here to either marry Algernon or be ravished by Percy was unthinkable. Besides, if she reached London, she could go to the Admiralty and search for more information about Richard’s death. Why she needed the details of his last few moments alive, she could not say, but not knowing had left a hollowness inside her.

She opened the door and stole out into the corridor with her few possessions, a prayer in her heart, and courage born of desperation.

Creeping through the house using the servants’ stairs, she entertained the idea of taking something of value to aid in her flight. However, knowing her aunt would view that as theft, she refrained. Susanna stopped in the drawing room. Moonlight spilled in through sheer curtains at the windows, painting pale patterns on the floor and illuminating her harp.

She moved to the elegant stringed instrument and caressed the curves of its neck. Her friend. Her solace. Now, with a healthy serving of luck, it would be her means of obtaining independence. She couldn’t bring the harp of course—it belonged to her uncle now, along with the estate. Leaving it behind sent a dart of pain through her heart. It had provided countless hours of escape from the misery of her life. It had absorbed her anger, her sorrow, her frustration, her loneliness. It always gave back peace and contentment. It had probably kept her alive. She ran her hand down the harp’s soundboard, tracing the gilded vines and flowers. The knowledge and skill she had gained would remain with her.

She choked, “Good bye, my friend.” One last time, she covered the instrument, gave it a final pat, and left the room. A piece of her heart remained behind.

Outside, she hurried along the trees lining the drive, using the shadows to conceal her in the event someone spotted her. A blazingly bright moon lit her path and a breeze cooled her perspiration-dampened hair. Her heart thumped. If she were caught, she would be locked in her bedchamber and lose her chance for escape. Fear kept her running as fast as she dared in the semi-darkness. A stitch in her side slowed her and her arms ached from carrying the portmanteau, but she kept moving, alternating between running and walking. If she had been any less familiar with her surroundings, she might have been afraid. Her imagination painted images of bandits lurking in every shadow. However, this area had been her home all her life.

As she reached the village, the eastern horizon shimmered silver, gilding clouds as they peeped out from behind distant mountains. Signs of life arose with the sun. A goose girl herded her charges, and the blacksmith’s hammer rang out. Chickens clucked and a baby cried nearby as Susanna passed by shops and picked her way to the pawn shop next to the mercantile.

She pushed open the door and almost let out an audible sigh that she’d made it this far. “Mrs. Miller?” she called.

Footsteps and a swishing skirt announced the owner’s arrival. “May I help you?” With lively eyes peering out from underneath her white frilled cap, Mrs. Miller blinked at Susanna as if she didn’t recognize her.

Indeed, they had not conversed much over the years since her parents’ death but she remembered going with her mother when she visited tenants and villagers, sometimes bringing baskets of food even when it wasn’t Boxing Day. Mrs. Miller had always received them warmly. Since then, Susanna had only glimpsed Mrs. Miller in church—on the days her aunt allowed her to attend.

Susanna smiled. “Good morning, Mrs. Miller. It’s Susanna Dyer.”

Mrs. Miller’s eyes widened. “Well bless my soul, so it is. I haven’t seen you around much—I heard you were poorly.”

“Not as ‘poorly’ as my aunt and uncle would like you to believe. I have some things I need to sell.” She showed the woman her clothes, pins, and the miniature. “I’m not interested in letting go of the portrait, of course, but I thought perhaps the frame would be of value?”

Mrs. Miller looked them all over. Under the woman’s scrutiny, the articles Susanna had brought suddenly looked shabby and worthless. Kindly, the woman asked, “Why do you need money, Miss Susanna?”

“I need to buy passage on the mail coach.”

Mrs. Miller studied her. “I see. Your aunt and uncle aren’t treating you well, are they?”

Exhaustion and fear and uncertainty drained her composure. Tears pricked her eyes. She looked down to cover signs of her emotion. “Please, is any of this worth anything?”

“Is this your mother’s wedding band?” Mrs. Miller picked up the gold and sapphire ring and held it into the light.

Tears escaped. Susanna hastily brushed them away and nodded. “It’s all I have of hers—and this miniature.”

“I think we can work out something.”

“And please, if anyone asks, you haven’t seen me. They can’t know where I’ve gone.”

Mrs. Miller patted her hand. “I understand, my dear. You have my silence.”

Susanna left the shop with a lighter portmanteau and a few coins wrapped up in a handkerchief and tucked into her stays. A few hours later, Susanna sat atop a mail coach and offered a prayer that she would reach London safely, procure employment, and find a place to stay.

“And,” she added to her whispered prayer, “if isn’t not too much to ask, a guardian angel would be very helpful about now.”

The coach bumped along and Susanna held on for her life, not bothering to wipe away the tears she shed for leaving behind her mother’s ring, her harp, her home, her village, and everything she had ever known. Eventually, she dried her tears and looked ahead. London, and all its possibilities awaited. If nothing else, she’d be safe from her horrid relations who wanted her for their own purposes. And maybe, just maybe, she would prove to herself and them that she was smart and capable. Or at the very least, worthwhile.

If only every day were so fine, Christopher Anson could die a happy man. Eager as always for tonight’s performance, Kit tucked his violin case under his arm and strolled along the sidewalk toward the now-familiar brick building graced with statues, arches, and a dome that made up the King’s Theatre. Some musicians cited the thrill of playing for an audience, but Kit loved playing music for its own sake. Besides, performing for an audience meant the conductor wouldn’t stop the orchestra and break up the flow of music nor the fluid beauty running into Kit’s soul. Solos were all fine and well, but being part of a group created a magical blend he could not produce on his own.

As he approached the back of the King’s Theatre toward the stage entrance, a small figure arose from its crouched position. Another urchin, no doubt. Without breaking stride, Kit reached into his pocket to toss the poor creature a coin.

“Excuse me, sir.”

He halted. Such cultured tones did not belong to a street urchin. In fact, they sounded a great deal like the voice of a lady. He peered more closely at the form. A gray, threadbare woman’s coat, and a decade-old straw bonnet engulfed a body about half his width and barely the height of his shoulder—and he was no giant. She gripped a bag resembling a sad excuse for a portmanteau. The form lifted her head and a large pair of eyes almost the color of the coat peered at him. A decidedly feminine, young face accompanied those eyes.