by Martha Keyes
Ruth threw the covers over and slipped her feet onto the cold wooden planks, reaching for her wrapper and walking to the small, handheld mirror on the wash basin. She turned her head from side to side, smiling slightly at her hair. A few rebellious hairs stuck up in the back, but it was certainly nice to wake without something resembling a rat’s nest at the back of her head. She had never been a particularly dainty sleeper.
She fingered the short locks of brown hair, wondering how long it would take them to grow out again. Penny hadn’t been wrong when she declared that Ruth wouldn’t make a match with her hair that way. She knew of fine women who managed with such coiffures, but they had money and status to support them in their daring. Ruth had neither.
Leaving her appearance for more important things, Ruth looked over the lesson she had prepared for Topher to study, feeling a fluttering of nerves. She hoped it was what Mr. O was looking for. She had a great fear that he would claim it was all common sense and refuse to pay them.
Lucy brought a tray of toast and tea from the coffee room for Ruth’s breakfast, which Ruth partook of at the small, ill-balanced writing desk by the window as she went over the lesson notes.
Multiple times, she resisted the urge to knock on Topher’s door, wishing to explain something in the lesson, but she had no desire to wake the sleeping beast yet. He was not at his best in the morning, and he still hadn’t come back by the time she guttered the candles at one in the morning.
Lucy returned an hour later, holding a letter. “This came by way of a private messenger,” she said. “The boy awaits a response belowstairs, I understand.”
Ruth frowned slightly. It must be from Mr. O. He was the only one who knew of their presence or location in Town.
“Thank you, Lucy. I shall call for you when I’ve composed the response.”
Sure enough, she saw the familiar seal on the back as she took the letter in hand. Her heart dropped for a moment as she considered whether Mr. O might have decided against the meeting after all. He had been clear in the letter that had followed their acceptance of the rendezvous that he wished for complete discretion—and he trusted that the twenty-pound rate would cover it.
Perhaps he doubted their discretion and was regretting his request to meet. She hurried to read the missive.
Dear Swan,
I hope that your arrival in town has been without mishap and that you are comfortably installed at The Three Crowns. Regrettably, I have had some unforeseen but urgent business arise, which requires me to leave town as soon as possible. If it is feasible, I ask that you meet me today at your earliest convenience. Please respond to inform me whether or not the change is acceptable to you. If it is not, no matter. I will send word when I have returned in a week’s time. Please forgive me for the inconvenience.
Your servant,
O
Ruth’s eyes grew large as she read the note. At your earliest convenience? Or in a week’s time? She sprang to action, tipping over the chair in her rush to knock on Topher’s door.
“Topher!” she hissed, knocking insistently. “Christopher!”
There was no response from within and, cursing her brother’s deep sleep, she lifted the latch and pushed the door open, stopping short in the doorway.
Topher’s bed lay empty, unslept in, his portmanteau still sitting open on the bedcovers, just as it had been when he had left the afternoon before.
Ruth put a hand to her chest, trying to contain the deafening pounding of her heart. She stepped back and out of the doorway to escape the feeling of the walls closing in around her. It wouldn’t be the first time Topher had failed to return after a night of gallivanting, but he had been much more reliable since they had left Dunburn. Had London made him forget how different life was for them now? Besides, where could he possibly have slept?
She put her hands on her head and shut her eyes. Why, of all days, had he chosen this one to revert to irresponsibility? Or was he perhaps in trouble?
She lowered her hands slowly, forcing herself to breathe calmly. Undoubtedly, he had merely had too much to drink and had taken refuge in one of those haunts Ruth had only heard about in the form of cryptic remarks from the men in her life. She shuddered slightly.
The more she thought about it, the more she felt certain that Topher would return soon—likely with a splitting headache. She would box his ears when he did, and then she would go over the lesson with him on the carriage ride to Mr. O’s and pray that his performance met expectation. He had assured her when he left that he would return in no time at all.
She sat down, her chest still rising and falling more rapidly than usual, and composed a short but civil response, conveying the Swan’s intention to call upon the gentleman that day once he was apprised of the address at which he should present himself. She bit nervously at a nail as Lucy took the sealed letter to give to the waiting messenger.
What if Topher didn’t return in time? Mr. O had mentioned that the meeting could be postponed, but that would be impossible. They hadn’t enough money to continue paying for rooms at the inn for another week, nor to go home and return in a few days’ time.
Ruth paced the length of the two rooms, back and forth, back and forth.
She should never have agreed to allow Topher to go out the evening before. She had felt it intuitively but had chosen to relent to his cajoling. It had been an idiotic idea of his—only marginally less idiotic than his suggestion that she join him in whatever foolhardy mischief he decided to get up to. As if she could have masqueraded as a man.
She stilled before the bed in his room, a frightening idea presenting itself to her as she stared at the open portmanteau, clothes folded neatly inside.
It was utterly mad. An idea fit only for Bedlam. Besides, Topher’s clothing likely wouldn’t even fit her. She was taller and thinner than him.
With a shaking hand, she reached for the shirt folded on top of the clothing pile. Topher had worn all of his finest clothing on his outing the night before, but what remained was still in excellent condition. He was particular about his clothing to a fault. She had teased him a time or two about becoming a valet. But Topher didn’t want to be a valet. He wanted to employ a valet.
Deciding it couldn’t hurt to simply try, she pulled the shirt over her head and turned toward the mirror on the wall. Her shoulders weren’t quite as broad as her twin’s, but the shirt fit surprisingly well, even atop her muslin dress. She stared at herself in the mirror, unsure what to think of what she saw there. The shirtsleeves hung strangely from her arms, accustomed as she was to close-fitting gowns and gloves. She did look quite a bit like a man, though—that is, if she didn’t regard the skirt of her dress showing below the hem of Topher’s shirt.
The realization was equal parts lowering and encouraging.
She hurriedly pulled the shirt back over her head. She couldn’t. Of all the ungenteel things to do, masquerading as a gentleman was surely at the top of the list. It was ludicrous and offensive and brazen.
And yet…what other option did she have? The meeting was the difference between hunger and security.
She rushed over to the bell and tugged on it. Time was running out, and Mr. O expected the Swan’s arrival as soon as possible. Anytime, she might have his response with his address, and she hadn’t the slightest idea where Topher was.
Curse Topher!
She stopped in front of the mirror, forcing her mind to focus. She had three options.
Option one—send word to Mr. O canceling the meeting altogether—demonstrating an inexcusable variability of character that would undoubtedly ruin any chance of his future business.
Option two—wait for Topher to arrive, hoping that he would do so before it was too late to call upon Mr. O, while also courting the risk of missing the meeting altogether if he didn’t return in time.
Option three—dress in Topher’s clothing for a simple, hour-long meeting from which she would emerge with twenty pounds.
The answer seemed fairly clear
, but it terrified her. She couldn’t return to Marsbrooke empty-handed, worse off than when they had left. She hadn’t cut her hair off for nothing, after all. Besides, unlike Topher, she needed no studying to conduct such a meeting—at least not any studying for the part of the Swan.
In her impatience, she had already donned a pair of stockings and pantaloons when the door opened. She whipped around, knowing in her mind that it would be Lucy, but unable to stifle the hope that it was Topher.
“Oh,” Lucy said in a mortified voice, lowering her head. “Pardon me, sir, I mistook the room.”
She began to bow herself out, but Ruth called out to her. “Lucy! It’s me.”
The door opened slowly, and Lucy’s head reappeared, eyes widening as she looked upon Ruth. “Good gracious heavens,” she said, hurriedly closing the door. “What in heaven’s name are you doing, miss?”
Ruth lifted one knee at a time, feeling the way the pantaloons hugged her legs as if they were a second skin. She felt naked and exposed, and yet….contained. It was the strangest feeling in the world.
“Isn’t it obvious?” Ruth said, trying for a lightness she was far from feeling. “I have transformed into a swan.” She gave a tremulous smile.
Lucy stood with her mouth agape, eyes running along Ruth, from short hair to stockinged feet.
Ruth shed her pretended nonchalance. “Did you really believe me to be a gentleman when you first walked in?” She wasn’t even sure what answer she should hope for.
Lucy closed her mouth. “Yes, miss. But I only looked at you for a moment, and now, of course, I recognize you.”
Ruth bit her lip, reaching for the Hessians Topher had left in favor of his other boots. “But if you didn’t already know me, should you suspect me to be a woman dressed in a man’s attire?”
Lucy looked at her with narrowed eyes. “I don’t think so, miss. It would be a strange thing to assume, though, wouldn’t it?”
Ruth nodded. It was true. And she was counting on it. Who would be foolish enough to dress as a man? The sheer audacity and unlikelihood of it would protect her from discovery—and ruin her if she were discovered. “We must hurry. I need you to help me with these boots. I think they shall be a bit large on me, but better large than small, I suppose.”
Lucy insisted upon wrapping Ruth’s chest tightly in the fabric of an extra cravat to flatten her bosom, tucking the end underneath when she had finished. Between the two of them, they managed to tie a simple but decent cravat—nothing Topher would approve of, of course—and brush Ruth’s hair forward in a style that added to her masculinity. She watched as her feminine attributes dwindled and nearly disappeared.
Ruth worried her lip. “What about my voice?”
Lucy tilted her head from side to side. “It would be nice if it were a bit lower.”
“More like this?” Ruth had to duck her chin slightly to change the pitch of her voice.
Lucy cringed and shook her head. “Too obvious.”
“Yes, I think you are right. It would be hard to maintain for an hour, too. What about this?” She made only the slightest adjustment to her voice, intentionally speaking in the lower tones she normally used, leaving out the high ones. It felt strange not to make use of the full spectrum of her voice, but she could do it for as long as it was required of her.
“Much better,” Lucy said. Her mouth twisted to the side as she looked Ruth over, clucking her tongue. “But those eyelashes, miss.”
Ruth couldn’t help laughing. “Shall I just burn them off with a candle? I am starting over with my hair. I suppose I may as well start fresh with my eyelashes, as well.” She leaned toward the mirror, grimacing at the long, dark lashes that framed her eyes. They were rather feminine, but, for all her joking, she wasn’t brave enough to burn them off. She had known plenty of men with long, dark lashes, but she wished they could be hidden all the same.
She shot up, her gaze darting to the bedside table where Topher’s glasses sat. She hurried over and picked them up, pulling the rims out and setting them upon her nose. She blinked and her lashes brushed against the lenses. The room had gone fuzzy, the objects before her suddenly undefined. It was disconcerting, to say the least, and she found her eyes blinking in a failing effort to refocus her vision. “Good gracious. And these help Topher to see?”
“To read, miss. Are they awful to look through? They do hide your lashes just a bit, and they certainly add to the disguise. But if you are tripping all over everything, it won’t do.”
“No, no. I can see.” She tipped them up to unobscure her eyes and then set them back in place. “It is just…hazy. I can’t see any detail at all, but it will do well enough for a short meeting.” She had to imagine the full effect of the glasses on her appearance, but she could see enough to know that it solidified her disguise, and Lucy confirmed it.
Ruth would never be considered a Corinthian, of course, with her lean build, but she no longer looked like a woman either—just a youthful man.
An inn servant brought a letter to the room, and Ruth had Lucy retrieve it, too terrified to face anyone yet in her disguise. As Ruth read the address given by Mr. O, the last hopes she had for Topher’s return fluttered away. She was on her own.
“You look like Master John, miss,” said Lucy, handing her Topher’s top hat.
That she looked like a ten-year-old boy was hardly encouraging, but the thought of her younger siblings gave Ruth a dose of much-needed courage, and she set Topher’s top hat atop her head. The final touch made her feel different enough that she had to think she looked even more convincingly so.
But she didn’t have to convince herself. She had to convince Mr. O.
Chapter Eight
The simultaneous thrill and trepidation of being utterly alone made Ruth’s hands shake and her skin tingle. She looked through the window of the hackney carriage, wishing she could properly see the sights passing by, but too terrified to remove her glasses.
After living in Marsbrooke for a year, London felt enormous. Topher could be anywhere. She said a quick prayer that he was safe, wherever he was in that large town.
She slid her gloved hands across her pantaloons nervously, wondering whether she would be used to their tight fit by the end of her meeting with Mr. O. She had to continuously remind herself that, despite feeling as though she was walking around entirely indecent, she wore the usual clothing of a gentleman.
She had been certain that the jarvey would see through her the moment she approached the hackney stand, shouting her secret out to everyone in the street. But he had not. In fact, he had treated her with respect and deference and not shown any inclination to look at her with anything but passing interest—at least not that she could tell through the blur of her glasses. No one would have reason to question her if she could only persuade herself to act normally.
She didn’t know London well enough to understand what Mr. O’s address conveyed, and the thought only heightened her nerves. Brook Street sounded harmless enough, but Ruth was painfully aware that she was very much a fish out of water, with little idea of what social sphere her client orbited other than what she had gleaned from the ornate seal on his letters and his manner of writing. Perhaps they had been too ready to trust this man.
By the time the hackney reached Brook Street, though, it was apparent to Ruth that Mr. O’s lodgings were located in a fashionable part of Town. The warm brick building façades and the carved white stonework around the windows—all blurry through her lenses—left little doubt of it.
The hackney finally came to a stop, and Ruth took a moment to breathe deeply and utter a prayerful plea for help, only to realize that perhaps God was not terribly eager to assist her in impersonating a man. She could only hope he would forgive her deceit in the name of saving her family.
The jarvey opened the door, and Ruth waited for him to extend a hand of assistance. He was not looking at her, though, and it was with a jolt that she realized he would not be assisting her down. She hurried to step down o
n her own and handed him one of the precious few coins remaining to her before making her way up the three steps to the address Mr. O had given in his short response.
She waited a moment before pulling the bell, hoping to slow her heart rate from a gallop to something more like a canter. But its speed only increased with every passing second.
Twenty pounds. For George. For Joanna.
She tugged on the bell. There was no turning back now. Not unless the butler recognized her deception immediately and sent her on her way, that was.
But, while the man who opened the door looked her over with the practiced rapidity of a seasoned butler, he was kind enough in his question: “How may I help you, sir?”
Sir. That final word was like a draught of liquid courage to Ruth’s fraying nerves. “I believe your master is expecting my call.” She sent a glance around to ensure no one else was within earshot, but there was only one other solitary equipage in the street. “He knows me as the Swan.”
“Very good, sir,” the butler said, opening the door wider to allow Ruth in. He offered to take her hat and gloves, which she gently refused. She wasn’t yet confident enough to remove the hat. He looked at her strangely but said nothing.
The interior of the house was grand indeed—something not even her glasses could obscure. It was far more spacious than the front had given her to believe. The butler led her through the entry hall and down a corridor while Ruth tried not to marvel at her surroundings. She needed to give the impression that this was nothing out of the ordinary, that she was accustomed to assisting wealthy clients.
“Just in here, sir,” the butler said, taking the doorknob in hand. “He awaits you in the library. Allow me one moment to inform him of your arrival.”
Ruth inclined her head, and, when the butler turned away again, allowed her eyes to bulge. Mr. O must be quite well-to-do—perhaps she should have assumed that from the fact that he was offering twenty pounds for one paltry meeting.