She drew back from her reflection sharply. It didn’t matter. No one cared what she looked like, anyway. “Shall we go in? Father’s solicitor said he’d leave the key under a stone.”
Becky dropped her satchel on the grass and pushed back her bonnet. “I don’t see a stone.”
Nan walked up to the front doorway and parted the long moor-grass with her fingers. “Neither do I.”
Perfect. How absolutely, positively, perfectly perfect. They had been traveling for weeks now and finally reached the end of their journey—only to find the door locked. ’Twas a metaphor for her entire life. Tears stung the back of her eyelids and a hysterical desire to laugh bubbled within her. What could they do? The solicitor lived back in Matlock, a day’s journey away. The mail carriage they’d ridden in on was long departed. People came and went down at the other end of the street, their faces and forms blurred by the distance.
She could go and ask one of the other shopkeepers for assistance, or one of the townspeople. But a sudden and unreasonable wave of stubbornness assailed her, holding her in its grip. She was here to start a new life for her sisters, and it would be intolerable for anyone to know she was making such a poor start. She would find a way to open that door on her own. “I’ll look around back. Perhaps there’s another door to the shop, and he hid the key there.”
With masterful nonchalance, straightening her spine and holding her shoulders back, she marched around to the rear of the building. There was another door, to be sure, but no key there, either. Nothing even remotely resembling a stone graced the back porch. She clenched her fists and bit her tongue, willing herself not to lose her temper completely and utterly. ’Twould be a blessed relief to roll about in the long moor-grass and flail her arms and legs as she had as a child. But it would do no good. Giving vent to her temper wouldn’t change their present circumstances.
There was only one thing to do.
She returned to the front of the building, where Becky and Nan stood waiting. “I’m going to break in,” she announced.
Her sisters gasped in unison. “No,” they breathed, their eyes widening in shock.
“Oh, yes, I shall,” she snapped. “I’ll break out one of the door panes. You’ll see. We’ll be in quick as a wink.”
Of course, since there was no rock to be found, she’d have to improvise. She opened her valise and withdrew her sturdy boots with their lovely curved heels. One blow from those heels would surely do the trick. Tapping it against her palm, she walked over to the doorway and raised the boot in the air.
“What do you think you’re doing?” A man’s voice, rich and deep, boomed behind her. She dropped the boot and swung around. There, beside her sisters on the tapering path, were two young gentlemen. Her breath came in quick gasps as she studied the form of one of the men. Surely that wasn’t Daniel Hale. No, it couldn’t be. And yet—those mischievous green eyes, the tousled black hair—she squinted, taking a closer look. Daniel wasn’t as tall as this fellow when he left, but then, that was several years ago.
Her sisters were staring at her, openmouthed and silent. Both gentlemen awaited her reaction. The dark one who looked like Daniel appeared amused, if one could judge from the upturned corner of his mouth. The man beside him, with dark brown hair and brown eyes, merely looked confused and a trifle bored.
“It’s my shop,” she explained, coming toward them with her palms turned upward in a defensive gesture. ’Twould be horrid to begin life in Tansley marked as a woman who tried to break in to a building. She must defuse the situation. “We’re just moving in. But I cannot find the key and so I thought I could break the glass with my boot heel.”
“Good thing we came along,” the green-eyed man said with a chuckle. “’Tis mighty hard to find a glazer in the village. You’d have a broken door for weeks.”
There was no doubt about it. This man was Daniel. An older, more rugged version of the boy she’d known, but it was him. Her heart pounded so that surely everyone in the little group could hear it. Better to cover her nervousness by concentrating on the problem at hand. “I don’t know how to unlock it. Without the key, I have no way to get in. And I can’t go back to Matlock to beg the key from the solicitor. We’ve only just arrived.” She indicated her sisters with a jerk of her bonnet.
“I can help you.” He stepped forward, dusting his hands on his breeches. “Give me a hairpin and I can pick the lock.”
She nodded. Of course. If only she’d thought of that herself. She tugged her bonnet off her head, pushing some of the curls back off her shoulder. As she removed a hairpin, her hair finally broke free of all restraint. It tumbled around her shoulders and she pushed it behind her with an impatient hand. So many women had hair that behaved perfectly well. Why couldn’t her hair be more ladylike?
His intense gaze searched her face and lingered on her hair as she held the hairpin out. He no longer looked mischievous or amused. His mouth was pressed into a firm line and his green eyes no longer twinkled. They— Well, they overwhelmed her, truth be told. As he took the hairpin from her palm, his fingertips brushed against her glove. She suppressed any reaction to his touch. He probably didn’t even recognize her. Better not to let on that she knew all too well who he was.
He turned his attention toward the lock, straightening the hairpin. Kneeling in the moor-grass, he leaned forward, working the lock with the bit of wire until a click sounded. “There,” he exclaimed, and twisted the latch until the door eked open. “Of course, you’ll have to have the locksmith come out and assist you with finding a new key. But I wouldn’t worry. Tansley’s a safe place. No need, really, for a locked door.”
“Thank you.” They had no money left for a new key. They’d just have to leave the door unlocked until she could write to the solicitor and beg for the old key back.
“You’re welcome...?” He paused, midbow. Of course. Where were her manners?
“Sus—I mean, Miss Siddons.” Gracious, what a blunder. ’Twas mere habit, but still—her face heated to the roots of her hair. He would never want to know who she was. He’d merely helped her out once.
He peered at her with hooded eyes. Did he remember, after all? “Mr. Daniel Hale.” He finished his bow and indicated his friend, who tipped his hat. “This is Paul Holmes, my friend.” He turned back toward her. “Is there anyone here who can help you? Your father...your uncle, perhaps?”
Was there a heavier emphasis on those last words? No, she must have imagined it. “No one. We are on our own. But I do thank you for your help.” She waved her hands at Becky and Nan, beckoning them inside the building. Better to cut this interview short. It had rattled her more than she cared to admit. She was ready to be safe behind those walls, where she could breathe again.
“Ah, then, I shall check on you in a day or so.”
She opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her short with a shrug of his powerful shoulders. “No, really. I don’t like the idea of three women living alone without any male protection. I have a place not too far from here, Goodwin Hall. I come to the village often and shall stop by.”
With that, he touched the brim of his hat. He gesturing to his friend, and the two men strolled down the path as it narrowed and was overrun by long grasses and wildflowers. She pressed her back against the stone facade of the building, watching the two men as they grew smaller and smaller in the distance. Wiping her clammy hands on the worn fabric of her faded gown, she glanced down at her boot, discarded in the grass. Looking both vulnerable and ridiculous. Just like Susannah Siddons.
Once again, a desire both to laugh and cry seized hold, threatening