EscapeWithMe

by Ruby Duvall

  After doing her business, she went to the wash basin and lifted the towel from the rim. Washing her hands and face made her feel better and as she dried off with the towel, she saw the locket hanging from her neck.

  It was too late to reject Ryder’s feelings and deny herself the happiness he gave her. All she could do was hope for release from the locket’s magic, but what if it was ripped from her again, the chain broken at a link rather than popped from its clasp? What if Ryder was with her when it happened and saw all the blood? What if he demanded she not wear it? What if she was forced to lie? Or worse, forced to explain? She didn’t know the reasons for hardly anything that had happened to her.

  She set down the towel and held the locket up in the dim light to study the cage etched onto the front with its diamond lock. The locket was as much a cage as Mrs. Hayes’ brothel or the watch-house cell—or her old life, clinging to the shadow of love while a criminal used her parents’ shop as a front.

  Weeks had gone by without a new clue, so it was out of habit that she flipped the locket over to read the inscription.

  She gasped at the new inscription. Choose. Some external pressure squeezed her heart, bringing tears to her eyes. She opened the note and read the new stanza.

  Ride the wind west to the blood-colored sun,

  Back to the time where the dove had begun.

  A new chance awaits in a day undone.

  Memory of you, the hawk will have none.

  Sam suffered a repeat of that moment in the attic, a whole lot of panting, heart-pounding, and a whispered mantra invoking her maker. She braced her hand on the washstand and tried to calm down before dizziness overcame her. The hammering in her chest was deafening and she marveled that it didn’t wake up Ryder in the next room.

  She could go back to her time. No doubt about it. She wasn’t sure what it meant by “ride the wind west”, but if she caught the right moment during a red sunrise or sunset, she could go home. There was no mistaking what “a day undone” meant. She’d be going back well before Brian shot her and could have him arrested.

  It was the last line that put tears in her eyes. She’d never see Ryder again. The thought of leaving him behind to return to a time where he had been long dead was painful to contemplate. Would she have any warning in order to say goodbye? Would it even matter since he wouldn’t remember her at all?

  The locket’s inscription said she had to make a choice, which meant she didn’t have to go back, but if she remained, what then? Ryder loved her but his life was a dangerous one and if he died then what would become of her? She had virtually no rights in this time, and certainly no delusions about surviving on her own.

  The riot of questions conjured up a migraine. She brought the damp towel to her face and wiped away her tears. She had no way of knowing what was best or what regrets she’d end up carrying.

  She returned to the bedroom. Ryder had shifted onto his side and his hand lay on the empty space she had occupied. Comfort was all she wanted and she decided to refrain from making a decision for now. She crawled back into bed. Ryder woke for just a few seconds and gathered her against him before falling back to sleep.

  Sam lay awake for hours.

  * * * * *

  Ryder entered his father’s house with a cold knot in his stomach. He knew he should not continue to hope for William West’s approval, but now he hoped that the man who raised him until he was thirteen was not a murderer, nor even his real father.

  He spied Phillip in the downstairs drawing room. Seeing his half-brother anew, he wondered if the old assumption that explained their disparate looks—that Ryder had taken after his mother’s family rather than his father’s side—was a false one. Would it turn out that he and Phillip shared no common parent?

  Phillip came into the front hallway. “I had thought not to see you until the ship docked in France.”

  They shook hands as Ryder replied. “Verily I intended as much, but this could not wait. Thank you for coming.”

  “I am curious why you wish to speak to Father together.” Phillip then laughed. “Are you going to strangle him, once and for all?”

  Ryder did not smile at his brother’s jest. “I might.” Phillip’s grin faltered. “You are here as a witness to my conversation with him.”

  His brother nodded hastily. “O-of course.”

  They ascended to the first floor. Ryder regretted the meal he had taken before coming, for he felt certain he was near to vomiting. Phillip knocked on their father’s bedroom door and Mrs. Johnson answered.

  She invited them in. It seemed their father was in the middle of a meal that Mrs. Johnson was administering. William West looked far healthier than when Ryder had last visited more than three weeks ago. He had regained some weight and his color had improved.

  “You’re looking well, Father,” Phillip said.

  William wiped his mouth with a fine linen napkin. “Just in time, I believe. I may need to dig my business out of the ground you so firmly buried it under.”

  Mrs. Johnson lifted the tray from William’s lap. “Sir, you’re still very ill. Working right now would only—”

  “Shut up, woman, and leave us to talk.” His father smirked at his caretaker’s affronted expression. She then flounced to the door.

  “Die then,” she snapped. “I don’t care anymore.” The door shut loudly as Mrs. Johnson took her leave. William didn’t acknowledge anything was wrong.

  “You’ve brought Ryder with you?” William frowned. “Is that how it is? You rely on your younger brother, the lesser son, to fix your mistakes and to shield you from my disappointment?”

  Phillip clenched his hands. “And what mistakes are those, Father? I know very well how you and my grandfather earned the family’s wealth—”

  “Wealth you squandered on gambling and whoring,” their father interrupted.

  His brother sneered at their father. “Yes, you worked very hard to avoid the revenue officers. How am I to feel insulted or ashamed that I am not as successful a criminal as you? What moral example did you provide that I have so thoroughly tainted? How is Ryder any less a son to rescue his scandalous family from Marshalsea?”

  Ryder stepped forward at his father’s confounded silence. “Yes, why am I the lesser son? A history exists between you and Mr. Webb…and between him and my mother.” William reacted to that, a swift inhale through his nose as he lifted his chin. “He claims he had an affair with my mother and that you killed her because of it. Is this true?”

  Phillip sat hard in the chair by the bed and whispered, “Good God.”

  “You are the lesser son,” William began, “because you killed the woman I loved when she birthed you.” He nearly spat the words. “Yes, she knew of Henry Webb from Poole, but I don’t believe she ever even spoke to him. His was a one-sided love. Any affair between them was imagined. He and the revenue station there had tried for years to stop the free trade your grandfather and I conducted, and when I married the woman he desired, he fostered a sharp hatred of me.”

  “He claims Mother wrote him a letter after I was born that asked him to see her. Does that sound as though she hardly knew him?”

  “And where is this letter, hmm? Did he show it to you? Would you have known if it was your mother’s hand? He feeds you lies, and you come into my sickroom to accuse your own father of murder.”

  Ryder doubted himself but continued. “What reason would he have to lie?”

  “It is no surprise he would assume me a murderer when he regards my character with such jealous contempt. Why should he require any other reason?” William sagged into his pillows. “Get out, both of you. You’ve tired me with your libelous accusations.”

  Ryder was far from satisfied but he had nothing left with which to obligate a confession. He stormed from the room and downstairs. The butler was fetching his coat when Phillip approached him.

  “Good Lord, Ryder. To think that our father killed your mother…”

  “He’s lying—”

&nb
sp; “I agree. He was scared when you said Webb believed he murdered her.”

  His brother’s support surprised Ryder. Phillip had always cowed to their father’s wishes and opinions. He had always been the one in whom William showed some modicum of pride, the one he had groomed to take over their so-called free trade business.

  Phillip gripped his shoulder and lowered his voice. “If such a letter from your mother exists, I may find others in this house. With any luck…”

  Ryder nodded stiffly. “I would appreciate it, and thank you for what you said.”

  “Thank you, Ryder, for coming home. I’d be dead or in prison if it weren’t for you.” Phillip embraced him, and Ryder realized it was for the first time.

  Whether William was his father or not, Ryder would always consider Phillip his brother.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Damn it.” Sam lamented the new ink stains on her fingers while her other hand went fishing for a kerchief to wipe off what she could. How difficult would it be to go to a craftsman and describe a ballpoint pen?

  At least it was the last entry for their remaining contraband. Two more weeks and two more smuggling runs had brought in a large profit, though it could’ve been larger. Several tubs of brandy had been confiscated just days ago not far from shore by revenue officers from Christchurch. Ryder’s acquaintance Kelter told her the bad news when she rendezvoused with him in Hounslow Heath to pick up more whole cloth.

  Worse, Webb had been with the revenue officers who had confiscated the brandy. The man was narrowing down on their landing site near Highcliffe. Sam had suggested the obvious—to land elsewhere—but Ryder had axed the idea as he wasn’t planning to be a free trader for much longer.

  She looked up from the ledger. Ryder stood in the doorway of the now-empty warehouse and the rolling crunch of a departing cart could be heard beyond him. With a smile he tucked into his coat’s inner pocket a bank draft for the last of the tea. Thank God because that tea was pungent with a capital P. He shut the door and approached her at the empty barrel she was using as a desk.

  “With this,” he said as he patted his coat pocket, “the entirety of Phillip’s debts will be settled.”

  “And if he makes new debts?”

  “One final voyage on the Westerly Wind should see my father and brother through a few years if they live with economy—and if my brother abstains from his vices.”

  Ryder kept talking but Sam could only hear two words in her mind, Westerly Wind.

  “Are you all right, my love?”

  Sam pulled herself out of her mind. “What did you just say?”

  Ryder’s eyes were crinkled with concern. “I asked if you are all right. You seem distracted.”

  “No, before that.”

  “My father and brother can live on the profits of one last run while we arrange legitimate import relations with American merchants. I thought you might wish to return to New York.”

  “You said ‘Westerly Wind’.”

  He eased when it seemed that her distraction was mere confusion. “Ah, forgive me. Have I never told you? The Westerly Wind is my father’s ship.”

  The line from the locket’s stanza came back to her and, this time, made sense. Ride the wind west.

  “I’d like to come with you to Le Havre.” She didn’t mean to sound desperate but it was there in her voice.

  “Whatever for?”

  A good question. Why not let this opportunity slip by? Why not watch the ship leave London, knowing she’d never have a chance to go home? Why not remain and be happy? The locket still had something to tell her though. She still had a part to play.

  That’s what she told herself at least.

  “Is there a reason why not?” she asked.

  Ryder wiggled his eyebrows. “I do look forward to our coming together when I’ve been absent.” Her smile was wan but he didn’t seem to notice. “In that case, I shall send word to Phillip to meet Kelter in Christchurch. I tire of his seasickness.”

  Sam couldn’t think of something to say so she closed the ledger and put the stopper in her ink well. Her fingers were as clean as she could get them without access to soap and water, so she stuffed her ink-stained kerchief into her handbag.

  “Samantha.” Ryder appeared in front of her and tipped up her chin. She felt guilty, though she didn’t want to contemplate why. “Something has upset you.”

  How had he become so good at reading her? “I’m fine.”

  “Is it…something you can’t talk about?”

  This was how they had avoided the topic of her origins lately. He would feel the edges of the boundary around the things she refused to discuss and not cross it.

  “Not yet.” Those two words had come out of her mouth a lot in the past two weeks. She never intended to tell him, but the vague promise of doing so one day eased the conversation.

  Still, it hurt him every time. She rose on her toes and he came to her without question, bringing their lips together and wrapping an arm around her. Her heart leapt when his hand groped at her skirt in search of the hem.

  It would be a little while before they left the warehouse.

  * * * * *

  “Oliver is here with the coach, sir,” Mary called from downstairs.

  “Very well,” Ryder called back. “We shall be there momentarily.”

  “Assuming I can get this thing to sit right.” Dressed in a chocolate-brown redingote, Sam was nearly ready for the postal packet to Le Havre. The last detail was affixing her hat to her hair—much harder than it looked. She sighed as it slipped from where she had pinned it and wondered if she should just go without it.

  Ryder pressed a kiss to her cheek before he scooped up her bag and took it downstairs. She heard him say something to Mary and a moment later, Mary came upstairs and into the bedroom. “Here, let me help you.”

  Sam gratefully handed the hat to her. “Did Ryder say that I was making a mess of my hair?”

  Mary smiled. “He wouldn’t say that.” She tucked a few stray layers of hair into place and then gently set the hat on top. “I won’t know what to do with myself after you leave.”

  “You could visit Mrs. Hayes,” she said with sarcasm.

  “That’s not funny,” Mary said despite laughing. She gently pushed the first pin through Sam’s hair. “I admit, knowing she’s rotting away in prison makes me very content. I hope Mr. Hull gets the same.”

  “Well, you’ll be shocked how quickly you find something to occupy yourself. I’m sure you’d like to visit Peter too. Anyhow, I’ll be back before you know it.”

  Mary’s voice was soft. “No, you won’t.” Sam was almost surprised that Mary knew, but only almost. “Mr. West won’t need me anymore, but that’s all right.”

  “How did you know? Did it tell you?” Mary nodded and inserted another pin.

  The locket was powerful and damn near omniscient. Did it already know Sam would choose to go back to her own time?

  “What did it say?” Sam asked.

  “Only that the way was open for you to go home.”

  So it didn’t know what she would choose to do, or if it did, it didn’t tell Mary.

  Tears gathered in Mary’s eyes as she pushed in the last pin. “I’m so happy I met you, Sam.”

  As if it were contagious, Sam’s eyes welled with tears. “Oh Mary, you have no idea how much you’ve done for me.”

  “Samantha, are you ready? We must depart soon,” Ryder called.

  How could she now be running out of time? “I have something for you.” She went to a cabinet and brought back a spare silk handbag. Inside was her share of the smuggling profits—enough for Mary and Peter to live on for the rest of their lives if they were careful with it.

  “I won’t need this where I’m going. I want you to have it.”

  “S-Sam, I cannot take this,” Mary whispered frantically.

  “You will. I insist.” She closed Mary’s fingers around the silk strings and then gave her one last quick hug. “I won’t forg
et you.”

  Mary’s response was nearly inaudible. “Me too.”

  * * * * *

  Webb could hear only the thundering of his heart as his left hand compulsively affirmed and reaffirmed that the letter he had intercepted was still in his coat pocket. His right hand gripped his pistol.

  That he still had the gun was a shock and he was grateful for the distraction of remembrance while he waited in the darkness before dawn for his target to emerge. He had woken at the side of the road, his horse tied up and a dirty kerchief covering the discharged pistol sitting on his leg. Someone had cleaned his face of mud, and it certainly wasn’t the foul-mouthed driver.

  A lovely red-haired creature with dark knowledge in her eyes. That she was involved in Ryder’s schemes was a painful realization, for he had so foolishly assumed that whatever information she had of his operation was superficial, gleaned only as a kept woman with nothing more to do than spend money and lie on her back. He recounted their conversations and how deftly she deflected his questions, exploited his assumptions. She had been intimately involved in her lover’s smuggling and he had been far too gentle with her.

  The letter proved it.

  The door of the house opened and Webb took a deep breath. He hastened across the street. His target stepped out, right on time. He pulled out his pistol.

  “Change of plans.” He pressed the gun against Phillip’s chest.

  Phillip raised his hands. “What the devil? Webb?” A frightened older woman stood behind him.

  “Heading to the packet, are you?”

  “What gives you the right to—?”

  “Your brother has different plans for you.” He pulled the elder West son away from the door and put a few feet between Phillip and the pistol.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You’re to meet a man named Kelter in Christchurch as Ryder intends to take his whore to France in your place. I just want to make sure you get there. Wouldn’t want Ryder to suspect anything went awry with the delivery of his letter.”