by Lara Temple
“No.” Annabel spoke calmly, even though fear lurked in her amber eyes. “He might have gotten away with declaring Charlotte dead but to do the same with you would raise suspicion. One dead sister is feasible. Two dead sisters would trigger an alarm. I’ll be safe, even after you’ve gone.”
Miranda agreed, and yet the thought of leaving Annabel alone at Merlin’s Leap filled her with dread. The gray stone mansion by the ocean just north of Boston had been a happy home, until four years ago, when their parents died in a boating accident. Since then, the sisters had been at the mercy of their Cousin Gareth, who had come to live with them and was determined to get his hands on the Fairfax fortune.
Charlotte had been the heiress, and Cousin Gareth had attempted to force her into marriage. After Charlotte ran away two months ago, Cousin Gareth had claimed the body of some unknown woman as her. With Charlotte officially dead, Miranda stood to inherit, and now Gareth’s efforts to bring about a marriage were focused on her, forcing her to flee.
“Write to Charlotte and post the letter as soon as you can,” Miranda reminded Annabel. “She needs to understand what Gareth has done. When she turns twenty-five next May and gains access to Papa’s money, she’ll need to prove she is alive before she can claim her inheritance.”
“I’ll write and find some way to mail the letter.” Annabel’s voice quivered. “Just think...if we hadn’t agreed on a code word for Charlotte to get a message to us, we might believe she is dead, instead of hiding in the Arizona Territory, pretending to be some homesteader’s mail-order bride.”
Miranda lifted the candle higher. “We would have known she’s alive from the telegram you retrieved after Cousin Gareth tossed it in the fireplace. The way the constables described the dead woman found on the train made it clear it couldn’t be Charlotte.”
“But without Charlotte’s message we would have feared the worst,” Annabel suggested.
“I know.” Miranda’s tone was bleak. “We’ll keep the same code word. Once I’m safe, I’ll write to Merlin’s Leap as Emily Bickerstaff. Cousin Gareth will intercept the letter, but with any luck he’ll share the contents with you.”
“Make it a letter of condolence,” Annabel suggested. “Emily was Charlotte’s friend. One could assume she might have heard about Charlotte’s passing and would write to the surviving sisters, to express her sympathies.”
Miranda forced a smile. “Good idea.”
Despite being sensitive and prone to weeping, Annabel was the cleverest of them. The best way to calm her nerves was to get her focused on some practical dilemma. The middle sister at twenty-two, Miranda knew she was considered the brave one. She suspected the others had no idea how much her feisty front was bravado.
In the parlor, the clock chimed midnight.
“It’s time.” Miranda blew out the candle and set it down on the rosewood bureau. Solid darkness fell over the room. She would have to make her way downstairs without the benefit of light, for even at this hour the servants might be spying on them.
“Good luck.” Annabel’s tearful voice rose in the darkness. Slim arms closed around Miranda in a trembling hug. Miranda returned the embrace. One more gesture of sisterly love. One more moment of comfort before she faced the unknown. She wanted to cry but suppressed the need. She was the strong one. She had to be.
Gently, Miranda eased away from her sister’s clinging hold. “Check the escape route.”
Annabel fumbled over to the window, parted the thick velvet drapes. A thin ray of silvery light spilled into the room. Craning her neck, Annabel studied the sky through the glass. “The clouds are thinning. There’ll be moonlight.”
“Damn,” Miranda muttered. Normally she avoided swearwords, but tonight she’d employ any means to bolster her courage. Anger might hasten her footsteps as she raced down the gravel path and across the lawns into the shelter of the forest.
She wore a black gown and bonnet, a mourning outfit from when their parents died. The dark clothes would blend into the shadows. And if she pretended to be a widow, it might make things easier during the journey. Men might be less likely to bother a woman grieving for a recently departed husband.
For men would bother her, Miranda knew. She had beauty that attracted them. Her sisters had complained about it often enough, saying it was unfair how she had inherited the best features in the family—their father’s fair hair and blue eyes, their mother’s slender height and patrician elegance.
Miranda had never cared about her looks before. But now she did. They would be a nuisance for a lone female traveling out to the lawless West. To rebuff unwanted advances, she would have to rely on the rest of her heritage, for she had also inherited Papa’s fiery temper that flared up like a firecracker and fizzled out again just as quickly, leaving her to regret things said or done in a moment of anger.
“Hold the curtains ajar to let in the moonlight,” Miranda instructed her sister.
“Promise you’ll write the instant you get there,” Annabel pleaded. “And send money.”
“I’ll write.” Miranda sighed in the shadows. “And I’ll try to send money.”
Promises were cheap, and that’s all she could afford right now. To help Charlotte escape, she’d been able to steal a gold coin, but twenty dollars could not have taken Charlotte very far. To have ended up in the Arizona Territory she must have traveled without a ticket on the train.
After discovering the theft, Cousin Gareth had taken care not to leave money lying around in his pockets. Miranda only had two dollars and a quarter, and their mother’s ruby-and-diamond brooch she’d managed to stash away. Like Charlotte, she would have to take her chances, travel on the train without paying her fare.
Annabel claimed to be too timid for such brazen acts and had chosen to stay behind. When Miranda reached Gold Crossing, she’d find Charlotte, and together they would come up with a way to send money for their youngest sister to join them.
One more time, Miranda went over the plan with Annabel. “Keep a lookout as I go downstairs. Remember, if lights come on in the house, you’ll need to create a diversion. Start screaming. Pretend there is an intruder. Get the servants to search the rooms. Keep them indoors, to minimize the chances they might spot me as I make my dash for freedom.”
Annabel nodded, long dark hair gleaming in the moonlight. “I’m not totally useless.” Irritation sharpened her tone. “Screaming is my specialty.”
“That’s the spirit, Scrappy,” Miranda said and took a deep breath. “Here I go.”
She pulled the door open, slipped out without a sound. Like a silent wraith, she moved through the house. She’d been practicing, taking the stairs with her eyes closed while the servants were busy with their chores. Now her diligence paid rewards. One, two, three...
Miranda counted out the twenty-seven steps down to the hall, sliding her hand along the polished mahogany balustrade. She kept her eyes open, letting them become adjusted to the lack of light. It would be impossible to see anything in the house, but it might help her when she stepped out into the moonlight.
In the hall, Miranda dragged her feet, in case there was a boot or an umbrella carelessly flung about. She fumbled at the air until her fingers tangled in the fronds of the big potted palm. Three steps to the right. Her outreached hand met the carved timber panel of the front door, homed in on the iron lock.
Slowly, slowly, she twisted it open. Click.
The sound broke the silence, as loud as a gunshot in her ears. Miranda flinched, waited a few seconds. When the house remained quiet, she eased the door open, stepped across the threshold, pushed the door shut behind her and leaned back against it, applying pressure until the lock clicked again.
Ahead of her, the arrow-straight gravel drive and the lawns flanking it loomed dark in the moonlight, the colors flattened to black and gray. Night air enveloped her, soft and warm. It was a smal
l consolation she was making her escape in July instead of the winter.
Gravel crunched beneath her feet as she set off at a cautious run along the drive. After a dozen paces, she turned left, across the lawn. Scents of lavender and roses drifted over from the flowerbeds. Beyond the gardens, Miranda could hear the dull roar of the ocean. Nothing else disturbed the quiet. No sounds of alarm from the house.
But what was that? Another crunch of gravel? Was someone following her?
Like a hunted animal, Miranda froze on the lawn, halfway between the drive and the shelter of the forest. Listen! Listen! She swallowed, a labored movement of her fear-dry throat. For a few seconds, she waited, poised in utter stillness.
Nothing but the steady crashing of the ocean against the cliffs. She must have been mistaken about the sound of footsteps. Bursting back into motion, Miranda darted into the cover of the trees. She had hidden a bag there, smuggling out the contents bit by bit, pretending to be coming out to admire a goldfinch that nested in the big maple by the edge of the forest.
First step completed. She was clear of the house. Next, she’d have to walk four miles to the railroad station in Boston, where she’d sell her mother’s ruby-and-diamond brooch and use the proceeds to buy a train ticket to New York City. From there on she would have to find her way to Gold Crossing, Arizona Territory. Without money. Without the protection of an escort.
But Charlotte had managed it, and so could she.
Her bag was a soft canvas pouch, sewn in secret from a piece of sailcloth. Miranda hoisted it from its hiding place, dusted off the moss and dried leaves and flung the bag over her shoulder.
The thick forest canopy blocked out the moonlight, and she fumbled her way through the oaks and maples, arms held out, feeling her way forward like a blind man. Branches swiped across her face. Twigs snapped beneath her feet.
Her footsteps seemed to have an echo. Twice, Miranda paused, suspecting she might have heard the stealthy sounds of someone following. Both times, the crashing and thudding and the snapping of twigs ceased as soon as she stopped moving.
It must be her imagination, Miranda decided. She had made her escape. She was on her way to join Charlotte in the rough, uncivilized West.
To her surprise, new sensations stirred inside her. A wildness. A sense of adventure. All her life, she’d felt stifled by the constraints that fell upon a young woman in polite society. Now those constraints were gone. She could be whatever she wanted to be.
* * *
Dawn came. Woken by birdsong, Miranda got up from the grassy knoll where she had settled for a few hours of sleep, so she could walk to Boston in daylight. By now, her escape might have been noticed. The footmen and grooms might be looking for her, and it remained imperative to avoid capture.
She brushed twigs and bits of grass from her hair and clothing, then set off walking along the forest path, her body stiff from the rough night, her stomach growling with hunger, her skin itchy beneath the dew-damp gown of black bombazine. As the sun climbed higher, the air grew cloying with heat.
A loud crash sounded ahead, followed by alarmed voices. A public road skirted the edge of the forest. Miranda crept closer and peered between the trees.
A fine carriage, drawn by a matching team of four, had come to a halt. Silver gleamed on the harnesses. A burly coachman in green livery sat high up on the bench. Miranda craned forward for a better view. The coach was listing to one side, a wheel loose from its bearings.
The coachman climbed down from his perch. “Mrs. Summerton?” he bellowed. “Are ye all right?”
“I am fine, Atkins.” The reply came in a calm, refined voice.
Miranda waited. Atkins went to the coach door, yanked it open. He held out not one hand, but both. Puzzled by the boldness of the gesture, Miranda watched, got an explanation as the coachman lifted out a little girl with blond ringlets and a frilly dress.
He repeated the action. Again. And again. Four little girls, as alike as peas in a pod. Next, a beautiful woman emerged. She was fair-haired, dressed in an elegant blue gown tailored to accommodate her rounded belly. She looked no more than twenty-five.
“Thank you, Atkins.” The woman glanced around. “Where is Jason?”
“The footman ran ahead for help.”
Frowning, the woman surveyed the listing conveyance. “How long before we can get going again?”
“Depends on how long it takes to round up help. Once we have enough men to lift up the carriage, it will only take a moment to secure the wheel.”
One of the little girls tugged at the woman’s skirts. “Can we play, Mama?” The little imp, perhaps seven or eight, gestured at the mud on the roadside.
“But darling, you’ll get dirty, and we are going to a birthday party in Boston.” The woman glanced up at the rising sun and wiped her brow with a lace handkerchief.
The four little girls swarmed around her. “Can we play, Mama? Can we play?”
Atkins lifted a wooden stool out of the carriage and propped it on the ground. Mrs. Summerton sank gratefully onto it and gave her forehead another pat with the cloth. Miranda could feel exhaustion coming off the woman in waves.
The little girls darted around their mother, giggling and shoving, as bouncy as rubber balls. The woman closed her eyes. Her body swooned on the stool. The coachman put out a hand to steady her.
Taking pity on the pregnant mother, Miranda stepped out from the cover of the forest. She picked up a smooth pebble from the ground, wiped it clean against her canvas bag and walked up to the group.
“I’m a magician,” she said. “The fairies in the forest sent me to amuse you.”
Miranda held out both palms, tossed the pebble between them and fluttered her hands about, the way Cousin Gareth had taught her long ago, before he went to seed and became an enemy. She closed both fists and held them out. “Which hand is the stone in?”
“That one! That one!”
Mrs. Summerton opened her eyes and observed the scene in silence. Glancing over to Atkins, she appeared reassured by the man’s presence. Big and burly, he had the means to restrain any threat from a lunatic.
Miranda spoke, allowing her education to show. “My name is...” her eyes strayed toward the trees from which she had emerged “...Mrs. Woods.” She disliked lying, but it made no sense to leave a trail for Cousin Gareth to follow.
“I was taking a stroll in the forest,” she went on. “I needed a moment of privacy after my husband’s funeral. I am on my way to back to New York City, but the train can wait. I thought you might benefit from assistance to entertain your young ones.”
Miranda opened her right fist. Empty. The left fist. Empty. She tugged at the nearest blond pigtail, shook the pebble out of it. The little girls jumped up and down, screaming in delight.
Mrs. Summerton broke into a smile of relief. “Thank you. If there ever was an angel sent from heaven, you must be it.” She pointed at the little girls. “Two sets of twins. Can you believe it?” She rubbed her belly. “This one will be a boy. My husband is convinced.”
While they waited for help to arrive, Miranda kept the four little girls occupied, allowing their mother a moment of peace. Soon a young freckle-faced footman brought a crowd from the public house down the road and they hoisted up the carriage for the coachman to secure the wheel.
“Would you like to ride to Boston with us?” Mrs. Summerton asked.
It would save time and keep her out of sight. And she could hear the plea in the woman’s voice. Miranda accepted the offer. By the time they reached the city, Miranda had adjusted her ideas about the joys of motherhood. She alighted at the railroad station, with another four dollars in her pocket and an offer of a position as a governess if she ever needed one. The mere thought made Miranda shudder. She hurried away, the voices of the four little hoydens ringing in her ears.
Copyright © 2017 by Tatiana March
ISBN-13: 9781488021381
The Duke’s Unexpected Bride
Copyright © 2017 by Ilana Treston
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