Heart Strings (Music of the Heart Book 1) (6 page)

“All performers will be paid Friday next.”

A whole week away? Panic sent a tremor down her spine.

“Sir, I am rather in need of funds at the moment—”

“I don’t care what you need. I have an entire cast and crew to manage as well as the musicians. I cannot cater to one.”

His habit of cutting her off battered her nerves but she kept her composure. “It is not my wish to cause you any inconvenience, sir, but—”

“Look.” He took a breath in an obvious attempt to control his temper. “Even if I were willing to pay you early, I don’t keep money here for payroll. You will have to wait until next Friday. Good day.” In a clear dismissal, he picked up his pen and resumed writing.

She refused to surrender so easily. “Sir, I am not asking for much—”

“I said good day.”

“—just enough coin that I might buy a bit of bread.”

He lifted his head.

“Please, sir. A shilling. Anything.”

Either his heart softened or she looked particularly close to swooning. He heaved a long-suffering sigh and reached into his pocket. His mouth pursed as he retrieved a coin and tossed it to her. “That’s all I have on my person.”

She scrambled to catch it. A farthing. She hugged it. “Thank you, sir.”

“It will come out of your pay.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Out.” He picked up his pen, inspected the tip, and resumed writing.

“Thank you, sir. I’m very grateful to you for your kindness.” She curtsied and left, closing the door behind her.

A farthing. She had no hope of it lasting an entire week, but it would feed her today. Picking up her portmanteau as she passed by the chair, she retraced her steps. She cast a longing glance at the orchestra pit. Did she dare leave her portmanteau there? It would spare her having to carry it everywhere. Surely with Bert guarding the entrance it would be safe. But that bag contained everything she owned. No, she dare not risk it.

The door guard sat whittling by the light of a sputtering candle. He looked up at her approach.

“Thank you, Bert.” She smiled.

He nodded, unlocked the door and let her out.

Susanna paused, unsure of which direction to take. She had seen a bakery and the pub where she had washed this morning, but had no idea where would be the most economical place to purchase food.

In the time that it took her to speak with the opera manager, the streets had filled with the working class carrying boxes and baskets, some pushing handcarts, others driving horse-drawn conveyances. Horse hooves clopped, wheels clattered over streets, vendors announced their wares, and friends called greetings. In the distance, a child wailed. Closer, men laughed. Scents of meat pies and bread mingled with flowers, horses, unwashed bodies, and the unique aroma of the Thames.

Susanna headed in the direction of the bakery she had spotted earlier, too hungry to care if it had the best food or the most reasonable prices.

“Well, well, good day to you, Missy,” a male voice said in such heavy Cockney that she had to mentally translate to decipher his meaning.

If one of the footman back home hadn’t spoken in the same dialect, Susanna never would have made out the man’s words. She glanced around for the owner of that accent. A man dressed as a dock worker swaggered up to her. He smelled as if his clothes hadn’t been washed in a month.

“Looking for a little fun? A little coin?” he added in that same speech.

With barely a glance in his direction, she shook her head and stepped around him.

“I’m talking to you!” He grabbed her arm.

Alarm shot through her, lending her courage. “Release me at once.”

“Ooooh, you talk all fancy like a real lady. Think you’re too good for me, eh?”

She wrenched her arm out of his grasp and ran. In her haste, she nearly trampled a woman sitting on her doorstep.

“I’m so sorry,” Susanna gasped. She glanced back but the man was sauntering the other direction.

The woman squinted at her and said in equally difficult to understand Cockney, “Poor lamb, ye don’t belong ’ere, do ye? Come inside, pet, and I’ll fetch ye a nice cup of tea.” Though the words sounded kind, something in her tone and the gleam in her eye sent a chill through Susanna.

“No, thank you.” She quickened her pace, heedless of the direction she took. She had been fortunate
to have passed the night untouched, but her luck appeared to have run out. Perhaps her guardian angel considered her work complete. Where was that bakery?

A tea shop appeared nearby. Perhaps they had food, too. She headed for it. Black spots exploded before her vision. No, not again. She could not faint. Not here. Grabbing onto the side of a building, she tried to breathe through her dizziness.

A voice called her name from a great distance. The black spots grew and swallowed her whole and she floated into darkness.

Kit barely managed to catch the little harpist before her head hit the ground. Completely limp and with a pallor somewhere between white and gray, she might have expired on the spot.

He patted her cheeks. “Miss Dyer? Susanna?”

No answer. Her colorless skin made her appear as if she had been made of paper.

Good heavens, this was no mere swoon. She appeared to be completely unconscious. A few passersby stopped walking and stared. This would never do.

“As you were,” he snapped. He hailed a passing hackney. The jarvey eyed him as if he were some kind of villain who had just attacked the poor girl. “Take me to St. James place, at once.”

He swung the nearly weightless unconscious form into his arms, scooped up the battered portmanteau she’d been carrying last night, and carried her to the hackney. Inside, he lay her on the seat and chafed her wrists, continuing to call her name. A full moment later, she roused, blinking.

She let out a cry of alarm. “Oh! Release me!” She struggled to sit.

“Don’t be afraid, Miss Dyer, you are safe. Remember me? Kit Anson?”

She pressed a hand to her head and blinked at him. “Of course. I fear I…” She glanced about in confusion. “Where are we?”

“You fainted. Forgive me for my boldness, but I couldn’t leave you to fall in the streets, and besides a crowd was forming. I thought an escape by hackney the best course of action. Where would you like me to take you?”

She pushed herself up and swung her legs off the edge of the seat. “I…” she took another breath. “You can take me someplace where I may purchase a bit of bread.”

“Of course.” He rapped on the door and stuck his head out to give a change of orders to the jarvey. That finished, he eyed her. Even so sober and frightened, she was still pretty. In fact, with such delicate features, a shapely mouth, and large gray eyes, she would be lovely if it weren’t for her overly thin, alarmingly pale face and dark circles under her eyes. “Do you need a doctor?”

“No, not at all. I merely need to eat.”

He nodded. “My mother sometimes swoons if she doesn’t eat breakfast immediately upon arising, or if too much time passes between meals.”

She fidgeted with her fingers. “Yes, that’s it.”

“I was about to have breakfast with my mother. Would you care to join us?” Of course, his mother might raise her brows at him bringing a ragged stranger, but it seemed rude not to invite her. And she was probably hungry.

She held up her hands in a warding position. “Oh, no, thank you. Really, you may let me off anywhere. I feel much better already.”

He leaned back against seat cushions that had lost their padding years ago, and made a loose gesture out the window. “There is a nice little bakery on the next corner. He makes the best hot cross buns.”

With a shaking hand she smoothed back her hair. “Thank you for the recommendation.” She sat silently, tense and wary. Perhaps she feared for her reputation. Or his intentions.

“Do you have enough money for food?” He asked on a sudden whim. “If not, I could lend you—”

“Oh no, thank you. I have money for some bread.”

Only for some bread? Was the poor girl literally starving?

“Mr. Anson—”

“Kit.”

She faltered. “Kit. Do you happen to know where the Admiralty is located?” She fixed an earnest gaze upon him. She really did have the most remarkable eyes—gray with a little blue, and much brighter than one normally encountered, yet sad, almost haunted.

“Yes, I know where the Admiralty is. May I ask why?” It was bold of him to ask, but curiosity about the girl drove him to push the borders of propriety.

“I’m in search of news of my brother. He was a naval officer and he died at sea.” She swallowed. “I was hoping to find someone to give me more information about him—whether he was buried at sea, and what exactly happened to him. I wrote to the Admiralty, but I never received an answer. I had hoped if I asked in person, someone might help me.”

The carriage pulled to a stop in front of the bakery he had requested.

Strangely reluctant to part company with her, Kit stepped out and handed her down. “My brother-in-law works for the Admiralty. I could arrange for you to speak to him.”

Her eyes lit up. “Would you do that?”

“Of course.”

“I’m grateful to you. For everything.” She smiled so brilliantly that he was momentarily speechless. By Jove, she really was a pretty little thing.

She picked up her portmanteau and stepped out of the carriage with all the manners of a fine lady, despite her dirty gloves and shabby clothes. Heedless of her appearance, she curtsied, thanked him again, and disappeared inside the bakery.

Kit paused, then cast a glance at the jarvey. “Wait here, please.” He followed her inside and stood near the door behind her so she would not see him.

“How much for a loaf of bread?” Susanna asked.

Frowning, the baker gave her a once-over. “Two shillings.”

“Oh.” Her head lowered. “What can I buy with a farthing?”

“A plain brown bun.” The baker held up a bun that Kit could eat in two or three bites.

“That will do.” She handed over the money, accepted the paltry bite of food and turned away. She bit into it, closing her eyes and chewing as if she hadn’t eaten in days. Perhaps she hadn’t.

Kit stepped up to the counter beside her. Engrossed in her bread, Susanna made no indication that she saw him.

“Mornin’, Kit,” the baker said with a grin. “Come fer me hot cross buns?”

“Two, in fact. And I’ll take two of your largest loaves of bread.”

Susanna glanced up and met his gaze. Her face reddened, more color than he had seen in her. She swallowed and asked, “What are you doing here?”

“Buying bread. This is my favorite bakery, remember?”

Blushing again, she nodded and went outside. As the baker got his bread and wrapped it in paper, Kit chatted with him, asking about his wife and sons, all the while glancing over his shoulder to keep track of Susanna outside the window. If she really were starving, he meant to do something about that.

Once outside, he gazed in both directions. Susanna had vanished. He looked down at the bread in his hand and sighed. He was too late to give it to her now, but he could give it to her tonight at the performance. Or better, yet, he would insist on taking her to the Silver Duck and see to it that she ate a full meal.

He gave a second set of instructions to the jarvey and sat lost in thought until the hackney deposited him at his parents’ house, a stately home built in the style of country manner houses long before the city limits of London had reached out so far to encompass it. Once the carriage traversed the long drive amid two hundred-year-old trees and careful landscaping, the noises and smells of the city fell away.

Inside, the butler greeted Kit stoically and took his hat and coat. “Welcome home, Lord Christopher. Your mother is expecting you in the breakfast room.”

Kit found his mother pouring tea. As he crossed the threshold, he stopped up short. She had aged. How was that possible? She hadn’t had so many gray hairs when he saw her last year. A sense of her very real mortality seized him, along with the realization that his parents would not always be there. Pushing back such maudlin thoughts, he pasted on a smile.

“Mother, you look radiant as ever.”

“Christopher!” She nearly knocked over her chair in her haste to reach him. He swiftly closed the gap between them and scooped her up for a hug.

“My darling boy,” she said in a voice rough with tears.

His eyes stung at the affection in her tone. “Come now, it hasn’t been all that long, has it?”

“A mother wants her children close by—even when they are grown. A year is far too long.” She pulled back and took a good look at him. “You look well, son. So broad through the shoulders now. That is not a Westin coat, though, I’ll warrant.”

“Westin is a bit rich for my pocketbook now but I don’t mind; there are precious few places I frequent where I would need to wear such a finely tailored suit.”

“Oh, Christopher, come home and you can wear all the suits—”

“Now, Mother,” he interrupted gently with a fond smile. “I’m not ready to relinquish my freedom just yet.”

“As you wish.” She laid a hand on his cheek and looked him over as if she had almost forgotten his features. “I’m so glad you’ve come. Do fill your plate and come sit.”

As he picked up a plate at the end of the buffet table, he looked over the abundant selection with some amusement. “Are we expecting a dozen more for breakfast?”

“No, of course not. I just wanted to be sure all your favorites were present and that there was enough.”

“Afraid I’m starving?” he quipped.

“Well, no … but I’m grateful to see that you are not.” She glanced at him. “You
do
have plenty to eat, do you not?”

He gestured to himself. “Do I look underfed to you?”

“No. Your color is good and you do look fit and well.”

He loaded his plate, including a healthy selection of strawberries, as she filled him in on news about his brother, the estate, friends, and a few social issues. She waited until after he had eaten to broach what was clearly on her mind.

“My dear, I know you wanted to get out from under your father’s thumb, but don’t you think it’s time to come home? I miss you.”