Imposter Bride

  Imposter Bride—Patricia Simpson 260

  Imposter Bride

  Patricia Simpson

  Smashwords Edition

  © 2013 Patricia Simpson

  Lucky Publishing

  United States of America

  Chapter 1

  London, 1765

  Trudging up the stairs behind her mistress, Sophie Vernet reminded herself that her life could be a lot worse. One glimpse of London had been enough to put the world in perspective. She had been shocked by the number of waifs begging for bread on the streets, offering to do anything for a coin, and so bedraggled the sight of them tugged at her heart. But for the grace of God and Katherine Hinds, she could have been a member of that tattered tribe.

  Yes, she was lucky. She wasn’t starving. She had a pallet to sleep on and clothes to wear. She should have been grateful for her servitude to the Hinds family. But she wasn’t.

  The bags Sophie carried dragged down her shoulders and shot pain across her back as she climbed the dark stairs of the inn where they had finally found a room. She had carried three valises for a good five miles that day, never complaining even though she thought her arms would pull out of their sockets at any moment. She longed for the journey to end. She longed to put down her load. Most of all she longed for freedom. But her day was far from over. And freedom was just a dream she held tight to her heart. She had no money, and she had no place to go in this huge frozen city so different from her island home of Santo Domingo.

  Katherine Hinds unlocked the door of the room Sophie had rented on her behalf and marched across the threshold. She swept a horrified glance around the tiny chamber and then turned to glare at her servant.

  “This won’t do!” Katherine flushed with anger. “What were you thinking? This simply won’t do!”

  Curious to see what Miss Hind’s meager funds had rented, Sophie left the bags in the doorway and stepped up behind her mistress to survey the room. It was a small space with a tiny fireplace and narrow window. The walls and floor were fashioned from rough wood planks and topped by a ceiling angled at the sides. Beneath the eaves squatted a wardrobe that couldn’t even be pushed all the way to the wall because of the low line of the ceiling. The design made the room seem more like a cave than a bedchamber. It was a far cry from the airy rooms they were accustomed to on the island and a great deal smaller.

  How were they to manage in this space? There were three of them traveling together, and yet the room offered only a single bed, one chair at a small wooden table, and one candle already half spent. Even for a servant like Sophie, who didn’t expect much in the way of personal accommodations, the room was inadequate.

  Sophie had been the one to make the arrangements for the room, as Katherine and Agnes were much too ladylike to deal directly with innkeepers. Now she feared she would be blamed for the state of the place, even though she’d had no choice in the matter.

  “This room isn’t fit for swine to shit in.” Katherine exclaimed over her shoulder. “You have been cheated, my girl, and cheated thoroughly!”

  “The innkeeper said this was the only room he had,” Sophie backed toward the doorway, wary of being disciplined with a slap. “There’s a festival on, he said.”

  “Festival, pah!” Katherine scowled. “I have never seen such a wretched hovel in my entire life!”

  “Shall I try to get your money back?”

  “And walk another mile to another inn?” Agnes Preston sank to the chair, slumped backward, and thrust out her fat feet. “Lord, no! I’m spent, Miss Katherine. I can’t take another step.”

  Sophie looked back at her mistress and waited for instruction. She knew better than to suggest they return to the ship. Katherine had hated every moment spent on the schooner and vowed she would never step foot on one again. Sophie wondered how her mistress planned to return to Santo Domingo without benefit of a sailing ship. Perhaps she never intended to go back.

  “I can’t stay here!” Katherine pointed at the narrow bed pulled close to the fireplace. The quilt was faded and lumpy. “Look at that bed. It’s likely crawling with vermin!”

  “We can air it,” Sophie suggested. For once, she agreed with Agnes. She didn’t want to go anywhere else this afternoon either. She was exhausted.

  As Katherine’s white rimmed stare swept from the bed to the door and back again, Sophie reached for her mistress’ cloak, expecting to wait on Katherine as usual and expecting to be cuffed if she didn’t anticipate the young woman’s slightest desire.

  “Don’t!” Katherine slapped away Sophie’s hand. “I’m freezing! And we shan’t be staying!”

  Dutifully, Sophie acquiesced and let her hands fall to her sides. She knew that pretty, brown-haired Katherine often displayed outrage when she was frightened, and today was no exception. Coming from the quiet warmth of the West Indies and an insulated life on her family’s sugar plantation, Katherine had been unprepared for the possibility that no one would meet her when she arrived in England. She had been forced to make her way in this foreign land with its dirty air and reeking rivers, and with very little money in her purse.

  At twenty-one, Katherine was not a babe to be sure, but she had been coddled far too much by her mother, who had recently passed away. Though Katherine never mentioned the financial status of the plantation, Sophie knew Katherine’s mother had left her with many debts when she died.

  Katherine’s English grandmother, on the other hand, was fabulously wealthy.

  “Sophie, quit badgering Miss Hinds,” Agnes hissed from the chair. “Can’t you see she’s upset?”

  Sophie hadn’t thought she was badgering her mistress, but she didn’t say anything to the surly governess. Thirty-two-year-old Agnes Preston had always been surly, but her bad temper had reached new heights now that she was separated from the furniture-maker she had fallen in love with on board The Hesperian. He had been the first man to ever pay court to Agnes, and she had lost all sense over him. “Hurry up and make the fire before we all freeze to death!”

  “No fire, I tell you!” Katherine snapped. “We’re going back to that inn—the Golden Swan—and demanding a room! My grandmother paid for a room and I shall have a room!”

  Agnes sighed, having suffered the same dialogue earlier that afternoon. “But not until two weeks hence, miss. They’ve not got the room now.”

  “I’m to be the Countess of Blethin! I can’t stay here!”

  “What choice do you have?” The governess crossed her short, pudgy arms. “We arrived early. You haven’t a penny to your name. The inns are all full. Your grandmother is not here yet. It’s cold. It’s late. And we don’t know the city.”

  “My future in-laws live in London. Surely they would take me in.”

  “Then send a messenger with a note.” The governess’ cold black eyes leveled upon Sophie who had returned to the pile of bags in the doorway where she was safely out of reach of her mistress. Agnes nodded in her direction. “Send her.”

  Katherine turned and glanced at Sophie. The two young women were the same height, so it was difficult for Katherine to look down her nose at Sophie as she preferred to do with subordinates. Her wild-eyed glance flitted over her maidservant.

  “Why not?” Katherine mused breathlessly, more to herself than anyone else. “What harm could it do? The Metcalfs wouldn’t want me suffering in this fire trap, would they?”

  “Of course not,” Agnes agreed. “Why don’t you write a note, miss, while Sophie lights the fire?”

  “Good idea.” Katherine fluttered a hand over the trunk Sophie had just lugged into the middle of the room. “Sophie, get my writing box out at once. Then see about the fire.”

  “Yes, miss.” Sophie ducked to do Katherine’s bidding, pacing herself, knowing her work fo
r the day was far from over. She would have to deliver the message, find victuals for the other two ladies to eat and—wherever they ended up for the night—-help Katherine undress, launder her stockings, carefully put away all the clothing and jewelry, clean Katherine’s shoes, and get out her clothes for the next day. If she were lucky, Katherine and Agnes would leave a portion of food for her to eat when she finally sat down for the evening, somewhere close to midnight. Many times, however, Sophie ended the day with no reward for her hard work but cold tea and bread, as Agnes often ate the last of the cheese or meat before she retired.

  Sophie set the writing box on the small table by the window, opened the ornate lid, placed a quill on the right and removed the stopper from the ink. Then she carefully got out a piece of paper and stepped back.

  It wasn’t often she had a chance to write, although she knew how, which was uncommon for a servant. She knew she was clever, for over the years she had picked up everything Katherine had been taught, just by listening as she worked. She could even play the harpsichord, although she made sure her mistress was nowhere in the house when she indulged in music. Katherine would have punished her for wasting valuable time. She also loved to cook, and often suffered blows and reprimands for spending too much time in the kitchen when she should have been upstairs.

  There wasn’t anything Katherine could do that Sophie couldn’t do better, and it seemed grossly unfair that simply by an act of fate one should be mistress and the other servant. Sophie sighed and walked to the fire. She had learned at a young age that the world was not a fair place.

  Sophie used a flint to light the kindling, but her mind was far from the task at hand. During the many days at sea and the endless hours filled with nothing but water and sky to contemplate, she had thought about England and about starting a new life there, about running away to a place where no one would know her as Katherine Hinds’ servant, but mostly about becoming a free woman.

  Sophie knew her desires were far different from most women of her day. Her ill-natured mistress wanted nothing more than to marry her earl and become a countess. Agnes wanted a life with her furniture-maker, complete with a brood of what would likely be surly little daughters. But at nineteen years old, Sophie wanted only her freedom—not a husband, not a grand home, not even children. All she wanted was to be able to get up in the morning and be the mistress of her own time and master of her fate. Yet of the desires of the three women, hers was the least likely to be attained. A woman could easily marry and bear children, but she could not easily survive without a man.

  Once the kindling was in flames, Sophie carefully built the coal fire. She was still not adept at using the shiny black stones that to her were magical in the way they could burn like wood. For a moment, she knelt at the little flame, letting the slight heat bathe her face. She hadn’t been warm for two months, since they had left Santo Domingo, as no one had thought to bring gloves and boots for her like Agnes and Katherine wore. At least Katherine had provided her with a woolen cloak, albeit a cast-off. Sophie often wore Katherine’s old clothes, once the ribbons and trimming had been carefully removed, as the two women were similar in size and stature.

  “I’m finished with the note,” Katherine called, her voice lighter than it had been a moment before. “But I confess, I don’t know where the Metcalfs live. Still, it can’t be far.”

  Couldn’t be far? Sophie stared at her mistress. How could Katherine utter such nonsense? Hadn’t she seen the huge smoky expanse of London as the stage had rolled into the city from the docks at Southampton? The city went for miles.

  “Ask around.” The governess looked over her shoulder from her place by the fire. Her short, compact body soaked up what little heat the coal on the grate threw out. “Someone will know.”

  “And don’t be long, girl,” Katherine warned. “I’m truly out of patience with the events of the day.”

  Sophie took the folded and sealed paper. “I’ll do my best.”

  “See that you do.”

  Sophie stepped out of the cramped little room and found her way back down the stairs. She felt a stab of panic at the thought of going out alone into the busy streets of London, of getting lost or being accosted by thieves, but she quickly swallowed back her fear. It wouldn’t do her any good to be afraid. Besides, it wasn’t often she was out from under Katherine Hind’s thumb. She had to take her moments of independence when they came.

  An hour and a half later, Sophie was still hurrying along the streets, too worried to walk and too well-mannered to run, as night fell around her like a heavy drape, bringing with it the first flakes of a winter snowstorm.

  Sophie stopped in the street and looked up at the unfamiliar English sky. The blackness above was so different than the star-sprinkled indigo of Santo Domingo. Here the stars seemed to be falling all around her in floating white shapes. She’d never seen snow before, and for a moment she let the soft white flakes land on her nose and cheeks and marveled at the unusual sensation. The snow upon her skin was a wondrously delicate sensation—like fairy kisses.

  She didn’t indulge herself long. She knew she must plod onward through the dank London streets. She lowered her gaze to the city around her and set off once more. Her shoes sloshed with every step on the uneven cobblestones, and she soon she lost all feeling in her toes. She blotted out the discomfort and focused solely upon her objective: reaching the Metcalf House, which she had been told was just around the corner.

  A lump stuck in her throat, but Sophie reminded herself not to panic. Had she been this way before? Why did all the tall shops and townhouses look the same in the dark? She fretted that she might have once again lost her way. And now, as the streets grew ever darker, she was reluctant to ask passers-by for directions for fear of drawing attention to herself as prey for thieves or murderers.

  Before night had fallen, she had stopped a half dozen people to ask for directions to the Metcalf’s home. Many had assured her that she was only blocks away. She must have circled the place countless times without seeing it.

  “It’s the house with the gate in front, a gate with a lion’s head on it.”

  Nearly everyone had mentioned the lion head. In vain she searched for the gate and was just about ready to give up and turn back, when she saw a carriage come around the corner and roll her way. As it jingled past, the coach lights glowed through the falling snow and cast faint shadows upon the walls and windows along the street. Sophie stepped against the dark wall of a private garden, out of the way of the carriage wheels and their muddy spray. The last thing she wanted to add to her misery was a wet cloak and skirt.

  Just as the coach passed, its lights reflected on the property across the narrow street, and Sophie caught sight of the outline of a cat’s head as it appeared and then vanished in the darkness.

  “Thank you, Lord,” she murmured. She waited for the coach to rumble by and then skittered across the lane.

  Oddly enough, the lion-head gate was not locked, nor was there a guard in the little gatehouse beside it. Sophie pushed at the black iron bars, and the gate swung open easily, being well cared for and well-oiled. She squinted, trying to make out the path, as the grounds were not lighted, but couldn’t see much through the snowfall. A hundred feet ahead of her rose the outline of a tall, stone house, much grander than any she had seen during the last hour and a half. She headed for the front door, tucking the stray tendrils of her hair back beneath her bonnet so she would be presentable to whoever opened the door.

  Her knock was answered by a manservant dressed in a banyan wrapped over his small clothes and a turban perched on his shaved head.

  “Yes?” His terse tone made it clear that he had better things to do than open the door at such a late hour.

  “I’m looking for the Metcalfs,” Sophie explained.

  “This is the Metcalf residence.”

  “Wonderful!” She smiled, happy to have found the house at last.

  The butler surveyed her dourly, unaffected by her grin. “An
d you are?”

  “Sophie Vernet, maidservant of Miss Katherine Hinds.” She drew the letter from the cuff of her traveling gown. “I have a note for the Metcalfs, written by my mistress.”

  “I’m afraid the family is away on holiday.”

  “They are?” Sophie’s voice cracked with disappointment. Katherine would be very upset to hear such news and would probably punish her for bringing bad tidings.

  The old man tilted his head. “They shall be back in a few days. If you care to leave the note, I will make sure they get it.”

  “Thank you.” She held out the folded paper, and he snatched it out of her hand, obviously anxious to be rid of her and get out of the cold.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Without another word, he closed the door in her face, snuffing away all the light that had streamed from the house and leaving Sophie in darkness that seemed blacker and colder than before.

  She trudged to the gate, counting on her good memory to get her back to the Queen & Cross where Katherine and Agnes waited for her. She wondered how angry they would be when she arrived with her bleak news.

  Much to Sophie’s mounting dismay, she found the lions-head gate had swung shut behind her and trapped her inside the grounds of the Metcalf House. Frowning at her bad luck, she glanced down the wall that held the gate. Instead of bothering the crabby butler again, she decided to cross the property and try her luck at locating an exit along the rear wall.

  Most grand houses had a back entrance or an alley of some kind, designed to allow tradesmen to pass in and out. With any luck, that gate might be unlocked or scalable.

  While Sophie searched for a way out, she felt her spirits flag. She had endured a long day spent without food or drink or proper winter attire. Tired and hungry and cold, she wandered toward the back of the estate, feeling more and more confused. Soon she found herself hopelessly lost in the rear gardens. The hedgerows, now white with snow, were too tall for her to see above, and she mistook an interior wall for the larger one that ringed the estate.