Her aunt missed her calling. She could have been an interrogator during the Spanish Inquisition! Sydney realized she’d have to divulge what she’d hoped to keep secret. “There was just a little misunderstanding, is all.”
“What kind of misunderstanding?”
Sydney gave a dainty shrug. “Uncle Fuller presumed I’m a boy. No doubt it’s because of my name.”
“But you disabused him of—” Serena gasped. “Sydney!”
“Wait just a moment. Hear me out.” Sydney barely took a second to inhale. “Traveling alone as a woman would be difficult. When my uncle’s error dawned on me, I knew at once that he’d solved the problem.”
Horror contorted Serena’s features. “You couldn’t . . . you wouldn’t! A woman of good breeding does not wear men’s attire. If the news gets back home, you’ll forever be ruined in the eyes of polite society!”
“Aunt Serena, no one would ever credit such a wild tale! I’ll only need to manage the ruse for a short time. You have to admit, traveling in such a costume would keep me safe.”
“Darling, how will you manage? You have no understanding of men or of a man’s world.”
Sydney turned away to hide her smile. Aunt Serena was starting to crumble. A little reassurance, and she’d come around. “It cannot be all that difficult. No one will expect a man from the British aristocracy to carry his luggage or do any other labor, for that matter.”
“Even if you succeed in this scandalous charade, what will you do then?”
“I have it all planned out. While you see to launching the Ashton twins, I’ll fulfill my dreams of experiencing all Mama told me about America. Uncle Fuller promised to see to my welfare. You must admit, Uncle Fuller is a closer relative than Harold and ought to be first in line for assuming responsibility for me. I’ll reach my majority by January and receive my inheritance. By then, I’ll know whether I truly belong in England or America. Either way, I’ll be comfortable enough to be financially independent.”
“January is months and months away. I scarcely can bear the thought of your being here alone that long.”
Sydney let out a long, slow breath. “I am alone, even in England. Harold and Beatrice—it’s their home now. And you’re in high demand. Since creating a family with Mr. Hume is not my lot in life, the path is clear—I’m to go to Uncle Fuller in Texas.”
“There’s nothing at all proper or decent about your traveling plan.” Serena looked as appalled as she sounded. “You’re anticipating the visit you’ll pay your uncle without giving sufficient gravity to the days you’d be in transit. What if someone discovers your deception?”
Sydney eyed her would-be accomplice and measured the doubt on her features. “I know I can make it. Uncle Fuller wired a generous sum of money. If you won’t assist me, Aunt Serena, at least be kind enough not to give me away.”
The older woman shook her head so adamantly, her jowls wobbled. “Even if I were fool enough to agree to your reckless plan, no one in his right mind would give you britches to wear.”
For the first time in days, a smile lit Sydney’s face. “No one has to give me any.” She opened the bottom drawer of the ornately carved oak dresser and pulled out three pairs of trousers and several more shirts. “These strange Americans thought nothing of my purchasing men’s attire.”
Sydney folded a pair of britches and stuffed them in the valise she’d pulled from beneath the bed. Men’s clothing is so much easier to manage. “How difficult can it be? Men aren’t slaves to fashion and etiquette. They do as they will and go where they want. Certainly I can play the role as nephew to a landed gentleman.”
Serena stared at the shirts. “What about your . . . ah, um . . .”
Sydney looked at her for a second, waiting for her to explain the silence. Serena quickly patted her own chest.
Sydney ignored the heat filling her cheeks. “Binding,” she said succinctly. “It can’t be any more uncomfortable than wearing a corset.”
Her aunt spluttered, collapsed into the nearest chair, and used her hand to fan herself. “Bad enough you’ll wear men’s outer clothes—but you won’t wear proper ladies’ smallclothes? Oh, Sydney!”
“I’ll be fine. You already have your return ticket, so I’m sure you’ll get home safely. We’ll go pack your things now.” Sydney handed her an envelope of money. “This is for you.”
Aunt Serena glanced at the envelope and pushed it back. “No, no.”
“I insist. This way, I won’t worry about you.”
“Child, you never need fret about me. On the other hand . . .”
Sydney hastily gave back the envelope. “We’ll agree not to worry about one another.”
“What about all of the women’s things you’re packing?”
“You’ll take them with you to England. From there, you’ll ship them back to America—New Orleans, to be precise. The rail line from there to Texas is quite reliable.”
“You have sufficient funds to purchase appropriate clothing in the meantime?”
“Gracious plenty. As I said, Uncle Fuller was exceptionally generous.”
A lifetime of watching Mama taught Sydney how to get her own way. Instead of throwing tantrums, Mama thought creatively. Her unique solutions took others off guard long enough to allow her to obtain whatever she desired and slip off before realization of the folly sank in. Sydney decided the time had come for her to do the same.
“Oh! Look at this coat. It’ll be perfect!” Sydney pulled a bright green one from the depths of the wardrobe. “It’s just like the one Billy Daniels wore to the Christmas party last year. Everyone raved over it, so I’ll look like landed gentry. Americans will expect me to have a fine jacket like this.”
“Child, you’re wading into a sea of trouble.”
“No more doubts. We have to hurry. I’ve booked passage for you. The ship doesn’t actually weigh anchor until tomorrow, but no one here needs to know that—not now. We’ll have the coachman take you to the docks just after lunch.”
“I’m staying with you until the last minute.”
Sydney folded the coat and tucked it in atop the other garments in her valise. “I appreciate your stalwart spirit, Aunt Serena. But you’ll assist me far more by helping me fool them. Just imagine—when they discover I’m missing, they’ll realize the ship departed a day later than they thought. It’ll trick them into thinking I’ve joined you on the voyage!”
Serena rubbed her temples. “Something must be wrong with me. I’m thinking your scheme isn’t crazy—it’s brilliant.”
“Nothing’s wrong. And you know I won’t be acting in the least when I allow the staff here to see how much I miss you. I’ll retire to my room and sneak away to the train at dawn. Hume won’t be back until the next day, so we’ll both be long gone.”
Sydney tugged on the trunk, but it refused to budge. “This has to be with your things. If anyone comes in here, they’ll realize I’m gone.”
Serena traipsed over, turned her back on the trunk, and proceeded to give it a hefty bump with her derriere. The trunk slid several inches on the carpeting. In a matter of minutes, the two of them shoved the trunk into Serena’s room.
Aunt Serena’s remarkable packing skills came in handy. It took little time for her to fill her own luggage. She even managed to call and order the maid to bring up a breakfast tray for two.
Sydney looked at the collection of luggage and dared to hope everything would go off without a hitch. “Thank you for all of your help.”
“Don’t try praising a woman who is fool enough to let you gallop off to certain disaster.”
“Horsefeathers! This is nothing compared to what Mama did.” As soon as the words left her mouth, Sydney regretted them. Aunt Serena always pounced on the least little opportunity to sermonize on the topic.
“And just look at the end result of your mother’s folly! She met my brother and married him the next day, and when she died, she left him desolate. He wouldn’t have died of a broken heart if Crystal had
shown the good taste to live. Well, she didn’t, and that’s why you’re here. You wouldn’t have needed to cross the ocean and marry if your mother bothered to stay alive and nab the right man for you.”
“Mama didn’t die on purpose.”
“It was a tragedy. So is this . . . this horrid excuse for marmalade.” Serena placed the tray on the edge of the bed and tutted over the offering. “I specifically ordered things that would travel well. Hume’s staff is as pathetic as the man they serve.”
Sydney didn’t have to feign sadness as she bade her aunt farewell. Fearing a maid would enter the bedchamber and see the empty wardrobe, Sydney couldn’t accompany her aunt to the docks. She barely ate from the luncheon and supper trays the cook sent up. At midnight, the maid gave Sydney an odd look upon her request, but she woke the cook and soon thereafter delivered a breakfast tray. Sydney ate the fruit compote and eggs, then laid the rashers of bacon between the slices of bread. Wrapped in the napkin and stuffed in her pocket, the sandwich would be her first meal aboard the train.
Just before dawn, Sydney reread Uncle Fuller’s telegram.
Funds wired. Pleased to have nephew. No use for females here. Bring boots, britches, shirts. I’ll provide all other essentials. Regards, Fuller Johnson.
Serena assumed the masquerade would end once Sydney reached Forsaken Ranch. Sydney knew different.
One last detail needed to be addressed. Sydney brushed through her hair. Mama’s had been the same shade of chestnut, and Father never ceased to wax poetic on its beauty. Though blond hair was the rage back home, Sydney didn’t mind being different. She stared at her reflection. “Well, I can be different by having short hair, too.”
She picked up the shears. Vanity warred with logic. Gentlemen wore their hair cropped quite close to the head and used pomade, but she couldn’t bear to chop off that much. Compromising by cutting just below the level of her shoulders would be long for a man but short for a woman. Yes, that’s what she’d do. After all, George Washington and Napoleon and Custard— no, Custer—all had hair they could tie back. Sydney steeled herself with a deep breath and snipped.
Nothing.
She hadn’t cut a single strand. Or so she thought until she started to part her fingers. As the scissor blades opened, tresses tumbled down her arm and onto the floor. She stared at them, then looked back at her reflection in the mirror. “No turning back now.” She lifted her chin, pulled another segment of hair forward, and measured it to the shorter length. Halfway though, she studied the woman in the mirror. Long, rich curls cascaded on her left while bluntly clipped strands hung starkly on the right. That’s who I was—and this is who I’ll become. I’m cutting myself free.
The fire sparked as Sydney burned the tresses she’d cut off. After tying the remainder of her hair back with a small strip of twine, she tugged on britches and promptly jerked them back down. The lace at the hem of her unmentionables made a distinct, lumpy line. Hasty whacks with the shears solved that problem. With the flounces gone, her britches pulled up without impediment and hung correctly.
Critically eyeing herself in the mirror, she grimaced. “I’m still shaped like a girl.” Since the shirt was longer than she’d thought, she folded the hem up and bunched it just below the trousers’ waistband. That bulk disguised her feminine shape well enough. Socks and boots finished the ensemble.
Thick, gaudy carpeting muffled the clomping of her slightly too-big boots as she tiptoed down the hall. The heavy valise slid along the banister quite nicely.
Pleased with how well her plan was working, Sydney reached for the doorknob. The massive brass fixture felt cold, and the door was unyielding. Never before had she needed to open more than her bedchamber door. Surprised at the weight of the massive door, she yanked with all her might. It opened quite suddenly. Shuffle, clomp, thud. Her boots robbed her of any ability to balance, and she fell in a graceless heap over her valise.
Afraid someone might have heard the commotion, she scrambled to her feet, snatched the valise off the floor, and hastened outside. The one time a bustle might have come in handy, I don’t have it on.
By the time she made it down the brick-lined drive, Sydney wasn’t alone. Oscar, Hume’s whippet, ghosted along at her side. “Go home,” she commanded.
Oscar didn’t obey. He continued to trot as if she held him on a leash. Sydney decided having him might not be such a bad thing. After all, it was still dark outside. “I’m running away, boy. I can’t blame you for wanting to do the same. He ignores you as much as he ignored me.”
Soon a terrier joined them. “Shoo. Off with you!” He ignored her and gave a happy yip. Then a third dog accompanied her. Sydney rounded the corner, took a few more steps, and stopped. Where the fourth mutt came from, she didn’t know. Exasperated, Sydney told them, “I’m trying to be inconspicuous.”
Four furry tails wagged in the air as if to wave off her concerns. The terrier sat on her foot.
“Oh, honestly.” Sydney bent to remove him and ended up scratching between his scruffy, adorable ears. “There, boy. Now you simply must let me go.”
He didn’t budge.
Oscar nosed Sydney’s pocket.
“So that’s the way of it! You’re nothing more than a ragtag band of beggars.” She heard herself and winced. I sound like a girl. Trying out a lower pitch, she said, “This had best be quick.”
No more had she pulled the napkin from her pocket than the dogs crowded in for a bite. One growled at another. “Mind your manners.” To Sydney’s delight, the lower pitch and a distinct edge to her voice worked. The mutt sat and hung his head.
They snaffled up every morsel, and all but Oscar trotted away. “Go home, boy.” He gave her a sad look.
The sound of hooves and the rattle of a carriage sounded on the street. As it rolled past, a man shouted to the driver, “Halt!”
Sydney’s blood went cold.
Chapter Two
It’s him! Yet it can’t be—he’s a day early! Sydney tamped down the urge to flee. She couldn’t outrun Hume—especially not in these boots.
Her erstwhile fiancé opened the door of the carriage and charged toward her. “That’s my dog.”
Sydney hitched a shoulder. She didn’t trust her voice.
Hume drew closer. The scents of cigars and brandy wafted from him—along with a whiff of a distinctly floral perfume. “Oscar. Go home!”
Oscar slinked away with his tail between his legs.
“Do I know you?” Hume squinted at her.
“Sir,” the driver called to him. “Are you—”
“I’m fifty yards from home,” Hume roared. “I can walk!”
“You owe me a dollar.”
While Hume patted his pockets, Sydney sidled past him. She took pains to sound gruff. “I’m in need of a ride.”
“Jameson Winthrop! I knew I recognized you. You’re Preston’s nephew! Going home again already?” Hume clapped a hand on her shoulder. “Take the boy to the train. This’ll more than cover my fare and his.”
She tugged on the brim of her hat and rumbled, “Thanks.” For a heartbeat, she waited for him to open the door and assist her inside. Sydney immediately realized her mistake, saw to the door, and scrambled in with a complete lack of grace. For the next six months, no one would see to the niceties she’d always taken for granted. The realization only added to her sense of adventure.
Leaning back against the seat so she’d be in shadow, Sydney took one last long look at what she’d be leaving behind. Hume shoved money into the driver’s hand, turned, and swaggered off toward his mansion. Marriage would have been a lifetime sentence of misery, and no amount of money could ever buy love or change that beautiful prison into her home. Relief flooded her. She’d escaped.
Three days later Sydney strode up to the window at the Chicago train station, hoping her gait was a fair imitation of the men she’d been studying. “First class to Austin. Then on to Gooding, Texas.”
“Did you want a sleeping berth?”
&
nbsp; She nodded.
“One hundred eighteen dollars and twenty-nine cents.”
Sydney shoved her hand into the pocket of her trousers. Men had no concept of how free they were to stuff things into pockets instead of having to tote around a reticule. She pulled out seven bank notes.
The teller took each bill separately and inspected it. “Planchette paper. They’re all fine. You wouldn’t believe how often people try to pass off counterfeit.” He looked her straight in the eyes. “No one can fool me, though. I can spot a fake.”
Sydney held her breath. Does he know. . . ?
“Here’s your change, young man. It’ll be just over an hour before your train departs.”
“Thank you.” She looked up and down the station and didn’t see any chewing gum vending machines. Though she secretly thought the men chewing tobacco or gum resembled cattle chomping cud, she decided she ought to chew on something— and it certainly wouldn’t be tobacco. Chewing a wad of gum might make her look masculine. She cleared her throat. “Pardon me. Where are the gum machines?”
The ticketing agent shook his head. “Don’t have any of those new-fangled contraptions. Mercantile across the street carries gum.”
Sydney crossed a busy thoroughfare and hastened ahead in order to sweep open the mercantile door for a woman. “Allow me, ma’am.”
“Thank you, sir.” The lady sashayed inside. While the clerk assisted the woman, Sydney ambled about. In London, she’d been in millinery shops and to a dressmaker’s, but she’d never been allowed to do any practical marketing. This place was a veritable wonderland of items and scents. Such freedom! Sydney took a moment to relish her newfound liberty.
“Your valise will be safe over here by my register.” The shopkeeper held up a basket. “You can fill this with your purchases.”
“Wonderful!” Sydney realized she’d not disguised her voice and immediately coughed. “Pardon me.”
“I have Dr Pepper just behind you. A bottle will cure that.”
Fancy Pants (Only In Gooding Book #1) Page 2
