The Fictitious Marquis

by Alina Adams

  "But why did you not simply stay and attempt to explain my most peculiar behavior?"

  "Mainly because the only words of French I feel confident in uttering are maman, merci, noblesse oblige, and oui. However, no matter what order you arrange them in, that hardly qualifies for even one side of a coherent conversation."

  Feeling the blood gradually returning to her brain, Julia felt confident enough to actually look around and note her surroundings. She hadn't a clue to where they were, save a back alley, nor any concept of how to get to the nearest docks.

  "Jamie," Julia struggled to keep her voice from breaking. "Tell me, what do we do now?"

  16

  "Well, what exactly did you have in mind as a plan of action, when you fled from the stables?"

  She shook her head. "I beg of you. Don't mock me. Not now."

  Was that politeness that Jamie actually heard in Julia's voice? It were so unfamiliar, he couldn't feel certain.

  Julia looked up at him hopefully, her face strangely devoid of the contempt and insolence she usually offered.

  Unfortunately, nothing could wipe from Jamie's mind the memory of her harsh words last night, What do you think you are doing?

  Every man had his limits, and Jamie had, at long last, reached his. He was tired of making overtures, tired of reaching out in friendship, only to have his good intentions so brutally slapped away. If Julia insisted on treating him like a barely housebroken savage, then a savage he would be. No more gestures, no more efforts, no more baring his chest for her to stick the knife in.

  Jamie told Julia, "This was your escapade. I was not even supposed to ask any questions. My job was to listen and obey. Very well. I am listening. What do we do now?"

  She straightened up, smoothing down her windblown hair with both hands, and inhaling deeply, letting the air waft out in one even breath. Never having previously seen Julia so out of her element, standing ankle-deep in the grayish dishwater housewives tossed onto the street, skirt dragging behind her, curls twisting completely from out of the restrictive hair pins, Jamie, for an instant, felt as if it were only now that he were seeing the real Julia. Not to imply that back alley filth was more true to her character, but rather that the fine ton clothes and immobile hair styles were equally as ill-fitting. Julia truly belonged neither there nor here. Like him, she was doomed to go through life forever trapped someplace in between.

  Julia said, "Well, clearly, the first thing we need is to hire another rig, and head towards port."

  "Do you truly believe that there is a person in this tiny town who has yet to hear the tale of us? Think, Julia. We are barely five miles from Miriam's home, and we have been spotted running away with a child. Not to mention that it is quite conceivable that a few of the good citizens might even know our Mademoiselle Alexia here by sight. Surely, Miriam came into town once in a while. We cannot risk showing our faces there again. Especially in light of our guilty behavior."

  "All right then. We shall have to find some other way to get to port. France is a large country. News of Alexia's disappearance may be in Paris and here, but it could not possibly have reached every corner. Not this swiftly. All we need is to make our way to Le Havre, and hire a boat across the Channel there."

  "Well and good," Jamie said, "but how are we to escape, unnoticed, from Nogent-le-Rotrou, especially in the absence of a horse and carriage?"

  "We can walk."

  "Oh, that will prove most inconspicuous, m'lady."

  "I suppose that you possess a better plan?"

  "One does spring instantly to mind, yes."

  Either too desperate or too tired to argue, Julia demanded, "Well, out with it then."

  "We may . . . borrow . . . a horse and carriage." Jamie snuck a sideways peek at Julia, gaging her reaction.

  "Borrow?"

  "Steal."

  She wrinkled her brow, biting down on a fingernail. "I don't know, Jamie."

  "Would you feel more comfortable thinking of it as a fair trade? In exchange for us commissioning a single horse and carriage from the good people of this town, they may keep all the items in our trunks still at the inn. I suspect that we won't be going back for them," he said.

  "Our clothes," Julia gasped. "I'd forgotten."

  "So, it's decided, then." Jamie reassuringly patted Alexia's hand. All during their conversation, the child had stayed pressed against the wall, staring mesmerized at a quartet of rats eating through the garbage. He said, "Wait for me here. I'll be back in a few hours, hopefully properly mounted."

  "You are going now to steal a horse?" Julia grabbed Jamie's arm. "In broad daylight?"

  "If I wait for nightfall, I may end up coming back leading a large dog on a rope."

  "Jamie," Julia reminded, "you cannot go out into town alone. You do not speak any French."

  "I am not meaning to engage the animal in conversation."

  "What if you are caught?"

  "I will run," Jamie said. "I will run very fast."

  "No," Julia insisted. "This all is my fault. I should be the one to take the risk. I should go."

  Jamie sighed and rolled his eyes. "My dear, dear, Mrs. Lowell. While such sentiments are indeed most noble, may I remind you of a single fact."

  "And what may that be?"

  "I, Mrs. Lowell, was already thieving horses, whilst you were still in the cradle."

  Jamie finally convinced Julia to stay behind by insisting that her fluent French might be needed more in case she and Alexia were spotted.

  Walking back towards town, Jamie took care to avoid looking conspicuous. Knowing that the stable owner had probably already told anyone who would listen about the well-dressed couple and child who fled his establishment in a panic, Jamie first removed his coat, wrinkling it into a ball, and stuffing it under his arm. He pulled the ends of his pantaloons out of his boots, letting them drape over the top, then rubbed dirt onto his shoes.

  Jamie walked through the streets with his head down, eyes averted. No one paid him very much notice, and he liked it that way. It felt strangely comfortable. After a month of being Jeremy Lowell, finally, he was Jamie again.

  His search for a horse that just happened to be roaming free brought Jamie to a smattering of farms on the outskirts of town. At the second house he passed, a horse and wagon stood hitched to the front post, seemingly unattended. Jamie got as far as actually resting his hand on the bridle before he happened to glance inside the window, and spotted a woman with three small children, rushing about the kitchen attempting to peel babies off her leg and simultaneously prepare dinner. If this horse and wagon were her only means of transportation for going into town, then Jamie's snatching it would effectively strand the family. And he could think of no worse fate for any creature than to be stuck inside of a single-room house with three restless toddlers.

  Vowing to either rob someone slightly better off or at least to stop glancing into strangers' windows, Jamie kept on walking. A mile and a half down the road, he stopped in front of a barn, noting that the structure stood a good out-of-sight distance from the main house. Jamie looked both ways to ensure he weren't being watched, then crept towards the door.

  Inside, he tripped over a hen scurrying across the hay covered floor. It squawked in protest and hopped up, nearly taking a penned-up baby goat's eyes out with its claws. Three horses paced their stalls. One, an old mare with a back so sagging that its stomach all but brushed the ground, eyed Jamie with interest, raising her head and trying to butt him with her nose. The second pony looked no older than a few weeks. Its skinny legs still buckled under the body weight, and every step resembled a drunk trying to walk home through a storm. Horse number three was a gelding. Looking into its eyes, Jamie imagined he could spot the animal's displeasure at the course of events that had made him such a creature. He snapped and bit at Jamie, and, snarling, kicked the stall door with one powerful hoof.

  Julia's four-chestnut team back home, Jamie decided, had very little to worry about from this lot.

&n
bsp; He stood, lips pursed, hands behind his back, trying to make a decision over which animal to appropriate. The too old, the too young, or the too mean? His enthusiasm was hardly spilling over for any one of them.

  So focused was Jamie on his task that he did not hear the barn door opening behind him until it proved too late and the farmer whose land he was trespassing on stood blocking the light, shouting at Jamie.

  Jamie spun about, instinctively opening his mouth to begin haggling, when he remembered that his legendary verbal tricks would be of no help here. The only thing left for him to draw on, was his other legendary skill. His ability to, as he explained it for Julia, run very, very fast.

  Unfortunately, there was only one way out of the barn, and it was through the single door. Swallowing his neck into his shoulders, Jamie bent from the waist, charging at full speed towards the farmer. In a perfect world, the man would have been frightened enough of being rushed by a madman to kindly step aside. In this world however, the gentleman continued to stand rooted in his doorway, still screaming French obscenities at Jamie. He may not have been fluent in French, but he understood curses in any language.

  Slamming his head and shoulders full force into the man's chest, Jamie managed to knock the farmer off balance. As he fell to the ground, Jamie easily leapt over the squirming figure, escaping into the sunshine and heading towards whichever road would take him as far away as possible.

  A bullet spat past Jamie's ear, and he ducked instinctively, all the while wondering where the farmer had gotten his hands so quickly on a rifle. Not that it truly mattered. The fact that his pursuer now possessed a weapon, was certainly much more important than where he'd gotten it.

  Although confident in his ability to outrun most anyone in a fair fight, even Jamie did not think so highly of his talents that he believed himself capable of moving faster than a bullet. His head swiveled from side to side, searching for a tree or some other natural obstruction that he might take cover under, but the road leading away from the farm was frustratingly free of any shelter. For the next half a mile, Jamie would be the sole target for the farmer to shoot at. And, if the old man decided to climb into the gig he'd arrived in, and chase him, then Jamie would not have a single prayer left.

  The gig.

  Its image struck Jamie with the same impact that the previously fired bullet had nicked his ear.

  Did he dare do it?

  Did he dare not do it?

  Did he really have any other option in the matter?

  Falling to the ground and rolling, Jamie unexpectedly changed directions, running no longer towards the road, but away from it, and back towards the homicidal farmer. Back towards the gig standing by the side of the barn.

  Noting the two beautiful animals saddled to its carriage, Jamie now understood that the horses inside were but the bottom of the barrel for this man. Well, as long as he had decided to rob the fellow, he might as well steal his very best.

  Puzzled by Jamie's sudden change of direction, the farmer hesitated. Which gave Jamie enough time to literally leap up into his gig, a task made more difficult by the fact that it were the latest model—the one where all four wheels were as high as Jamie's head, and the perched seat nearly twice his height. Jamie clambered up like a monkey, yanking the reins off the brake, and slapped the horses with such force that they rose on their back legs and whinnied, before tearing like the wind down the road.

  "This is your definition of an inconspicuous carriage?" Julia asked the moment she spotted Jamie inside a gig that would have turned heads at Windsor Castle. Driving through a back alley, it all but hollered for unwanted attention.

  "No." Jamie said, "This is my definition of a I-had-no-other-options carriage."

  A half-mile from port, all three climbed out of the gig, so as not to arrive in too conspicuous a carriage. Jamie slapped the lead horse on the rump, sending it running.

  He told Julia, "This way, someone may find it and return the team to their original owner."

  "But what if the person who does find it simply decides to keep the rig and horses for himself?"

  "Then," Jamie pointed out with a logic it had taken him years to perfect, "he will be the thief, and not us."

  At the docks, the hustle of men running about carrying boxes crammed with tea, coal, and rice, and the bustle of well-to-do passengers, accompanied by maids, abigails, footmen, and valets distastefully pushing through the crowds en route to their own ships, made it relatively simple for Jamie, Julia, and Alexia to lose themselves in the mass of bodies.

  Jamie asked Julia, "Which of these ferries did you book us passage on for England?"

  "The Lady Margaret," she answered, then hesitated. "Jamie?"

  "What is it?" He had to step on the tips of his toes to see over the crowd, and search for the Lady Margaret.

  "Will you promise not to shout?"

  He absolutely hated it when women prefaced their remarks with such a question. Jamie turned very slowly, crouching so that he and Julia might be at eye level. "And would you care to tell me, Mrs. Lowell, why I might have been inclined to do so?"

  She pulled a lock of hair loose from behind her ear, and thoughtfully pulled on it. "I did book us passage on the Lady Margaret. And I had the tickets in my hand. And then I packed them in my trunk. And then I left the trunk at the inn while we went to hire a carriage. And then . . . well, you were there."

  She took a step back.

  "And why did you not tell me so before, m'lady?"

  "You had other concerns. Like stealing us a horse and carriage, for one thing."

  "All right," he forced himself to speak very slowly, because Jamie knew that, if he sped up, it would all explode out his chest in a violent torrent of words. "But tell me this. What was the point of my stealing a carriage and horses, if we had no place to go?" Despite his attempts at civility, the last trio of words Jamie shouted loud enough to turn a few French heads in their direction.

  "But we did, Jamie. We did have someplace to go. Regardless of whether I still held the tickets or not, the only way for us to leave France is by water. We had to come to the docks."

  "Do you propose that we climb into that box of grapes over there, and mail ourselves to England?"

  "Do you think we could?"

  "You are acting the idiot."

  "I know." She let her fingers brush his arm. "I am sorry, Jamie. I suppose I should have planned it all better. But, as you insist on reminding me, I've never done this sort of thing before."

  He felt himself deflating like a hot air balloon at too high an altitude. No matter how pleasant it might feel, screaming and cursing at Julia was not going to improve their circumstances in the slightest.

  He asked her, "Do you think there is still time to purchase tickets for a ferry that leaves tonight?"

  "There might be," Julia said. "Except that . . ."

  "What?" He threw his arms up in the air. "What now?"

  "All the money I had, I put in my reticule."

  Jamie indicated Julia's obviously empty hands. "And which reticule might that be, m'lady?"

  "The reticule that I dropped on my way out of the livery stable."

  "Ah. Of course. I'm surprised I even had to ask."

  17

  For a moment, Julia truly believed that Jamie might give in to his impulses and strangle her. And she would not blame him for attempting it. Surely, after all Jamie went through to secure them safe passage to port, the last thing he needed to hear was that they possessed no manner of continuing further. Julia knew she should have told him earlier about their lack of both tickets and money, but she was too frightened.

  Too frightened of making Jamie angry. Or rather, of making him angrier than he already was. Considering her behavior over the past few days—considering her behavior over the past few months—what was to prevent Jamie from disgustedly washing his hands of the entire matter, and of her?

  Knowing that he would be perfectly within his rights to do so, Julia wasn't about to give him ei
ther the provocation or the opportunity to leave.

  And not because Julia felt frightened of continuing her journey without him. That may have been true in the past, but, if Jamie had given her anything, it was the confidence to believe that, in a pinch, Julia could con with the best of them. She wasn't afraid of Jamie's leaving because she feared being helpless and stranded. Julia did not want Jamie to leave because, quite simply, she would miss him.

  But now was hardly the time to admit such sentiments. Standing amidst the chaos of a dozen multipurpose sailing vessels preparing to depart before sunset, Julia looked up at Jamie and prayed that he might suppress the urge to kill her. His back to the sinking sun, Jamie's hair glowed an almost indescribably beautiful shade of red, with golden and auburn highlights. Stripped of the aristocrat's coat, he now resembled more the man she had first met than the puppet Julia had attempted to transform him into. Back in his element for the first time in weeks, Jamie looked happier than Julia had ever previously seen him.

  Except when it came to dealing with her. For Julia, Jamie's mirror-blue eyes clouded over until not a single positive sentiment remained to peek through the anger.

  Yet, to Jamie's credit, in the interest of not frightening Alexia, he kept his tone level as he hissed to Julia, "You should have told me earlier."

  "Yes. I know I should have. But I thought that, maybe, I might be able to think of a way out of our predicament during the course of the journey."

  "And have you?"

  "No. Not yet."

  "It is very difficult to get about without money, Mrs. Lowell. I know. I've done it. It is not pleasant."

  All around them, people pushed and shoved their way through the crowds and towards the water. One footman, carrying a lady's trunk large enough to comfortably fit all the crown jewels and then some, nearly collided with a French sailor pulling a net full of freshly caught herring. Juggling his precariously swaying trunk, the footman paused long enough to soundly curse not only the sailor, but his parents, grandparents, and any other ancestors either living or dead.