Blackhearts (Blackhearts, #1)(9)

guests.

Anne was grateful for the distraction they created.





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Five months ago Henry Barrett, her half-brother from her father’s marriage, had brought her to the Drummond household to work. Given a choice between starvation and employment,

she’d naturally stayed. Henry had said he would make her pay

if he heard she’d caused any problems for Master Drummond.

Hitting the master’s son between the legs with a pail was certainly problematic.

She wondered how Henry could possibly carry out his

threat. No one knew they were related. Henry’s mother had

died when he was an infant, shortly before Andrew Barrett had

brought Anne’s mother back from one of his trips to the West

Indies. Anne was born two years later. Although Andrew Barrett had provided a roof over Anne’s head and taught her to read and write, he had never openly claimed her as his daughter, and as a servant, she rarely had need of a surname.

Nevertheless, she didn’t wish to test Henry. She’d often been

the target of Henry’s anger and had spent much of her child—

hood locked in a closet. It was his favorite form of punishment

and one of the reasons Anne enjoyed spending her time out—

doors.

Sara and Mary pushed each other aside, each one trying

to glance into the small looking glass that hung near the back

door and check her appearance. They straightened their caps

and collars, pressing their lips together in the hope that they

would stay red. The two of them would assist Margery with the

serving of the food.





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Mary had a steady beau, a sailor by the name of John, and was soon to be married, though her engagement did not seem to prevent her from flirting with Tom, Master Drummond’s

groom. More than once Anne had noticed bits of hay stick—

ing out of Mary’s hair, despite the fact that involvement among

staff was strictly forbidden.

The moment Sara and Mary left the kitchen with the first

course, Anne escaped out to the garden to hide the coins she’d

kept from that morning’s trip to the market, her skirts whirling about her ankles. The rest of the chores demanding her attention could wait. She had a favorite place on the other side of the back wall, in a shelter of trees. It was there that she kept a small chest with her growing treasure.

Within the property, the level ground, clipped hedges, and

molded trees all showed the master’s desire to reshape nature to his specifications. But in her little corner, through a low archway, two willow trees grew together, wild and untamed, their branches hanging down, the leaves forming a curtain behind

which she could hide. Her space was an unoccupied piece of

land that led out of the city, one that very rarely received any traffic.

The chimney tops of the manor were barely visible from

her vantage point. Anne remembered the first time she’d found

the spot, the same day she’d arrived at the house more than five months ago. It had been after supper, and Margery had slapped her for dropping one of the dishes. Anne had taken off, deter-





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mined to leave that awful house. She’d made it only as far as the two willows, for she’d realized she had nowhere else to go. A girl with no funds, and no family to claim her, she’d been helpless and at the mercy of Master Drummond.

She had decided she would scrimp and save money, even

steal if she had to, in order to leave this place. Somewhere out there, Anne hoped she had family—people who would accept her, despite their differences. Although she’d been born and

raised in England, not on one of the far off isles of the West

Indies, that was where she planned to go.

Once the coins were safely tucked away in the chest, Anne

returned it to its hiding place in the trunk of the tree. She hoped to visit the market within the week and sell more of the items she had stolen. The goblet and two silver spoons she’d sold had

already earned her a tidy sum, but not enough to start her own

life elsewhere.

Anne sat down on a small stump, relieved to be away from

the house. The air surrounding her smelled like freshly cut hay, and a small beetle crawled on the ground. She watched its progress through the blades of grass, until a cry pierced the air.

It was Mary, and her voice was frantic.

“Anne! Anne!”

Groaning, Anne quickly ran back through the low archway

and into the garden, unwilling to let Mary find her secret hiding place.

Mary clutched a hand to her chest, her cap falling from her





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head. “There you are! Where have you been? I’ve been looking all over for you.”

An exaggeration, Anne was sure. “I’ve been collecting rose—

mary,” she said, wondering at her ability to lie to everyone in

this household. Until five months ago she had never told an

untruth or stolen anything in her life. There was something

about this place that almost demanded it.

“Quickly, you must come and help Margery and me serve

dinner.”