Free Elizabeth Powell by The Traitors Daughter

silk.
    Amanda’s eyes lost focus as she stared up into the dim stairwell. Had all that effort been worth the results? She thought about the feel of silk against her skin, about the delight she took in dancing, about the discovering of the drawer in Locke’s desk, about her narrow escape from the house … and about Captain Sir Jonathan Everly.
    She shook her head. Although these vivid memories still tantalized her, the little cinder girl had gone back to the ashes. Amanda sighed and resumed her upward journey. Somewhere nearby a baby wailed; its cries pierced the thin walls like grapeshot through paper. The Browns’youngest was teething, and would likely keep everyone on the second floor up all night. And Mrs. Kennedy had cooked cabbage for supper again. Amanda wrinkled her nose. Her stomach was pinched as a miser’s purse, but one whiff of cabbage was enough to spoil her appetite.
    She could not help but contrast the drab lodging house, with its pungent smells and dusty halls, to her family’s bright, airy home in Dorset. Her father had been a gentleman, and her mother a knight’s daughter. They had lived a comfortable life at Bridford House. Comfortable and happy, that is, until their world fell apart over a year ago. Had it been so long since they received word of her father’s arrest, trial, and execution, since agents of the Crown seized their house and lands? The nightmarish memories made Amanda shudder. She, her mother, and her grandmother had been forced to rent rooms in a neighboring town; no one of their acquaintance, even distant relations, would take them in.
    Even as they had tried to cope, the Charybdis-like whirlpool of circumstance kept pulling them under. Amanda’s mother, who had never been strong, died of shame and grief six months after her husband. The
coup de grace
came when the townsfolk found out who they were—traitor’s kin—and nearly stoned them in the streets, forcing them to flee. At least London afforded them anonymity, and a way to support themselves. And an opportunity for vengeance.
    In her dreams—real dreams, not nightmares—she stood on the cliffs at Lyme Regis, looking out over the rocky coastline, the smell of the sea all around her. But she hadn’t seen the sea in months, and had to make do with the brackish water of the Thames. Amanda’s spirits were as leaden as her feet by the time she arrived at their rooms.
    “There you are, dearest,” said her grandmother. The small, elderly woman bustled to greet her granddaughter. “I was worried about you. You are seldom home this late.”
    “Hello, Grandmama,” Amanda replied with a weary smile. She returned her grandmother’s embrace. “I almostfell asleep at the worktable today, so Madame Molyneux kept me late as punishment.”
    “As if that will make you any more alert,” the older woman grumbled. “Makes no sense at all, but she’s French, so what else can you expect? Here, dearest, let me hang that up for you. You’re burnt to the socket.”
    Amanda’s bruised shoulder protested as she shrugged out of her heavy wool cloak. “Madame is no more French than you or I. When she gets angry her accent slips, and you can hear a definite Yorkshire brogue underneath. She has a head for fashion, though, and none of the ladies of the
beau monde
can tell the difference between a real Frenchwoman and a false one.”
    “Well, she may know what is
au courant
, but she doesn’t know how to treat her employees. Look at you—you’re exhausted, your fingers are nearly raw, and I’ll wager you haven’t had anything to eat since breakfast. Go and wash up, and I will dish up some supper for you.”
    “But, Grandmama—” Amanda began.
    The older woman waved her granddaughter’s protests aside. “You have made such a point of caring for me, Amanda, but I am not in my dotage. At least, not yet. I am certainly not so infirm that I can’t manage supper. Go on with you now.”
    Amanda nodded wearily and shuffled toward the