She was out of options, and she had to return to Grey’s Corner. What choice did she have? She simply had to swallow her pride, beg her uncle’s forgiveness, then prepare to endure whatever punishment he inflicted. She was feeling that beleaguered and distraught.
The only problem was that she hadn’t the funds to buy a ticket on the mail coach. If she went home, she’d have to walk. She’d have to ask teamsters and farmers for rides in their wagons, but there was great risk involved in traveling that way.
There were always stories too about women, usually younger ones, who accepted rides from strangers, then they vanished.
She’d decided to make a last attempt to speak to Libby, then she had to get out of the city. Her situation was too dire, and she couldn’t dawdle.
The crowd had grown to an enormous size, and there was a new energy in the air. Rumor had it that Libby was about to be released. Her bail had been posted, and shortly, she would emerge from the front gate.
Caroline was wedging herself toward it, but she was so petite, and many of the protesters were large, angry men. She was jostled and stepped on and once even pushed to the ground again.
She looked a sight. Her palms were scraped and bleeding, her face smudged with dirt. Her hair was drooping down her back.
Finally, she neared the gate. A pink carriage was parked next to it. Suddenly, the gate was flung open. A phalanx of guards marched out, and they were swinging clubs, creating a path to the carriage.
Then the spectators parted and. . . ?
There she was! Dear Libby! Her oldest friend. Libby, the fearless companion who had haunted her dreams for two decades. Libby, the lone female in all the world who could comprehend the challenging life Caroline had led after their terrible ordeal in the Caribbean.
She recollected Libby being very pretty, but she was even more beautiful now. Her adult years had added drama and elegance to her features so she could have been a princess trapped in a tower.
She was being hustled along and wasn’t focused on any of the unruly bystanders. She didn’t so much as peek at Caroline, and why would she have? Caroline was filthy, and with her hand extended, she might have been a beggar, pleading for alms.
“Libby!” she shouted, but the noise was overwhelming. “Libby! It’s me! It’s Caroline Grey! Do you remember me? You can’t have forgotten!”
Libby was lifted into the vehicle, the horses pulling her away so swiftly she might never have been there at all. Caroline’s shoulders slumped with defeat, and she was about to stagger away when she noticed a wealthy gentleman staring at Libby’s retreating coach. His desire to be inside it with her was blatantly apparent.
She brazenly said to him, “Pardon me, sir, but you were gazing at Miss Carstairs so fondly. Do you know her?”
“Yes, I know her.”
“I know her too.”
“Good for you,” he muttered, clearly not wanting to be bothered.
“I called to her, but she couldn’t hear me.”
“Yes, it’s been very loud.”
He tried to skirt by her, but she clasped his arm. “Can you tell me where she went? Are you going there now?”
“No, I’m not going there.”
“Where does she live? How would I find her lodging?”
He assessed her deteriorated condition, and it was obvious he deemed her to be a tad deranged.
“I can’t tell you any of that,” he said.
“When you talk to her, will you inform her you spoke to Caroline Grey? I’ve been searching for her.”
“Yes, I’ll be sure to apprise her for you.”
His snooty tone indicated he didn’t mean it. He circled by her and kept on, and she said, “It’s Caroline Grey! Little Caro! Don’t forget! I’ve missed her desperately!”
She hollered other comments, yearning for him to believe she wasn’t a lunatic making up stories, but he was anxious to get away from her. He was swallowed up, and she couldn’t see him. She breathed out a heavy sigh.
Could she possibly suffer one more calamity? What hadn’t happened to her? What other disasters might happen before Fate was through with her?
She had to head to Grey’s Corner. She had to confess to Mrs. Scruggs that she’d lost her money. Then she had to throw herself on her uncle’s mercy and hope he’d let her in the door. If he wouldn’t, she supposed she’d end up in the poor house.
She started walking, and ultimately, she was far away from the prison and the commotion that had erupted there. She was hungry, thirty, and miserable, and she wondered if she could be directed to a rescue mission so she could have something to eat.
She began to cry, and people noted her deteriorated state, but no one asked what was wrong. No one asked if she could use some help. They rushed by her, as if—whatever her issue—it might be catching.
She shouldn’t have fled Grey’s Corner at Mrs. Scruggs’s urging. She should have stayed in her small, isolated bedroom and allowed her uncle to implement his scheme. Despite the plot he’d cooked up with Gregory, she doubted he’d have let her starve.
Eventually, she glanced around, finding herself on a busy thoroughfare. Commerce was brisk. Wagons, carriages, and hansom cabs rolled by. Vendors hawked wares from carts. Pedestrians hurried to their destinations.
She gazed up at the building next to her. There was a sign over the door, and as she read it, she gasped with surprise. It couldn’t be. Could it?
“Ralston’s. . .” she murmured, and a shiver ran down her spine. What were the odds?
It had to be Caleb Ralston’s gambling club, didn’t it? Dare she inquire? Dare she request the chance to chat with him?
He’d aid her; she
