Unlikely Rebel (A Dark Revolution Novella - Book One)

by Amy Boyles

  The mansion sat on a hill in Old Town. It was the better part of Old Town, with dress shops and merchants lining the roads. The area was clean of debris and smelled nicer than most of the rest of the city. A wrought-iron gate protected the front of the white colonial, making the place look impenetrable. On closer inspection, I noticed a cobblestone road running toward the rear. Experience had taught me that if I wanted a job, I needed to go to the back door, not the front, where the butler would laugh at me.

  As I trekked my way up the back path, the thunder of hoofs sounded ahead. Rolling down the hill toward me at breakneck speed roared a black carriage drawn by four horses. Horses—impressive. Most folks kept mechanical carriages, black box monstrosities with clockwork components that clanked and clattered when they moved. Still, horse hooves were deadly, so I threw myself against an ivy wall, barely escaping the carriage’s path before the driver barreled down on me.

  “Get out of the way!” he yelled.

  Don't worry. I have no intention of dying today.

  Once the carriage passed, presumably carrying the master of the house, I made my way to the back door and knocked. An older woman with globs of dough in her hair answered the door.

  “Well, what is it?” she asked impatiently.

  “I'm looking for work.”

  She eyed me up and down. Her short gray hair framed her face like a bunch of frayed wires. Sweat sprinkled my forehead.

  Finally she said, “Well, come in. We could use some help.”

  Seventeen

  Though the mansion appeared huge on the outside, I considered it more manageable than the colonel’s. The woman who hired me, Mrs. Peele, put me to work in the kitchen. It wasn't exactly what I had in mind, but it would do. Working in the kitchen meant I didn't have access to the entire house the way someone belonging to the upstairs staff would. That limited my knowledge of the place and its residents, though I knew Lord Andrews to be the only occupant. A bachelor, he never married, though there were plenty of eligible women in town and plenty who wouldn't mind marrying him, Mrs. Peele assured me, for he was handsome.

  As households went, this one proved no different from any other. Gossip still abounded, and it wasn’t long before I became indoctrinated to the inner workings of the rumor mill of the mansion. Even though I worked down below, I was still privy to juicy tidbits, particularly about the masque. Invitations had been posted a few weeks earlier to the upper crust of Corinth and neighboring towns. I confirmed the date as Halloween, making the letter I snatched from Pop’s study correct. I was, of course, expected to work that night, which I agreed to happily.

  My parents, on the other hand, weren’t happy. However, I gave them much of my earnings and promised to stay out of the reds’ sight, which remained easy since I moved through alleys to and from work. I had settled into a comfortable routine when Mrs. Peele came to me one evening after the dinner service.

  “Peggy doesn't feel well. If you ask me, that girl's gone and got herself in trouble.” Meaning—pregnant. Pregnancy outside of marriage held the steep punishment of being ostracized from family and even the town. Mrs. Peele gave me the sort of look that said don't you be doing anything foolish like that and finished with, “Anyway, she's gone home. I need you to fetch the lord's tray from his study.”

  I barely knew the mansion, but I knew from her directions where to find the study. “Of course.”

  It was not lost on me that the last time I entered a private room, it ended in disaster. But with chin up, I wiped my soapy hands on a towel and made my way up the back stairs to the main floor of the house. Candles were lit everywhere. Wall sconces, desk candelabras—if a flame could be lit on top of wax, it was. The place shone like no home I'd ever seen. Lord Andrews definitely lived on the plush side of wealthy.

  With floorboards creaking and groaning beneath me, I walked down the hall to the third room on the left, the study. The door stood open. A fire burned in the hearth on the far wall, and the built-in shelves were lined with tens if not hundreds of books. A desk sat empty on one side, and in front of the hearth rested two leather chairs, the type men liked to smoke in after a meal.

  Spying the tray on a side buffet by the wall across from the desk, I tiptoed over to it. I don't know why I tiptoed; there wasn't anyone in the room. The place just seemed too damned holy, as if any sound would break the spell of peace hovering over it. Shaking off my nerves, I picked up the tray and pivoted on my heel to walk back toward the door.

  “You'll want to take this with you.”

  The tray slipped from one hand. I scrambled to hold on to it before it crashed to the floor. Silverware rattled atop the empty plates. I was making a big fool out of myself. With the tray finally steady, I crossed to the hand holding the cup. Sitting in one of the chairs before the fire with his back to me, all I could see of the master of the house was a masculine arm and an outstretched hand delicately holding a china cup.

  “What's your name?” he asked in a voice both deep and gruff. The timbre didn't match his physique. Though tempted to peer around to see the face attached to the voice, I instead held my ground.

  “My name's Anna,” I replied.

  “Anna, you'll want to be careful with the china in this house. It's more than five hundred years old and managed to survive the rebellion. I'd hate for a serving girl to be the reason why I lost even a single piece.”

  Humbled, my only reply was, “Yes, I'll be more careful.” Then I took the cup, and without a reasonable explanation as to why, I fled the room, glad to be gone from Lord Andrews's presence.

  Eighteen

  Two weeks in, I'd collected enough wages to purchase what I needed—fabric. I scoured every bolt at one of the local shops to find a suitable pattern, but all the shopkeeper had were reams of dark muslin. After an hour or so, at the bottom of a bin of scraps, I discovered a bolt of silk. The color of a bluebird and embossed with gold thread, it was gorgeous.

  The man kept his mouth shut when I said I wanted to purchase it, but I could tell his wheels were turning, trying to figure out how a girl like me could afford such extravagant fabric. Still, he let me purchase it and retained his opinions for himself. As soon as I got it home and every night thereafter, I set about turning it into what it needed to become.

  I'd also managed to procure a few rhinestones and feathers from the shop. The mask was harder to make than I originally anticipated. Since glue’s value had skyrocketed, making it expensive for a common person to procure, I did the next best thing—I made it from fabric, sewing all the decorations onto the facing.

  As the night of the masque approached, the entire household buzzed. The kitchen stayed busy plucking chickens and pulling down pegs of smoked meat from the stores. Rumors abounded that we were expecting a special guest that evening, one who would stay the night. Apparently the colonel’s itinerary took him through Corinth on the way to Hashton Prison, where I assumed he needed to deposit Colvin. Why Mann escorted my brother himself was a question I couldn’t answer. Having already learned it best not to ask too many questions, I kept mine silent and waited.

  The day finally arrived. I stored the finished dress in my knapsack and took it to the kitchen with me, being sure to stash it under a little-used bench, where no one would find it. I still had no idea regarding how and what exactly I planned to do when I saw the colonel. My first hope was to see my brother alive. After that, I prayed a plan would fall into place.

  Needless to say, I couldn’t concentrate the entire day. My hands wouldn't knead dough correctly or whisk eggs fast enough. On more than one occasion, Mrs. Peele asked if I felt all right. I answered yes and made an attempt to focus harder on the job at hand.

  Finally, near dusk, I heard the rumble of Colonel Mann's mechanical carriage. I'd heard it what seemed a thousand times. It groaned distinctively when coming to a full stop—a sound that couldn't be mistaken for anything else.

  I wanted to rush to one of the back windows and peek, but I contained myself, managing instead to
mosey over while mixing cake batter. Sure enough, I saw the pockmarked fatty exiting his carriage.

  Bringing up the rear came a mechanical wagon. Atop it sat a cage. Through the bars I spotted the distinct face of Colvin. It took all my restraint not to cry out. He looked thin but not emaciated. He appeared okay from afar, but the only way to know was to speak with him. But how?

  “Too bad he's a prisoner,” Mrs. Peele said, sneaking up beside me.

  I almost dropped the bowl in my hand. “What do you mean?” I asked.

  She spooned batter into a pan that had been buttered and floured. “Looks like he would've made someone a fine husband if he hadn't been a rebel.”

  I almost choked on the words that came out next. “If you're not a patriot, you're a traitor, and it looks to me like whoever he is, he made the wrong choice in life.”

  She nodded. “True enough. Still, traitors need to eat. The men will dine with the lord shortly. I'll need someone to take him some food. Do you think you could stomach it?”

  Stomach it? I almost jumped up and down with joy. Doing my best to put on an outer show of disgust, I snorted. “I suppose. Just make sure whatever he gets, it's cold and full of scraps meant for the pigs.”

  She made sure of that, all right. The plate I took held cooked potato peels and beef fat. My heart broke at the sight of it. I felt better knowing this meal was probably nicer than whatever Mann fed him. But after this night, that would be a distant memory to Colvin.

  I hoped.

  I couldn't dillydally around my brother. I had to deliver the food and leave. But I needed information. Important information. To put it exactly, I needed to know who held the key to his cage.

  He didn't see me approach. Good. I didn't want him to give anything away. As I got closer, I realized my brother looked terrible. Dark shadows in the shape of half-moons filled the space beneath each eye. There were cuts and scrapes across his face, and his knuckles were bloody and crusted over. And that was only the skin I could see. I didn’t want to think about what lay beneath his clothes.

  I approached the guard on duty. He inspected the plate, being sure to spit a good-sized wad of phlegm into it. “That should help fill him up,” I said.

  “You should add to it, too.”

  “Already did,” I lied. “Got a good one in there.” After poking it a few times, the guard let me pass. I reached the cage a moment later. His eyes were closed, so I made sure to speak good and loud. “Slop for the swine.”

  He didn't move. My only chance to talk to my brother and it was about to go wrong. I did the only thing I could think of—I threw some of the food on his face. That woke him up. In fact, he awoke cursing, ready to fight. I laughed. It was an honest reaction. He blinked at me.

  “It's too bad rebels have to be fed. It'd be better if they starved you,” I mocked, spooning more slop onto the bed of the cage.

  Colvin looked at me bleary-eyed before catching on. “I suppose you think we deserve less than that.”

  “The only thing you deserve is to rot on the hangman's noose.” I threw more slop on the floor. “But if it must be one way or the other, I'm glad you're locked up without the possibility of getting out.”

  “You'd have to see Colonel Mann about that.”

  Keeping my head down, I lifted my eyes to his. Colvin winked at me. I threw the rest of the food down. “Enjoy one of your last meals, rebel. I hope you choke on it.”

  I turned my back and walked away from my brother. The next time I saw him, I expected to be setting him free.

  Nineteen

  After dinner, the guests started to arrive. I'd never seen Mrs. Peele shout so many orders at the same time.

  “Put cream on those! You, slice the bread! Make sure each cherry tomato is ripe before you place it on a cucumber!”

  She worked me with no end in sight. I needed to leave. I had to change into the gown I'd worked on for two weeks and sneak into that party. Finally, about an hour into it, I saw my chance. A tray of roasted mushrooms topped with goat cheese sat on the buffet getting cold. None of the upstairs servants arrived to pick them up, and Mrs. Peele hadn't noticed.

  “Those mushrooms will be ruined,” I said, nodding toward them.

  “Heavens to Betsy! Why haven't they been taken upstairs?”

  I wiped floured hands on my apron. “I'll take them up the back and give them to someone. Don't worry. If you can spare me for a moment, that is?”

  She nodded her red face. “Hurry back; you'll be missed.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  With everyone's back turned away from me, I aimed for the plate. I planned to grab my knapsack and tray, stash the dress in a little-used broom closet on the back stairs, deliver the mushrooms and then return to the closet to change clothes. By the time my dress and mask were on, no one would recognize me.

  With all eyes on food preparation, I thrust my hand beneath the bench that held my costume. I felt only air and wood. No. Someone couldn't have taken my bag. Trying not to panic, I scanned the room, but didn't see it anywhere.

  “I thought you were taking those mushrooms up,” Mrs. Peele snapped.

  I straightened. “I am. I just dropped something.”

  “See that you find it and get moving.”

  “Yes, ma'am,” I mumbled.

  It was gone—nowhere to be found. My hopes sank. I had no choice but to take the tray upstairs. Maybe I would find it once I returned. Or maybe someone took it. There was no way to ask without drawing attention and possible suspicion.

  Picking up the tray, I couldn't help but feel defeated before the night even started. My only other hope was that the rebels found a way into the party. I snickered. They were rebels, wanted men. There was no way they could finagle into the upper crust of society like this. No possible way.

  Lost in my thoughts, I almost didn't notice the brown sack jutting out from underneath a stool by the door. My bag! Someone had only moved it. With a quick look back to make sure no one watched, I reached down and tucked it beneath my arm and hurried up the stairs.

  Twenty

  I delivered the tray and entered into the closet, lighting the small candle I'd stashed there a few days ago. I pulled the silk dress from the bag. It was a little crumpled, but nothing a sprinkle of water couldn't fix. I managed to change clothes in the meager light, though I cursed a few times. Once the bodice was tightened and my petticoats straightened, I added the pièce de résistance—the mask. Made of peacock feathers and clear crystals, it shimmered in the candlelight. The blue in the eyes of the feathers matched the color of the dress perfectly.

  Holding up a small mirror, I admired my reflection. Behind this mask I could be anyone. No longer was I a criminal, wanted for information. I transformed into a lady, ready to take my place among the other guests.

  Feeling bold and ready, I stepped from the closet, though a little more tentatively than my newfound confidence suggested. After a quick look into the hallway to make sure it was clear, I crept up the stairs to the third floor and entered the ballroom.

  A string quartet played in one corner of the room, the music sweeping over the crowd of masks. For a moment I thought it would be impossible to find Mann in this sea of camouflage. But instinct knew better than my conscious mind. After a steady glance around the room, noting masks made of turkey feathers, plaster, and even fur, I listened for the high-pitched, nasal voice I knew in my nightmares.

  He stood in a corner talking to a woman. His pudgy fingers, against all propriety, dangled over the square neckline of her dress, teasing the flesh of her breasts. I sighed. Someone beat me to him. Unless they separated, his attention would be stuck on her all night and my plan, useless.

  A tray of complimentary foldout fans sat atop a side table. Picking one up, I flicked it open and cooled myself while I thought how to proceed next. My attention shifted to the rest of the room. That's when I saw him. He wore a mask of black crow feathers, but nothing could hide those dangerous hazel green eyes of his. Nothing.
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br />   My breath hitched as Branthe nodded at me. How on earth could he recognize me under a frilly mask and in an expensive dress? The same way I recognized him—by sense. For a moment the romantic notion that only two people who were really meant to be together would know each other from afar, in disguise and in a crowded room. Silly, I knew, but the yearning I always felt when around him returned, this time stronger than before. Surprisingly enough, my feelings weren’t even marred by his last visit to my room. He cut a path to me, and I held my breath, hoping he'd walk right past me. His presence was a distraction. A nice one, but still a distraction.

  He stopped and handed me a crystal cup of rum punch. “Care to join me in a drink?”

  “Thank you,” I murmured, embarrassed that he’d caught me trying to go behind the rebels’ backs. Taking a small sip, I let the alcohol burn my mouth before swallowing. It was good. I wouldn't be able to drink many of these and stay focused on the goal at hand.

  “So you made it in,” I murmured. “Whose invitation did you steal?”

  “I was about to ask you the same thing.” Though his voice was light, his dark eyes danced with concern. “I guess I don't have to ask why you're here.”

  I waved the fan in front of my face, hiding my lips from any onlookers. “I’m here for the same reason you are.”

  “It's dangerous for you. More so than for me. But I'm sure I don't need to remind you of that.”

  “No,” I snapped. “You don't.”

  “Anna, whatever you're intending, don't do it. There's already a plan in place and one that's most likely much better than yours.”