* * *
Awe-Struck E-Books
www.awe-struck.net
Copyright ©2009 by Susanne Marie Knight
First published in 2009, 2009
* * *
NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
* * *
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
* * * *
-Dedication-
For Jane—This says it all!
Chapter One
"'Tis a sorra day to see you dressed as a lad, Miss Danielle.” Kate, always a loyal maid, folded her arms across her ample chest and frowned. Tears puddled in her button eyes. “The Master will ring a peal over me head fer sure."
"Nonsense.” As usual, Danielle Galloway paid little attention to her maid's prophesy of doom. Instead she pivoted in front of the bedchamber's cheval looking glass, and smiled at the masculine image in the mirror. Her cotton stockings were the correct shade of grey, and the woolen knee breeches—borrowed from one of the stable boys—fit her to perfection.
Danielle turned to the left, then the right. Something was not right. She frowned and slid her hand down her right hip. Perhaps the breeches hugged her form a bit too snuggly for comfort.
Bother! Nothing could be done about that, so she shrugged and looked again at her reflection. The collar on the white homespun shirt needed adjusting and vee opening on the sleeveless leather jerkin was askew. She straightened both items. Those two garments easily hid the curve of her bound breasts—not that she had much of that feminine attribute to hide, anyway.
Yes, by Jove, she did it; she could easily pass for a boy.
So much for her costume. What about her face? She raised her gaze to view her rice powder-lightened lips, her eyebrows browned and thickened with ground cloves, her creamy complexion darkened by carefully applied soot, and her hair....
Ouch. Danielle winced. She couldn't help it. Her only regret in this mad masquerade was that her hair, so gloriously long and gleaming like golden rays of sunshine, had needed to be cut. She'd sheared it herself; she couldn't trust her maid to do the job. No, when asked to perform the fearsome deed, Kate's eyes had blurred with more tears, no doubt fearing the repercussion of Sir Ambrose's displeasure if he found out about his daughter's escapade.
Danielle could not have counted on Cousin Jeanette to have a steady hand, either. Ever since Jeanette had learned the true reason for Danielle's visit to Harmony Manor, she'd fallen into a fit of the vapors—also fretting about the consequences of her Uncle Ambrose's anger.
Kate and Cousin Jeanette were plaguing themselves for naught. Danielle's father never troubled himself over his only daughter.
Danielle shook that unpleasant thought away. “Stuff and nonsense!” she exclaimed to no one in particular. It grieved her to be surrounded by milk-and-water misses. If there was one thing she knew for certain, Sir Ambrose would not find out about her great adventure. After all, who would tell him?
Certainly not the maid, nor any of Jeanette's servants. And Jeanette's father, Wesley Galloway, was away in London, leaving Jeanette to languish in the country by herself at Harmony Manor—a tailor-made situation for Danielle to take advantage of.
A gentle rap at the door caught Danielle's attention. Cousin Jeanette slowly opened the door, and leaned into the room. Her dark, corkscrew curls framed a full, rosy face ... a face that had a woebegone cast. When Jeanette spotted the discarded sprigged muslin gown on the bed, she gasped, then her hazel eyes immediately focused in on Danielle.
"Oh! Danielle, I cannot bear to see you like this. It is so unseemly. Oh, your poor hair."
"Bother my hair!” Striding over to the bedchamber window in what she hoped was a manly manner, Danielle thrust open the drapes and gazed out at the brand new day.
The ormolu clock on the bureau belied her thoughts as it chimed nine times consecutively. Nine o'clock. True, the day was not so brand new, especially for a Sunday morning, but ‘twas still early.
"Aye, ‘tis all too true.” Kate also stood by the window, a pace behind her mistress. “Miss Danielle has gone and done it.” She shook her head mournfully. “I canna get used to yer shorn hair, Miss. The Master will have a fit, he will."
Danielle fingered the edges of her bobbed hair, now tied into a queue. She sighed. Sacrificing her hair was her only regret. However, it was a small price to pay for peace of mind. Her brother Benjamin was unwell, wasn't he? She had to be certain he was getting the treatment he required in Bath. And the only way to do it was to embark on this journey.
"Benjamin is very dear to me,” she murmured by way of explanation. Although her brother was older by three years, he needed constant mothering. And he had no one to look after him in Bath, no one to rescue him from his own harebrained schemes.
Her eyes misted over. Nor did he follow instructions. Hadn't she told him to write to her every day? Since he left a month ago, he'd sent just two missives.
Stuff! How could Benjamin be so inconsiderate? Or maybe he had gone into a decline. Maybe he suffered great pain.
Danielle left the window and paced inside the spacious bedchamber. “My father cares not a whit whether my locks are long or short. Indeed, I own he will not even notice."
The more she spoke, the angrier she became. “And if he complains, he only has himself to blame. He forbade me passage to see my darling Benjamin. I had no choice but to bamboozle Father with this trip to Harmony Manor."
As she had expected, Sir Ambrose had been pleased with her offer to keep an eye on her younger cousin. Or, to put it more correctly, her father had been pleased to have Danielle out of his hair, so to speak. He gladly granted her request for a fortnight stay with Cousin Jeanette. Indeed, he had inquired whether a fortnight stay was long enough.
Danielle smirked. Yes, two weeks were all that she would require. She would travel to Bath, back again to Harmony Manor, then onto home in the city of Leeds without her father being the wiser.
"Respectable females cannot travel alone, so that avenue is out for me. However, it is quite another story for males to take to the high roads. So, given that I cannot journey as Miss Galloway, I shall traverse the countryside as Danny, the servant boy."
She set her hands on her hips, standing akimbo, daring anyone to sway her from her purpose.
Jeanette nervously wrung her hands together. “Oh, my nerves are atwitter. My insides are all aflutter. You cannot possibly be serious—"
"Gracious me.” Danielle practiced her swagger and strode in front of her cousin. “Your symptoms sound suspiciously like a besotted doe-eyed chit. I have it, ‘tis your neighbor, Mr. Pritchett, is it not? Can it be that you have a decided partiality for him?"
"Danielle, I beg of you.” Jeanette sank down on the bed as if her knees refused to support her. “Do not make light of this situation.” Her pert lower lip trembled. “Besides, you are well aware Mr. Pritchett only has eyes for Lydia Hanover."
"That sniffling little turnip.” Danielle grinned. “Lydia Hanover, I mean."
"Dani
elle!” Jeanette couldn't hide her agitation. She rose to her feet and restlessly moved about the room, her sweet jasmine fragrance following her. “You cannot mean to go through with this foolhardy charade."
"I can and I will.” Stepping in front of the looking glass again, Danielle admired her masculine form. “Admit it; I do look like a boy."
Jeanette took her time in analyzing her cousin's appearance. “You have the shape of one, that I will grant you. And the look of a boy, of about four and ten. But your features are too fine for one of the male persuasion. Despite the tan darkening your complexion, your jaw is too narrow, your nose too small, and your eyes much too large."
"So I will practice squinting.” Danielle lifted her nose, small or otherwise. Personally, she preferred the word dainty. Her many suitors often wrote odes about its delicate shape. “Moreover, people see what they expect to see. Who would give a peasant boy more than a passing glance?"
Kate settled herself in a corner of the bedchamber and wagged a sanctimonious finger. “Ach, there are those whose tastes run to pretty laddies, Miss Danielle."
Danielle blinked back her surprise at the maid's indelicate reference, but before Jeanette could decipher what the words meant, she grabbed her tapestry wool carpetbag to distract her cousin. “Come now, the hour grows late and I mean to be on my way. Are you ready?"
Jeanette bobbed her head, sending her spiral curls flying about her face. “Yes, I instructed Baker to have the curricle prepared. If we leave now, we will have plenty of time for you to catch the mail coach at eleven."
"Curricle, is it?” Danielle slung the long-handled bag over her shoulder. It was heavier than she expected, and she adjusted the weight. For two weeks she would be living out of this bag. “Can you handle two horses?"
Jeanette straightened to her full, unimposing height. “Danielle Augusta Galloway, I am not some shatterbrained miss, barely out of leading strings. My father has complete confidence in my driving abilities."
Uncle Wesley might, but from the way Kate's eyes widened, it was obvious the maid had heard tales about the young mistress of Harmony Manor's clumsy handling of the ribbons.
No matter. All Jeanette had to do was aim the horses in the direction of Heptonstall, the nearby village. Once there, Danielle would purchase passage on the public mail coach headed for Bath. Then, properly attended to by Kate, Jeanette would reverse her direction and head back to Harmony Manor. She would be safe, and Danielle would be bound for Bath and darling Benjamin. It was a foolproof plan.
Anticipating her brother's joy at her unexpected arrival, Danielle shooed her two unwilling accomplices out the door so they all could take their places in the waiting curricle.
* * * *
Heptonstall, West Yorkshire, was a village taken over by industry—handloom weaving, in particular. From where Danielle stood, she could see nothing but rows of stone buildings and cobblestone streets. Foliage of any type was definitely in the minority. The price of progress, she supposed, but she couldn't wait to be on her way and breathe the clean fresh air that was plentiful in the surrounding countryside.
Standing in front of The Cross Inn, a quaint pub with bay windows looking out onto the steep main street, Danielle watched her cousin's receding carriage lumber out of sight. No doubt about it; no matter what Jeanette thought, the plain and naked truth was that the dear girl was cow-handed.
And poor Kate sat as a prisoner by Jeanette's side.
Danielle shrugged away these concerns. The hour was nigh on eleven, and soon the mail coach would arrive. Restless energy filled her, so she hiked her carpetbag back onto her shoulder and paced up the street. She turned and started to walk back down.
"Psst!"
A noise coming from an alley attracted her attention. She glanced over and saw two young boys, even younger than her pretended age, gesturing for her to come over. One of them had vivid red blood running down his bare forearm.
"Cor! Me chum's ‘urt, ‘e is! Can ya ‘elp us?"
Danielle hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to do, then her natural sympathy broke through. She rushed toward the boys. “Yes, I can bind his arm with a scarf—"
Pain exploded under her left eye. She blinked, then felt the street urchins strike her again, this time with a blow to the other side of her face. Jagged colors of agony stabbed her, temporarily blinding her. Powerless to stop her movements, she fell to her knees, then down on the cobblestones.
"Wot a cork-brained puppy!” a rough voice exclaimed.
Through rapidly swelling eyelids, Danielle gazed up at her tormentors.
The “injured” boy wiped the blood off his arm, then yanked on her carpetbag until it was free. “Ya don't mind if we ‘ave a look-see in yer bag, now do ya, brat? We be much obliged to ya."
"Not my bag,” she groaned. Everything she needed for her trip was inside the satchel, although that, obviously, was the least of her problems now.
That she made a noise apparently angered her assailants. They both kicked her in the stomach, then ran out of the alley.
Danielle lost consciousness to the sound of raucous laughter pounding in her ears.
* * * *
Edward Sterling, the fifth Earl of Tremaine—a title newly inherited and completely unwanted—urged his horse up the steep street toward the welcoming entrance of one of Heptonstall's pubs, The Cross Inn. How he longed for a drink of frothy pale ale.
Using his handkerchief, he wiped the sweat pouring from his brow. This perspiration had nothing to do with the temperate June weather. Indeed, he could blame his discomfort on his latest attempt to be a good Samaritan.
He pocketed the handkerchief. Damn, but he was too old to act the part of Sir Galahad to a young damsel in distress.
"I say, that was jolly good fun, what?” His companion, Xavier Raleigh—Viscount Raleigh to the uninitiated, X to his lady friends—easily kept his horse abreast. Under Raleigh's beaver hat, there was little sign of sweating, even though he had done equal, if not more of the rescue work.
Then again, Raleigh had fewer years to his name than Edward. Ten less, to be precise. And every one of Edward's seven and thirty years seemed to hang like boulders around his neck. War could do that to a man—age him beyond his years.
"Hardly fun, Raleigh.” Edward took care to guide his horse over uneven cobblestones. “Propelling that curricle out of the ditch was damned hard. Fortunate for us that a wheel did not break.” He shook his head. “That young chit had no business handling the reins on a two-horse rig. I will wager she was just out of leading strings."
"Maybe so, old fellow, maybe so.” Raleigh's blue eyes twinkled under the shade of his large hat. “But the girl was very easy on the eyes, wouldn't you say? Such a dark-haired beauty, and those delicious curls!” He sighed. “'Tis a pity she refused to divulge her name."
"Most likely afraid word of her misadventure will reach her father.” As Edward headed toward The Cross Inn's post boy, the thought of a cool beverage teased his lips. “Cannot blame her, though. If she were my daughter, I would tan the gel's hide."
His friend laughed, exposing his even, white teeth. “Rather indelicate action, Sterling, especially as you are not the maiden's father."
He returned his companion's laugh. “Nor would I wish to be, having never fallen prey to the parson's mousetrap."
His friend's easy smile now dimmed. “How cynical you have become in the years away from your estate in Gainford. And perhaps I should call you Tremaine now that you're an Earl."
"It is of no import.” Edward shrugged. He was too old for the pomp and circumstance of titles—titles of nobility, at any rate. He had been known, until recently, as Captain Sterling. Now it was Lord Tremaine. He preferred the former.
And as for being cynical; he had every right to be. Raleigh would never understand. He had never experienced the horrors of war. All he was concerned about was the tie of his cravat.
Arriving at the inn, Edward allowed the post boy to hold his horse while he alighted. Just
as he did, he spotted two unsavory looking youths dashing out of an alley a short ways up the street.
"Damnation,” he exclaimed wearily. If one plus one equaled two, then fleeing street urchins meant some unfortunate had just been rolled.
He hesitated. Although the multi-colored sign of The Cross Inn beckoned, his tedious do-gooder side won out. “Raleigh, shall we save the day once again?"
Without waiting for a reply, Edward sprinted up the hill. Regrettably, the two miscreants traveled much faster. By the time he reached the alley, the boys had left him in the dust. They also had left behind a tapestry wool carpetbag, partially open and thrown into the street.
Panting heavily, Edward glanced inside the narrow lane and spotted a crumpled figure. Dressed in knee breeches that had seen better days, the victim remained as still as the dead.
He called back to his friend. “Raleigh, you get the bag. I will check on this hapless fellow."
As Edward approached the prone figure, a foul odor assailed his nostrils. The smell didn't emanate from the wounded man, but from the bricks and stones of the alleyway itself.
Edward wrinkled his nose, then got down on one knee. He turned the fallen body over. Good Lord! It was only a boy. A mere stripling of a lad. Perhaps four and ten. The young cub's delicate features had suffered cruel blows to the cheeks and jaw. His eyes, swollen shut, puffed out like hot air balloons. Skin newly-bruised turned pink, blue, and purple, to disguise whatever fine form the lad had.
In truth, the sting of a tear marred Edward's vision. This handsome boy had been pummeled past recognition. Did he still breathe?
His meager chest rose and fell. Yes, the good Lord was merciful. The cub's mother would have no cause to wear mourning clothes tonight.
Without another thought, Edward swept up the lad in his arms and headed toward The Cross Inn. Begad, a sack of potatoes had more weight than this inconsequential piece of baggage.
The wool carpetbag slung over his shoulder, Raleigh fell into step beside him. “Poor little beggar,” Raleigh tsk-tsked as he gazed at the boy's wounds. “One more blow and ‘tis a certainty, he'd have been done for."
Paging Miss Galloway Page 1