Freedom (9 page)

She started pacing in front of the windows and looked down at the nightdress and robe which were becoming entirely too familiar. It was a beautiful gown, but was so long she had to pull up the skirt in front to keep from tripping on the hem. The matching robe had a full skirt that gathered up to the bodice with a pink ribbon, and it reminded her of something from old Hollywood movies.

Francine paused at one of the windows and looked outside. It was twilight and the western sky was still streaked in yellow and violet. She knew the sky at the back of the house would have most of the remaining light, while the stars above would be glistening brightly like diamonds in velvet. She knew it would be beautiful, and she knew then she had to see it.

Everyone would surely be inside. She took a deep breath and turned, then bolted for the door, not stopping to give her mind a second chance. She ran through the entrance to the private parlor and straight to the wall of French doors that overlooked the balcony and gardens to the west. She stopped in front of one of the doors and held her breath as she reached out to try the latch. It opened easily with a quiet but sturdy click and she smiled. She slipped out, then gathered her skirts up in front of her and ran across the balcony.

Meggie woke suddenly. She thought she heard a door. Sitting up rigidly in the small bed, she placed her hand on the wall that joined the servant’s quarters with the guest bedchamber, then swung her legs out of the bed and went straight in without hesitating to knock; it was empty. She wrung her hands in her skirts. Her eyes stung, her lips started to quiver, and her breath caught in her throat. She had only one job to do: to be there. Wherever Francine was, Meggie was to be there, and now she wasn’t. She had fallen asleep and Francine was gone.

Meggie summoned courage from somewhere deep inside and ran to the bell pull to call for Mrs. Weston.

“She’s gone, ma’am, I’m so sorry! I only just closed my eyes, but she’s gone and I do not know where!” Meggie cried when she came to the bedchamber.

“Oh, Meggie, we must find her before His Grace finds out. Go gather the others, go!”

Meggie stared at her.

“Go!” Mrs. Weston yelled, pushing her toward the door.

Francine was a flurry of white. She’d seen stairs at both ends of the long balcony so she knew it didn’t matter which way she went. She placed one hand on the stone balustrade and followed it to the end and down the sweeping staircase that curved its way out from the house, mirroring the other. The stairs surrounded a large terrace like protective arms and she descended the lower steps from the terrace into the gardens.

She suddenly realized how much her body and mind had been starved of movement. She’d made her escape and she was going to enjoy her moment of solitude in the moonlight, consequences be damned. She ducked behind a hedgerow leading to a tunnel blanketed in vine roses. The moonlight made the pale blossoms glow like lanterns, and the surreal landscape propelled her further down the lane.

Dr. Walcott watched the evening light wane through the western window, then turned back to his patient. He dabbed at Lilly’s wounds with fresh linens, methodically pulling debris from the deeper cuts. Then he flushed the wounds with enough water to remove small fragments before putting salve and fresh linen over each one to protect them and keep them from drying out.

He worked half the night on her face, neck, and shoulders. He decided to simply cut her hair, to save the pain of brushing out the horrible tangles. She must have had clothes on at one point because there were no abrasions around her torso, but once he started cleaning her legs he noted that the gashes on her thighs were a great deal worse. He leaned back in the chair, rubbing his temples with the heels of his hands as he glanced over at her mother. She sat on the opposite side of the bed, her head resting on the pallet next to Lilly, more likely from his laudanum than her exhaustion. He bent back over the girl, picking up right where he left off.

Mrs. Weston watched Roxleigh from a passageway. The others started to move but she held them back with her finger at her mouth. A few minutes later, Roxleigh left the library and ascended the steps going to the door of the private parlor. He opened the door slowly—presumably to make sure his guest was not in there.

She rushed out of the passage as soon as he was safely in the parlor, ushering the other servants with her. “All right then, let’s see to this. Meggie, you go wait in her room and ring if she returns. Davis, you go check the grounds, but don’t go out back because the master will see you if you’re out in the gardens. Ferry, you keep a look out for His Grace. I’m going to the lower north wing. Carole, you take the south.” She paused after hearing a noise in the parlor and then quietly directed the other servants down various hallways, up and below stairs. At last she shooed everyone into action, watching them scatter like mice from the light.

Roxleigh ambled across the parlor to the French doors. The moon was out with the stars, waiting for the sun to take the last streaks of gold below the horizon in the west. The chill of early spring was starting to wane in the evenings, and this night was unseasonably warm, making it a rare one that was more midsummer than spring.

He opened the door and stepped onto the balcony, taking a deep breath. A scent captured his attention and he stilled, scanning the gardens. He caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye and left the book he’d brought from the library on the wide balustrade. He hurried down the stairs toward the hedgerow. Nobody would dare enter his maze at this hour; it wasn’t safe. Only he knew the layout
.
He heard a quiet laugh carried to him by the breeze, and his eyes widened. It had to be her.

Francine laughed as she ran without consideration, her skirts gathered up almost to her waist, allowing her strong legs their freedom. The breeze through her hair lifted her spirits, the realization that she’d escaped the manor and was doing something reckless more than exhilarating. She felt like she’d shed all of her previous life’s trappings and was free, finally free. She let out an excited cry that sounded more like a chirp through her wounded vocal chords and bolted around another corner, nearly losing her footing on the soft grass. She was ridiculously giddy and didn’t care if she never came out of the gardens or returned to her stuffy old life. She felt drunk and wildly out of control as she ran through tunnels and around corners with no regard for where she was headed.

What would those prim and proper people think of me running willy-nilly through the garden in a nightgown and no shoes?
She stopped abruptly.
If I get caught, he’ll send me away.
Taking a deep breath, she forced the thought from her head before continuing on.

She was gasping hard and felt a stitch in her side, but she kept going: right, left, left, right, until she turned a corner and ran straight into what felt like a fabric-covered brick wall. She bounced off and was thrown back against the hedge wall. In a daze, she let go of the hem of her skirts and tried to catch her breath. Large hands seized her waist.

“No!” she cried as her breath hitched and she twisted in the grip. She tried to get a leg up to kick her attacker but he was too close, looming over her and backing her up against the hedge. She couldn’t see his features, shadowed by the moonlight at his back, and she started to panic. Then he spoke.

“Quiet,” he said. “I came to help.”

She stilled instantly and looked up, straining to see his face as her ears pricked at the voice she knew she’d heard before. “No,” she said gravelly.
Why him? Of all people to find me, why him?
“I’m fine,” she whispered. “I just needed to get out.” She tried to clear her throat. “I’ve been trapped for so long. I just thought—”

His head tilted toward her as if to hear her better.
“You just thought— What?” he asked impatiently, cutting her off. “You just thought you would streak madly through a labyrinth you’ve never seen, in the dead of night, laughing like a madwoman the entire way? Is that what you thought?”

“No, I— You don’t understand.” She tried to wriggle free of his steely grip. “You need to let go of me!” she said as her voice broke, angered by his rigid hold. She tried to clear her throat but it tightened.

He released her and backed away, taking her hand. “This way.” He moved before she was ready and she tripped as she tried to grab her skirts with her other hand. She could hardly keep up with his pace, but his strength pulling her through the turns helped her to regain some of the reckless freedom she’d felt earlier, save the guiding hand on her wrist. She covered her mouth with the edge of her skirts to stifle a heady giggle as he pulled her into a small clearing and let go of her abruptly, then strode a few feet away.

The clearing was circular and had several openings leading back into the hedgerow. In the center was a large white marble fountain with several terraces spilling water down into a raised pool at the base. She wanted to put her tired feet in, but she looked at the stiff back of the duke and thought better of it. She started to make a mocking face at him, but froze at the sight of tension stiffening his shoulders. He shoved his hair back from his face. She clasped her hands in front of her waist as he turned to face her, standing straight and tall.

“I apologize that we have not been, and now will not be, properly introduced. I am Gideon Alrick Trumbull, tenth Duke of Roxleigh. You have been a guest at my estate since an unfortunate accident. You ran from my wood, into my meadow, startling my horses and causing the death of an unknown foxhound.” He paused, one eyebrow arched. She shook her head after a moment and he continued. “Mrs. Weston has been keeping me apprised of your continued recovery. It appears to me that you are, in fact, well recovered, since you are able to run haphazardly through my hedgerows with no regard for your safety. Now, why don’t you tell me something of yourself?”

He challenged her with his gaze, with his stance—his legs spread slightly, his hands clasped at his back, his spine straight and his shoulders rigid. She exhaled slowly, gawking at the vision before her. But she advanced toward him, carefully attempting to speak.

“Well, um. Hmmm.” She tried to clear her throat once more but failed. She patted it gently with her fingers then tried again. Finally she whispered. “My name is Francine Larrabee, and I have no idea how I came to be in
your
wood, on
your
estate, or under
your
horses,” she said sardonically as she returned his gaze head on.