Andrew nodded. “Goodnight, Darling.”
“Yes, goodnight. Sleep well,” Leonora added.
Jemima gave no reply as she made her way out of the room, her shoulders slumped with misery. Andrew almost called her back, to tell her that she would no longer be required to marry the Marquess, but he could not get the words to come out. It was too late for that, now.
I have made my choice. Now, I must live with the consequences, and pray that she is happy. If she was not, he knew it would eat him alive.
* * *
Jemima waited until the house settled into silence, before walking to her vanity and sitting down. She could not risk being discovered, so she had waited until everyone had retired for the night. Pulling open the top drawer, she removed a sharp knife that she had stolen from the kitchen that morning. It glinted in the candlelight as she brought it up to the tendrils of her long, dark hair.
Holding the thick strands firmly in one hand, and squeezing her eyes shut, she sliced the blade through her beautiful hair. There was some resistance at first, before the large clump fell away into her hands with a sickening tear. Opening her eyes, she stared at the shorn locks for a moment, before dumping them in the still-open drawer. She did not want to leave any evidence behind.
Glancing at her reflection, she did not look much different. But she soon would. Taking another section of her hair in her hand and pulling it taut, she began to make her way around her head, sawing away the strands that she had spent all these years growing and brushing and tending to with such care. It felt wrong, somehow, but it was necessary.
Ten minutes later, she looked at her reflection again, hardly recognizing the person staring back. She had cut her hair as close to her scalp as she could, but there were some tufts that were longer, the crop not exactly uniform.
Not that it mattered too much. She had acquired a woolen flat cap to cover her head, but if she had left her hair long, she would have increased the risk of being found out by people she met on the road to freedom.
With her hair cut and the evidence stowed away in the top drawer, she got up and moved across to the trunk at the foot of her bed. She lifted the lid quietly and took out the blankets, before grasping at the clothes beneath and throwing them onto the bed. Removing her nightdress, she reached back into the trunk and took out the torn strips of bedsheets that she had made. Picking them up, she stepped back in front of the looking glass and began to bind her breasts.
It felt strange to see herself like this, naked and short-haired. The contours of her body were still womanly, but the torn sheets were doing a good job at hiding the swell of her bosom. Even so, it hurt somewhat, to force them down and flatten them out. Her breath caught in her throat as she tied the first layer into place, believing a corset would be preferable to this restraint.
Through five layers of fabric, she bound her chest until it had given her the more masculine silhouette she was aiming for. Satisfied, she hurried over to the bed and put on the clothes she had stolen. The loose shirt helped to mask her curvaceous figure, and the boxy trousers gave no hint of feminine legs, whilst the waistcoat and the flat cap completed the transformation. Dragging the boots out from under her bed, she laced them up quickly.
When she was done, she took one last look at herself. Even to her untrained eyes, she knew she had made a success of it. Anyone who passed her in the street would think she was a young man from the nearby town, and as long as she did not speak too much, she was confident that she would not give herself away.
Smiling with triumph and excitement, and forcing down the acidic bile of fear that was rising up her throat, she plucked up a satchel that she had taken from the stables and shoved the remaining shirt inside. Next, she took some money from her dresser and placed it inside, along with several pieces of jewelry that she knew she could sell if she had to.
This is really happening.
She had to pinch herself, to be sure she was not in the midst of a strange dream. Throwing the satchel across her body, she made towards the door. She had contemplated leaving a note for her mother and father, to detail her reasons for doing this, but she supposed they would already know why. And, besides, she did not wish to give them any accidental indication as to where she might be running to.
However, as she reached the door, she found herself pulled back in the direction of her bureau. She was furious with her parents, but she did not have the heart to leave without a single word.
Grasping for her quill and ink, she began to write:
Dear Mother and Father,
I am sorry if this causes you distress, but this is something I must do for the sake of my sanity, and of my future. I have gone, and I do not intend to return. Please, do not attempt to find me. I know you will find it hard to forgive me for these actions, but I hope you may understand why I have done this, in time. I do not wish to upset either of you. Just know that I am safe, and that I will be well, wherever I am.
I love you both dearly. I am sorry that we could not discover another way to resolve this. I hope you will find it in your hearts to forgive me, one day.
Yours Affectionately,
Jemima.
She hurriedly put the quill and ink back in their places, and left the letter out on the desk, where it would be easily discovered. Casting one last look at it, and struggling against the doubt in her heart, she took off across the room and slipped out of the door. She scanned the landing, to make sure nobody was awake, before edging along and creeping down the staircase to the entrance hall.
There, she closed her eyes and breathed in the familiar scent of home for the very last time, before urging one foot in front of the other. Opening the main door, she let herself out into the bitterly cold night, and closed it behind her. She did not look back as she made her way up the drive, knowing that she would lose her nerve if she did.
Instead, she pressed on, until she reached the road at the top of the driveway. There, acclimatizing to her surroundings, she set off towards the town, where she knew she would find the stagecoach waiting. She had double-checked the times with the staff, by asking vague questions, and knew it would be there to take her to her next destination.
She had made this walk countless times before, though never in the dead of night. As she made her way along the countryside road, she could not help but start and shiver at the eerie sounds, coming from the woodland that bordered the road. An owl hooted from one of the branches, a flash of yellow eyes making her pulse quicken in panic.
Even with a full moon casting its silvery glow upon the world beneath, Jemima could barely see her own hand in front of her face. All she had to go by were the echoes of her boots on the hard-packed ground. That, and the flickering lights along the road, coming from the windows of cottages, her eyes diligently trailing them like will-o’-the-wisps in a treacherous marsh.
Half-an-hour later, she found herself on the edge of Borrowdale—the closest town to Cowden Manor. Steeling herself, she dipped the peak of her cap lower over her face, in case someone happened to recognize her features. However, there did not seem to be too many people about, with it being well past midnight. At that present moment, there was only the stagecoach and its driver, patiently awaiting passengers.
Clearing her throat, Jemima approached the driver. “Might I buy passage to Westport?” She lowered her voice, trying to make it as gravelly as possible.
“Aye, that’s the last stop on this route.”
“Will this cover the journey?” She handed him a few coins, which he took eagerly.
“I should say so,” he replied, with a toothless grin.
“Do you know what time we will arrive?”
The driver shrugged. “It’ll be a few hours.”
“Thank you.”
“You got any luggage?”
Jemima shook her head. “No, it’s just me.”
“Right you are. Well, hop aboard. I don’t reckon there’ll be many others tonight, though we’ll wait awhile before we set off.”
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“Very good.” Jemima walked to the side of the stagecoach and clambered into the stuffy interior, finding it empty of other passengers. She was grateful for that, for the fewer people who saw her near here, the better. However, she did not like the idea of them waiting too long for potential passengers.
Her mind kept leaping towards terrible scenarios: one of the maids finding the letter and sounding the alarm, resulting in her capture before she had even departed. Or, someone having seen her slip away from the house, who might have followed her in an attempt to apprehend her.
So, it was a welcome relief when she heard the driver snap the reins and felt the jolt of the carriage as it lurched forwards. Only then did she allow herself to sit back on the leather squabs and contemplate the brave new world she was about to enter.
In all of her nineteen years, the farthest place she had been to was London. And, now, she was planning to find a vessel that might take her far away from England itself, and everything she had ever known. It was her only hope. If she tried to hide away here, on familiar soil, she knew it would only be a matter of time before she was caught.
Out there on the open sea, however, no one would find her. And no one would drag her back to marry Lord Beaurgant.
Chapter 7
Jemima gaped at the harbor as the stagecoach pulled to a halt, her senses overwhelmed by the sounds and sights and smells that bombarded her as she alighted. She had always adored the seaside, but this was something else entirely. It was not yet dawn, and already there were countless people rushing around, going about their daily business.
The journey from Borrowdale had taken hours and had gone by without any trouble. There had been a few other passengers getting on and off throughout, but none of them had paid Jemima any mind. To them, she was just another young man on the road. As long as she kept to herself, she was of no concern.
She withdrew into herself as a cluster of sailors passed, laughing and joking with one another.
“Three months away from yer new bride. Ye sure ye won’t come back to find that she’s run off with some farmer’s lad?” one teased.
“She loves me. ‘Course she won’t.” The subject of the teasing shoved the first sailor in the arm, an amused smirk on his face.
“Not that it’ll stop you from indulging in the local cuisine, right?” the third sailor said, with a wink.
“I’m a married man now, lads. I won’t be indulgin’ in aught,” the second man insisted.
“You’ve changed,” the first muttered.
“Ah, come on, we’ll have barely passed out of the Channel before he changes his mind.” The third chuckled, as he slapped his friend on the back.
Jemima gathered her senses, knowing she had to move fast. “Excuse me?”
The three men turned to look at her. “You talkin’ to us, lad?”
Lad…
She felt pleased that she had fooled them, though she continued to keep her voice as low as possible. It was still very dark, and the shadows were working in her favor. She had to get on one of these ships before broad daylight started to arouse suspicions.
“Are you sailing this morning?” Jemima asked.
“What if we are?” the first man replied tersely.
“Calm down, Harry. The lad’s probably just looking for some work,” the second man interjected.
“Yeah, and what concern’s that to us?”
Jemima would not be deterred. “I was hoping to get on board one of these ships, soon as possible.”
“We’re with the Evening Star,” the second man said. “The name’s John. This brute is Harry. And this is Ben.” He gestured to the two men at either side of him. Harry was the curt one, who stood over six-feet and was built like a beanpole. Ben, on the other hand, was as wide as he was short, with a barrel chest and thinning black hair. Meanwhile, John was tall and broad, with a friendly face and cropped hair.
“My name is…uh, Andrew. Andrew Barton.” She had forgotten to think of a first name, though she had worked hard on a surname, and the first one to come to her was her father’s. She could have slapped herself for being so silly, but she had said it now. If she tried to change it, they would think her strange.
“Ben, you were complainin’ about not havin’ help,” John prompted.
Ben frowned. “Can ye cook?”
“I know some things,” she replied. It wasn’t a complete lie. She had watched the cooks in the kitchen often enough. Besides, she just needed to get onto the ship. She could figure the rest out later.
“Can ye peel vegetables?”
Jemima nodded. “As many as you want.”
“Ye can fetch an’ carry?”
“Certainly.”
Ben smiled. “You speak awful fancy fer a cook’s assistant. Where are ye from?”
“Yorkshire,” she lied. “I was a steward’s son. I was always around the children of a Duke. I guess it made a lasting impression.”
“Can ye work hard?” Ben pressed.
She nodded. “Yes.”
“Can ye work hard fer hardly any pay?”
“Yes.”
Harry leered at me. “He’s probably on the run.”
Ben shot him a cold look. “So what? So was you, when ye first started. Ye probably still are, they just can’t be bothered catchin’ ye.”
“Ye might be right there.” Harry laughed.
“Ye goin’ to cause any trouble?” Ben turned back to Jemima.
She shook her head. “None.”
“I’ll have to clear it with the Captain, but he said I could take on a lad if I could find someone,” Ben said, in thought. “It won’t be easy. Ye sure ye want to do this?”
“Absolutely sure,” she replied.
“We’re sailin’ in an hour. Ye got anyone ye need to say yer goodbyes to?”
Jemima shook her head. “I don’t have any family.” She tried to contract her words to fit the timbre of these sailors, her voice gravelly in her throat. Saying that she had no family made her stomach churn and her chest grip. The moment she set sail from England, that would become true. As soon as they discovered what she had done, they would rue the day they had ever brought her into this world.
I am sorry…
She meant it, but that did not mean she wished to turn tail and run back home. She had come too far for that now, and untold adventures awaited her beyond the twilight horizon. Adventures that would keep her far from the institution of marriage, and the arrangements that had been made for her.
“Right then, if ye come with us, we’ll find the Captain an’ see what he has to say.” Ben waved his hand towards the harbor and started to walk in that direction. Obediently, Jemima hurried after him, not wanting to get left behind. Not now—she was so close to making her escape.
* * *
Simon rubbed his weary eyes as he stepped down from the carriage and drank in the salty breeze that swept up from the ocean beyond. It was not yet dawn, but there was already a great deal of hustle and bustle going on in the harbor below. Fishing boats were coming in, and women waited patiently on the docks for the morning’s catch. He peered across the gloom and spied his own ship, docked on the far-left of the wharf.
Pulling the collar of his coat tighter to his chin, he thanked the driver and made his way down to the Evening Star, where he was greeted by Captain McMorrow. All around, Simon listened to the comforting clamor of the harbor, and the cries of wives as they called for the best produce.
“Them bass for me!” one bellowed.
“And I’ll take yer cod!” a second shouted, above the less-powerful voices.
“You had me worried there,” James McMorrow said, with a smile.
Simon smiled. “You thought I would not return?”
“You don’t usually leave it so late. Was everything well at your estate?”
Simon nodded. “Everything is as it should be. Are we ready to depart?”
“We certainly are.”
“And all of the silks were sold?”
Simon sighed with relief. “That is good news.”
“The spices sold even quicker. There were a lot of traders from London this time, and it would appear you’ve made quite the name for yourself. They know your product is good. They wanted all they could get their hands on.”
“I am glad of that.” Simon watched as the sailors boarded the Evening Star, though his eye was caught by a strange figure trailing Ben Ford, the ship’s cook. He knew the men who sailed with him, and he did not recognize this young fellow. “Did we take on new men?”
A Ravishing Night With The Mysterious Earl (Steamy Historical Regency) Page 5
