His Mail-Order Bride. Tatiana March
be tied to him for the rest of your life.” Her tone hardened. “Of course, you can just let him bully you, and take Papa’s money, and anything else he might want.”
Like always, Miranda knew how to stir up courage in her sisters. Charlotte fisted her hands into the worn fabric of her ancient wool gown. One of Gareth’s petty tyrannies had been not to let them have any money, or buy anything new since their parents died. Up to now, they’d had enough to eat, but Charlotte suspected starvation might be his next weapon.
“All right,” she said. “I’ll go and pack.”
I’ll go and pack. Just like that. The end of one life and a leap into the unknown—perhaps not as drastic as a leap from the balcony into the churning ocean below, but equally frightening to Charlotte.
“But what about you...” She swallowed the lump of fear that clogged her throat. “What if Cousin Gareth takes out his fury on you? He might suspect you know where I’ve gone to and try to beat the information out of you.”
“Beat the information out of me?” Miranda’s tone held scorn. “I’d like to see him try.” She raised a clenched fist. “I haven’t forgotten those boxing lessons I got from the Irish stable lad when I was small. If Gareth lays a finger on me, I’ll punch him right on the nose.”
“I don’t think he’ll bother us.” Annabel spoke slowly, mulling it over. “He is not a violent man, but a scheming one. He’ll see no benefit in harming us. He’ll leave us alone because he’ll be too busy trying to find you.”
“I think the same,” Miranda said firmly. “He’ll rant and rave and then he’ll take off to the nearest Pinkerton bureau and hire detectives to track you down. And that means you’ll have to be very careful not to leave a trail.”
Charlotte suppressed her misgivings. Most likely, Annabel and Miranda were right. Moreover, as the heiress she was responsible for Papa’s money. The best way to protect her sisters was to stop Cousin Gareth from getting his hands on their fortune, and that meant she had to leave, go into hiding, just as they had agreed.
Miranda glanced at the grandfather clock ticking in the corner of the room. “You must be ready to slip out exactly at one o’clock. The servants will be sitting down for their lunch. Annabel will create a commotion in the kitchen. I’ll set fire to the papers on Gareth’s desk in the library. I have a bottle of lamp oil put aside for the purpose. You have less than ten minutes to get out of the house and down the gravel drive and into the shelter of the forest.”
Miranda stopped talking. Her arms came around Charlotte in a fierce hug. For a few seconds, they held on to each other. Charlotte inhaled the familiar scent of the lavender soap they all used and drew courage from the feel of her sister’s warmth.
Then Miranda released her grip and stepped back.
“Go,” she said. “We have no time to waste.”
Annabel took her turn to hug Charlotte, clinging tight with trembling arms. The excitement she’d shown only moments ago had dissolved into weeping. The most sensitive of them, Annabel sometimes appeared high-strung, but it might have merely been her youth.
“I’ll write to let you know where I am,” Charlotte said. She saw Miranda scowl and hurried to reassure her. “I know Cousin Gareth will intercept the mail. I’ll find a way to write and let you know I’m safe.”
Miranda gave a quick nod, blinking back tears. Charlotte was surprised to remain dry-eyed, but she suspected her calm was far from natural. The terror of what she was about to do had rendered her too numb to feel anything else.
“Emily Bickerstaff,” Annabel said through her sobs. “When Mama and Papa insisted you try out that horrible boarding school, Emily Bickerstaff was the nearest you had to a friend. If you write to us under that name, we’ll know it’s you, and we can read between the lines.”
“Excellent suggestion,” Miranda said. “Take note of that, Charlotte. Write to us using the name Emily Bickerstaff, or mention her name in the letter.”
“I’ll remember.” Charlotte forced a shaky smile for the benefit of the weeping Annabel. Sometimes they forgot that when their youngest sister managed to control her volatile emotions, she was the cleverest of them all.
Miranda went to the door, eased it open and glanced down the hall once more to make sure no one had been listening. Turning to look back, she signaled with her hand. Charlotte walked out of the parlor, her heart hammering against her ribs as she headed along the deserted corridor toward her bedroom. If things went badly, the sisters might never see each other again.
* * *
Charlotte stood waiting by the tall window in the hall, hidden behind the thick velvet drapes. She wore leather half boots, a pale gray blouse, a green wool skirt and a jacket to match. Her oldest clothing. Something to blend in with the crowd. She’d packed a small traveling bag that contained a pair of kid slippers, two extra sets of underwear, a nightgown, another blouse, and a few toilet articles and personal treasures.
The clock chimed to announce the full hour. One o’clock. Charlotte strained her ears. A few seconds later, a high-pitched shriek came from the direction of the kitchens. Then a hysterical voice yelled something about a mouse. Well done, Annabel, Charlotte thought. A rodent would send the servants scurrying.
She could hear more voices, this time from the other end of the house. Masculine shouts. Then the tinkle of breaking glass and the acrid smell of smoke. Charlotte took a deep breath and emerged from behind the curtain. She hurried to the front door, unlatched the lock and darted out and clattered down the stone steps, speed more important than moving without a sound.
Her running footsteps crunched along the gravel drive. Arrow straight, the drive seemed to stretch ahead endlessly. In the sky the clouds had thickened, and were now shedding a fine drizzle that bathed the landscape in a curtain of mist.
Charlotte veered left, across the lawns, toward the forest. Her heels sank into the soft earth. The wide brim of her bonnet protected her face from the rain, but she could feel the dampness penetrate her clothing. Already, her skirts were heavy and clinging, hampering her speed.
The line of trees ahead formed a green wall that didn’t seem to get any nearer as she hurtled along. Her bag bounced against her thighs, a painful slam at every step. She didn’t dare to look back over her shoulder to see if anyone was watching. She simply ran, legs pumping, muscles straining, skirts flapping. It seemed an eternity before she reached the thick canopy of the forest and dived into its shelter.
Her heart pounded, partly from fear, partly from the effort of the wild dash. She paused to catch her breath, and finally turned around to survey the house. Mist hovered over the lawns, but there were no signs that anyone had noticed her escape. Through the library windows she could see an orange glow, already fading.
Charlotte turned around, forced her way deeper into the forest. It was less than a mile to a streetcar stop, but she didn’t dare to take local transport. People might recognize her, remember her. She’d obey Miranda’s instructions and walk all the way to Boston. Four miles. Charlotte gripped her bag tighter in her hand, ducked between branches and set off through the forest, making her way south toward the city.
* * *
Twilight was falling when the train pulled in at the railroad station in New York. Charlotte gripped her leather bag in one hand and climbed down the iron steps from the second-class car of the New York and New Haven Railroad Company train. She came to a halt upon the teeming platform and swept a frightened glance around.
So many people. So much noise.
Porters dashed about, pushing through the crowds. Relations welcomed passengers with joyful greetings. Street vendors hawked their wares. Dogs barked. Beggars cried out their pleas. Street urchins raced about, yelling at each other. The cacophony of sounds filled her ears, booming and relentless, like the trumpets of doom.
The journey had taken her two days, even with the trains rushing along at speeds in excess of twenty miles an