by Edith Layton
Rose’s enthusiasm began to fade as she looked Catherine up and down. Some of her doubt communicated itself to Catherine, and by the time James arrived with an armful of old clothes over his arm, he encountered two white-faced grim-looking women.
“Try it,” he said simply, handing Catherine the old faded clothes.
Catherine looked about nervously.
“Where can I change?” she asked anxiously, looking about the room for an alcove or a closet.
“Yes,” James grinned, “there’s no doubt, you are a lady. Here, Rose, let’s go into the corridor and catch up on some gossip. The lads here have seen you often enough; it won’t arouse comment. Might arouse something else though,” he added, with a grin.
“Hush, Ferdie,” Rose giggled, poking him in the chest. But they grinned at each other and turned to go.
“Open the door, when you’re done,” James whispered. “But Catherine, best close your eyes first,” he added while Rose smacked at him coyly and simpered happily.
Catherine moved far from the window into a corner of the room. She quickly stripped off her gown and clambered into a faded, patched pair of pantaloons. They were tight about the hips, but, she reasoned, as she did up the closings, they felt so strange on her that she could not know if they fit or not. It’s rather, she thought, as she quickly did up the buttons on a much-mended white shirt, as if a gentleman got into skirts. How would he know if they were the right length and fit? She felt a fool as she hurriedly pulled back her masses of raven curls and tied them severely with a simple black ribbon. But, she thought, as she stuffed her discarded gown into her portmanteau, she would gladly suffer feeling a fool for a space of time in exchange for freedom. She was so badly frightened that she felt she would go to any lengths—like a fox who would chew off its own leg to get out of a trap—to be free of her present situation.
Drawing in a deep breath, she glanced down at herself. She was barefoot, the pantaloons were fastened, the shirt seemed to fit. She slowly swung open the door, and, taking James’s advice, she averted her eyes and whispered urgently, “James! Rose! I’m ready.”
And then she stepped back into the room, to await their approval.
Rose came in first with a little laugh , and high color in her cheeks, and then stood, stock still, and gaped at Catherine. James followed languidly and then stopped at Rose’s side and stared. He gave a low whistle and then said slowly, “I’ve never seen a lad like you, Catherine, my girl. But I surely hope there’s more such about in this cold, cruel world.”
Catherine looked from Rose’s shocked face to James’s frankly admiring one, and then looked down at herself again.
“Don’t I look right?” she asked.
James started to laugh, and laughed till he had to hold on to the side of the dresser for support.
“Oh girl,” he sputtered, “you do look right. But not in the way you could wish.”
Rose tittered as well. But then a considering look came into her eyes. “Oh, Catherine,” she finally sighed, “you could have made a fortune. You could have had such a career.”
“Here, Catherine,” James finally said, steering her toward his dresser, where he had a small faded-looking glass in the corner. “See for yourself.”
Catherine felt the color flooding her face as she stared at the image in the gray speckled glass. She might as well have been nude, she thought with shock, the blood roaring in her ears. The white shirt strained its buttons over her high breasts and emphasized them. And the pantaloons clung to her hips and legs like another skin. She was, she thought, in confusion, seeing her body’s slim but rounded outline—the most indecent-looking female she had ever seen,
Desperate, she turned and blurted, “If I bound myself…here. And if there were another pair of pantaloons, but perhaps larger.…”
“No, Catherine,” James said kindly, “for it wouldn’t do. There’s not a portion of you that don’t look like just what you are, a full-blown woman.”
“But,” Catherine protested, “I’ve heard about it being done. I’ve read about it as well. Women can disguise as young men.”
“Some women, maybe,” James chuckled, never taking his eyes from her frame, “but you, Catherine, never.”
“But you do look a treat,” Rose said helpfully. “Ever so gay. Such a nice figure of a woman, Catherine. It’s very flattering in its way, dear.”
“Don’t be a bufflehead, Rosie,” James put in, wrapping one arm about Rose’s shoulders as Catherine sat down wretchedly upon his bed. “She don’t have to look good—she has to look different.”
“All I look like,” Catherine grieved, “is a fool. Which I undoubtedly am. I’ve landed myself in this wretched state because I have been a fool. So it’s only right that I look like one. Like a fool, like a zany.”
James’s eyes narrowed as she sat there hanging her head and crossing her arms in front of her breasts.
“Now you’ve hit upon it, lass,” he said unexpectedly, causing Rose to turn to round upon him for his unkindness. But before she could assault him for his cruelty, he was gone, out the door.
“Don’t despair, Catherine,” Rose said, sitting beside her and patting her shoulder. “I told you Ferdie is clever. He’s not beaten yet. All he has to do is to get you out of this hotel and you’ll be safe as may be. And I know he’ll do it.”
But Catherine only shook her head and did not try to restrain the tracks of tears that were slowly coursing down her face. She could not grasp the enormity of her failure. She could not imagine what she could do if M. Beaumont actually came to claim her for his friend. She now knew that she had never really accepted that he would, or could. There had always been the possibility of escape in the back of her mind. Now, she felt, that was impossible. And now, for the first time, she had to face defeat. How, she thought frantically, ignoring Rose’s murmured assurances, could she go on? It was one thing to bear the insult of being thought of as a prostitute. But she knew she could not actually be one. Her thoughts raced each other around in her mind, and she felt a despair such as she had never known.
“Here,” James said triumphantly, suddenly appearing in the door and swinging it closed with his foot.
“Mop up, girl,” he said, busily separating the garments-in his arms. “Stand up, put out your arms. Come on, Catherine, buck up. Time’s running. We have to be off now. We have a chance while it’s yet early. Once morning comes up full and the light’s better, we cut our chances in half. Now turn. No,” he said, pulling off the jacket he had put on her and trying another. “Here, Rosie, you help. She’s like a dummy. Get her arms into this. Aye, it’s the very thing.”
Catherine stood and let them push her about, buttoning up the jacket they had forced her arms into. She tried to wipe her eyes, but Rose was busily adjusting her sleeve. As she began to collect herself, James wheeled her round again and began to adjust a large battered hat upon her head.
“There,” he said, standing back a pace and peering at her. “No, not quite. Half a tick,” he said, and slipped out the door again. By the time he returned, Catherine had managed to slow her labored breaths and wipe her streaming face on the sleeve of the jacket they had put on her.
“Hold still,” James ordered, and while Catherine stood dumbly, he, to her dazed horror, took some of the dirt from the handful he had acquired in the stable yard, streaked it across her cheeks, and added a dab to her nose. Then he pulled the brim of her hat further over her forehead.
“Perfect,” he exclaimed, and then he steered her to the glass again. “Now look, Catherine, that’s the ticket.”
Catherine saw a bizarre vision facing her in the looking glass. It was small and woebegone. It wore a battered sloping hat down over its eyes. Its face, the part that was visible, was streaked with tears and mud. The patched and misshapen jacket that it wore hung to its knees. Its sleeves ended inches below its hands. Just the bottoms of the pantaloons showed, and bare feet completed the vision.
“A zany,” James breathed. �
��A want-wit lad. Just a scruffy little lack-brain French boy.”
Rose gave out a long satisfied sigh.
“There was a lad like that in the town where I grew up,” she said with amazement. “He had a good heart, but he was a simpleton. You look just like him, Catherine. Oh Ferdie, you are a one!”
“They’ll be looking for a desperate lovely young beauty. They won’t cast an eye at a little simpleton wheeling along with a coachman. We’ll walk right out of here, under their noses. And we’ll go by foot to my friend Jacques, the other side of town. He’s a Frenchie, but he’s all right. We can’t take any of the horses from here—they’ll know them. But Jacques owes me a few favors,” he smiled reminiscently, “and he’ll lend us the nags. He works for some jumped-up tradesman. I’ll get you to Saint-Denis right and tight. Then you board the diligence and you’re off!”
“Shall I use this voice?” Catherine said in gruff tones, her spirits rising by the moment, infected by James’s enthusiastic confidence.
“Oh, Lord,” James said, “you still sound a female. And your French ain’t too good, is it?”
Catherine nodded sadly.
“Never mind,” James said briskly, “we’ll get us a note. In French. From your folks saying as how you’re just a poor simple lad going to visit your grandparents in Dieppe, and would any stranger kindly direct you right. Then you don’t have to speak at all. Just be mute. You can show the note, and your fare, to the coachman on the diligence. Then when you get to Dieppe, you board the packet. Get out of your disguise. Then get the captain aside and tell him the story. Tell him all. He’s bound to be an Englishman and he’ll see you safely through.”
“I can’t write French too well, but if someone dictates it…Catherine said doubtfully.
“Never mind,” James said dismissively. “Your hand’s probably too good. Our simpleton’s not from an educated lot. We’ll get Jacques to pen it. It will look better if it ain’t spelled or written too fine. All set?”
“But she has no shoes!” Rose cried, aghast.
“Now I’m thinking like a noddy,” James groaned. He went out the door again swiftly, mumbling that time was wasting.
“I told you,” Rose sighed happily, “didn’t I? He’s a caution. And he’s right. For you do look a fright. Nothing like the pretty lady they’re on the catch for.”
Catherine peered at herself from under the worn brim of the hat and laughed merrily.
“Thank you, Rose. That’s the finest compliment and the most welcome one that I’ve heard since I came to France.”
She amused Rose by striking foolish poses in front of the glass and flapping the long arms of her jacket. She looked, she giggled to Rose, like a ninny, there was no doubt of that. The worn jacket must have belonged to a giant, she opined, and its threadbare shape could have accommodated both herself and Rose. With the hat pulled over her eyes, she cavorted for Rose’s delighted applause, looking, they both agreed, a veritable model of a fool. James returned carrying a pair of scruffy well-worn boots in his hand.
“Boots is the one thing they never leave behind unless they’re dead,” he grumbled, “’cause they cost the earth. But here’s a pair someone must have outgrown and then couldn’t flog to anyone before they left. They’re in sad shape, but that’s all to the good. Put them on quick, girl, for folks is beginning to stir already.”
Catherine straggled to fit the boots to her feet.
“I can’t get them on,” she cried in anguish. “My feet are not so large, but these must have been a child’s, for I can’t fit into them.”
“Here,” James said, bending and helping her to tug them on, “it just needs some force.”
With concerted effort, Catherine and James managed to pull the left boot on. When she stood, Catherine stifled a cry of pain.
“Oh, Ferdie,” Rose complained, “you never are going to send her off squeezed into those. Why, she doesn’t even have stockings. She’ll be in agony.”
“There’s no stockings about,” he said sternly, “and the agony will be worse if Beaumont finds her.”
Catherine bit her lip. If these were the only boots available, she would not quibble. She would wear them if they had hot coals in them. It would be poor spirited to lose all for the sake of momentary comforts. She reached down for the right boot, but James stayed her hand.
“Where’s the blunt you’ve got?” he asked.
“In my portmanteau,” she answered, puzzled.
“Get it out, Rosie,” he said.
Rose looked at him with consternation, but obeyed. She handed Catherine’s purse to him with a questioning look.
He spilled the coins and scrip into his hand.
“Here,” he said, wrapping the coins in a square handkerchief he pulled from his pocket.
“Frenchie scrip won’t be worth beans in England. Take the gold, wrap it like this, and keep it for home. There’s pickpockets,” he said, wrapping the little parcel tighter and tighter, “and thieves, and portmanteaus can be lifted too. You use the poor man’s safe, Catherine, and you’ll be right and tight. Here,” he said, “stow it in your boot.”
“But there’s hardly room for her foot,” Rose protested.
“Then she can swim to England,” James thundered, “for if someone lifts her good British gold, she’s a beggar.”
“But,” Catherine said, “if someone robs me, they’ll discover what I am.”
“Even it they do,” James said grimly, “with your money safe in your boot, you can still go home.”
Seeing her sudden stillness, he went on more slowly, “So you don’t speak to a soul, and you just nod and show them the note. And even if worse comes to worse, you’ll always be able to get home. For whatever else they may take off, it won’t be your feet they’re interested in. But if you’re clever, they won’t go near you, for you look poor as any beggar boy in Paris. So calm yourself. And hurry.”
Catherine took the little cloth-wrapped parcel from James and firmly laid it in the bottom of the right boot.
“Lay on, Macduff,” she said bravely, as James helped her tug up the boot.
“Talking warm don’t suit you, Catherine,” Rose sniffed.
Catherine laughed shakily and stood. When she began to walk to the door in response to James’s hurried admonitions, she had to limp.
“All to the good,” James commented, seeing her altered gait. “It completes the picture.”
Catherine and Rose waited in the darkened entry of the stable while James sauntered out casually to get the “lay of the land.”
“Rose,” Catherine said, clasping the other woman’s hand, “I shall never forget you. You have been more than good to me. I do not know if we will meet again. I hope not in France, at any event. But I shall never forget you.”
Rose clasped Catherine to her and hugged her tightly. As Catherine returned her embrace, Rose gasped a little, and, drawing back, Catherine again saw the fresh red bruises on Rose’s shoulder.
The older woman looked down ruefully at the angry marks on her shoulder.
“You see, Catherine,” she shrugged, “it’s not a good life. And not one that I wanted for you. I choose it, so it’s not the same for me. But not for you, love, for you are a lady. Anyway”—she smiled seeing Catherine’s eyes glitter suspiciously beneath the downturned hat brim—“I’ll be leaving it. We’re to start that inn, Ferdie and I. So do you look for it one day. On the road to London. With a stable, and fine food, and flowers in the back. And Ferdie says he’ll call it The Rose and the Bear, after us two. Now you go on, dear, and never look back.”
James came back to the door of the stable.
“Say your good-byes, girls, for we’re off, my simple lad and I. It’s a lovely clear cold morning. Get back to your rooms, Rosie, and sleep the day away. You don’t know a thing, Rosie, you don’t know a thing.”
But Rose hovered in the doorway and watched the lanky coachman and the small, ragged, limping little urchin flapping by his side swagger out into the stre
et together. Clapping his hand around the young innocent’s shoulders, the man began to sing a simple French rhyme, and the mismatched pair thus ambled on down the street. M. Beaumont’s man only looked up and noted their passing. Then he turned his eyes up to the window where the English miss was, waiting and watching for any movement there. He doubted his employer’s warnings that she might try to leave by stealth. Why should she, he mused, as the ragged pair of layabouts passed him, when she was set to go straight into the lap of luxury? Some females, he thought idly, blowing on his chilled hands after his long night’s vigil, had all the luck.
Chapter XIII
Even though her feet ached, even though her right foot felt like it trod upon a fiery cobble every time she took a step, Catherine kept pace with James, and even swung her battered carpetbag in rhythm with the little song he chanted. For she felt freer and lighter than she had in days. They had walked blocks from the hotel. And no one seemed to give them a second glance. James marched her through the poorest district in the city, through crowds, yet no one bothered to take note of their passage. In her disguise, in dirty borrowed clothes, she suddenly felt more herself than she had all the nights she had been gotten up in her new finery. For that disguise, she reasoned, had been more alien to her than this one.
At least, she thought, as she gratefully rested on a barrel outside of the stable where Jacques, James’s friend, worked, she would have a tale to tell her grandnieces and nephews when she grew old. For even now she was beginning to turn her thoughts homeward. Home, toward Arthur and Jane and the haven she looked forward to enjoying again. She might not, she thought, swinging her feet aimlessly as she waited, ever be able to tell Arthur the entire story. But she would tell Jane. And Jane would understand. Her adventuring days were over. She would be glad to go home and be a good auntie.
But the worm of ambition still gnawed at her. She might, she mused, someday be able to write of her adventure, perhaps under an assumed name, and earn a few guineas so that she would have some money of her own, and not be a burden upon Arthur forever. Then she hastily put her thoughts away. For it was ambition that had landed her in her difficulties, and she vowed to be done with it. Still, a sudden thought made her laugh aloud. And a nearby groom looked at her and shook his head over the way even a stray current of air could amuse a simpleton. For she very much doubted if Arthur would ever believe that his correct sister-in-law could be dressed as a scruffy idiot, chewing a straw and giggling to herself in the heart of the city of Paris. Oh Lord, she thought, drawing in a breath in sad realization, what a desperate pass I have come to.