The Runaway Girl

by Jina Bacarr

  ‘Madam?’ Buck said, surprised by her admission.

  ‘It’s true. I was born Myra Benedict, dirt poor with my little sister to care for after my mother died because we had no money for the doctor. I worked as a seamstress in a hotel day and night after I turned fourteen, hunched over low gaslight until my eyes nearly gave out.’

  She paused. Buck remained quiet, waiting. She wiped perspiration from her brow. He could see her face was wrinkled and spotted under the rice powder she lavished upon her skin.

  ‘One night I worked ‘til dawn fixing a gown for a guest,’ she continued. ‘The woman decided my sewing wasn’t to her liking and ripped out every stitch I’d done.’ She looked down at her hands, the skin papery and fine, her fingers long. ‘I’m an excellent seamstress, Captain Lord Blackthorn, or the hotel would have never kept me on. This woman didn’t respect what I did because she considered me beneath her. She wouldn’t pay me until I’d done the work to her satisfaction. I swore then someday I’d get the respect I deserve.

  ‘Around that time I met Mr Brady, a hotel guest who needed his shirts mended. He was good and kind. A frugal gentleman who believed a man shouldn’t be judged by his clothes, but by what he’d done. For two years I sewed his shirts whenever he came into town, knowing little else about him.’

  She waved the fan around, wisps of feathers flying about like dust on the wind.

  Buck could see moisture in her eyes, which surprised him. Her hand trembled as she put down her fan and finished her tea before continuing her story.

  ‘When Mr Brady asked for me at the hotel one afternoon, I was in my quarters tending to my sister who had contracted pneumonia. When he found me wiping her face with wet cloths, he insisted on getting help.

  ‘My sister died and we buried her next to my mother.’ She let out a deep sigh. ‘He asked me to marry him and only then did I discover Mr Brady was the founder of a steel company in Pittsburgh.’

  ‘That’s an amazing story, Mrs Benn-Brady,’ Buck said, her openness so very much the opposite of her behavior it startled him. Yet he couldn’t help but feel a sense of camaraderie with the woman. As the second son of a duke, he understood her desire for respect. ‘Trey never told me.’

  ‘My son respects my wishes not to speak of my past, Captain Lord Blackthorn.’ She smiled. ‘However, I discovered not even a vast fortune like mine can buy me the respect I crave. I hoped if Trey stopped running around and married a real lady, a titled woman who could teach him how to be a gentleman, I would gain that respect. Yet the countess seems rough around the edges, owing to her seclusion in that drafty old castle, I imagine.’ She rang the bell for the footman. Her next words were a bit more pointed.

  ‘I’m worried, your lordship. It’s very important to me the countess represents the Benn-Brady name in good stead when I announce their engagement.’

  Buck paid no attention to the footman refilling his teacup. He couldn’t sit another minute.

  He started pacing up and down, thinking. What he felt after listening to the wealthy matron bare her soul was what he felt after downing too many highballs and drawing a bad hand of poker. He couldn’t focus and would lose everything if he didn’t get his game back on track.

  He spied a copy of the New York Herald with its glaring Titanic headlines tossed onto the settee. A slow smile emerged over his lips. He’d appeal to the woman’s hunger for publicity.

  ‘Why not host a charity dinner party here at your home to benefit Titanic survivors?’ Buck suggested. ‘That way you can introduce the countess to society’s elite and announce their engagement.’

  ‘What a charming idea,’ Mrs Benn-Brady said, pleased. ‘We can’t wait too long if we want to get good press coverage. The newspapers will tire of the story, as they always do.’

  ‘Shall we say in two weeks?’ Buck hadn’t much time before Irene arrived and started poking her aristocratic nose into his business. Once the society matron’s intimate circle gave Ava their seal of approval, her future was assured.

  That was what he wanted, wasn’t it?

  Mrs Benn-Brady sat up straight and fiddled with the diamond bracelets on her wrists. ‘That doesn’t leave us much time to polish our Scottish jewel.’

  ‘You take care of the dinner arrangements,’ Buck said with confidence, ‘and allow me to tutor the countess in whatever social graces she’s lacking. As I’m certain you are aware, I am the son of a duke and well-schooled in the art of etiquette and manners.’

  Then, using his charm as only an English gentleman could, he bowed and kissed her hand. He was pleased to see by the grin on her face she accepted his idea with enthusiasm. He let out a relieved breath. This was the first time he was ever grateful his father was a duke.

  ‘What you mean, your lordship,’ Mrs Benn-Brady said smugly, ‘is having an old friend from the British aristocracy refine her style will ease her way up the New York social ladder.’

  Buck smiled. ‘Exactly, madam. I guarantee you the countess will be ready to meet your friends and do you proud as your future daughter-in-law.’

  ‘Excellent. You shall be the guest of honor at the dinner party.’

  ‘Me?’ he said, surprised. ‘I beg to defer, madam.’

  ‘I won’t take no for an answer, your lordship, not when all of New York is talking about your heroics on the Titanic… among other things.’ Then, with a knowing smile, she added, ‘Bring Lady Pennington with you. I’m sure that will prove most interesting.’

  ‘It will be my pleasure,’ Buck promised, then wondered if he’d lost his sanity for agreeing to bring Irene into the lion’s den.

  Or was it Ava who was the sacrificial lamb?

  No doubt the society matron wanted to compare the two women side by side. Not to mention she’d be the envy of her friends to have a trio of titled aristocrats under her roof at the same time.

  What the hell had he gotten himself into?

  ‘You can’t let the countess down,’ Buck said, grabbing Ava by the arm. He had an idea he’d find her sneaking down the back stairs of the servants’ quarters. From what she’d told him, she knew her way around a grand house.

  Chin up, she glared at him. ‘You mean I can’t let you down, Captain Lord Blackthorn.’

  ‘I’m not asking for myself, Ava. There’s Trey to consider. And his mother.’ He appealed to her sense of duty. ‘Mrs Benn-Brady is depending on you.’

  ‘On me? Hogwash. She doesn’t need no… anybody to get what she wants.’

  He grinned. ‘And what about Ava O’Reilly? What does she want?’

  She looked him straight in the eye. ‘You know the answer to that.’ The sincerity in her voice was so honest it took him time to recover.

  There was a moment of dead silence between them. They were both in the grip of something they never expected to find aboard the Titanic. A fierce passion for each other that still burned.

  He had no choice but to douse the flame.

  ‘I’m warning you, Ava, if you run off and cause a scandal, you’ll not only embarrass Trey’s mother, but tarnish the proud name of the countess.’

  To his relief, the dark, angry green of her eyes softened.

  Ava laid her hand on his arm. ‘I don’t care about your bet… but I do care about the countess. Fiona was good to me and I’d be as vile as an unholy serpent if I sullied her name.’

  ‘You won’t regret it, Ava,’ Buck said. He hadn’t realized she was standing so close to him he could smell lemon on her breath. He touched his finger to her lips, tempting her to sigh. ‘I’ll see to it you’re schooled in every drawing room trick known to a lady.’

  Her dander went up. ‘Will you? Don’t you get no fancy ideas, your lordship. I almost sinned with you once and the Almighty looked the other way. He’ll not do it again.’ She rubbed her hands on her dress, her sweat staining the silk. ‘I’ll not lie with you or any man until I have His blessing. I’ll not get that if I can’t pass myself off as the countess.’

  ‘Then I have your word, Ava?’


  ‘Yes, but no looking at me like you want to dance the tango, are you agreeing to that?’

  ‘I once offered you my protection, Ava. I now extend that offer to include my services as a gentleman. I shall guard your reputation with my life. No man will touch you until your wedding night. I promise.’ His words came out different than he intended. Husky, almost angry.

  She noticed it, too. Her eyes avoided his, but he could see her lower lip trembling.

  ‘I accept your offer, your lordship,’ she said in a clear voice. ‘I will do all I can to be worthy of the name of the Countess of Marbury.’

  Buck bowed slightly, and then escorted Ava back to the drawing room. Her head high, her walk regal, her step sure. Something had come over her. She’d changed, he noticed, watching her greet Mrs Benn-Brady with a confident gleam in her eye.

  Why did he get the feeling he’d just won the bet?

  35

  2 May 1912

  Captain Lord Buck Blackthorn was a devil of a taskmaster and Ava had the aching muscles to prove it.

  The days following the sinking of the Titanic blurred into a series of gown and corset fittings, speech lessons and the proper way to hold her lace handkerchief.

  Ava sat with her pinkie extended at a ninety-degree angle until it turned numb.

  Her training consisted of a round of tasks morning, afternoon and night with his lordship making her enunciate her vowels over and over like an owl with insomnia.

  When he insisted she dab the latest fashionable perfume reeking of lemon on her silk sachets, she balked, then said five Hail Marys while swearing under her breath she’d never add a slice of citrus to her tea again.

  ‘Where is the etiquette book I gave you?’ Buck asked on this early morning when Ava was still aching from working on her curtsy yesterday.

  He referred to The Blue Rose – An Etiquette Primer for Young Ladies by Lady Arabella Brightmore.

  ‘There on the table next to my tea without lemon.’ She made a triumphant pout.

  His brows arched, sorting out her statement with a devilish quirk. Did he linger too long on her mouth when she pursed her lips?

  ‘Go to page sixty-seven, paragraph three. Entering a room like a lady.’

  ‘We did that yesterday,’ she argued.

  ‘Did we?’ He shot her an I’m-not-convinced look that made her insides rumble. ‘Then we’ll do it the correct way today or I shall—’

  ‘You shall what, milord?’ Ava dared him with a hip wiggle, sauntering close to him. Too close. He gulped. ‘Spank me?’

  He grinned so wide she wondered if he considered it.

  ‘I agreed to remain a gentleman during our training, Ava.’ Buck let out a heavy breath. ‘Or I’d be tempted to grant your wish.’

  Ooh… the audacity of the man set a fire under her. Her heart pounded. She was determined to show him her best, this constant need she had for his approval.

  Even if in the end she’d marry another man.

  She caught him peeking at her, an unhappy wrinkle creasing his brow and, for a moment she wondered if he was thinking the same thing.

  ‘Shall we begin?’ he said, breaking the spell. Once again they were teacher and pupil, the sensuality between them buried and that warm, pink feeling she had sparring with him turned into a cool shiver.

  I shall miss our lessons, Buck… more than you’ll ever know.

  Ava set out to do her best, following the instructions in the book on how to enter a room. She stood in the doorway, careful to ‘pause’ and tilt her head to capture attention.

  ‘Like this, your lordship?’

  He took a moment to reflect. ‘More like this when you’re invited to a soiree.’ He walked over to her and lifted her chin up more, his lips coming dangerously close to hers.

  She sucked in a breath.

  ‘If you come any closer, milord, I shall lose my self-confidence,’ she whispered.

  He grinned. ‘A lady’s self-confidence when she’s out and about comes from knowing she’s doing it right.’

  ‘You mean like kissing?’ She wanted so badly to kiss him.

  A flicker of amusement crossed his face, but he didn’t take the bait.

  ‘I mean like knowing the popular artists of the Paris Salon,’ he said, rattling off their names. Ava knew he wanted to kiss her, but he wouldn’t admit it.

  ‘I prefer van Gogh and Gauguin,’ she said, remembering the flamboyant Impressionists from their lesson on French artists.

  ‘You would.’

  ‘Oh?’ Ava was curious to know.

  ‘Because they’re rebels… and don’t follow the rules.’

  She put her hands on her hips, tilting her head just so. ‘You know me too well.’

  That evoked a loud grunt from his lordship. ‘Yes, don’t I?’

  And with that, Buck ended the lesson.

  By late morning, Ava had collapsed on the divan, tuckered out and ready for a nap. Walking up and down the marble staircase with the etiquette book balanced on her head made her wonder why anyone wanted to be a lady. After she perfected her posture, she learned the rules of making social calls, including turning down the upper left corner of her calling card to indicate she’d made a personal visit.

  Which she hadn’t.

  And wouldn’t until she finished her grueling education of how to act like a countess.

  ‘You haven’t shown me your curtsy today,’ Buck said, wiping his brow. He looked as tired as she felt.

  ‘Must I?’ she pleaded.

  ‘Yes.’

  He paced up and down, rubbing the back of his neck. Ava wanted to rub it for him, to get close enough to breathe in his musky scent and let her head spin.

  She didn’t. Seeing him work so hard to help her made her heart swell. She went back to work on her lady skills.

  Since Mrs Benn-Brady was obsessed with the royals, Ava had to master the ‘court curtsy’ and the rituals surrounding it, including wearing a white evening gown with a low neck and short sleeves. As for the curtsy itself – very deep with her head nearly touching the floor, then walking away from their majesties backward without tripping on her gown – Buck insisted it was all in her sense of timing.

  What unnerved her more than anything was Mrs Benn-Brady sneaking around behind her with her skirts rustling and making comments about her red hair and threatening to make her wear a wig, while Trey went about his daily routine of clubs and handling his mother’s business affairs. He poked his head into the drawing room at regular intervals during the day to check on her progress. He was as giddy as a little boy at Christmas waiting to unwrap his package.

  Her.

  All dolled up in silk and gossamer lace.

  Gowns the flamboyant dressmaker had picked out when his lordship was busy elsewhere.

  She looked more like a fancy gentleman’s mistress, Buck said. Not a wife.

  How would he know? He’d never had a wife, only a mistress. Or two. Ava didn’t know how many.

  She fretted as she stood for hours while he made the woman rip bows and spangles and rhinestones off her gown. That wasn’t what had her tripping over her vowels this afternoon like a sinner pleading her case to the Almighty.

  It was the matter of her underwear.

  Her skin prickled with unsettling but delightful thoughts when the dressmaker showed her ‘bewitching’ silk French drawers. So beautiful and sensual. How lovely it would be wearing them with Buck watching her.

  When the woman showed Buck the fabric, he shook his head and picked out the plain cotton ones instead with nary a pink ribbon.

  ‘Chiffon peignoirs are all the rage in Paris, my dear Countess,’ the dressmaker said with a charming smile. ‘Perfect for your trousseau.’

  ‘The countess will have this nightdress,’ Buck said, indicating a high-necked nightgown with tiny petit-point flowers around the hem. His dark eyes brooded, as if he couldn’t stand the thought of another man seeing her in dishabille.

  Ava couldn’t resist snapping back with a
sassy remark. ‘No doubt Lady Pennington will have a trunk filled with naughty garments when she arrives from London.’

  ‘No doubt,’ was all he said, then he gave her a wide, knowing smile to distract her from asking more questions.

  Her ears were still burning and her face flushed under her pearl powder.

  She wiped it all off.

  Ava was as fired up as a band of angels battling the devil on holy ground. So he could have his mistress with her fancy underwear, but she had to wear cotton on her wedding night. Captain Lord Blackthorn may have talked her into this mad scheme, but she wasn’t married yet.

  The saints better hide their eyes because she was determined to show his lordship she could compete with this mysterious Lady Pennington.

  Even wearing cotton underwear.

  They skipped afternoon tea.

  Ava’s transformation into a lady picked up at a quickening pace when Buck announced they had two days left to complete her education. Mrs Benn-Brady had sent out the handwritten invitations to her charity dinner and she expected Ava to be ready for her debut.

  The idea of meeting the society swells threw her into total disarray.

  She stumbled in her practice sessions of learning to make conversation when she arrived at the opera, then how to leave during the second act.

  Next, she couldn’t find the list of her costume changes for the day and had to make a new one.

  Then her hair came undone when she tripped and knocked over a dress form while overseeing her new gowns, their sleeves and bodices stuffed with tissue paper to keep their shape.

  And she miscounted the rows of shoes lined up on her wardrobe shelves. Satin and suede pumps with buckles and seed pearls. Thirty-five pairs of shoes for one week’s costumes.

  Her head was spinning. How could a lass like her have the audacity to pull this off?

  Only a ninny wouldn’t be excited with such luxury and lace at her fingertips, but Ava was lonely. She didn’t care how many pairs of shoes graced her shelves. Marriage was forever and she carried a secret love for his lordship in her heart not even the threat of the devil’s fire settling under her arse could make her give up.