Back Roads to Bliss

by Ruth Glover

  How thoroughly she was to learn—firsthand and before too long—the truth of the words so glibly and ignorantly uttered.

  “Mrs. Buckle—” Sarah quavered.

  “What about Mrs. Buckle? Don’t tell me that busybody followed you. Or was the attic locked and she wouldn’t open it for you?”

  “It wasn’t locked,” Sarah gulped, getting control. “And I sneaked in. . . . It was dark. . . .”

  “Never mind,” Allison said, calming her sister lest another fountain of tears burst forth. “You’re all right now, and you needn’t go back. But what about Mrs. Buckle?”

  “She caught me! Oh, Allie—she caught me!”

  “Hmmmm, that could be bad. She’ll probably run to Mama.”

  “I don’t think so.” Sitting up at last and recalling what had happened in the attic, Sarah stiffened her backbone. “That’s how come I have Miss Mouser,” she explained. “On the spur of the moment I pretended I was looking for her.”

  “How clever of you, Sister!”

  “But, Allie—” Sarah should have felt better, having received a compliment of sorts from her older sister. As it was, her pale eyes suffused with tears once again, and her face was tragic in appearance. “I lied to her. All on account of you and your determination to run away and your need of a bag so you could do it—I lied! And what’s more—I sneaked! I sneaked, and I lied!”

  Once again Allison had occasion and reason to feel uncomfortable. What had seemed like a lark during its planning had dark aspects to it. And certain people were being hurt, Sarah among them. Allison sighed. Would nothing go right this day?

  “Think about it this way,” she placated. “All’s fair in love and war. Everyone says it, so it must be true, right? And this is both—it’s war against Papa and Mama and their unfair decisions, and it’s love for Stephen.

  “That makes what you did,” she pressed on, noting the wavering in the desperation in Sarah’s eyes, “perfectly all right. You can see that, can’t you?”

  Sarah wasn’t to be that easily persuaded. “I don’t know,” she said feebly. “It seems to me that what you’re doing is wrong, and I’m doing wrong, too.”

  Allison had had enough; it was time to move on. Rising briskly, she said, “Trust me, Sister. I know what I’m doing. And just in case you forgot—you begged me to tell you.”

  She was right; Sarah could only nod miserably.

  “If it’s too much for you to handle,” Allison continued, “then go and leave me alone. But don’t forget—you also promised not to tell. If you do,” she warned, “that’ll be another sin. Lying, sneaking, and breaking your word in one day—tut tut!”

  Allison’s face was severe as she laid this load on her sensitive little sister.

  If possible, Sarah’s slender face grew even whiter. She sat huddled on the bed, hugging Miss Mouser and swaying back and forth, uncertain of her next move, already guilty of two sins and trembling on the brink of a third.

  “I won’t tell,” she muttered. “I said I wouldn’t, and I won’t. But, Allie—you’re in for trouble; see if I’m not right!”

  Having shown surprising spunk for the second time in one day, Sarah rose from the bed and flounced to the door, Miss Mouser dangling from one hand and trailing behind her and detracting considerably from the dignity she might have commanded otherwise.

  Standing in the middle of the room, biting her lips and watching her sister go, Allison was left in turmoil, and oddly hesitant. Bother!

  Now was no time for second thoughts; with a toss of her dark head and a shrug of her slim shoulders, she turned back to her preparations. Allison had always operated from impulse, not from reason, and this time was no different.

  And after all, wasn’t Stephen, without a doubt the handsomest lad she knew, waiting for her? And wouldn’t the remainder of her life—after this flurry of recklessness—be the conventional one of wife and mother? Wouldn’t she and Stephen settle somewhere in the English countryside as her mother before her had done, and her mother before her, and back and back across the centuries? Allison, in turn, would fit into the mold without fuss and flurry, for hadn’t it always been so?

  If there was any possibility that adventure, far horizons, new challenges—anything beyond a wild escape to Gretna Green—might lie ahead for Allison Middleton, there was no hint of it in the quiet bedroom, no reason to suspect it. And certainly not with Stephen Lusk.

  Though Stephen Lusk had gotten away from Midbury to attend school, he was not a free spirit. Hesitant, cautious, he was seemingly without a daring bone in his comely body or thought in his delicately sculptured head. Allison had to admit it had been her strength of character that had brought them thus far. But what matter! He was so handsome!

  As a son of the working class, subservient all his life and with a nature not given to the breaking of new trails, Stephen had agreed with some qualms to the idea of eloping.

  “It’s the only way for us, Stephen,” Allison had pointed out, and he had hesitantly agreed.

  Their love had seemed hopeless; Allison’s father, if he had so much as suspected what was going on—the secret meetings, the stolen embraces, the desperate plans—would have turned the dogs on the young suitor, would have peremptorily closed the Lusk shop, would have ordered the Lusk family from the premises of business and home. The entire Lusk family would suffer, with no hope of recovering their small degree of comfort and prosperity. Stephen couldn’t chance it, not even for love of Allison; on this he was adamant. Allison, though raging against the probabilities, knew he was right.

  But marriage. Marriage, with its indissoluble bonds, would settle the problem once and for all. That’s why it was imperative to reach Gretna Green before being caught, to have the ceremony performed posthaste. Starting out early in the evening, Stephen and Allison would have an entire night’s travel before their absence was detected and a chase was begun.

  Yes, the marriage ceremony would solve everything. Divorces could be obtained, of course, but they were a costly and lengthy business accompanied by considerable disgrace. Quincy Middleton, slave of respectability, though he might gnash his teeth with fury, would be impotent to dissolve the bonds of marriage. What God had joined together, no man—including Quincy Middleton—could put asunder.

  At times Stephen shivered, imagining the things that might go wrong and contemplating the fearsome and far-reaching power of Quincy Middleton, and then he would be bolstered and encouraged by Allison’s magnificent confidence and her assurance that everything would turn out well in the long run.

  “You know what Papa needs?” she had once asked thoughtfully. “He just needs to come up against someone who has a stronger will than his own, and then he’ll fold up like an umbrella.”

  Poor silly child, to think she was the one.

  Peeping from behind the drapery, Allison watched her mother leave for her calls. Knowing the schedule well, she was in bed and covered to her chin when—later in the day, back home again and with her wraps removed—Letitia came by to see how her daughter was faring. Sarah, who hadn’t been back since she flounced out in the morning, slipped into the room behind her mother.

  “A little better, I think,” Allison said feebly in answer to her mother’s query. “But weak. I can’t get my strength back on tea and toast.” And all the while her strong young body hummed with energy and an eagerness to be up and moving.

  “I’ll see that something more substantial is sent up,” Letitia conceded, laying a hand on her daughter’s brow, finding it cool and hiding a smile. Looking around, she asked, “Why is your room in such a turmoil? You’ve spent the day in bed, haven’t you?”

  “It was Fifi,” Allison said quickly, blaming the room’s disarray on the innocent little dog who had, for the most part, spent the day lying quietly on the bed, eating bon bons from the fingers of her mistress. “She’s the only company I’ve had all this long day. She chewed things and dragged them around. She wanted me to play with her, I’m sure. Maybe tomorrow . . .�
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  “A good night’s sleep is just what you need to set everything right, I shouldn’t wonder,” Letitia said, satisfied that Allison was malingering, playing a little game, and for a reason known only to herself. Perhaps the child had dreaded a scold concerning her treatment of Norville Flagle the preceding evening. Perhaps it was time she learned of the impending ball; it might be well for Allison to begin to think seriously of the advantages of an alliance with the Flagles and their cherished third cousin, Lord Shrewton.

  And there was no time like the present to get things underway. So thinking, Letitia said now, “Allison, you will be pleased to hear that your father and I are planning a ball for your birthday—”

  Allison’s eyebrows lifted with surprise. Her lips curved with pleasure.

  “A ball,” her mother said, watching her daughter, “that will launch you into society—”

  “Uh—Midbury society?” There was instant scorn in Allison’s voice. For a moment it appeared that she would fling back the covers and expose her fully clothed, indignant self.

  “—and be a springboard to marriage,” her mother continued calmly. “A proper marriage. With your father’s money and my connections, you should do very well for yourself. We have high hopes for that, you know, Allison.”

  Letitia clearly hinted at matters of great import, and though Allison managed to control herself, subsiding and clutching the covers to her, rebellion filled her heart. Was there anywhere in the entire world a woman . . . girl . . . was free to make her own choices? It was narrow-mindedness such as this that was forcing her into the scandalous alternative of a Gretna Green marriage!

  “Think about it, my dear, during these hours when you have nothing else to do.” Noting a disturbing tightness in Allison’s face, Letitia emphasized, “It is coming; it will happen, in case you have any silly, girlish thoughts otherwise.”

  Well pleased with the outcome of her visit, Letitia stooped and laid a cool kiss on her daughter’s forehead. “I’ll see you in the morning,” she said and swept from the room. Sarah, quiet throughout the entire performance, remained.

  About to rise from the bed, Allison was stopped by the accusing look in her younger sister’s eyes. Arms akimbo, mouth tight, Sarah looked the picture of disapproval.

  “What’s the matter?” Allison asked crossly.

  Sarah shook her head.

  “Speak up, Sister! Has the cat—Miss Mouser—got your tongue?”

  “I was just listening to you, Allie. Listening to you and your lies—”

  “Are you back to that dreary subject again? I thought we covered that before. It’s all in the game . . . the game of life.”

  “We talked about my lies; this is about yours. You lied about why you’re in bed—sick, you said, when you’re strong and healthy and planning to run off. You lied about Fifi, poor little innocent creature that she is.”

  Allison bit her lip. What a time for Sarah to act like an adult!

  “I had to,” she defended, shoving back the covers and getting to her feet; fully dressed, she shook out her garments. Bending down, she pulled a canvas bag from under the bed; she had managed, with no trouble at all, to sneak it from the attic. It was bulging, and Allison viewed it with a frown; adjustments in its contents had to be made, that was obvious.

  “How can a marriage based on lies turn out well?” Sarah pursued, not about to give up the subject.

  “How many marriages start out with lies, do you suppose? Love, honor, and obey? I’m certain!” Allison scoffed. But even Allison was uncomfortable with the thought of bald-faced lying. “Sometimes, Sarah, it’s necessary to shade the truth.”

  Sarah’s accusing eyes, her shaking head, spoke for her.

  Tired of the subject and of being accused, Allison said, “You always did pay too much attention to the Scriptures our governess assigned to us. I daresay she’d be so pleased. You need to keep in mind that the verses were meant for memory work; they weren’t oracles to live by.”

  “I don’t think so, or why do they keep popping into my mind? And in yours, I’ll be bound, if you’d admit it. How about, ‘Thy word have I hid in mine heart, that I might not sin against thee’? Remember that one, Allie?”

  “You’re a spoilsport, Sarah, that’s what you are,” Allison said crossly. “I’m sorry I told you about my plans. I thought you’d be excited; I thought you’d be happy for me. Now look what you’ve gone and done—spoiled everything!”

  The light had faded as they talked, and shrill and insistent, a whistle was heard, wafting up from the garden below.

  “Stephen! It’s Stephen! Help me get this bag shut!”

  But for the second time that day, Sarah had slipped through the door and was gone.

  Allison opened the window and leaned out. Below, a slender, pale face was turned up to her. At the sight, her anxious fears were as nothing; gaining Stephen was worth any effort.

  Afraid to speak aloud for fear of being overheard and knowing a whisper would not reach him, Allison gestured her welcome and her excitement as well as she could—clapping her hands together, bobbing her head, wriggling a little, smiling. Stephen, if he felt any of the rapture she was demonstrating, managed only a nervous gesture: Come on down, it said, and he made repeated motions with his hands.

  With a final wave, Allison shut the window and turned to the hodgepodge that was her room. There was no time to do anything more in regard to the trip, and her bag was stuffed. But there was time to remove her slippers and don heavier footwear. And now she blessed Queen Victoria for her Balmoral petticoat and boots; at this moment they made good sense, promising warmth and comfort. But something in Allison rebelled at the heavy, cumbersome, ugly items, and at the last moment, standing in her boots and swathed in her petticoat, she stuffed her fine Morocco slippers into the bulging canvas bag. If she had her way, she’d stand before the anvil with feminine feet!

  About to leave the room, she turned back with a gasp, having forgotten the velvet pouch containing Grandmama’s contributions and donations and gifts, given on special occasions over the years. The thought of forgetting the money to fund the entire undertaking and finding herself and Stephen stranded somewhere, helpless, sent a shiver through Allison. Hastily she tucked the money away in her bag and turned again to the door.

  Once again her hand dropped; once again she paused. A note! Should she leave a note for her parents? By the time you read this, I’ll be Mrs. Stephen Lusk . . .

  But of course she wouldn’t be, not when they read it. They would find the note in the morning, and she and Stephen would be well on their way but not yet arrived, not yet married.

  The longer it took her parents to discover her absence in the morning, the better. No doubt, first of all, a maid would spend a few minutes looking for her, going from her room to Sarah’s, checking the bathroom, eventually making her way to her mistress to report Allison’s mystifying absence. Allison could imagine how things would go from there as the household went from calm normality to disbelief, to dismay, to tumult. Letitia, from dallying over her breakfast tea, would make a casual passage upstairs. Here her air of petty annoyance, her sighs at having her daily schedule interrupted, would change to agitation as she searched for her daughter, as she noted the absence of certain articles of clothing and the disarray of the room. She would hasten to Allison’s father, who would turn turkey red over his paper, spluttering in his coffee. Finally, Letitia would take to her bed with a headache.

  Though there was no one to see, Allison grinned impishly. No, she’d not leave a note. In any case, it wouldn’t take her parents long to dredge the truth out of Sarah. Then and only then a search would be initiated.

  A pebble rattling against the window woke Allison from her reverie. Still she hesitated. How odd, how wrong it seemed, to leave one’s home without a send-off, without a wave, without a kiss. At the last she longed for Sarah’s thin arms around her, Sarah’s sweet kiss of approval on her cheek. It was not to be. Allison had made her decision and would pay
whatever price was necessary.

  Still, it was rather wistfully that she whispered, “Good-bye, Fifi. Ta ta.”

  Fifi made a snuffling noise, opened one eye, and went back to sleep in the swirl of bedding where she spent her days as well as her nights. Fifi, forever on the lookout for her own comfort, would happily move her headquarters to Sarah’s room if a bon bon was forthcoming from time to time.

  With bulky boots on her feet, a warm cloak over one arm, and a heavy bag dragging at the end of the other one, Allison moved down the hallway toward the back stairs. Once, hearing a noise nearby and startled into immobility, she made a quick decision to put on the cloak. Setting the bag down, she swung the garment into place, fastening it securely, pulling up the hood and tucking her hair inside. It was the nearest she could come to a disguise. If she were noticed and recognized, her garb and her stealthiness would raise immediate questions, of course, as well as her use of the stairs ordinarily reserved for the servants. But she dare not use the front staircase and could think of no other means of descent, aside from the window, which was, as she had pointed out to Sarah, beyond reach, beyond reason.

  Once away, no one would know exactly where to look for her or which direction to go to find her. They would check her friends first, she thought, to see if she were with any of them. The name Stephen Lusk—until Sarah broke—would never enter their minds.

  The stairs were manipulated with secrecy and safety; no servant had need of them, no one came to investigate the strange bumps and scrapes coming from the narrow stairwell, caused by Allison’s bag.

  Once through the door and outside, Allison breathed more easily. Eagerly now, though carefully, she maneuvered herself through bushes, around corners, under windows lit and unlit, until—a hand went over her mouth.

  Her scream stifled before it was born, for one brief second Allison thought all was lost and that she was discovered. Then Stephen’s voice whispered in her ear. “Shh now. No talking. Just follow me.”