“You’re not. You’re Arthur Bex, and I’m safe. We are safe. I never lost faith in you.” She reached up as he bent his head, and she kissed his cheek. The softest lips planted on his jaw as the words she’d said blessed his lonely soul.
She hugged his neck again before pulling him toward the phaeton. “Now, let’s get out of here. Someone will think it’s my fault.”
“I’m going to tie the highwayman up first. Get the rope from the bushes over there.”
Her lips had pressed to a thin line, but she nodded and ran like a rabbit then bounced back with the jute in hand.
Arthur practiced breathing as he did for a direct address, focused and in control, even as he pointed the flintlock pistol at the bandit’s head.
Not trusting himself and his fight with the past, he handed the gun to her. “Hold this, Ester, while I bind up your highwayman.” Taking the rope, he twisted it about the bandit’s hands and feet, then dragged him to a tree.
Ester stared as if she’d seen a ghost when he’d finished. All the bravery she’d had seemed to disappear. “The coils about his wrists, his ankles. You’ve hung him up like an enslaved man.”
“What?”
“Something my father once described.” She touched at her bosom. “You don’t know how frightening a thing is, not until you see it.”
Arthur looked back at the highwayman. The man’s blonde hair caught the morning sun as he lay with his hands and feet bound like shackles to a boat hull. Sweat beaded and rolled down Arthur’s face as he struggled to contain the venom in his heart for his memories, for his uncle. “I…I don’t want the highwayman to escape before a constable can find him.”
“Bex, let’s go.” Her hand shook as she picked up her bag. “I knew you’d come back to save me.”
Her gloves were off and she put her free palm against his brown jacket sleeve. In the early light, he and this lovely woman were barely distinguishable, like they were one. They had to be one, for no one had seen him so weak—not in a long time. He forced a deep breath. “That was dangerous, Ester. He could’ve hurt you, or worse.”
“He was going to hurt you.” She moved from him too soon, but before he could object, she went to the bandit and pulled Arthur’s guineas from the man’s jacket. “These are your coins, not his.”
“You’re not mine officially yet, either, Ester. Let’s get back on the road to make it true, you as my wife.”
A shaky curl lifted her lips. “He can’t die out here tied to a tree. That shouldn’t happen.”
“Compassion on a man who just called you low names, who threatened to assault you, maybe kill you when he was done?”
“I’m safe. We are both safe. I can’t focus on the bad. Frankly, there is just too much.”
After putting the gun in his waistband, he took her bag and led her through the woods to his phaeton. “I’m sorry, Ester. I was careless. I forced you to act…that was an act, right?”
Her smile hadn’t quite returned. For the first time, he couldn’t read her emotions. “No greater love hath a man than to lay down his life for another, for his friend.” Her voice was low. “I think of you highly. I hope you know me as a friend, too.”
He put her bag into the carriage and then spun to crowd her against the wheel. Tapping the two brass buttons she’d opened to entice the bandit, he drank in her beauty. “May I.”
“Yes. I mean, what?”
Her eyes went wide as he buttoned the first one, then the second. “No one sees you but me, Ester. I’m claiming this figure that has me intrigued beyond a mere distraction. Don’t risk yourself, this loveliness. I’m not worth that sacrifice.”
“Maybe you are to me.”
“Because you’re in love with an actor on the stage?”
“Maybe. But the man, the one who promised he’d come at five minutes after twelve, the one who I knew wouldn’t truly leave me with a highwayman, has me in a serious state of bliss. I’m in serious like for Arthur Bex.”
At this moment, he wished he were Arthur Bex, the one she saw with her topaz eyes. His throat tightened a little. “There is a coaching inn another hour or two ahead. We’ll send word of the highwayman’s capture. No doubt, he’s taken advantage of others. He has to be a wanted criminal.”
“Good, and you’ll tell them. You’ll be a hero. And no one will think it’s my fault.”
He dove his fingers into her loosened hair. Her tresses were silky with heavy curls. It was something to clasp, perhaps strong enough to keep them bound together. “You think they will blame you because you’re Blackamoor?”
She backed away, moving from his hands that wanted more of her.
Fingers working fast, smoothing her locks behind an ear, she nodded. “Yes, and I’m also a woman. The rules are always different for us.”
“They shouldn’t be.” He took her back into his arms and held her for a moment, then lifted her to the padded seat. He climbed up next to her. Before he could stop her, she reached for the reins.
“I could drive for a little longer, Bex.”
“Oh, no. I’m wide awake now.” He’d lowered his tone, but it was too late.
She drew back from him.
“Sorry, Miss Croome, but I’ll drive.” He forced the horses forward. “My emotions are a bit scattered. I need the hum of the road to collect myself.”
“Your voice, Bex. You sound quite angry.”
“I’m angry at myself. I put you at risk. I made you feel as if you had to coerce this man to spare me. I’m not worth your safety.”
As the phaeton moved from grass to the gravel path, Ester looked small again, deflated. It was a long time before she took pins from her pocket and finished righting her hair.
Prim and proper again, and he felt more the heel. He was a good actor; he had to be able to make her smile again. He smoothed the edges of his temper. “Ester.”
“Yes, Bex.”
“Have you done any theater? That little performance was quite good. Makes me wonder of an encore.”
“You were in danger, and I went with the myth about Blackamoors and mulattoes being loose and wild. The horrible man fell for it. I only wanted you out of harm. I knew you could figure something out if a gun wasn’t being waved in your face.”
“Well, save the theater for me. I’m the actor in the family. But thank you for caring so much, so soon about me, Arthur Bex, the man.”
It took about a mile before she offered a hint of a smile.
He put his eyes back on the road, not this mysterious girl who’d just risked everything for him. The countess would never have risked herself like this. That one surprise dinner with Phineas in tow, the woman had detailed their every argument and had even seemed to side with the reporter, asking questions about Arthur’s past. She had even cast doubts on his sincerity about his push for abolition.
But the countess hadn’t known the truth. He had certainly not shared the haunting memories that never went away.
A glance at Ester, fidgeting with all her buttons done, made his chest swell. She was with him even to her detriment. Her loyalty couldn’t be questioned. If he opened more of his life to her, would her sympathies remain?
Part of him wanted to confess to her now. Yet, his healthy skepticism screamed, don’t do it, remember how you were shunned. The stakes had risen. He wouldn’t merely be losing someone he found attractive, but perhaps the only person who found him worthy enough that she’d risked her life to save him. That kind of person was too rare. No, he’d not gamble and lose her over things long buried in the sea and in Liverpool’s prisoner’s field. Arthur didn’t think she’d smile at him, not even a hint of one, if the horrid deeds of his uncle became known.
…
Ester sat back against the seat, waiting for Bex to come from the main building of the Travelers Coaching Inn. The noon sun burned outside the limestone walls of the stables, highlighting the pink and gray blocks. She was grateful for the shade and the quiet of the stable hands. No questions about who they were o
r why, only silence and hard work scrubbing lathered horses, strapping in fresh ones.
The hearty scent of fresh hay overcame that of stale horses and muck. She felt comfortable enough to close her eyes, but she couldn’t. She had to wait for Bex to come back with two rented rooms.
“What city are we near?” she asked one of the grooms who stared at her.
The young man swiped at his light brown hair. “Close to Sheffield.”
It was a place she hadn’t heard of, but it didn’t sound like any city near London. Maybe they were making progress, getting closer to Gretna. Too afraid to ask how far Scotland was from Sheffield and give away their plans, she dipped her head.
Ester inhaled long and deep. Creating a distraction for Bex to subdue the highwayman was the craziest thing she’d ever done, save eloping. What else could she have done, seeing that gun pressed to Bex’s temple?
Never could she sit by and hope things would get better. She had to act, even if it meant pretending to have more courage than she really did. Her hands shook as she clasped her elbows, remembering the fear that had wrapped around her as she’d chosen to dance for the gunman. If Bex had been anyone other than an honorable man, Ester would be dead, or worse than dead.
“All finished up,” the groom said as he clunked his brush in his pail and moved on to another carriage.
She watched the metal bucket slosh soapy water as he carried it away. Could she be envious of a brush because it soaked in water that she imagined was warm and soothing? If Ester were home, she’d be in her room atop her big canopied bed, waiting for her turn in the copper bath. She’d be the second to use it, after Mama, as was her rank in the household of Nineteen Fournier. The sides of the copper tub would still be warm, and Mrs. Fitterwall always brought Ester fresh water.
Curling deeper into the seat and the silky shawl, she closed her eyes. The care of everything drifted away except her hope that Bex would hurry to get them rooms.
The carriage rocked, and when she opened her sleepy eyes, the Travelers Inn was disappearing in the distance. It took at least another minute for her weary soul to realize that there would be no bed, not now.
She forced her eyes to open and focus on Bex.
His hat had been tossed to the floorboards, and his handsome face seemed blank.
Her heart beat hard, and she bolted up. “Did you get in trouble over the highwayman? Are we on the run?”
“No, for his capture, I was thanked.”
That feeling that he was leaving something out pressed at her middle, grounding the butterflies inside that had taken flight upon seeing Bex.
“I can’t stand it.” Bex said, “You’re a wonderful woman, Ester Croome. You risked your life for me, but no single room for you. It’s not fair.”
“So, you think I’m wonderful.”
He turned to her with a forehead riddled with lines. “Is that the only thing you heard?”
“It’s the only thing that matters. Sleeping inside a horrible small inn does not mean as much as hearing you say I’m wonderful, Bex.”
With a shake of his head, he turned back to the road. “Women.”
Almost grinning, she settled back down on the bench but found his arm scooting her closer. “It’s only fair. Put your head on my shoulder if you can reach it. I used you for a pillow yesterday before our highwayman. I still think you shouldn’t have put yourself at risk. Now have at me.”
She trembled at the teasing command, worse than any shiver she’d tried to suppress. “Once we are married, things will be better. We’ll get to know each other without all the differences of our worlds coming between us.”
“Ester, is this what it’s like for you and your friends outside of London? Denial of your humanity? Being treated worse than a criminal?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes it’s that way in London. We mostly try to stick to our own. We don’t venture too far from London, not without setting up the trip far in advance. Some will refuse, but others won’t care because our money is gold. That’s the only color that matters.”
She could hear the fury growling in his chest, and in his eyes she saw the want of something, or perhaps the haunting of being powerless. Then she remembered waiting for Papa to come home, waiting to hear his snores. She hated that feeling, but it was too common, too ingrained in her soul.
Ester sighed. “Bex, this is how it is. I’m grateful for what I have, for you. You look at me and your mind doesn’t see foreign or exotic, or loose morals. Hopefully, all you see is a girl going with a boy to Gretna Green to marry and live happily ever after.”
“I see that, but I also see the injustice, and it burns. Prince William, the new king’s own brother, is rumored to have kept his enslaved lover offshore because she’d be free if she stood on our soil. Things must change.” He swiped at his neck as if it was bathed in heat. “Perhaps when abolition is law in every part of this world, then this attitude held by the innkeepers will change, too.”
“It’s so difficult to change the world, difficult and dangerous. Bex, I just want to know you’ll return to me safely.”
His fingers massaged the tired muscles of her shoulder. He made the horses move so smoothly it lulled her. Her eyelids grew heavier.
“I’ll take better care, Ester. Definitely take better care of you. But I won’t stop speaking out against enslavement, not until it is done.”
“With your dreamy voice, and some well-placed providence, all things are possible.” Another yawn pushed out. “Will you promise to think about your safety?”
“Let’s talk on this later. Sleep, my sweet fiancée. I’ll wake you at the next coaching inn. Maybe we’ll have better luck then.”
Bex’s idealism was heartwarming, but Ester saw the world as it was, not as she wanted it to be. And people like Bex, they got hurt with their do-gooding. She didn’t want him hurt, and she didn’t know how many times she could see him get knocked down, put in his place.
“Sleep, Ester. Know that you are safe with me. We’re halfway to Scotland.”
Blinking, she snuggled against his thick arm. His voice sounded so comforting, like it always had on stage, but this was only a moment in time, a respite between storms. Halfway was a point of reflection. There was time to change minds, to come to new understandings.
Ester wanted to marry Bex, but if he persisted in putting himself at risk, how could she stand it? Marrying her might not be best for him, his career, or even his safety. And she cared about him enough to protect him, even use the money Theodosia gave her and take a coach back to London. That would save Bex, but what about Ester?
How could she live with the shame of almost eloping, of being that brazen girl who ran off with an actor? Frederica struggled with the stigma of being a loose woman because of her courtesan mother, but nothing would save Ester from the cuts-direct, the awful whispers, the hurt of seeing Mama’s proud, crestfallen face.
There was no escape, not now. Ester would be branded low, as if Bex had taken a heated iron and smote the words on her forehead. She’d enslaved herself to this path by eloping,
“Ester, you don’t look like you’re sleeping. You look pensive.” Bex’s voice was soothing, like hot tea, warm crusty bread, or a dip in a steaming bath. “Do I want to know your thoughts?”
“No.” He didn’t need to hear of her want of a bath or of the need to convince him to take a quieter path and merely focus on his acting so she wouldn’t fret about receiving his bloodied frockcoat and have no hope of him coming home. “The world is dangerous, Bex. Things happened to Papa’s brother, and a few family friends. Their murders never made it into Mama’s papers.”
Bex put his arm about her. “We’ll just have to take more care but keep moving in the right direction.”
She shivered again, and his hold tightened.
Would he ever understand the danger? Would he promise to be sensible? Ester needed to convince him before they took their vows. She wasn’t going to sit on the couch hoping to never hold his battered frockcoat
.
No, that wouldn’t do for Ester at all.
Chapter Eleven
ROCKY ROADS
Arthur drank the hot coffee he’d procured at the last inn. It wasn’t good to drink too much of it, but he had to. They’d gone another full day and night with only stops to change horses and to get something to eat. The strain of it all wearied his soul, but he’d not give up going north, not until they made it to Gretna.
His seatmate nibbled on an apple. Ester’s appetite seemed small, and that smile she’d had at first had waned. Eloping without a plan for how to travel had been foolish. He had never thought it would be so difficult, so draining, but now this was a battle he must win. “Eat some of the mutton stew, Ester. It’s quite good.”
“The apple is filling, Bex. It’s hard to swallow watching you suffer.” She put down her charcoal from the new sketch she was drawing.
“Done with your art?”
“Bex, could I have another go at driving?”
The poor girl asked every time they stopped, and now every twenty minutes or so. “You’ve done enough with the highwayman. That can’t be the highlight of this trip. And I’ll not ruin your buttery soft hands on these straps. Ester, enjoy the scenery. Smell the cooler air.”
“How do you know my hands are so soft? I’ve barely been without gloves.”
“I’ve touched a little; the rest is imagination.”
Her face frowned up, her lovely lips puckering. “Tell me more of your upbringing, Bex.”
Maybe the lack of sleep made him giddy, but she had said something that didn’t involve stopping or letting her drive. “My father was a vicar. I heard he had a voice on him.”
“Well, like father, like son. Who raised you when your parents died?”
There was always a choice in what he confessed to another soul and how bad things would become if his words ended up in the papers. The reporters who had covered his uncle’s trial had made caricatures of Arthur’s testimony—one showing him on the stand, half devil, half human. That image lingered. Though he felt close to Ester, how could he risk her seeing him as such? “I was passed to an uncle who died a few years later. I raised myself. I had to. I don’t want to say more.”
The Bashful Bride Page 12