Chapter 42
Chapter Forty-Two
In the week that followed, Elizabeth had come to that in-between time where summer was dead and autumn had not been born. Numb from everything, Elizabeth didn’t think autumn, or any other season, would ever survive. She moved with the soulless existence of the living dead.
She was a prisoner in her home. She had not been able to tell Fiona of the disaster for her longtime friend had been replaced, nor had she been able to communicate with Zachary.
The new maid was harsh, silent, and positioned to guard Elizabeth and watch her she did.
The maid’s arms were the size of tree trunks and her hands the size of Manhattan.
If someone told her the maid could crush bricks with her bare hands, Elizabeth would believe them.
Against a world turned upside down, she had fallen in love. So complete was her love that she would rather sacrifice her own life for Zachary’s, and she’d do it willingly, without hope, earning his hatred for what he’d think was her betrayal.
She had to consider Caroline’s well-being. Her daughter was innocent, vulnerable and unprotected. Dyer had made clear his threats for Zachary and Caroline.
Elizabeth’s mind raced. How could she get beyond the gorilla her parents had guarding her? Her jewels had been sold, so she couldn’t bribe the woman and doubted the woman would ever take a cent. The door was locked. Meals brought to her. How could she escape?
She looked out her window. No way could she jump the distance without breaking a leg. Nothing moved in the moonswept night. Not even a leaf stirred. The street lay heavy, sullen, and empty.
All the feelings of loneliness and isolation heaved cruel and crushing.
How she wanted to finger the firm line of Zachary’s jaw, to take his ruggedly handsome face into her hands and have his reassurance.
In the narrow space of time, so many things had changed.
A hot ache grew in her throat. She imagined his cobalt-blue eyes, once burning with tenderness, replaced with fury and hard as flint.
Her mother entered her room in full wedding preparation mode. For the first time in a week, Elizabeth was moved to a larger bedroom down the hall.
A dressmaker arrived for her wedding gown fitting, presenting several bolts of white silks, taffetas, lace and satin.
Alva shoved a copy of Harper’s Bazaar in front of Elizabeth, opening to three pages of illustrations with the latest bridal fashions from France. “Something like this would be lovely on you.”
Elizabeth stared at her mother’s bejeweled fingers as she pointed to a particular gown.
“It would be made of fine white silk, trimmed with pleated ruffles and folds and sewn in seed pearls,” Alva trilled.
“I have no interest. I’ll show up wearing a sackcloth.”
“I approve the silk ribbons on the waist,” her mother purred to the dressmaker. “And ignore my daughter. She’s overwhelmed with making the match of the century.”
Alva whispered in Elizabeth’s ear. “You are so ungrateful, yet ridiculously lucky to have Rawlins…before your condition shows. It makes my blood boil the way you carried on with that cowboy.” Alva slapped the New York Herald and New York Tribune on the vanity for Elizabeth to see. “They’ve announced the banns.”
Elizabeth’s heart sank so low she could feel her pulse clear down to her toes. With certainty, Zachary had seen it.
Alva straightened. “Elizabeth is barely eighteen inches when she’s laced in a good tight corset,” she affirmed to the dressmaker. And then she said to Elizabeth, “With a plunging decolletage, you’ll bubble-up over somewhat, enough to tempt Rawlins.”
For an hour, Elizabeth stood on a stool while the pin-sticking dressmaker measured and made endless adjustments.
Her heart hammered in her chest. Escape.
As a child, Elizabeth had discovered a fake door in the wall of this room.
It had been her secret refuge away from her mother.
A long narrow hallway led to the back servants’ stairs.
Had the architect placed it there for her father to have a secret rendezvous with a paramour?
Her mother knew naught of its existence.
“Ouch.” A pin skewered Elizabeth, punishing her for her inattention.
“My apologies,” said the dressmaker and showered upon Elizabeth a myriad of fabrics to choose: satin, bombazine, velvet, silk and taffetas. “Mr. Dyer has hired me to make an entire trousseau that is unmatched for his bride-to-be. Nothing but excellence was what he told me.”
And of course, the excellent profit the dressmaker would incur. To add to Elizabeth’s headache arrived a wealth of trimmings, ribbons, Chantilly lace, seed pearls, bows, tassels and braids. If only she could divert the women enough to flee the room. But how?
A strong wind blew against her window, rattling the sashes.
A terrible foreboding touched every fiber of her being, remembering Zachary’s words.
He took a man’s measure, but if double-crossed, he’d be merciless.
To have loved again and then to have his heart fractured.
What would he do to her? A flood of Cheyenne tortures came to mind.
She must find Caroline and then get to Zachary to tell him the truth.
A maid knocked and entered with a missive on a silver tray. “For you, Mrs. Spencer.”
“I must answer this summons right away,” Alva said. “Elizabeth, stand straight so the dressmaker can finish the adjustments.”
As soon as her mother departed, Elizabeth swooned.
The dressmaker was hysterical, fanning the Harper’s Bazaar over Elizabeth’s face.
Elizabeth fluttered her eyes open. The assistant clapped her hands in prayerful pose, ready to shout hallelujah.
The women helped her into a seated position.
Elizabeth fell backward. “Please get me water,” she croaked, “and some food from the kitchen. I’m so lightheaded. I could not eat because of my nerves.”
“Go get what she needs,” the dressmaker ordered her assistant.
“How do I get there?”
Elizabeth smiled inwardly. “Easy. Go down the hall to your right, turn left, make another left at the alcove, descend the stairs, turn right through the lobby, then a hallway to the right. Oh, I forgot. They are remodeling that hallway.” Elizabeth gave another set of confusing instructions.
The poor woman would be lost for eternity.
How to get rid of the dressmaker? “Could you obtain a basin of cool water and a cloth to cool me down? Mother would be angry if I wasn’t cared for properly.” She offered another set of baffling directions.
“Yes Ma’am. Right away.” She moved quicker than a bolt of lightning fearful if Elizabeth fainted.
Elizabeth locked the door, went to the panel in the wall.
Would it open? She pressed and prodded for a latch.
Nothing. Had the panel been nailed shut?
It had been years since she used the corridor.
She bit her bottom lip. Did she not remember?
She reexamined the room. Hurry. Her mother and the dressmakers would return any moment.
Pins sticking in her, Elizabeth dropped to the floor, crawled on her hands and knees, looking for a crack in the wainscoting.
Her finger smoothed over a rough edge, and she followed it up to waist-high gold trim.
She prodded and poked. Where was it? Her finger hit an indentation.
She pressed the serrated groove and the panel door swung open.
Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief, heaved on a dressing robe. She hurried inside and pressed the panel door closed. Total darkness. As a child, she had procured a lantern to illuminate her way. Too late for a lamp.
Cobwebs ensnared her head. She swept them away, proceeding down the dark, dusty hallway, using her hands to guide her along a corridor that passed behind several bedrooms, in fact, the entire width of the house.
She calculated how many steps she’d taken as a child and matched distance-wise her adult steps to get to the stairway. Why did the hallway seem longer?
Her nose twitched with stirred up dust mites and mustiness. Please, no bats or rats. Spiders she could deal with. Using all her senses, she tiptoed with no sound or creak of wood to indicate her passing.
From behind, the sudden hue and cry of her mother and the dressmaker returning, paralyzed her.
They had discovered her missing. Keep moving.
Must find the stairway before the whole house was alerted.
A faint glow farther down the corridor cast a vaporous thread of light through the murky gloom.
At the end, she was blocked by a wall. She faced right.
Her adrenalin spiked. Almost there. She felt through the years of accumulated dust for the latch.
It refused to open. Was it rusted? With every muscle, tendon and sinew, she shoved.
The door popped open. She moved onto the back stairs.
She could not risk discovery. Hurry. She moved down one flight at a time.
Each step tattooed in her mind and came to a door leading to the gardens.
She stepped outside, into brilliant sunshine.
Fresh sweet air burst in her lungs. She congratulated herself on the marvelous rapidity of her escape.
She rushed through the gardens, kept to the shadow of the box hedges, leading to a rear gate.
A little alley lay on the other side. Freedom surrendered just beyond the door.
“Where do you think you are going?”
That voice. Elizabeth whirled.
Dyer smoothed a finger across his walrus mustache. “I have several guards at every exit for your protection.”
Elizabeth wanted to cry, rail against the injustice. She lifted her chin, turned to the house, leaving the dust from her heels.