Chapter Eighteen

T he next day dawned with a sense of anticipation that fluttered in Lottie’s chest like a trapped butterfly. Her heart raced as she went about her morning routine, preparing for a day that she hoped would bring long-awaited clarity and resolution. She couldn’t wait any longer to confront her feelings for Thatcher, to confess what had been burgeoning within her for so long.

Her steps were light as she walked through the bustling streets of London, making her way to Rhodes Theatre. The city seemed to hum with its usual vibrancy, but her thoughts were singularly focused on the man who had occupied her mind and heart. Today was the day she would finally speak her truth, no matter the outcome. “Thatcher Goodrich, here I come.”

As she reached the theatre, her spirits soared, only to plummet when she realized that Thatcher was not there. “What the devil?” She scanned the theatre, hoping to catch a glimpse of his familiar figure or hear the sound of his voice, but there was no sign of him.

Worry began to creep into her chest, squeezing her heart in an iron grip. Where could he be? Had something happened to him? Lottie’s mind raced through a litany of possibilities, each more dire than the last. She knew she had to find him, to make sure he was safe and sound.

Unable to wait any longer, she rushed out of the theatre and set off toward Thatcher’s townhouse, her feet carrying her with a sense of urgency that she didn’t understand. Her insides screamed that something was amiss. The journey seemed endless as her mind raced ahead, contemplating the words she would say once she found Thatcher, the emotions she would reveal.

Finally, she arrived at his small townhouse. With trembling hands, she reached out and knocked on the door, hoping against hope that he would answer, that she would find him inside, safe and unharmed and happy to receive her profession of love.

But there was no answer.

The door remained stubbornly closed, and a sinking feeling settled in the pit of Lottie’s stomach. She couldn’t shake the worry that had gripped her since the morning. Where could Thatcher be? She considered her options. Should she wait for him to return? Should she seek out Rainville to inquire about his whereabouts? Every moment of uncertainty weighed anxiously on her, and she longed to see Thatcher’s face, to look into his stormy eyes and finally tell him how she felt.

With a deep breath, she decided to wait. Perching herself on the doorstep, she gazed out at the bustling street, her mind filled with thoughts of the man she had come to care for so deeply. She hoped that he would return soon.

Time seemed to slow as Lottie sat there, the world around her carrying on at its usual pace. The sun moved lazily across the sky, casting shifting shadows on the cobblestone streets. People bustled by, their voices a distant murmur as she watched and waited, her heart heavy with concern. Each passing minute felt like an eternity, and her doubt began to gnaw at her. What if something had happened to Thatcher? What if he needed her help, and she was stuck waiting here, powerless to assist him? The weight of her worry threatened to crush her spirits, and she yearned for some sign, some indication that he was safe.

At last, after what felt like an eternity, the door to Thatcher’s townhouse creaked open, and Lottie’s heart leaped with hope. She turned her gaze eagerly toward the entrance, ready to see him stride out, his charismatic smile lighting up his features. But the figure that emerged was not Thatcher.

Instead, it was his servant, the older man she’d met that once, with weathered features and a stern countenance. He regarded Lottie with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion, as if wondering why she was sitting on the doorstep. “Can I help you, miss?” he inquired.

Lottie struggled to find her voice, the knot of worry still tight in her chest. “I… I’m looking for Mr. Goodrich,” she managed.

The man’s brow furrowed as he studied her. “Mr. Goodrich isn’t here,” he replied, his tone matter-of-fact.

Lottie’s heart sank. “Do you know where he is?” she pressed.

The servant hesitated for a moment before responding. “He didn’t tell me where he went,” he admitted. “Is there something you need from him?”

Lottie hesitated. “I… I was just worried when I couldn’t find him,” she confessed, her voice softer now.

The servant’s expression softened, and he seemed to understand the genuine concern in Lottie’s eyes. “Mr. Goodrich can be a bit unpredictable,” he said with a sigh. “But he’s a resourceful man. I’m sure he’s just got himself wrapped up in something or other.”

Lottie nodded, though her worry had not entirely dissipated. “Thank you,” she said.

The servant nodded in acknowledgment and then retreated back into the townhouse, leaving Lottie once again alone on the doorstep. She sighed, her heart heavy with unanswered questions and unresolved emotions. Though she had come here with the intention of confessing her feelings to Thatcher, she now found herself consumed by a different concern—his well-being. Where could he be, and what could he possibly be wrapped up in?

Determined not to let her anxiety overwhelm her, Lottie resolved to wait a little longer. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she needed to be there for him, no matter the circumstances. And so, with her heart a wobbly mess, she continued her vigil on the doorstep, watching the world go by as she waited for Thatcher’s return.

The servant must have noticed that she was still sitting on the doorstep, her worry etched across her face like a map of her fears. For, with a heavy sigh, he opened the door to approach her once more. He stepped out onto the doorstep, his brows knitted in a deep frown. “My lady, I hate to intrude,” he began, his voice gruffer than before, “but it isn’t usual for Mr. Goodrich to be away this long without a word.”

Lottie turned toward the servant. “You’re worried too, aren’t you?” she asked, her voice soft.

The servant hesitated for a moment before nodding, his gruff exterior softening. “Aye, my lady,” he admitted. “It isn’t like him to disappear like this. I’ve known him long enough to sense when something’s amiss.”

Lottie nodded in understanding. She hadn’t known Thatcher as long as his servant had, but even in their short time working together, she had come to realize that he was a man of routine, someone who rarely deviated from his usual patterns. This unexpected absence was cause for concern.

“I just want to make sure he’s safe,” Lottie said. “I don’t know where he could be or what trouble he might have gotten himself into.”

The servant regarded her with a new look of empathy. “I appreciate your concern,” he said. “Let me see if I can find out anything more. Mr. Goodrich might not always be forthcoming, but he trusts me enough to share his whereabouts when he’s ready.”

Lottie nodded gratefully, her heart warmed by the man’s willingness to help. She watched as he disappeared once more into the townhouse, his resolve to uncover the mystery of Thatcher’s absence evident in his every step.

As she waited once more on the doorstep, Lottie couldn’t help but feel a strange connection with the man inside. They shared a common concern for Thatcher—the worry for his safety. Sometimes it was nice to know one wasn’t always alone.

What seemed like hours passed as she waited on that doorstep for Thatcher’s man to return. She plucked at loose threads on her dress as she waited. She admired the crisp and colorful autumn leaves drifting down from the tree to her left and waited. She paced and sat and paced and sat some more. She searched for shapes in the clouds that drifted by overhead. And she waited.

Waited.

Waited.

Finally, the door cracked open, and a figure stepped out.

“Let’s go find our playwright, shall we?” the servant asked, setting a brisk pace.

“We shall.” Lottie hopped up from the doorstep, her legs protesting the sudden movement with ill-timed cramping. “Most definitely, Mr.…?”

“Simms, my lady. They call me Simms.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Simms.”

“I apologize for keeping you waiting. It took an excruciatingly long time for my missive to be returned with the information I sought.”

“Not a concern at all.” She waved it off. All that mattered was that they located Thatcher and that he was unharmed.

They set off, eagerness fueling her feet. But one delay after another slowed them down. First it was the fruit vendor’s overturned cart blocking the way. Then it was the wagon unloading bolt after bolt of fabric in the middle of the street. And then it was the group of lads loading piles and piles of scandal rags into their cart and doing fine until a binding slipped and sheets blew all over the lane in a blinding parchment storm.

The sun hung heavy in the afternoon sky, casting a late-day glow over the winding streets of London when they finally, fully got underway. Lottie’s nerves were stretched taut by that point, to say the least.

Gas lamps flickered and sputtered to life, creating pools of flickering light that danced on the cobbled pathways. Their footsteps echoed through the narrow, winding alleyways, leading them deeper into the heart of the city. London was alive with whispered secrets and the distant echoes of laughter from taverns and inns. Yet, as they ventured further from the familiar streets, the city’s cacophony faded into a distant murmur.

The air grew cooler, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and the distant murmur of the Thames. Lady Lottie’s heart raced with each step, growing apprehension fueling her search. She couldn’t shake the sense that something was terribly amiss as their journey took them past derelict buildings and deserted factories. The city’s once-thriving heart had given way to shadows and solitude. It was here that their quest led them to the looming structure of an old flour mill.

“Why are we stopping here?” Lottie whispered, afraid to speak any louder for fear the building might crumble from the sound of her voice.

“This is where Thatcher used to come to write his plays. Said he liked the quiet and the air of neglect. Said it spoke to him. For years it was his favorite place.”

Lottie didn’t understand and scrunched her nose in confusion. “That makes little sense to me. Why would a crumbling flour mill inspire him?”

“Because it used to belong to his father, Baron Goodrich, before he lost it and the family fortune in a drunken card game.”

Oh.

“Over time it became a regular rehearsal place for Thatcher and his actors. Long before his time at Rhodes. It’s been some time since he’s used it, but I got my gut telling me we’ll find him here. The missive I received earlier confirmed that recently lights have been spotted through the windows inside late at night.”

That made as much sense as anything. “Lead on,” she said, gesturing ahead of them.

The mill stood like a forgotten giant, its timeworn bricks weathered by centuries of wind and rain. It cast a forbidding silhouette against the moonlit sky. Lottie and Simms exchanged a glance, their unspoken understanding solidifying their resolve.

As they approached the mill’s imposing entrance, a creaking sound echoed through the silence, like a whisper of hidden secrets. The massive doors, aged and rusted, hung partially ajar, inviting them into the darkness within. Lottie’s stomach clenched as they stepped into the mill, their footsteps muffled by the layer of dust that covered the wooden floors. Shafts of moonlight filtered through cracks in the dilapidated roof, creating eerie patterns of light and shadow.

Simms, a pillar of strength and determination, led the way, his senses alert to the slightest disturbance. Lottie followed closely, her thoughts consumed by worry for Thatcher. As they ventured deeper into the mill, they came upon a chamber filled with forgotten looms, a testament to a time when this place had been alive and functioning. Cobwebs clung to the ancient contraptions, and the air was heavy with the scent of decay.

“Let’s look through here.” Simms gestured through the doorway ahead of him.

Their search led them further into the bowels of the mill, where they discovered a narrow staircase, its wooden steps groaning with each ascent. Lottie’s pulse quickened as they climbed higher, uncertainty gnawing at her. At the top of the staircase, they found themselves in a small chamber, its walls lined with decaying sacks of flour. Thatcher sat slumped against them, battered and bruised, his eyes wide with fear.

“Thatcher!” she cried.

A man stepped before them, cloaked in shadows, his presence menacing and malevolent. He held a lantern, its feeble light casting long, eerie shadows across the room.

Thatcher’s voice trembled as he spoke, his words filled with desperation and defiance. “You shouldn’t have come,” he whispered, his eyes darting between Lottie and Simms. “It’s the Revivalists.”

Simms’s gaze remained fixed on the mysterious figure, his instincts clearly alert and ready for whatever might come next. And she, though frightened, stood her ground, determined to rescue the man she had come to love.

The room held its breath and waited.