Chapter Eight
Reunion
Maxine
“Milady, awaken. We’re here.”
I started awake and looked around the carriage.
It appeared it was mid-morning. There were sunny skies, but
(don’t ask me, it was a thing with this world), I felt the freshness to the
day.
And outside the carriage windows, I saw across the wide
sidewalk, the massive, four-story graystone (instead
of brownstone) where I started this nightmare.
We were in Newton.
Allow me to catch you up on the things I’d learned.
First, there was a reason Idina was reserved (and I should
have figured it out myself).
Dad had bullied her, threatened her and demanded she report
everything about me to him in the minutest detail.
She was terrified of him, and she not only liked me, she’d
been a lady’s maid for a while (in fact, her last “lady” had passed away, and
her grief was exacerbating her reserve), thus she explained, “As you know, the
relationship is sacrosanct. You don’t inform on your lady. Ever. I didn’t want
to do that to you, but I didn’t know how to deny him.”
So that explained that.
Next, when you only stop to attend the call of nature, have
a quick cup of tea and a sandwich while the horses on your carriage were being
switched out before you were on your way again, a three-day journey turned into
a day-and-a-half one.
Onward from that, I’d ridden in the more opulent carriage in
which I went to Pinkwick House, doing this with
Idina. Ansley and Dad-not-Dad rode in the carriage behind, with two riders on
horses flanking them, probably as extra manpower so Edgar wouldn’t think to try
anything.
This meant I couldn’t pump Edgar, or Ansley for that matter,
for information so I could continue to ride this wave that seemed to be
breaking my way.
However, Idina wandered off, as it was clear servants didn’t
hang with their “betters” when other “betters” were around (though, once she’d
shared what had gone down with her and Dad-not-Dad, we’d had some lovely
conversations in the carriage, in between jostled bouts of trying to sleep,
that was).
So, while I sipped tea and nibbled sandwiches, I spoke with
Ansley.
Fortunately, he was figuring everything out (translation:
fitting what he was learning to what he knew, even if most of it wasn’t true,
and I didn’t enlighten him, which sucked, and felt like lying, because it was,
and that wasn’t fun due to the fact he was a super cool guy).
This being, after Maxine had been injured, for whatever
dastardly ends Edgar had (Ansley hadn’t figured that out yet), Mom and I had
been banished to Fleuridia and Edgar had faked Mom’s
death.
Incidentally, she’d killed herself in her favorite gazebo by
sitting in it and setting it afire. Now, either the woman was in such pain she
wanted to make absolutely sure that pain ended (though, she did it in what had
to be an excruciatingly painful way), or she didn’t actually kill herself.
Truth be told, Edgar was such a dick, I had my suspicions
that she didn’t.
In fact, I was putting things together too, and I had the
feeling the asshole killed her.
Ansley knew she didn’t, because we were racing to rescue
her.
However, he now surmised her charred body was not
hers, and instead a cadaver, or some poor “street urchin” (his words) that
Edgar used in place of his wife. Taking this further (to myself, in reality, my
this-world mom was dead, and I didn’t like to think of that), since they didn’t
have DNA or other such things they could test, it was easy for him to get away
with something like that.
Considering I was banished in Fleuridia
with my mother through all this, while Ansley ruminated on these things, I
could play dumb.
Sadly, we didn’t often stop to change horses, and when we
were stopped, we weren’t for long, so finding out my mom of this world burned
to death in her favorite gazebo was unwanted, but informative news.
It was also all I got.
Last, this time, unlike last time, when I wasn’t trying to
sleep, or talking to Idina, I’d paid attention on the journey.
They didn’t have signs that announced village names, but
there were ways to find out (like the sign above Sydawell
Mercantile, in what had to be Sydawell). I also saw
bakers, butchers and blacksmiths (obviously) and shingles out for thatchers and dressmakers and coopers.
Most everything was clean and sparkly and had a bent to a
mashup of Disney’s Fantasyland and an exceptionally conceived renaissance
festival.
It was fascinating and amazing to see.
But it looked like the good news was, I’d get one thing
accomplished, having Mom back and Maxine safe wherever she needed to be.
However, now that I could focus on it, my worry was that the
bigger hurdle would be getting us back home.
Which meant I had to ponder the concept we’d have to figure
out how to be there for a while until I could find a way home.
I was no baker, butcher, or dressmaker, and neither was Mom.
But I was the one out free in this world, so I had to do
some reconnaissance and at least know a little something about where we were
stuck.
So I was thinking ahead, even if I couldn’t quite plan
ahead.
Loren, by the by, took off while the servants were loading
the trunks on the carriages back at Pinkwick House.
He swung up on a big steed with a glossy, luxuriant brown
coat and black shading along his nose and around his feet. He tipped his chin
to me with a low, sexy, “Countess,” then dug his heels in his mount and took
off, long cape flying behind him and everything.
It was hot.
I hadn’t seen him since.
Which was a bummer.
That was, it was a bummer until now.
Since he was currently striding across the sidewalk looking
gorgeous wearing tan breeches, a navy-blue coat, a white shirt that was frothy
at the chest (and he worked it), this underpinned by a black waistcoat and
grounded in black boots.
No neckcloth.
I’ll say it again.
Hot.
He came to my carriage door and opened it.
I was suddenly very aware that I still had the hairdo I had
at dinner a day and a half ago.
Though with a “traveling costume” which was a lot like my
last one, except the train was longer, it was a salmon color, and there was
silk frogging on the jacket and around the skirt above where it kicked out wide
in a graceful sweep.
He offered a hand, I took it, and he helped me down the
steps.
When I got to my feet, I looked up at him.
“Hey,” I whispered.
His head twitched, as did his lips, and he replied, also in
a whisper, “Hey.”
“Milady, I’m sorry to interrupt, but…your hat,” Idina
called.
I turned and saw nothing but, suspended in what seemed like
mid-air out the carriage door, the massive salmon concoction that was mostly
stiff netting edged in darker silk binding or ribbon that had a variety of
frills and flips with some feathers sticking out.
I felt myself blush (blush! God!) as Loren reached out and
took the hat (because this felt strangely like he was reaching out and touching
my person), then he offered it to me.
I took it, put it on my head, and now Idina, clearly one to
be thorough, was proffering an enormous, gilded hatpin.
Loren took that too, and again extended it to me.
My cheeks flamed as I took it.
Why was this embarrassing me?
Better question…
Why did it feel so intimate?
It took effort, but I focused entirely on pinning the hat to
my head, because, if I didn’t hit a hank of hair, that pin would hurt.
I managed that, then, as Ansley strolled our way from the
carriage that came to a halt behind us, somewhat desperately, I noted, “I’m
pleased we made such good time, but can we go immediately to where my mother
is?”
At this point, I saw the carriage Ansley was in clip
clopping away.
I glanced around.
No Edgar.
“Where’s Father?” I asked.
“Being taken to jail,” Ansley answered.
Not blushing anymore, I felt the blood drain from my face.
“What? Why? He must—”
“My lady,” Loren said quietly, and I turned to him. “Your
mother and sister were released hours ago when Maitland and I arrived here.”
I stared.
“Your sister’s doctor has been called and will arrive with
haste,” he continued. “We offered your mother a maid, a meal and a bath, but
she won’t let go of your sister and is refusing anything until she sees you. I
have assured her you are well, and your arrival is imminent.”
I grasped the froth of his shirt in my gloved hand. “Where
is she?”
“She’s inside.”
“You brought her here? How was she? Is she okay?”
“Okay?”
“Healthy. Well. Strong.”
“We didn’t bring her here. She was already here. She was
imprisoned in the cellars.”
I stared again, though I spoke through it this time.
“But he…took me on a carriage ride, blindfolded, before he
showed me where she was.”
“I’m afraid, if he did that to you, it was a ruse,” Loren
murmured.
“She was…in the same house with me all along?” I said in a
small voice.
Could that even be?
She was right there?
With me?
While I was Eliza Doolittling, she was suffering in the
basement?
“I’m sorry,” he said in a quiet tone.
It was then I noticed a man who was big and tall and strong,
like Loren, and handsome, like Loren (though not as handsome as Loren),
strolling out the front door to Dad-not-Dad’s townhome.
And I wondered what in good hell I was doing standing on the
sidewalk talking to Loren.
I bound-thighs ran to the steps, up them, past the new hot
guy, and pushed into the house.
“Mom!” I shouted.
“Baby?” I heard from my left.
Edgar’s sitting room.
I ran that way.
And there she was, dirty, disheveled, much thinner than I’d
ever seen her, in a filthy, white nightgown from this world, Maxine in the same
state, clinging to her side.
Right, Mom and I had scrimped and saved and made do and dug
in when necessary, and dug ourselves out when that was necessary. I’d started
working at fourteen to help. We weren’t hard. But we were survivors. We were
tough. We were strong. We endured.
But in that moment, I burst into tears.
I hobbled her way and threw my arms around her.