by Sara Portman
Despite the fact that she watched—or perhaps because she did—Michael tugged off the white shirt he’d worn through the night and walked, bare chested, to pull another from his bag. It was no less rumpled than the first, but it was clean and fresh. When he glanced in Miss Crawley’s direction, he was further annoyed to discover that she had not moved and continued to face the smoldering remnants of the night’s fire, her face turned downward under the brim of her bonnet. He didn’t like it that she could so easily ignore him when he found it impossible to do the same.
He finished dressing, picked up his hat and bag and motioned toward the door to the hall, summoning both Gelert and the silent Miss Crawley. She was paying enough attention, apparently, to be aware of his gesture, for she rose and walked silently into the hall, brushing past him without so much as a glance. He did not offer to carry Miss Crawley’s bag along with his own, as he was not feeling particularly chivalrous.
When they reached the bottom of the steps, he sent both woman and dog out of the inn and lingered long enough himself to acquire a small bundle of food for their morning repast. He was feeling just surly enough to disregard his companion’s possible hunger, but his own stomach grumbled, thus she benefited.
In all, less than a half hour passed between the time he awoke and the moment the carriage lurched into motion, finally making forward progress toward London, with Michael on the rear-facing bench, Miss Crawley on the opposite, and Gelert on the floor. Michael looked down at the dog, who slept, as all dogs seemed capable of doing at any given time—even after a full night of sleep. He untied the cloth bundle and took a crust of bread. Wordlessly, he handed the bundle to Miss Crawley. He was being rude, he knew, but she was being silent, so he supposed they were neither one of them made for pleasant company. She took the bag from him and set it on the seat, declining to take anything.
He didn’t like being so surly. He wasn’t used to it. Back home at Rose Hall, he could stay busy. The puzzles that challenged his intellect had rational solutions. When he was devising methods to brew larger batches of ale, or negotiating with tenant farmers to convert fields to hops, he did not find himself in a circular trap, chasing answers that eluded him because the questions kept changing.
Bread in hand, Michael rearranged himself on his seat, leaving one boot on the floor of the coach, while stretching the other leg across the bench. It was nearly long enough to lay the leg flat. Nearly. And then only if he sat fully erect. Sighing, he bent the leg and slouched into the cushions in an attempt to make himself comfortable. He was determined he should make it as far as he possibly could before stopping to walk and work the stiffness out of his leg. He ate his piece of bread and watched the trees pass by out the small window, but he was restless and too aware of the woman in the opposite seat.
With an inward sigh he glanced over to see what she was doing. She was reading, and apparently making herself quite comfortable for she had somewhat copied his posture and lounged against the side of the coach while holding her book. Both of her feet were still on the floor, at least, but it irked him that she was so relaxed and comfortably passing the time when he could not be. How was she to serve as a distraction if she was engaged in such a singular pastime? “What book are you reading?” he asked, addressing her for the first time that morning.
She lifted her eyes to his. “Amelia. It is a novel.”
“Did you just begin it?”
“I did, but I have read it before.”
“Good,” he said sternly. “Then it will not disturb you to begin again. Aloud this time, please.”
She sat upright and looked at him, then down at the book in her hands, and again at him. “You…you want me to read to you?”
He shrugged. “We have to pass the time somehow. Since I am providing you passage to London, without charge, you can at least help to distract me, can you not?” He caught her uncertain gaze and held it. It might have been the lack of sleep or only partially slated hunger that made him say, “Of course, if you prefer not to read aloud, we can always set the book aside and you can tell me the truth of your plans in London.”
Her eyes fell to the book again. “I…I don’t mind reading. I’ve just never read aloud to anyone before.”
He shifted his weight again. “I’m sure you’ll be quite competent. Have we an agreement, or should we begin with questions?”
Her eyes lifted to his and, for a brief moment, he thought he saw the slightest quirk of her lips—amusement perhaps—at his persistence. It was gone before he could be sure and she said, “I shall be delighted to read in exchange for my passage. It is the least I can do for your forbearance.”
He nodded in approval and she reopened the book. She resumed her reclining posture, turned back to the beginning page, and began reading:
“The various accidents which befell a very worthy couple after their uniting in the state of matrimony will be the subject of the following history. The distresses which they waded through were some of them so exquisite, and the incidents which produced these so extraordinary, that they seemed to require not only the utmost malice, but the utmost invention, which superstition hath ever attributed to Fortune: though whether any such being interfered in the case, or, indeed whether there be any such being in the universe, is a matter which I by no means presume to determine in the affirmative…”
Michael settled himself more deeply into the cushioned seat and closed his eyes, willing himself to focus on the words and the story in the hopes of forgetting the tightening in his leg and the frustrations of his preoccupation. It helped that she had a very pleasant voice—a melodic one—that rose and fell in soothing rhythm as her inflection changed through the prose.
He let the sound of her wash over him, relaxing him, as though its effect was not isolated to his ears, but spreading to each limb, lightening it. He found he wasn’t even paying attention to the story. He had wanted the distraction of the tale, but this was better yet. She could be reading in another language altogether. Her voice became fingers that soothed his ache and frustration better than any massage could.
Even as he thought it, he realized the absurdity of the idea. What sort of witchcraft was this? She was only reading, but the faraway, haunting quality to her voice, soothed him like a mother’s song.
He opened his eyes to look at her, presented in profile, and found himself transfixed by watching her lips form the words from the book in her lap. He glanced down at it briefly, but then back up at her face. Her expression bore the same ethereal quality as her voice, her eyes gazing, unseeing, at some distant point through the carriage window.
He sat bolt upright. “What are you doing?”
She gasped, startled, and the book fell to the floor of the carriage with a thud. “What?” she asked, facing him with wide eyes. “What did I do?”
He peered at her. “What were you doing just there?”
“What do you mean? I…I was reading.” She reached to retrieve the fallen book and clutched it in her lap, avoiding his eyes. She swallowed. “Was there something wrong?”
“How many times have you read that book?” he asked, curiosity consuming him.
She shook her head. “I don’t know. Twice, perhaps three times.”
“You’re lying.”
Her eyes flashed to his even as she recoiled from his suggestion, pressing herself back into her seat. “But I’m not. What a useless thing to lie about. Why would I?”
“I don’t know, but you must be. You were not reading that book to me. You were reciting it. From memory. You weren’t even looking at it.” Her defiance fell away, and as he’d seen happen so many times before, her expression became a guarded mask of outward subservience. She wore it like defensive armor, but he was convinced it was as much a lie as so many other things she’d told him.
“I do not lie about the book, Mr. Rosevear. I possess an unaccountably strong memory.”
“A strong memory?” He could hear his voice rising in frustration. “Strong enough to recite a novel?”
Silently she nodded, flush blooming on her porcelain cheeks.
“Have you always remembered things this way?” he asked.
“Certain things, yes.”
“Which things?” he demanded.
She looked down at her fingers as the traced the edge of the seat cushion. “Things that I look at—like papers or paintings.”
“What about things that you hear?”
“I remember things that I hear, depending on their importance, but not any differently from other people, I suppose. Not in the way I recall things I’ve seen. I can’t really explain it other than to say it is a memory of my eyes as opposed to my ears.”
“How did you learn to do it?” he asked.
“I didn’t learn it. It simply happens.”
Michael slowly shook his head, as though denying this thing that she was telling him, despite having witnessed it. He was unable to take his eyes from her. She was, without doubt, the most enigmatic person he had ever encountered. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
She turned her head to one side and lifted one hand to tuck a nonexistent stray hair into the side of her bonnet. “It is unusual, I know. It has a way of making others uncomfortable, in particular my father, so I generally don’t discuss it.”
“There seem to be a lot of things you generally don’t discuss, Miss Crawley.”
She bit her lip.
“Is that even your name?” he asked. “Miss Crawley?”
She said nothing and did not lift her eyes to his. Michael took her silence as confirmation that her name had been another lie. He was annoyed with himself for even posing the question when he’d resolved to remain uninterested in her shrouded existence. Everything about her made no sense. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and stared at her, unrelentingly, until she had no choice but to meet his eyes. “I’ve had nothing but mysteries and lies from you, Miss Enigma, so I think it is time that you have a bit of truth from me.”
She swallowed and stared silently back at him, green eyes wide with alarm.
She should be alarmed. He was done with all of her stories and half-truths.
“You are, without doubt, the most mysterious woman I have ever met. Your stories are inconsistent and your lies are so outlandish as to have no chance of being believed. The few truths I have received from you—the very few—are incomplete and shed no further light on who you are or where you came from.” He scooted forward in his seat as he continued. “What I do know is that you have thrown yourself on the mercy of a strange man and trusted him with none of your secrets but all of your safety, a choice which might have gotten you considerably worse than a stolen kiss in the middle of the night if you had happened upon someone other than me. You behave as though you are desperate and frightened to death of something, but the only rational explanation you have provided for your journey, Miss Crawley, is that you are burdened with the chore of keeping your father’s house. Maybe your father does not treat you as gently as he should, but you are naïve to abandon that protection. You appear to me to be an unhappy and ungrateful daughter running away from home with the misguided notion that the world will be kinder than your present intolerable life. Let me save you a great deal of trouble. The world is not kinder. It will destroy you, then blame you for your own destruction. I’ve a mind to stop in the next town and have you kept there until your parents can collect you.”
Having released his frustration on her in one lengthy outburst, Michael sat quietly, catching his breath and awaiting her response.
She gave none.
Some women might have cried. Others might have argued. She only looked. And then she blinked once. That was the entirety of her response.
He could have torn the hair right out of his head, he was so frustrated. Who the devil was this woman?
He was about to ask that very question when a loud snap startled him. The noise finally drew a reaction from her as well, her jade eyes going round. Almost immediately the carriage lurched, followed by the sound of more splintering wood. Fear filled Miss Crawley’s face as her arms flung wide to brace herself on either wall of the carriage just as Michael did the same.
Their eyes met in silent question for the briefest of moments then Michael reached for her, pulling her from her seat and clutching her to him just as the carriage pitched violently to one side. She slid hard against his side with a startled “oof.” As soon as Michael thought he could gain his bearing again, the carriage pitched the other way. A sharp curse came from outside and the entire seating compartment fell several feet from its perch. It stopped with a jarring thud, sending Michael and Miss Crawley careening from their place on the rear-facing seat and onto Gelert on the floor of the carriage. Michael threw his arm out to stop his full weight from crushing Miss Crawley’s smaller form and heard the dog yelp as they fell into him. The passenger compartment bounced painfully along the ground as the vehicle was dragged forward for a minute or more. Outside, Albert cursed and called to stop the frightened horses.
With one final bump, the entire thing came to a stop.
Michael was draped over Miss Crawley, partially on top of the dog, with one hip pressing uncomfortably into the edge of the seating bench. “Are you hurt?” he asked.
Miss Crawley blew out a shaky breath. “No. I suppose not.” She lifted her head as much as she was able, green eyes wide with question. “What has happened? Have we collided with something?”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. We seem to have fallen into something.”
With the entire seating compartment tilted backward, and the dog tangled at his feet, it was difficult for Michael to lift himself off of Miss Crawley, but he did so, cringing, as he had no alternative but to push himself up with his sore leg.
“Ho, there, are you all right?” Albert’s call came a moment before the door was opened, spilling sunlight into the disordered interior of the coach. He peered in at them, whip in hand and hat askew.
Gelert somehow managed to squirm out from underneath both Michael and Miss Crawley and leapt toward the opening. Albert quickly darted out of the animal’s way to avoid being trampled before returning to the door again. “Well?” he asked.
Michael grunted and pushed himself farther away from Miss Crawley. “I think we’re fine.” He slid toward the door and looked back at his passenger. “Miss Crawley, are sure you’re all right?”
She turned awkwardly and sat on her rump on the spot recently vacated by the dog, a bewildered expression on her usually unreadable face. She looked around the interior of the coach, then looked down to assess herself more thoroughly. “Yes. Yes, I think I am.”
As Michael was nearest the door, he took the hand Albert offered and allowed himself to be assisted from the tilted vehicle. He had to tug his frock coat back into place and felt a twinge where his hip had been jammed into the seat, but was otherwise unharmed. He watched as Albert handed Miss Crawley down. She shook her twisted skirt and then her head as though still righting herself from the jolt.
“You should step aside, miss,” Albert said. “The carriage is not stable.”
Michael watched as she nodded mutely, still looking rather shocked by the ordeal, and backed several paces away from the upset coach. Then he turned to Albert. “What the devil happened?”
Albert pulled the crooked hat from his head and wiped the back of his hand across his brow. “I’ve no bloody idea.”
Gelert ran back toward the coach and barked at it, like some odd canine reprimand for behaving unexpectedly.
The thing was a shambles. As he’d felt from inside, the entire back end of the passenger compartment had come off its elevated perch above the rear axle and plunged to the ground. At first glance, it was impossible to tell which damage had caused the fall and which damage ha
d been caused by it. Michael crouched slowly, not minding the pain of the stretch, and looked under the carriage. Albert did the same. Gelert barked again, running between the two men and the carriage, barring their view. He darted away just as quickly, excited and anxious from the incident.
“Gelert. Sit,” Michael snapped. The dog sat. “Stay.” The dog obeyed, firmly planted in his spot, but there was anxiety in his coal-colored eyes. He was as riled by the incident as the rest of them. Michael turned back to the coach and to Albert who reached in to feel along the broken structure.
“The axle’s split in two,” he said.
“Did we hit something?”
Albert shook his head. “Nothing. But look here.” He crawled partway under the tilted carriage and indicated the point of break in the axle. “Half the break is clean,” he said, still laying on his side.
“Clean?”
“It’s not splintered like the other half is.”
Michael looked. Albert was right. Someone had sawn partway through the main axle, knowing that it would only bear a certain distance of rough road before it would split. They had been the victim of sabotage.
He met Albert’s grave expression. “Who would want to do this to us?”
“Us, sir?” Albert asked, “Or her?”
The question gave Michael pause. Could Albert be right? He had no enemies. If she was being chased by someone, it was past time to find out by whom.
Michael rose from his crouch and pivoted to face down Miss Crawley.
The visage he met was a far cry from the hauntingly familiar features of his recent companion. Instead he was met with a wide, square jaw, a crooked nose and the red eyes of a man who’d had more pints of drink than hours of sleep. Michael didn’t hesitate. The moment he saw him, he ducked, anticipating the man’s attempt at a meaty blow to his face. Instead, Michael drove his shoulder into the man’s gut and used his legs to force him backward—not far, just enough to be unsteady on his legs.