On a Desert Shore by S. K. Rizzolo

late into the night while she labored to stay awake over her work. He sometimes gave her coals for her fire or shared his plum cake with her. Of course, Mrs. Beeks knew none of this.
    â€œMiss Fakenham and I can agree on that much,” the landlady said. “Why should you, sir? I’m sure it wouldn’t be right. Well, miss, if you’re prepared to honor your word, we’ll say no more. I’ll thank you to leave your room in good condition when you depart.”
    He observed the flash of fear that crossed Sybil’s face. She said, “Don’t worry, Mrs. Beeks. You’ll have your money and your room. By tomorrow.” She flounced up the stairs. Chase lingered in the hall to talk Mrs. Beeks out of this unceremonious eviction and quietly made good on the money over her objections.
    A glass of brandy in his room soon revived him, and after a while Sybil came in with her sewing. By now they were well enough acquainted that the silence did not trouble them so that both could be comfortable. Pensively, he watched her needle darting in and out of an emerald green silk gown draped across a table placed at her side. Intent on her work, she was quiet.
    â€œAre you going to tell me?” he asked. When she did not at first reply, he added, “For heaven’s sake, be sensible. You have nowhere to go. You must make your peace with Mrs. Beeks.”
    This won him a twitch of her lips, and it occurred to him that their intimacy could prove risky, even beyond the fear of Mrs. Beeks catching them sitting alone together at night, albeit with the door left decorously ajar. At first, Sybil had seemed so like a scrawny stray that liked to spit at him that it had never occurred to him to see her as a woman. He didn’t find her in the least attractive, except for occasionally when she would make one of her vinegar remarks while looking at him knowing he would share the joke. That was the trouble. Prickly, arrogant, and foolish as she was, Sybil Fakenham possessed a sense of humor and an innate dignity that appealed to him.
    She set aside her needle and studied him for a long moment before she said, “Why should I? If I’m to be put on the street, it will do no good to humble myself.”
    â€œYou humble, Miss Fakenham? Don’t make me laugh. Come, you must tell me. Perhaps this sniffer after thieves can be of some use.”
    The quirk came again. She took a pull of her own brandy, set the glass down, and picked up her work. “You cannot help me, Mr. Chase,” she replied, her tone cool.
    â€œTry me.” He paused. “I can guess part of it. You were turned out of your place? You were once a lady’s maid, I should imagine.”
    If he’d wanted to startle her, he failed. Sybil merely nodded her thanks as Chase leaned over to trim the wick of one of the candles that had begun to smoke. Then she said, “Clever of you. You don’t need me to tell the story. Tell it yourself.”
    â€œAccused of theft?”
    â€œNo, insolence. My employer Lady Danbury had a ball. I was called to assist one of her friends who had had too much to drink. I helped the lady to a withdrawing room where she was vilely sick down my dress. Then she started ranting about my lady.” Sybil bit off a thread, keeping her gaze averted.
    â€œWhat did she say?”
    â€œCalled her a whore. She implied, with good reason, that my mistress bestowed her favors too generously—on the drunken woman’s husband in particular.”
    â€œI assume the drunken woman regretted her indiscretions?”
    â€œThe very next day. All it took was a word in my mistress’ ear that I had treated her friend rudely, and I was dismissed. The lady I had assisted claimed I had been the one to disparage my mistress, seeking to gain a new place in her household.”
    â€œLady Danbury refused to give you a character?”
    She gave him a contemptuous look. The needle flew. Sybil’s