Fairchild Regency Romance

by Jaima Fixsen

  Be calm, Laura told herself, but she felt lightheaded as if she’d bled without knowing it.

  “Don’t faint,” Stoke said, as Laura swayed. “The doctor will say it’s a fit.”

  “I haven’t eaten,” Laura said.

  “I’ll bring you something, if you go easylike,” Stoke said, nodding at the coarse nightdress in her hands.

  “Nothing’s wrong with my clo—” Laura stopped. It wasn’t in her interest to argue. She’d be in a fix without real clothes, but if Stoke was to get her into this shabby excuse for a garment, she’d have to untie her hands. Laura dropped her eyes and proffered her wrists. “I’m sorry,” she said as she watched Stoke struggle over the knots with her cracked fingers.

  “Done their job a little too well, haven’t they?” Stoke said.

  “Perhaps—”

  Stoke shook her head. “The doctor doesn’t allow me to carry knives or scissors. Keep still.” She winced but finally succeeded in loosening the knot. When Laura’s hands fell to her sides, she almost staggered at the pain as blood rushed back into them. Stoke frowned at the welts marking Laura’s wrists. “Maybe I can find some salve for those,” she said. “If you’re pleasant, mind.”

  It was her best chance. “Thank you,” Laura said. “I will be.” She stood docile as a lamb, so Stoke could unbutton her, letting silent tears spill down her cheeks. It wasn’t hard, producing them. When Stoke moved round to the front of her, Laura glanced up, woeful and wet-lashed. “I’m sorry,” she said again and hiccuped.

  “Just be quiet and agreeable,” Stoke said, unfolding the ugly nightdress. “It needn’t be that bad.”

  “But I’m—I’m so afraid!” Laura whimpered, choking back a sob and knuckling her eyes. “They’ll hurt me!”

  Stoke clucked. Swaying like a blossom whose petals are about to be torn off by the breeze, Laura held up her arms so Stoke could pull the nightdress over her. When the coarse cloth was round her head she let out another sob.

  “There, now. Sit yourself down, quiet yourself, and I’ll get that salve I promised. Wouldn’t hurt to put some on your face, either.”

  Laura obeyed and Stoke left the room. As soon as the key turned in the lock, Laura was on her feet running her hands over the bare walls, testing the bars. The door was the only way out. Mrs. Stoke’s footsteps sounded in the hall; in an instant, Laura was back sitting on the edge of the bed and drying weepy eyes with the edge of her sleeve.

  The salve was grey and greasy-looking, but Laura held out her hands. “It won’t be so bad,” Mrs. Stoke said, smearing the stuff over her wrists. “Let me see your face, dear.”

  Laura lifted it obediently, fixing Mrs. Stoke with imploring eyes. The only way out was the door, if Mrs. Stoke could be persuaded to let her through it.

  “You’ll be all right. Just be quiet and do exactly as he tells you,” Mrs. Stoke said.

  “But I already did!” Laura’s shoulder’s heaved. “Uncle said—Uncle said—” She snuffled incoherently. “When he finds out he’ll kill me.”

  Mrs. Stoke gave a relieved smile and patted her knee. “I meant the doctor, not your uncle, dear. We don’t kill people here.”

  Laura wasn’t going to quibble about half-drownings, now she had Mrs. Stoke’s sympathy. “I know you won’t,” Laura said, “But once Dr. Matthews discovers the truth…”

  Her leading pause hung only an instant before Mrs. Stoke filled in the right line. “What truth?”

  She had some momentum now. Time to use it. “About the duke’s baby!” Laura hid her face behind frail hands, fluttering like a helpless flag of surrender precisely into Stoke’s arms.

  For a moment in the horror-struck silence, Laura feared she’d lost Mrs. Stoke, but then a hand came up to rest on her shoulder. “Hush. Hush, my dear,” Stoke said, glancing back at the closed door. “Not so loud.” She helped Laura to the bed, sitting her on the edge and kneeling beside her. “What baby?”

  “Another month and Dr. Matthews will know,” Laura said, wiping her cheeks with trembling fingers, “And then—”

  “No,” Stoke interrupted. “Did you say the duke’s baby?” She was caught.

  Laura nodded. “I’ve been so afraid. For years. But my mother kept me close. She even slept each night in my chamber, holding me as we listened to him tread back and forth outside my door. Of course my aunt, the duchess, refused to believe anything. I tried to run after my mother died—my fiancé, Rushford—Captain Rushford,” Laura added for good measure, “was going to help me escape. I had his letter pressed next to my heart when the duke caught me in the chapel—”

  Stoke’s mouth fell open, the blood draining from her face.

  “Praying for my mother,” Laura pushed on. “He—he—” She broke, letting her head fall again into her hands.

  “He what?” Stoke croaked.

  “He forced me,” Laura said, sobbing into her hands. “There on the stones before the altar. After that, what could I do? I couldn’t give myself to my dear Jasper, ruined as I was.” Blindly, she swiped at her eyes. “And the duke wouldn’t let me go. He said I was unwell and locked me in my room, permitting none but himself to come to me.” She shuddered again, knowing Stoke’s imagination would do the work for her.

  Silence stretched. Laura waited until Stoke’s other roughened hand came to rest on her shoulder. She glanced at her then with pitiful, weepy eyes. “I—I managed to get a letter to my aunt, the duchess, through one of the servants who’d been kind to me and my mother.”

  “But she didn’t believe you,” Stoke breathed.

  “No, she did! That was the trouble. She insisted my uncle get rid of me. So he brought me here. But he’ll never allow me to give birth to his bastard. He’ll kill me first. And once Dr. Matthews knows, he’ll tell him.”

  Stoke glanced back at the door. “Once he learns of it I’ll ask Dr. Matthews not to say—”

  “Oh, would you?” Laura let herself brighten to incandescence. “Would you, for me?”

  Stoke’s face fell. “No. He wouldn’t keep something like that secret. I could tell him your story but he might not believe it. He’ll be inclined to believe the duke.” She glanced at Laura, then at the door. “Knows which side his bread is buttered, he does.”

  Laura fell again to soft weeping. “Then there’s no hope. No man would ever believe me, not when the duke declares I’m mad—” She straightened and dried her eyes. “None would, none but my Jasper. I’m fated to die, but at least he believes me.”

  “He knows?” Stoke said.

  Laura glanced at the door and dropped her voice to a whisper. “I told him I didn’t love him so he could leave me and love another. But he didn’t accept it. He crept past my uncle’s guards and climbed to my window and begged until I gave him the truth. And then—”

  “Yes?” begged Stoke.

  Laura dropped her gaze humbly to her hands. “He forgave me,” she said. “But alas, his planned rescue came a day too late. My uncle brought me here and now Jasper will never find me.”

  Stoke rubbed her nose.

  “If I wrote a letter,” Laura said, “swearing my undying love, even though it is too late, would you—”

  Stoke stared at her hands, the wrinkled skin of her chest rising and falling against the neck of her gown. She was deciding, Laura knew, if she could face the cost of helping her. Crossing her fingers, praying to the Virgin and St. Genesis, Laura waited. If she had acted well, perhaps this would work. And if not today, then she must keep it up until it did, because eventually they would discover she wasn’t pregnant.

  It was tempting to add more, to sniffle and lay a hand on her belly, but instinct told her no. She must wait and let Stoke decide what part she would play.

  “It’s not too late,” Stoke said. “I can help you.”

  Careful now, Laura told herself. Stick to your script or you’ll wreck everything. “Dear Mrs. Stoke. You mustn’t. I can’t let you disobey your employer. You mustn’t suffer because of me.”

  Mrs. Stok
e took Laura’s hands and gave her a look that was almost pleading. “Dr. Matthews isn’t so bad. A decent master and I need the work. But I may be able to help you. I think I must.”

  “How?” Laura stuffed her own ideas back where they belonged. Stoke must give hers first.

  “Is there a way you could get a message to Captain Rushford?”

  Laura let her chest swell, then bit her lip, deflating. “His ship leaves for the West Indies in three days. There is no time for a message. But I know where it is berthed. If I found him, he would marry me and take me away and we’d be hidden from Saltash forever.”

  “But you’d have to get away,” Mrs. Stoke said, her shoulders falling.

  “And Dr. Matthews knows I can’t do that without an accomplice,” Laura filled in for her.

  It was a setback, not the end, Laura told herself. Eventually she’d think of a way that would keep Mrs. Stoke blameless. She must watch and think and…

  “Unless,” Mrs. Stoke began. “You got violent? Perhaps if I told him I let my guard down…”

  “And I struck you and bound you in that chair,” Laura improvised.

  Mrs. Stoke looked uncertain.

  “No one could fault you for my escape if you were confined there,” Laura said, hoping to convince Mrs. Stoke before she could think it over too closely. She locked eyes with her, daring her to look away.

  “It’s not perfect, but it’s the best way,” Stoke said. “And best we do it now before they can say I’ve taken your measure. You’ll have to get out of the house on your own—take the back stairs and step quietly when you pass the kitchen. It’s a good two miles to Whitecross, but you can catch a stagecoach there.”

  Laura didn’t mention that she had no money or that she planned to remedy that problem before leaving the house. “Do you think I can?” she asked.

  “You must,” Stoke said, firming her jaw. “Don’t stop until you get to Captain Rushford.” Hastily she dressed Laura back in her own clothes, all the while whispering advice—to stay clear of the road but keep it in sight and make straight for Whitecross. “If you find yourself in trouble go to my sister. She’s a weaver in a cottage on the east side of the village. Tell her I sent you and she’ll help you on your way.”

  Laura clasped and kissed the warm hands, real tears pricking her eyes. “How can I ever thank you?”

  Mrs. Stoke colored faintly. “Tis nothing. Look after the child and yourself.” With a grimace she sat down in the chair. “Come on now, buckle me in quick. I can only give you a few minutes and then I’ll have to call for help. You won’t have much lead and you cannot let that beast find you.”

  Laura nodded. She wouldn’t have much time.

  With Mrs. Stoke’s instruction Laura soon had her strapped into the chair. Gently, she tugged off Mrs. Stoke’s cap and tugged loose a few strands of her hair. “To make the idea of a scuffle convincing,” she explained.

  “It wouldn’t be the first one—just the first where I ended up beaten,” Stoke said. “I try my best, I do, with the poor creatures here.”

  “I know,” Laura said. She didn’t like to think who might be behind the closed doors, but she had plenty of evidence of Stoke’s kind heart. “I’ll always remember I owe you my life.”

  “Don’t forget the keys,” Stoke said. “It will slow them down if they have to break open the door to get me out.”

  It hadn’t occurred to Laura, but she didn’t hesitate to grab them.

  “Quickly now,” Stoke told her. “And God bless you.”

  Laura stifled a twinge of guilt. It wasn’t all lies—Stoke was saving her, even if from a less gothic fate than she supposed. Beneath her apron she hid a romantic soul. Laura hoped she’d look back and be grateful for the chance to play heroine. “I will,” Laura promised and slipped out the door. “But not for the next two minutes,” she added.

  Laura tiptoed down the hallway and unlocked all the doors. Three were empty, but she turned grimmer than ever at the sight of the fragile-faced women confined in the others, garbed in those coarse nightgowns and with straggling hair. “Quickly!” Laura whispered. “You can get away if you slip down the back stairs.” The first two took the offered escape without a word, but the third shook her head and trembled, refusing to get up from her chair. “You can get out of here,” Laura hissed, losing her patience.

  “I won’t get far,” the woman said. Her skin sagged and her hair was streaked with grey. “Leave me be.”

  Laura left, but she wouldn’t lock the door.

  The next one was a mistake. As soon as she nudged it open, the wild-eyed girl inside began screaming. Laura cringed, but despite the swiping arm and flailing feet, the girl couldn’t reach her—one of her hands was bound to the bed post. Sick inside, Laura closed the door and fled down the hall, cursing herself for ruining her own chance.

  She raced down the stairs, but halted on the landing, warned by grumbling coming from the first floor. Grateful the doors were thick and the hinges oiled, she ducked into the corridor and crouched in the corner to wait for the grumbler to climb up and investigate. She’d be lucky to escape and had lost any chance to pocket valuables or exchange her clothes. Pressing her back against the wall, she waited for Dr. Matthews or her uncle to discover her.

  Neither man appeared. No one moved at all, except the grumbler, banging for quiet on the upstairs door. Laura waited, dumbfounded. Perhaps her pounding heart had deafened her ears. Afraid to move, at last Laura gave in and opened the stairway door, listening. Not a sound. And the screaming upstairs had stopped. Perhaps screaming wasn’t cause for alarm in this house.

  If she didn’t get out soon she’d vomit or her heart would burst. Maybe both—within seconds.

  Keep your nerve, she told herself. She wouldn’t get far equipped like this and couldn’t risk being recaptured. She’d only fool Stoke once. Darting down the hall she tried the first door, looking for Matthew’s chambers. No luck, but she guessed right on the second try, scratching softly before opening it in case he had a valet. The room was empty, but the clothes well kept, so perhaps the valet was down in the kitchen. Laura rummaged through the clothes press, yanking out breeches, stockings, and shirt. She bundled them into a coat, snatched up the pound notes she found rolled beneath the stockings, and grabbed a gold snuff box just for good measure. No time to change her clothes. Someone on the floor above was banging and shouting—not the wild girl this time. It was Stoke sounding the alarm.

  Clutching her bundle and struggling for air, Laura cracked open the door and peered down the hall. There was more shouting upstairs and doors slamming. She heard someone pound up the back stairs.

  Quick, while they’re still in a panic. Laura flew down the corridor to the main staircase, then swerved to a stop. She’d forgotten O’Trigger and her uncle’s carriage waiting outside. Convulsing with fear Laura turned back, stopped again by the sound of more feet on the back stairs. She’d have to try the front. If she burst out the door and ran through the garden and over the hedge fast enough, she’d gain a few seconds head start on O’Trigger at least. Steeling herself, Laura launched out the door, sick with relief when she discovered no carriage standing in front of it. No footmen either—they must be inside or in the stables. Off the gravel and onto the grass, she was just rounding the corner of the house when she saw O’Trigger with his back towards her sitting on an upturned pail with a mug of ale in his fist. For a moment she was still as a rabbit, waiting for him to turn.

  Don’t wait! Go! Prodded into action, Laura wheeled around and bolted in the other direction, tearing through the hedge and cursing the shorn fields. She needed trees. Haystacks. Cover. There was none. She must run and hope they were busy at the back of the house.

  At the end of the field was a stone wall. Lungs burning, Laura dared a glance back. Nothing. Clambering over, she ducked behind and peeled off her dress, tearing it in her haste. Her slippers had holes already. Laura slithered into the breeches. They were big and she had to gather the lacing as tight as s
he could. Nothing she could do about the baggy knees, but at least the length was right. Stockings next and shoes—big, again, but that was better than the alternative. They stayed on all right if she wore her slippers inside them. Shirt, waistcoat…she knotted the neckerchief and jammed the hat low over her forehead before peering over the wall. There was a commotion now in front of the house, but no pursuit. Yet. If she didn’t run for it now, it wouldn’t take them long to find her. Dredging up Mrs. Stoke’s instructions, Laura looked about and tried to remember which way to go for the road to Whitecross. It was no good. The only thought she could hold was to run far and fast. Keeping low, she bolted, sick with fear that she wouldn’t hear pursuit over her own breathless gasps but unwilling to risk the hindrance of glancing back.

  Chapter Thirty

  A scramble

  Jasper galloped recklessly down the road, trying to measure the time by the height of the sun in the sky, unwilling to pause and take out his watch. This pursuit seemed to have gone on forever, but at last he had a real lead and hope of finding her. So long as he wasn’t too late…

  The boy’s directions were good. Before long he was in sight of the house, a geometric non-entity, just as the boy Sam had described. Stones flew as he raced round the corner and through the gate, speeding like an arrow up the drive. He was still a good ways from the house when he heard the screaming.

  Heart in his throat, he set his spurs, reining in so hard at the end of the drive that he drove the horse onto his haunches. Leaping from the saddle, he vaulted up the steps, ready to smash through the door.

  “Are you Jasper?”

  Twisting round like a drunk tinker, he stumbled, righting himself with the doorpost just in time. “Yes?” He found the whisper coming from a haggard-looking servant in cap and apron, just coming round the corner of the house. “Yes, I am.”

  “Laura’s Jasper?”

  “The same,” he said, afraid to hope.

  “Thank God.” She closed her eyes. “Quick,” she said, seizing his hand and hauling him away from the door. “You can’t be seen. The duke is still here.”