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  She was about to go upstairs to her room in the inn when the innkeeper’s wife, her beefy arms planted on her ample hips, blocked her way.

  “I wants me money now,” she said in a loud voice, jutting out her pudgy jaw.

  Susanna drew her shawl more tightly around her and said stiffly, “I will have it for you tonight.”

  “Now,” said the woman, holding out a grubby hand.

  “I don’t have it now.”

  “Then I’ll sell yer clothes, the fancy ones yer got upstairs.”

  Little did the woman know that she had already sold them, except for one gown, her favorite russet-colored one, the hue of the ripe apples in her father’s orchard. “I could work for you in the inn,” offered Susanna.

  The woman gave her an incredulous look. “Yer hands. Soft as a baby’s bottom they be. Yer never done a day’s work in yer life!”

  Susanna’s protestations died on her lips as the innkeeper came and stood beside his wife. “Best you go now,” said the innkeeper in a gruff but kind voice.

  Staring at the couple, Susanna left without a word. In a daze, she walked down the narrow street, barely managing to avoid coaches bowling rapidly along and wagons heaped high with produce from the country. A lady of ample girth, her face adorned with beauty patches of stars and crescents, was borne in a sedan chair carried by two stout fellows, who nimbly avoided piles of refuse. Ragged street urchins darted back and forth among the clot of pedestrians. A chimney sweep carrying brooms, and his apprentice, who could not be above the age of five, hurried past a girl with a tray slung around her neck, who was monotonously calling out, “Pins, straight pins.” Above the din, a man’s strident voice could be heard: “Brooms, good brooms.”

  Panic seized her. Where was she going to go? What was she going to do? A man bumped into her. When she whirled about, a young dandy in stained breeches and doublet, coming out of a tavern, swept off his tall hat and leered at her. She shuddered and began to run.

  Out of breath, she stopped and shrank against a grimy wall. Her hand clenched the paper with the address that the footman had given to her. It was the only avenue of help left.

  She hailed a hackney and, after climbing into it, gave the address of her destination to the driver, a burly man huddled in a stained coat missing several buttons. He grunted at her and whipped the horse into a fast walk, that seemingly being the fastest pace the poor creature could go.

  They arrived in an affluent part of London, where stately houses stood near the Thames. The hackney drew up with a flourish to the address that Aunt Arabella had written down. Susanna paid the driver with her last few coins, and, her heart beating wildly and her mouth dry, she knocked at the front door.

  A footman dressed in scarlet livery with gold buttons marching down his waistcoat opened the door. “Whom may I say is calling?” the footman asked from his superior height of six feet.

  Summoning an air of confidence and wishing that she had worn her best gown, Susanna replied, “I am calling at the request of my aunt, Lady Arabella, who bade me contact her friend.”

  The footman wrinkled his forehead; then his brow cleared as he asked, “Would you mean Lady Hastings?”

  “Indeed, the very one,” said Susanna, guessing that the lady must be her aunt’s friend.

  “Come in. I will see if she is at home. And you are?”

  “Miss Susanna Morgan, niece to Lady Arabella.”

  A few minutes later, a small plump woman wearing a finely wrought lace collar over the bodice of her bottle-green gown entered the room. Lady Hastings looked keenly at her and then dismissed the footman. “Come into the library,” she said as she led the way into a large room with books filling shelves that reached to the high ceiling. Upon thick carpets of a rich burgundy hue stood elaborately carved furniture and chairs covered in velvet. A new style of clock, taller than she was, its pendulum majestically swinging back and forth, stood in a corner.

  Indicating that Susanna should sit, Lady Hastings demanded, “Now tell me why Arabella sent you here. Is she well? I have not heard from her for several weeks.”

  “When I went to her house, I was told that she had been sent to the Fleet.”

  Lady Hastings drew a quick breath and exclaimed, “So Cromwell has struck again! That presents a problem. And what of you, Miss Morgan?”

  Susanna felt her eyes fill with tears. With as much dignity as she could muster, she explained briefly what had happened to her and Jeremy.

  “So you have nowhere to go?”

  “Yes.”

  Lady Hastings pursed her lips as she looked meditatively at her and said, “You may stay with us, but I warn you to say nothing of the fact that you are Catholic. My husband, Lord Hastings, is a member of Parliament. He suffers me to practice my religion in secret but has commanded me not to inform others of my religion.

  “I will tell him that you are my niece from a distant branch of my family who has fallen on hard times. Yes,” she said brightening, “your family’s estate has been sequestered and you had nowhere else to go. That is close enough to the truth to be believable and will explain why you have brought no clothes.”

  It was a clever idea. She had known of several families whose estates had been seized by local committees who were now able to settle old grievances. Sequestration was Parliament’s way of cutting back the power of the Royalists to support the king, and was especially appealing when Parliament kept the rents and incomes of these very same Royalists.

  “You must be hungry. I will order some refreshments and have a room prepared for you.” Then, frowning at Susanna, she added, “I will provide you with some gowns. What you are wearing may have been suitable for the country, but not here in London.”

  “Thank you, Lady Hastings. I appreciate what you are doing for me. I would not have come here unless I had nowhere else to go. I would not be a burden. If I could be useful in some way …”

  “Perhaps you may be,” said the countess, eyeing Susanna speculatively.

  Booted feet came clumping down the hall. The door to the library was thrown open by a servant. The countess sprang to her feet. “Lord Hastings, may I present my niece, Miss Susanna Morgan. She is come lately from the country where her parents have died and left her in dire straits. As her only living relative, she has appealed to us for help.”

  The count was a querulous-looking man with a long nose and the petulant face of one who was perpetually dissatisfied. Of indeterminate middle age, he leaned heavily on a cane, which she perceived was more useful than ornamental, as his legs dragged when he walked.

  “A niece, you say.”

  “From a distant branch of my family,” continued her ladyship.

  Lady Hastings seemed to have no qualms about lying and did it so smoothly that no one would know that she was less than honest in attributing kinship to a woman whom she had met only moments ago.

  “If it pleases you,” Lord Hastings said, turning to his wife and giving her an irritable look. Then, bowing to Susanna, he said, “Welcome to my house, Miss Morgan.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  The next day, Lady Hastings’s maid brought Susanna an armful of clothing, which consisted of shifts and gowns that had been cleverly mended—her ladyship’s castoffs. But she was a pauper now and could expect no more, thought Susanna bitterly, even though she acknowledged to herself that the gowns were finer than any she had ever worn.

  The week passed slowly. Susanna spent much of the time alone in her room thinking of Jeremy. Had he reached Amsterdam safely? Was he staying with Jacob? When would she see him again? An ache filled her heart. How she longed for her father and Jeremy, for the safety and security of her own home, not this stranger’s house, however grand it might be.

  She saw little of Lady Hastings, except for those few days when the weather was fine and they could stroll about the garden. Peppering Susanna with questions about her family and about her religious convictions, her ladyship took in everything and missed nothing. Of herself, sh
e revealed little.

  Dinners were exceedingly dull. Lady Hastings would prattle on about their two daughters and their husbands and children, while without fail, Lord Hastings would complain about everything from the inadequacies of the servants to the vagaries of the weather.

  On the night before everything changed, Susanna dreamed that she was delivering a present to someone. Her feet dragging, she felt so tired, so lost. Nothing was familiar. When she looked down at her hands, they were empty, the present gone.

  Then, as dreams do, things changed abruptly. A dark shape was pursuing her. She tried to run but was powerless to move her legs. A hand clapped her on her shoulder. She struck out at the entity, waking suddenly to find herself chilled to the marrow of her bones and entangled in the bedclothes.

  It was only a dream, but it felt like a presentiment. Once, when she was little, she had blurted out to Molly, the housekeeper, a dream about men breaking into their house. Molly had given her a strange look and then told her that she had once overheard Susanna’s mother talking about a similar dream with the master. Her mother, very upset, had implored her husband to take care.

  “But don’t you worry none, Miss Susanna,” Molly had said as she lifted her onto a stool and gave her a piece of cake. “Your father won’t allow no bad men to break in here.”

  But her dream had been true. Bad men had broken into their house and taken her father. Now her dream was warning her about something else.

  Too agitated to sleep, she wished now that she had kept her mother’s rosary, even though she had lost faith in its efficacy. It was almost dawn before she could calm her mind and sleep. She woke up to the sound of rain on the window and a pale light filtering through a gap in the heavy brown curtains. She dressed quickly and tried to arrange her hair in some sort of order, but her thick brown hair stubbornly resisted.

  An impatient knock at the door startled her. In a rustle of maroon silk, Lady Hastings swept regally into the room. “You have slept well, I trust?” she asked politely.

  Without waiting for an answer, she sat down and asked, “Are you comfortable here, Susanna?”

  “Yes, Lady Hastings. I am grateful—”

  The countess waved away her thanks and said, “We must talk. You indicated earlier, Susanna, that you would be willing to be of use here. I have need of a favor.”

  “I should like to be of service, your ladyship.”

  “Well, then,” said the countess, “there is somewhat you might do—not for me, but for our king—if you are willing.”

  “I hardly know, your ladyship, that there is ought I could do.”

  “I have found you to be a person of good sense. The favor I ask is well within your compass.”

  “Then I shall do it.”

  The countess drew a letter out of the bodice of her gown. “Take this to the address I shall give you and give it into the hands of the gentleman whose name I shall tell you.”

  At Susanna’s look of bewilderment, the countess added, “I shall be at an important dinner tonight with my husband and do not have an opportunity to deliver this letter myself. If you feel you are not capable of performing this small service for me …”

  If her ladyship could not take it herself, why did she not send a servant with the letter? Something felt wrong, but her benefactress, used to getting her own way, was not one who would easily brook a refusal.

  “Of course, I would be pleased to be of service.”

  “But you are doubtful,” said the countess, staring at her and tapping her foot on the floor. “Do you consider yourself a good Catholic?” she asked.

  “Yes, I do, but what has that to do with your request?”

  “And you are loyal to Charles Stuart, our king?”

  “Indeed, yes, your ladyship.”

  “Then for love of God and king, I ask you to deliver this letter to a gentleman. Much may depend upon this.”

  A tide of equal parts excitement and fear began rising in Susanna. Events were bearing her onward to some inexorable fate that she could not resist. Her carefree days of roaming the countryside with Jeremy had left her ill prepared to endure days of inactivity, bound by the wishes of others.

  “I will do as you wish, your ladyship.”

  “Very well, Susanna,” said the countess briskly. “Hold yourself in readiness for tonight, then.”

  That evening after a servant had brought her a light supper, which she took in her room, Lady Hastings came to her door. “A coach I have hired is waiting downstairs for you. Here is the letter. Deliver it to the gentleman at this address.” She looked searchingly at Susanna and added, “This is a matter of great import, or I should not ask you to do this.”

  “I understand.” But she did not. What was so important that this letter had to be delivered now? There were so many factors here that she did not understand. She wished that she had paid more attention to what was happening in the political realm.

  She knew only what was common knowledge: that Queen Henrietta Maria, Charles I’s wife, had been forced to flee to France when Parliament’s army had defeated the Royalists and captured the king. Prince Charles’s efforts to liberate his father had failed, so he, too, had fled to the continent. All other attempts of the king to escape his captors had had a similar outcome. What had this letter to do with any of this?

  A sudden dread seized her, and she had to force herself to walk downstairs. Her steps dragging, she walked out into a light mist. A man was waiting who helped her into the coach, which bore no coat of arms or other insignia to tell to whom it belonged. The driver, whose face was hidden by the collar of his greatcoat, whipped the horses into a canter.

  They drove for perhaps half an hour through twisting streets until the coach drew up in front of a house of modest proportions in one of the new squares that were being built in London. The driver waited silently on top of his perch until Susanna realized that they had come to her destination. She gathered her skirts around her and cautiously stepped down from the coach. She walked up to the front door and knocked. A young maid opened the door, asked her name, and told her to come in. She left Susanna in a comfortable room with a fire, but even the heat of the room could not warm her. Prickles of fear ran through her. She was a fool to have come. Her dream had warned her. Fury rose in her. Must she play the helpless victim once again?

  A young man of cheerful countenance with a short cloak slung over one shoulder and dressed in a silver-colored satin doublet over a linen shirt tucked into blue breeches entered the room. “Ah, Miss Morgan, Sir Gilbert at your service. I believe you have something for me.”

  She thrust the letter at him. If he was surprised by her silence, he was too well-bred to show it. “You must be cold. Have a seat by the fire. Would you like a glass of Madeira?”

  “Thank you, no. It is growing late.” And she was alone with a man she did not know. Reluctantly, she sat down. Her nerves crawling, she could scarcely contain her impatience to be off.

  Sir Gilbert tore open the letter and read it quickly. He was evidently pleased by what he had read, for he gave her a big smile that revealed small white teeth with a gap between the two in front, giving him an air of boyish mischievousness. He sat down opposite her and dropped the letter onto a small table made of inlaid woods. Stretching out his legs, he discreetly admired his tan leather boots with the cuffs.

  He beamed at her as he leaned forward and said, “So, Miss Susanna, I had hardly hoped for so lovely a messenger. I understand that you have come lately from the country. Do tell me something of yourself.”

  “My parents are dead, so Lord and Lady Hastings have kindly offered me the protection of their home.” She fell silent. She would tell as little as possible about herself.

  Sir Gilbert was leaning forward and eyeing her with frank interest. “And how long do you propose to stay with those two?”

  “What do you mean, sir?” she asked sharply.

  The air of boyish good humor was gone as he said, “You may not know that my lord and h
is estimable wife are clever and well skilled in the conduct of great affairs. Be careful that you do not become enmeshed in their intrigues.”

  “I know little of politics, sir.”

  “Of that I am sure,” said Sir Gilbert drily.

  Rising from her chair with as much dignity as she could muster, Susanna said, “Thank you for your hospitality, Sir Gilbert, but I must be gone.”

  Before he could answer, they heard a loud knocking at the door. The maid burst in, her eyes wild with fear.

  “It’s all right, Nancy,” said Sir Gilbert, snatching up the letter and stuffing it into his doublet. “Go to your room.”

  Seizing Susanna’s hands, he commanded, “Come with me.”

  “No, not until I know what is going on.”

  “Certain death if we stay, but that will not happen if you come with me.”

  He swiftly led her out of the room and up a winding staircase, which led to the roof.

  It was cold and a light rain was falling, which made the roof tiles slippery. Sir Gilbert grabbed her hand and pulled her around the corner of a chimney. A heavy thudding rang loudly through the still air.

  Susanna shivered and pulled her cloak more tightly around her. “Will they not search here for us?”

  “Ah, but we are not staying here.” He released her hand and peered around the chimney. “As I thought, they have broken down the door and are now inside.”

  “But who are they? Why are they looking for you? What have you done?”

  “That would take too long to tell, but if we are discovered, it will go hard for us.”

  Susanna planted her feet, looked into the man’s eyes, and said, “Tell me now or I do not move.”