Wrapped

by Jennifer Bradbury

“The best kind,” her mother rejoined. “I heard from my cousin over in Bath that A Lady is really a Miss Austen. Spinster daughter of a parson!”

  I laughed. “Preposterous! A spinster could not invent the passion of Pride and Prejudice or the heartache of the Misses Dashwood!”

  Mrs. Overton shrugged. “Perhaps not. But wouldn’t it be lovely if she could? Wouldn’t it be lovely if a lady really could invent whole new lives for herself on the page, ones she’d never hoped of living? Just by scrawling them down?”

  The room fell silent, four women wondering just what it might be like to make decisions entirely their own, even if they were only in fiction.

  “Lovely,” I murmured, and reached for the teapot, filling up the cups and trying to shake the cloud that had settled over the parlor.

  “I am only bothered by a bit of cramping,” I said to Mother. We’d left the Overtons’ at half past two, and I’d been dozing in my room since. I was supposed to be dressing for dinner and the opera now.

  She felt my forehead, placed her hand across my belly. “Is it your time?”

  I shrugged. “Nearly. But just because I am unwell doesn’t mean you should miss it. Rossini is your favorite. And I hear that L’inganno felice is wonderful.”

  “Lord Showalter will be so disappointed,” she worried.

  “But even more so if I am unfit to visit the museum with him tomorrow,” I said.

  Mother considered this. “You are right,” she said at last. “He might take it poorly if you cannot step out with him tomorrow, as he’s made special arrangements—”

  “I’ll be fine by morning,” I said, clutching my abdomen for good measure.

  “I suppose you’re right,” Mother said, patting my hand.

  “But do take Aunt Rachel along in my place, won’t you?”

  Mother looked confused. “She’s quite hard of hearing, Agnes.”

  “But she so loves the spectacle,” I said, hoping it was true.

  Mother hesitated. “Very well, I suppose she’s due for some entertainment, as you leave her behind at every opportunity.”

  I forced a smile. Mother leaned in to kiss my forehead. “I’ll have Mrs. Brewster send up some broth,” she said, gliding from the room in a rustle of silk and crinoline.

  Now all that was left was to evade the servants. A few minutes later Clarisse brought a tray laden with the broth and a bit of bread—Mother’s preferred remedy for female trouble. But when I found my time coming, I wanted little more than to be left alone with half a rack of bacon.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  She placed the tray on the table near the fireplace. “Will that be all, miss?”

  I nodded, trying to look pathetic as I sat up in bed.

  Clarisse rolled her eyes. “You may have fooled Madame,” she said, “but I know you better.”

  I froze. “Pardon?”

  “You are not unwell,” she said.

  “Clarisse, I—”

  “I thought you were slinking off to meet Lord Showalter when you left so early the other morning,” she said. There was mischief in her voice and eyes.

  “I—”

  “But tonight, ma cherie, you hide away from an opportunity to be with him,” she went on.

  “My stomach—”

  She waved me off and barreled on. “And still you have that same look about you,” she said, wagging a finger at me.

  I opened my mouth to protest but found the words would not come.

  “If you force me to guess, I would say you are waiting now for me to leave so you can sneak away again.”

  “This is—,” I began, rising to my feet.

  She wouldn’t let me finish. “You are meeting someone, Miss Agnes,” she said triumphantly, adding in a whisper, “but not Lord Showalter.”

  I looked at her. At the smile she fought to suppress. And suddenly I found myself smiling back.

  “It’s not quite what you think,” I said finally.

  She clapped her hands to her chest and rushed to my side. “You have a secret amour!”

  I let her lead me to the settee and sat down beside her. Perhaps this was a blessing after all. I did have a secret, though perhaps not a love to go with it. All the same, I was going to go and meet a handsome young man, even if it was not for the reasons Clarisse had guessed. I could take her into my confidence without having to tell her the whole truth, particularly since she’d already been so good as to deliver a suitable alternative, ready-made for the purpose.

  “You cannot tell Mother,” I said finally. “Or anyone. You must promise.”

  “Mon Dieu, non!” she whispered. “What good is a secret lover if your mother knows?” she teased in a way that made me wonder exactly how many secret lovers Clarisse had entertained over the years.

  “We are to meet tonight,” I whispered, aware that I was barely able to keep myself from wishing Clarisse’s notions were correct.

  Clarisse squealed. “Where?”

  “That matters not. But I could use your help,” I begged.

  She sat forward eagerly, making me wonder why I hadn’t thought of relying on Clarisse even earlier. I knew I could count on her to be discreet. She was as romantic in her notions as the most starry-eyed of A Lady’s creations. Worse by half than a Marianne Dashwood or a Lydia Bennet.

  “At least tell me who he is!” she demanded.

  “Truly, the less you know the less you’ll have to own to should I be discovered,” I reasoned.

  She considered this. My parents might dismiss her if I was caught and they realized she’d assisted me. “Very well,” she said finally, “but his name at least!”

  I started to protest. Started to try and convince her that even that information was too much.

  But I realized I didn’t want to. I wanted to say his name to someone.

  “Caedmon,” I whispered, unable to keep from smiling.

  Clarisse gave a little sigh, shoulders softening, eyes growing dreamy. “C’est parfait,” she moaned, repeating his name. “Caedmon.”

  I felt giddy at saying his name out loud and hearing it echoed back in Clarisse’s wonderful accented speech.

  “He is poor?” Clarisse asked.

  I nodded.

  “And handsome?”

  I nodded again.

  “And kind?”

  I nodded a third time.

  She sat up straighter, as if he had met some set of qualifications. “What can I do to help?”

  I relaxed for the first time in days. “I have a plan. I need you only to make sure that none of the other servants see me go. And if you can keep Mother from checking on me when she returns from the opera . . .”

  Her eyebrows shot toward the ceiling. “How long will you be gone?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “I cannot say. But I will be back by morning. Can you give me that much time?”

  She nodded. “Oui. But are you sure you cannot tell me more? Are you sure there is not more I can do?”

  I shook my head. “It would be best if you went downstairs and told the other servants to leave me be for the night.” I reached for the tray. “And take this—they’ll be even more convinced when they see I haven’t eaten any of it.”

  She collected the tray, then looked at me. “You will tell me all someday soon, will you not, miss?”

  I squeezed her arm. “I’d like nothing better.” And suddenly I realized I had two stories now in need of sharing. The one I had to tell Father, and the one I wanted to tell Clarisse.

  Satisfied, she went to the door. Balancing the tray on one hand, she grasped the knob with the other, then paused. “Be careful, mademoiselle.”

  I bounded across the room, kissed her cheek lightly, and promised her I would. She laughed, muttered something about love, and disappeared into the hall.

  I waited until nine before dousing my reading lamp, drawing the window shutters, and creeping to my door. A pair of my softest boots in hand, I peeked into the hallway. Clarisse was nowhere to be seen, and the on
ly other upstairs maid was likely taking her dinner with the other servants below at this hour.

  I took a deep breath and slipped from my room, gently pulling the door shut, taking care to avoid allowing the latch to sound. I hurried across the eight feet or so of carpet to David’s door. As quietly and calmly as I could with my heart threatening to thump its way from beneath my nightgown, I opened his door and shut myself in silently.

  David’s room looked as abandoned as ever despite his recent surprise visit. The lamps were unlit and the windows shut, so I scrounged for a nub of candle in the bedside drawer and a tinderbox to light it with. I had to risk it, hoping that no one would even think to look in his room. Carrying the small candle, I opened his wardrobe, jumping when the door squeaked on its hinge. I froze a moment before breathing and moving again, this time working with haste. I reached into the wardrobe and withdrew what I suspected was the oldest suit of clothing yet remaining in the house. Mother had left David’s room almost exactly as it had been when he’d entered the navy four years ago. This suit wouldn’t have fit him now by any stretch, and the fabric was not only the wrong season, but also favored a style—the collar too high and the cut of the coat too long—that was now terribly out of fashion.

  But for once dressing fashionably was not my duty.

  Dressing as someone else was.

  A young woman unescorted on the streets of London at night would prove a target for both the sinister and the noble. Either I’d be harassed by someone who’d had too much drink and too little sense, or some well-meaning soul would show concern and make sure I was safely escorted to whatever destination I was bound for.

  But a young man in a secondhand suit could blend in easily. Tonight I’d be just another fellow looking for cheap ale or a long, lonely walk.

  I rolled the waistband of my brother’s trousers twice to make them sit at approximately the right height. They were meant to fit snugly, and I merely hoped in the darkness no one would pay attention. Just in case, I closed the jacket over them, buttoning down as far as it would go. It gapped at the shoulder and strained across the chest, but I found that if I slouched forward just so, I could persuade myself that no one would notice. The sleeves were just about right, and all in all the effect was not altogether unconvincing. There were no shoes in the wardrobe to complete the ensemble, but the ones I’d brought were the least feminine of the several pairs I owned. Going about barefoot seemed neither comfortable nor inconspicuous, even in the London heat.

  I studied my reflection in the glass. It jarred me to see two legs in place of the long skirt, to see the waist of the trousers so near where my actual waist was. But I told myself that no one would see female where they expected male.

  I reached for the only hat in the wardrobe, snapping the dust from it before lowering it onto my hair, and was shocked to find it snug.

  Blast.

  I removed it quickly and set about the task of tucking the length of my hair up into the cavity between my scalp and the top of the hat. When gravity seemed to get the better of my efforts—each time I tugged the band loose to slide a handful more hair up, another curl cascaded down—I bent over, removed the hat, and tried to coil my hair into the bowl before seating it on my head. After several attempts, I stood and saw that I was successful save for one small lock trailing over my left shoulder. Too afraid that I would never get this close again and worried that I was already running late to meet Caedmon, I retrieved a dull, forgotten shaving razor from the drawer.

  “For England,” I muttered, sawing through the stubborn tendril.

  David’s room opened onto the back garden. A tangle of ivy climbed the trellis. I stepped onto the wide ledge and pulled the sash almost shut behind me, careful to leave enough room to assure that my entry point remained upon my return. My hands grasped the weathered wooden slats as if they belonged to someone else. I swung one leg out, reaching as far as it would go, surprised by the freedom the pants allowed. Then I took a deep breath and shifted my weight to the toe now lodged in among the vines, placing the other on the trellis as I left the ledge.

  Now it was a simple matter of descending the latticework like a ladder. Despite the fact that this was something I’d done only a handful of times as a child (young ladies of a certain age do not climb ladders), I told myself that it was nothing more than a very steep stile over an exceptionally tall country fence. Lizzie Bennet, I was sure, would have been proud.

  I picked my way carefully down, and in a matter of moments, I was close enough to drop safely to the ground, where I landed squarely in a bed of day lilies. I whispered an apology to the broken stems, then gathered what I could and tossed them behind the shrubbery for fear that they’d be noticed and questions raised.

  “Gardener’s the only one who’ll see,” slurred a voice.

  I shrieked—a scream completely incongruous with my apparel—and flattened myself against the wall. The sound of a glass bottle thudding gently to the earth preceded my brother’s emergence from the shadow of a magnolia.

  “For heaven’s sake, Rupert,” I muttered, scarcely able to believe I’d run into him again—me going out and him coming in.

  He looked me up and down drunkenly. “Wot you s’posed to be?”

  “Lower your voice,” I hissed at him, adjusting my coat.

  “You’re up to no good, Aggie,” he said, adding, “Naughty, naughty, naughty.”

  “Rupert, I think you’d better be in bed,” I said. “And perhaps use the front door?” I worried about him climbing up his own trellis in this condition. And then worried a little at what might have caused him to be so far gone at so early an hour.

  He collapsed into a squat and finally sat, without saying anything.

  “Rupert?”

  “She won’t have me,” he said.

  I was confused. “Julia?”

  “Not Julia. Julia’s keen for it,” he said, his voice again too loud.

  “Rupert—”

  “And the thing of it is, I know she loves me,” he said.

  “Julia will be all right—”

  “Not Julia! Didn’t I say that before?”

  I took a cautious step toward him, “Rupert, you really—”

  “She says just because she’s so much older and a widow and all that, she can’t give me what I need. That people won’t stand for it. That Julia will be much better for me.”

  “Perhaps Lady Perkins is right,” I said gently.

  Apparently Rupert wasn’t as drunk as he looked. “Who said anything about Lady Perkins?”

  I hesitated. “You did, just now,” I lied.

  He started to argue, but gave it up, sighing. “Julia’s a nice enough girl, but Emmaline is . . .”

  I knelt beside him and pulled one of his arms over my shoulder, then slipped my other arm around his waist.

  “I’m sorry, Rupert,” I said, trying to heave him up.

  “You don’t love him, either, do you?” he asked.

  I stopped pulling. “What?”

  “Showalter. You don’t love him. No more than I love Julia,” he said, lying back on the ground.

  “Rupert, you really cannot—”

  “But we’ll do our duties, won’t we? Marry the right people, go to the right parties, have the right children.”

  I felt a stab of pain, knowing it wasn’t what I wanted. Wasn’t what my brother wanted either. Despite all his talk of who was worth what, my brother was far more complicated than I’d ever imagined . . . than I’d ever given him credit for.

  Half a second later, Rupert was snoring softly.

  I stared at him. Perhaps wearing a boy’s clothing was going to my head, but I began to think that perhaps my brother’s choices—or lack of them—were nearly as vexing as my own. He was a boy who wrote secret poems to a woman fifteen years his senior, who would one day settle for something as unsatisfying to him as my lot in life was becoming for me.

  And there was nothing either of us could do about it.

  I leaned ov
er and kissed his cheek, reasoning that he was as safe in the garden for now as he would be in his own bed, and hurried away.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Rupert, I decided, hadn’t counted as a test of my disguise. Drunk or otherwise, he knew me well enough to spot me anywhere. I stepped from the darkness onto the sidewalk and headed toward the carriage stand.

  My route took me past the darkened windows of Showalter’s house, but I kept my head down and listened for familiar voices, ready to slip from the path rather than chance recognition. The walk seemed longer, though my steps were determined, trying to outpace the urgency that seemed to pulse in my veins.

  I waited to cross the street until I’d come to the last in the row of carriages. I had my hand on the door and my body halfway inside the coach before the driver stirred. I held a half crown out to him, felt his hand close around the money while I hoped he didn’t think my hand soft for a boy, and forced my voice low as I directed him toward the Tower. I didn’t wait for comment, bundling myself the rest of the way into the hack and slamming the door as the driver pulled us away from the curb and bore north.

  When the shadowed profile of the Tower appeared in the carriage window, I stepped down before it had even stopped moving fully and didn’t slow at my driver’s inquiry about awaiting my return. I walked quickly, emboldened by my success thus far. I was no idle young lady of London’s elite. I was a man with a purpose.

  Still, I wasn’t brave enough to hazard a safer, more circular route around the perimeter of the Tower. Instead I approached Deacon’s lodgings from the same alley Caedmon had escorted me down. I saw his silhouette pacing the street just ahead of where I knew the door lay.

  I got within a few yards of him before he paid me any notice. And even that was a quick glance, a mumbled “Evening,” and he withdrew toward the door.

  I looked up and smiled. “Good evening to you, Mr. Stowe.”

  He froze, peering through the dim light at my face as I lifted my chin. He squinted. “Do I—”

  He stopped, his eyes wide.

  “Agnes?” he whispered.

  “Mr. August Wilkins, if you please,” I said, curtsying.