Fancy Pants (Only In Gooding Book #1) (3 page)

Sydney folded the coat and tucked it in atop the other garments in her valise. “I appreciate your stalwart spirit, Aunt Serena. But you’ll assist me far more by helping me fool them. Just imagine—when they discover I’m missing, they’ll realize the ship departed a day later than they thought. It’ll trick them into thinking I’ve joined you on the voyage!”

Serena rubbed her temples. “Something must be wrong with me. I’m thinking your scheme isn’t crazy—it’s brilliant.”

“Nothing’s wrong. And you know I won’t be acting in the least when I allow the staff here to see how much I miss you. I’ll retire to my room and sneak away to the train at dawn. Hume won’t be back until the next day, so we’ll both be long gone.”

Sydney tugged on the trunk, but it refused to budge. “This has to be with your things. If anyone comes in here, they’ll realize I’m gone.”

Serena traipsed over, turned her back on the trunk, and proceeded to give it a hefty bump with her derriere. The trunk slid several inches on the carpeting. In a matter of minutes, the two of them shoved the trunk into Serena’s room.

Aunt Serena’s remarkable packing skills came in handy. It took little time for her to fill her own luggage. She even managed to call and order the maid to bring up a breakfast tray for two.

Sydney looked at the collection of luggage and dared to hope everything would go off without a hitch. “Thank you for all of your help.”

“Don’t try praising a woman who is fool enough to let you gallop off to certain disaster.”

“Horsefeathers! This is nothing compared to what Mama did.” As soon as the words left her mouth, Sydney regretted them. Aunt Serena always pounced on the least little opportunity to sermonize on the topic.

“And just look at the end result of your mother’s folly! She met my brother and married him the next day, and when she died, she left him desolate. He wouldn’t have died of a broken heart if Crystal had shown the good taste to live. Well, she didn’t, and that’s why you’re here. You wouldn’t have needed to cross the ocean and marry if your mother bothered to stay alive and nab the right man for you.”

“Mama didn’t die on purpose.”

“It was a tragedy. So is this . . . this horrid excuse for marmalade.” Serena placed the tray on the edge of the bed and tutted over the offering. “I specifically ordered things that would travel well. Hume’s staff is as pathetic as the man they serve.”

Sydney didn’t have to feign sadness as she bade her aunt farewell. Fearing a maid would enter the bedchamber and see the empty wardrobe, Sydney couldn’t accompany her aunt to the docks. She barely ate from the luncheon and supper trays the cook sent up. At midnight, the maid gave Sydney an odd look upon her request, but she woke the cook and soon thereafter delivered a breakfast tray. Sydney ate the fruit compote and eggs, then laid the rashers of bacon between the slices of bread. Wrapped in the napkin and stuffed in her pocket, the sandwich would be her first meal aboard the train.

Just before dawn, Sydney reread Uncle Fuller’s telegram.

Funds wired. Pleased to have nephew. No use for females here. Bring
boots, britches, shirts. I’ll provide all other essentials. Regards, Fuller
Johnson
.

Serena assumed the masquerade would end once Sydney reached Forsaken Ranch. Sydney knew different.

One last detail needed to be addressed. Sydney brushed through her hair. Mama’s had been the same shade of chestnut, and Father never ceased to wax poetic on its beauty. Though blond hair was the rage back home, Sydney didn’t mind being different. She stared at her reflection. “Well, I can be different by having short hair, too.”

She picked up the shears. Vanity warred with logic. Gentlemen wore their hair cropped quite close to the head and used pomade, but she couldn’t bear to chop off that much. Compromising by cutting just below the level of her shoulders would be long for a man but short for a woman. Yes, that’s what she’d do. After all, George Washington and Napoleon and Custard— no, Custer—all had hair they could tie back. Sydney steeled herself with a deep breath and snipped.

Nothing.

She hadn’t cut a single strand. Or so she thought until she started to part her fingers. As the scissor blades opened, tresses tumbled down her arm and onto the floor. She stared at them, then looked back at her reflection in the mirror. “No turning back now.” She lifted her chin, pulled another segment of hair forward, and measured it to the shorter length. Halfway though, she studied the woman in the mirror. Long, rich curls cascaded on her left while bluntly clipped strands hung starkly on the right.
That’s who I was—and this is who I’ll become. I’m cutting myself
free
.

The fire sparked as Sydney burned the tresses she’d cut off. After tying the remainder of her hair back with a small strip of twine, she tugged on britches and promptly jerked them back down. The lace at the hem of her unmentionables made a distinct, lumpy line. Hasty whacks with the shears solved that problem. With the flounces gone, her britches pulled up without impediment and hung correctly.

Critically eyeing herself in the mirror, she grimaced. “I’m still shaped like a girl.” Since the shirt was longer than she’d thought, she folded the hem up and bunched it just below the trousers’ waistband. That bulk disguised her feminine shape well enough. Socks and boots finished the ensemble.

Thick, gaudy carpeting muffled the clomping of her slightly too-big boots as she tiptoed down the hall. The heavy valise slid along the banister quite nicely.

Pleased with how well her plan was working, Sydney reached for the doorknob. The massive brass fixture felt cold, and the door was unyielding. Never before had she needed to open more than her bedchamber door. Surprised at the weight of the massive door, she yanked with all her might. It opened quite suddenly.
Shuffle, clomp, thud
. Her boots robbed her of any ability to balance, and she fell in a graceless heap over her valise.

Afraid someone might have heard the commotion, she scrambled to her feet, snatched the valise off the floor, and hastened outside.
The one time a bustle might have come in handy, I don’t
have it on
.

By the time she made it down the brick-lined drive, Sydney wasn’t alone. Oscar, Hume’s whippet, ghosted along at her side. “Go home,” she commanded.

Oscar didn’t obey. He continued to trot as if she held him on a leash. Sydney decided having him might not be such a bad thing. After all, it was still dark outside. “I’m running away, boy. I can’t blame you for wanting to do the same. He ignores you as much as he ignored me.”

Soon a terrier joined them. “Shoo. Off with you!” He ignored her and gave a happy yip. Then a third dog accompanied her. Sydney rounded the corner, took a few more steps, and stopped. Where the fourth mutt came from, she didn’t know. Exasperated, Sydney told them, “I’m trying to be inconspicuous.”

Four furry tails wagged in the air as if to wave off her concerns. The terrier sat on her foot.

“Oh, honestly.” Sydney bent to remove him and ended up scratching between his scruffy, adorable ears. “There, boy. Now you simply must let me go.”

He didn’t budge.

Oscar nosed Sydney’s pocket.

“So that’s the way of it! You’re nothing more than a ragtag band of beggars.” She heard herself and winced.
I sound like a
girl
. Trying out a lower pitch, she said, “This had best be quick.”

No more had she pulled the napkin from her pocket than the dogs crowded in for a bite. One growled at another. “Mind your manners.” To Sydney’s delight, the lower pitch and a distinct edge to her voice worked. The mutt sat and hung his head.

They snaffled up every morsel, and all but Oscar trotted away. “Go home, boy.” He gave her a sad look.

The sound of hooves and the rattle of a carriage sounded on the street. As it rolled past, a man shouted to the driver, “Halt!”

Sydney’s blood went cold.

Chapter Two

It’s him! Yet it can’t be—he’s a day early!
Sydney tamped down the urge to flee. She couldn’t outrun Hume—especially not in these boots.

Her erstwhile fiancé opened the door of the carriage and charged toward her. “That’s my dog.”

Sydney hitched a shoulder. She didn’t trust her voice.

Hume drew closer. The scents of cigars and brandy wafted from him—along with a whiff of a distinctly floral perfume. “Oscar. Go home!”

Oscar slinked away with his tail between his legs.

“Do I know you?” Hume squinted at her.

“Sir,” the driver called to him. “Are you—”

“I’m fifty yards from home,” Hume roared. “I can walk!”

“You owe me a dollar.”

While Hume patted his pockets, Sydney sidled past him. She took pains to sound gruff. “I’m in need of a ride.”

“Jameson Winthrop! I knew I recognized you. You’re Preston’s nephew! Going home again already?” Hume clapped a hand on her shoulder. “Take the boy to the train. This’ll more than cover my fare and his.”

She tugged on the brim of her hat and rumbled, “Thanks.” For a heartbeat, she waited for him to open the door and assist her inside. Sydney immediately realized her mistake, saw to the door, and scrambled in with a complete lack of grace. For the next six months, no one would see to the niceties she’d always taken for granted. The realization only added to her sense of adventure.

Leaning back against the seat so she’d be in shadow, Sydney took one last long look at what she’d be leaving behind. Hume shoved money into the driver’s hand, turned, and swaggered off toward his mansion. Marriage would have been a lifetime sentence of misery, and no amount of money could ever buy love or change that beautiful prison into her home. Relief flooded her. She’d escaped.

Three days later Sydney strode up to the window at the Chicago train station, hoping her gait was a fair imitation of the men she’d been studying. “First class to Austin. Then on to Gooding, Texas.”

“Did you want a sleeping berth?”

She nodded.

“One hundred eighteen dollars and twenty-nine cents.”

Sydney shoved her hand into the pocket of her trousers. Men had no concept of how free they were to stuff things into pockets instead of having to tote around a reticule. She pulled out seven bank notes.

The teller took each bill separately and inspected it. “Planchette paper. They’re all fine. You wouldn’t believe how often people try to pass off counterfeit.” He looked her straight in the eyes. “No one can fool me, though. I can spot a fake.”

Sydney held her breath.
Does he know. . . ?

“Here’s your change, young man. It’ll be just over an hour before your train departs.”

“Thank you.” She looked up and down the station and didn’t see any chewing gum vending machines. Though she secretly thought the men chewing tobacco or gum resembled cattle chomping cud, she decided she ought to chew on something— and it certainly wouldn’t be tobacco. Chewing a wad of gum might make her look masculine. She cleared her throat. “Pardon me. Where are the gum machines?”

The ticketing agent shook his head. “Don’t have any of those new-fangled contraptions. Mercantile across the street carries gum.”

Sydney crossed a busy thoroughfare and hastened ahead in order to sweep open the mercantile door for a woman. “Allow me, ma’am.”

“Thank you, sir.” The lady sashayed inside. While the clerk assisted the woman, Sydney ambled about. In London, she’d been in millinery shops and to a dressmaker’s, but she’d never been allowed to do any practical marketing. This place was a veritable wonderland of items and scents. Such freedom! Sydney took a moment to relish her newfound liberty.

“Your valise will be safe over here by my register.” The shopkeeper held up a basket. “You can fill this with your purchases.”

“Wonderful!” Sydney realized she’d not disguised her voice and immediately coughed. “Pardon me.”

“I have Dr Pepper just behind you. A bottle will cure that.”

Sydney grabbed a bottle and traded her valise for the basket. Jerked beef and Semple’s chewing gum seemed like manly choices. Sydney tried to choose foods that would travel well. Though a pint basket of fresh strawberries looked utterly scrumptious, she bypassed them. Fig Newton cookies sounded delicious. Five more days aboard the train would mean trips to the dining car, but Sydney figured she’d forego a few of those meals. The fare didn’t taste very good, and she might as well save whatever money she could.

Until now, she’d said very little. What women could and would say depended on who was present. Since the first day she’d been dressed like a man, Sydney discovered a startling truth: Men changed how they spoke when a woman was present. Uncle Fuller’s telegram let her know she’d be in the midst of a male bastion. Mimicking the clipped, direct style of communication would be pivotal to the success of her charade.

Listening to what men discussed startled her. And how they’d speak! Somehow, she’d thought they’d discuss family, work, and politics. Rarely did they say much about their families. Men identified themselves by trade or profession. As for politics—Sydney resolved to read newspapers to grasp what they were saying. So far, when men asked her opinion, she’d shrugged. “I’m British.”