Read Online The Stolen One by Suzanne Crowley - Free Book Online

after sitting on stacks of damp hay in a farm cart laden with potatoes, drawn by two ill-looking mules for hours on end, with a sore bum and a sore heart, I only saw worries ahead of us. What was I thinking, running like this and taking poor Anna? She sat next to me, shaking with silent tears that I suspected were more for Christian than Grace, for every time the six little lambs next to us bleated, she let out a sorrowful sob. I felt bad for her, indeed I did. But Christian could jump in the duck pond for all I cared. I was seizing my only chance, even if the hay bugs had been incessantly nipping at my ankles for hours. London was my destiny, and I knew it even more now, aye, I did.
    “You’ll ruin the gown, my sweet,” I whispered to Anna, holding her chin up and wiping at her face with a handkerchief. I’d decided we stood a better chance of being left alone if we wore our creations—Anna wore a popinjay blue traveling gown, and I a luxurious violet tapestry, embroidered with lilies and crowns of Venice gold, its buttons knotted with a trio of pearls. We wore safeguards over our skirts to protect them from the mud and dust. They were worth more than a small fortune now, especially mine with the necklace sewn in to the hem. “Buck up, Wren,” I said. “We’ll be in London soon.”
    The other passengers leaned forward to catch my words. The long wagon to London had broken down on the second day of our journey, the farm cart being the only option for our motley crew of six. After two days together, any conversation was seized upon as fair game. Only one passenger remained aloof, a portly, beaked-nose gentleman, a Mr. Grove, who hadn’t opened one eye since we had departed Gloucester. Anna and I had walked there, a five-hour journey in the wee hours of the morning, carrying our heavy bags.
    When we’d reached Gloucester, Anna had handed me a time-worn letter. It was from Grace. “If you’ve gone againstall my wishes, you selfish girl, and indeed gone to London, then I beseech you with all my good heart to find Mrs. Eglionby. And at all costs, stay away from the wolves of the court, especially Elizabeth the queen, for never have I known such a crafty mean-spirited girl.” It was simply signed “Grace Bab” and dated a year before. Good heart . Ha! Like I was going to do anything she bade me to do now. Thinking back on that letter now raised my hackles. “Is there anything else, anything you have kept from me?” I asked Anna.
    “No,” she whispered back forcefully. But I wasn’t sure I believed her.
    The snoring man’s wife, Mrs. Grove, a tiny, crane-like woman, who had more than made up for his lack of conversation with her incessant chatter, said, “What troubles your maid, dear? A lad perhaps? They always seem to be at the bottom of it.” She tapped her husband with her fan, but he didn’t wince one bit. My eyes were drawn to it, her beautiful fan. The tiny delicate painting reminded me of the hand-painted cup from the wooden chest. I carried it, with the other things, in one of our traveling bags. The other bag contained all our creations, every single one of them, as well as our many-colored threads, my sketchbook, Grace’s herbs, the lovely lute finally released from its peg, and lastly, my needles. Myfingers ached, thinking of my stitching. I hadn’t missed a day in many a year, and now I’d missed three.
    “She just lost her mother,” I said, no longer feeling in any way that Grace had been mine. Good heart . I chuckled and let the reference to Anna being my maid fall by. Perhaps it would be more convenient for everyone to think so. A lady’s maid, Grace once explained, must be silent as the wind, and ever watchful—the truth gatherers, she called them.
    A queer lady, dressed simply in black silk, a mantilla over her head, crossed herself. She’d introduced herself as Mrs. Salinas. “Was it sudden?” she asked. “It’s a blessing when God takes one suddenly.” I assume she had been