Two of a Kind

by Sasha Cottman

  She looked down at his hand and frowned. Her body language told him his touch was unwelcome. “Why would I need your help, James? I shall have a husband this time tomorrow. He shall provide for me. Now kindly remove your hand.”

  The sound of footsteps on the stone path had him looking back toward the front door. Claire was making her way over to them. He frowned at the less than happy look on his sister’s face.

  He leaned in close. “I know this marriage is going to be a trial for you. So please, Leah, let me be your friend. When it comes to Guy, I could try and intercede on your behalf.”

  She shook her head slowly.

  “I hardly think Guy will thank you for attempting to meddle in our marriage. He has already told me he does not trust you when it comes to me, so I would suggest that there is little chance of him listening to your counsel even if you chose to offer it. Thank you, James, but once again you have fallen short when it comes to playing at being my hero.”

  Claire came and stood by his side, she glared at him. “James is there something you need? If not then please leave Leah alone, she is not here to see you.”

  He stirred from his sister’s harsh rebuff and muttered, “No. I was just saying hello.”

  “Good. Come on, Leah. We have things to do. Say goodbye, James,” said Claire. His sister slipped her arm into Leah’s and they began to walk away, no doubt headed for the comfortable sitting room upstairs to discuss final wedding preparations.

  James stood and watched them. Leah might be putting on a brave face for her impending nuptials, but the way she barely fit her clothes spoke volumes for her state of mind. Even her manner of walking was stilted.

  But it was her final heartbreaking words which threatened to bring James to his knees. Leah no longer cared to hear what he had to say. She had resigned herself to her fate.

  He was not her hero.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The icy midnight air greeted Leah as she opened the door leading into the rear garden of her family home. She wrapped her shawl around her before giving one last furtive glance back toward the main entrance. She was alone. With her travel bag in one hand and a small lantern in the other, she stole out into the darkness.

  Her family had kept a close eye on her the past few days; she was rarely left alone. While she had made every effort not to show any sign of her reluctance to marry Guy Dannon, she knew her father would not be taking chances. There would be no sudden crying off on her part.

  Not for the first time did she send a prayer of thanks to heaven for having confided in Claire Radley. Leah had continued to recite the schedule for all mail coaches leaving for the west country over the past few days, hoping she had memorized it correctly.

  In the bag, there was a small coin purse with enough money in it for her to be able to buy a ticket through to Truro. The extent of the coins she and Claire had managed to cobble together would permit her to purchase one meal a day en route. The journey west would be a trying one, but she was prepared to endure anything rather than marry Guy.

  Leah barely fit any of her clothes now, the stress of the past weeks having seen her struggle to keep food down. Guy’s only comment about her rapid weight loss was to coldly remind her that she had better have enough energy for their wedding night. The thought made Leah feel ill.

  As soon as she reached her grandfather, she would make herself at home in the kitchen and not leave until his cook had fattened her back up to a normal size. She must reach Sir Geoffrey’s home in Cornwall.

  Now on the eve of her wedding, hiding in the dark of the garden, she faced down her fears. What if her family suspected she was attempting to run? What if her mother decided she needed to stay close to her daughter on the morning of the wedding? And what if her father . . . no. She had to put those thoughts to the back of her mind. She had to trust herself and her determination not to accept the fate they had chosen for her. She could do this. The price of failure was unthinkable.

  Hidden by the black shadows of the house, she made her way over to the small potting shed. It was situated just inside the garden gate which led from the rear laneway into the mews and stables. The Shepherd family gardener and his assistant were the only people who ever set foot inside the brick and stone building.

  There was a gentle creak of hinges as she pushed the door open. In the still night air, the noise was enough to set her nerves on edge. She prayed the stable boy, who slept upstairs in the nearby loft, was a sound sleeper. Her being caught in the garden at this hour with a travel bag in hand would take more than a little explaining.

  She set the lantern on the floor and lay the shawl over the top of the glass. It gave only the barest of light for her work, but she dared not risk making it any brighter.

  The travel bag fitted neatly beneath the potting bench. She pushed it farther under the bench, tucking it out of sight. The bag contained a few old items of clothing she had stolen out of the house including a pair of sturdy boots, and some small personal possessions which she could not bear to part with. She couldn’t risk attempting to take any of her new clothes with her. Her mother would no doubt notice their absence.

  The three plain day-gowns she had retrieved from under the mattress of her bed were warm and functional, perfect for the chill sea winds of Cornwall. At the top of the bag lay that last, vital piece of clothing: Mary Radley’s long black woolen cloak with a fitted hood. If she did indeed make it all the way to her grandfather’s house, Claire’s help would have played an important part in her success.

  Timing was one thing she had to control in her plans to escape, but deception was just as crucial. The cloak would help her to hide from her family until she was safely on board the coach and headed out of London.

  Her heart raced. She stood and looked at the potting bench; the bag was well out of sight. She took in a slow, calming breath. Tomorrow, she would need steady nerves and a clear mind.

  “You can do this Leah,” she whispered.

  The sound of boots shuffling on the stone step outside the kitchen had her dropping quickly to her knees. She pulled open the glass door of the lantern and blew out the candle. The potting shed was immediately thrown into darkness.

  She poked her head out the door and saw that the family cook had taken a spot on the top step at the back door. Leah knew that if the woman was true to habit, she would be holding a roughly rolled fag in her hand, having lit it over the kitchen stove. As the cook lifted her hand to her face, Leah’s suspicions were confirmed. Apart from the hint of the moon from behind some thick clouds, the golden glow of the burning tobacco was the only source of light in the gloomy garden.

  Damn.

  Leah sat back and drew her knees up to her chest. She wrapped her shawl once more about her and waited. Much as she was freezing in her thin nightgown and woolen shawl, she dared not make a move. She had been patient up to this point, everything diligently prepared. Now was not the time to lose her nerve.

  Come tomorrow, if her luck held, all the plans that she and Claire had so carefully put together would come to fruition. All that she had suffered at the hands of her father and Guy Dannon over the past few weeks would have been worth it.

  She refused to even consider what would become of her if she failed.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  James threw the last of his shirts into his travel trunk before closing it up. He had packed the warmest of his shirts, jackets, and trousers. Derbyshire had been cold enough when he left, but with winter now closing in, he knew it would be freezing.

  He packed up his paintbrushes and put them carefully into their travel box. After treating himself to a visit to Ackermann’s on the Strand the previous day, he was in possession of fresh oil paints. The paints were wrapped in their pig’s bladders and stored in an airtight tin at the bottom of his travel trunk. As soon as he got to Burton-on-Trent, he would seek out rooms which were large enough to accommodate the easels and canvasses of his planned Derbyshire Twins.

  Whenever he needed to c
heck on the colors and shading of the landscapes, he would make the trip back out to the Marchington Woodlands before returning to his room to paint. The awkward situation with regard to Timothy Walters and Caroline had made him decide on not staying a second time with the two Tims in their tiny cottage.

  After standing up as best man for Guy while he married Leah, James knew he was going to need every calming balm under heaven to ease his troubled soul. He had to get away. The look of hopelessness on Leah’s face, and the sight of her gaunt figure when she’d stood in the courtyard at Fulham Palace, had haunted his dreams during what little sleep he had managed to get after returning home from Guy’s stag party in the early hours.

  “Get through the service, then out the front door,” he muttered.

  After the previous evening of saluting his best friend and wishing him every happiness with his new bride—all the while fighting the nearly overwhelming urge to punch Guy in the face—James knew he did not have the strength to maintain his composure for the wedding breakfast. The sight of the best man in tears while the groom made his thank you speech would raise too many uncomfortable questions.

  The one saving grace this morning was that the rest of the Radley family had left early for the wedding. His mother and sisters had accompanied his father into town. The Bishop of London was due to conduct the wedding service at St George’s.

  Time alone at home was a precious respite for James before the impending agony of the wedding.

  “Yes, just get through the service.”

  By the time he left the house, those words were constantly on his lips. The more he said them, the more he hoped they would help to keep his emotions in check.

  Standing next to the groom at the front of the church would mean he was in the center of much of the attention. He owed it to Guy not to reveal his true feelings in front of several hundred guests. He also owed it to Leah not to make what he could only imagine would be the worst day of her life any more difficult. Neither he nor Leah wanted this wedding, but both were bound by social expectations and commitments.

  His sudden disappearance from London immediately following the marriage service would be a touch awkward to explain. Hopefully Guy would be too concerned with securing his preselection for parliament to give much thought to the odd timing of James’s departure for Derbyshire.

  He promised himself that once he was back in London, he would see how things were settling between Leah and Guy before deciding on how best he could support her. If what she had said was right, and Guy no longer trusted him around her, he would have to tread carefully.

  He sighed. Why did loving someone have to be so damn hard and life so bloody complicated? In another lifetime, they would have met, fallen in love, and married. They would have been happy. Leah would have been his. And in that other life, he knew she would have loved him.

  “Oh, don’t be a fool, James. There is nothing you can do to stop this wedding. Just get on with. Get through the service, then leave,” he muttered.

  After one last check of his jacket and bronze-colored waistcoat, he picked up his travel bag and headed downstairs. In his luggage was a hip flask full of the finest French brandy from one of his Uncle Charles’s recent shipments. The travel trunk was already loaded onto the roof of the coach. Everything was in readiness for his swift departure from town.

  After the wedding, he intended to make short work of the contents of the hip flask, then get started on the first of the three bottles of brandy he had stowed inside the travel coach. The bottom of a brandy bottle seemed a very good place for him to be right now.

  By the time the coach did leave the cobbled streets of London and make its way onto the Great North Road, he intended to be well into that first bottle and on his way to drunken oblivion.

  After climbing aboard the coach, he checked his pockets. He had enough money from his father to last a good month in Derbyshire. The next few weeks, he would concentrate his time and efforts on getting the Derbyshire Twins underway, then he would return to London and speak privately to Leah and make sure she was alright. When it came to be helping her, James was powerless. He could at least offer her a sympathetic ear.

  The journey from Fulham Palace to St George’s Church should have taken less than an hour, but James was in no particular hurry this day. Several times he rapped on the roof of the travel coach and asked for the driver to slow down. He knew it was foolish of him to try and delay the inevitable, but still, he did.

  The coach was travelling at little more than a snail’s pace when it finally drew up outside the front of the church in St George Street. His heart was beating so hard in his chest that he was tempted to ask the driver to take a second turn around the block while he tried to calm himself. He looked down at his hand. It was shaking. He curled it into a tight fist.

  “For God’s sake, man, pull yourself together,” he muttered.

  Time and tide waited for no man. The wedding would be going ahead whether he made it up the front steps or not. It was poor form for the best man to be late, which he was, and today of all days he did not want to test anyone’s patience.

  With one last resigned sigh, he opened the coach door and stepped out. He lifted his gaze to the driver and his mate who were seated on the top of the coach.

  “I won’t be more than an hour. Then we can start the journey north. And I promise that when we leave, you can set the pace,” he said.

  The two men gave a tip of their hats in reply. James was grateful for the patience of long-time family servants. The men knew him well enough to accept him and his odd foibles.

  He clenched his fist once more and gave a small pump in the air. He could do this; he owed it to his father not to make a scene in the church.

  After a quick look left and right, he dashed across St George Street and turned left, heading in the direction of the entrance to the church. He had just set foot on the pavement when a flash of white caught his eye.

  Down the church steps raced a figure dressed all in white, a large bouquet of white lilies in her hand. As she reached the bottom of the steps, she stopped and threw the flowers back in the direction from where she had come. A hand reached up and ripped the coronet of flowers from her pale fair hair. She tossed it after the bouquet. Then, picking up her skirts, she fled down St George Street.

  For a moment James stood rooted to the spot, his mind struggling to process what his eyes had just witnessed. His feet started moving before he had a chance to think. He broke into a full run. “Leah!”

  Stepping into the street, she hailed a hack and after opening the door, leapt inside. As soon as the door had closed, the driver sped away, not sparing the horses.

  Wedding guests raced out of the church. Fortunately, Guy was not one of them. When he caught the eye of one of the other guests, James quickly pointed in the opposite direction to the one Leah had taken. He held his breath, praying that his misdirection worked.

  “Thank god,” he muttered, as several male guests ran off up St George Street.

  James turned and waved wildly to the driver of his travel coach. He was not going to wait for Guy Dannon or Tobias Shepherd to appear out the front door too. As best man, they would expect him to go chasing after the bride. While, he fully intended to do just that, James was also determined that he would be the only one following in the direction that Leah had taken.

  Fortunately for him, the driver and his mate were still seated on the top of the coach. They had witnessed the whole scene. The driver flicked the reins and the coach started forward. James ran up alongside and grabbed hold of the door.

  “Follow that hack, and don’t lose it!” he bellowed.

  He swung up into the coach and slammed the door behind him. Then, pulling the glass window down, he put his head out, watching as the hack in front turned into Little Brooke Street. He gripped tightly onto the doorframe as the coach tilted when it followed the hack into a sharp right turn at New Bond Street.

  “Hurry!” he cried.

  Wher
e are you going, Leah? Where are you going?

  They met a body of traffic as they reached the main thoroughfare at Oxford Street. The coach stopped, waiting for a gap in the flow of carriages and coaches, before it could make the turn. The hack, which was a smaller and nimbler vehicle, made it around without any trouble. James screwed up his face in frustration. He was going to lose her. “Fuck!”

  When his coach was finally able to turn onto Oxford Street, the hack containing Leah was already out of sight. A panicked James was forced to risk a throw of the dice.

  “Duke Street! Turn left at Duke Street!” he cried.

  If Leah was attempting to flee her own wedding, there was every chance she was headed for home. It wasn’t the best place for her to go, but he doubted she had many other options. He had to trust to his instincts. He could only pray they were right.

  As the coach pulled up out the front of the Shepherd family home in Duke Street, James slapped himself on the head. Of course, she wouldn’t have gone to the front door.

  “The laneway! Try around at the back of the house.”

  His heart was beating a thousand miles an hour in his chest. His mouth was dry with the rush of adrenaline as it coursed through his body.

  As his coach pulled into the rear laneway, James caught a glimpse of Leah climbing back into the hack. She had a brown travel bag in her hand.

  He pulled his head back inside the coach. From the look of it, she had not seen him. The hack now pulled away from the rear of the Shepherds’ house at a more sedate pace. He turned and looked out the rear window of the coach. No one else was following. He was the only one in pursuit.

  They followed the hack down to Piccadilly, where it pulled into the courtyard of the Gloucester Coffee House.