Why shouldn’t she go to Paris? She’d always told herself that she wished to be her own mistress. Surely she would be the most despicable of hypocrites if she didn’t jump at the chance to be free forever not only of her father but also of the earl. It didn’t take long for her to convince herself that only a coward would let such an opportunity slip by.
As she sat now in her darkened room, she recalled the earl’s last words to her about her trousseau. Let him speak smoothly and make his damned plans. Let him do whatever he wanted. He could obtain a dozen special licenses for all she cared. It didn’t concern her. He could, in short, go directly to the devil. She would be far away, free of him.
But to do what, to be what? A vision of herself in a foreign land, alone, rose in her mind. She felt a wave of apprehension and a taste of fear. “No,” she said aloud to her shadowed bedchamber. “I’ll find employment and be quite comfortable. I’m not stupid. I can work and work hard. I’ll survive, and I’ll be free.” She spoke French passably well and had sufficient accomplishments to make a position of governess not out of the question.
She folded a pair of stockings and stuffed them into the portmanteau. She remembered the thousand pounds, obviously given to her father by Julien to pass on to her for a new wardrobe. If only she’d had the knowledge then that she did now. His damned money and she’d spent nearly all of it. She lit a candle and searched methodically through her dresser and reticule. After some moments she scooped up what money she’d found and sat cross-legged on her bed. Uncertain what it cost to reach Paris, she decided it best to be overgenerous in her estimates. This deduction made, she was left staring with some dismay at four guineas. She frowned, but held hope nonetheless. She would simply have to find employment very quickly. And was she not an Englishwoman, one of the liberators of the French, who now loved the English and welcomed them with enthusiasm?
She drummed her fingers and thought of how she would travel to Paris. Though she knew nothing of coach schedules from London to the coast, she reasoned that surely there were such vehicles leaving early in the morning. Once at the coast, she should have no problem finding a packet to take her to France. And how long would that take? She hadn’t the foggiest notion. And once in Calais, or wherever she ended up, how would she get to Paris? Another question to which she had no answer. She refused to worry about it.
She thought of the scandal that would descend from her disappearance. And Julien. He would finally receive his just deserts. He would no doubt despise her and curse her soundly for making him look the fool. But a fool he was for thinking he could snap his fingers and she would docilely submit to him.
Ah, but her dear Harry was quite a different matter. For him, her marriage to the earl meant his colors, a career in a crack regiment. It would be a severe blow. Perhaps he would never wish to see her again. Tears stung her eyes. She was letting him down, and for a moment she faltered. But then she thought about her own life, how all choice had been wrested from her. Sir Oliver would manage somehow to buy Harry his colors, for Harry was, after all, his favored son.
Just before dawn she slipped quietly out of her room and sped lightly down the stairs. The front door groaned in protest, and the sound was so loud to her own ears that she stood frozen, waiting for the servants to descend upon her.
The house was silent. She pulled her cloak closely about her shoulders and the hood over her head and stepped out into the night. She gazed a moment up and down the empty square, clutched her portmanteau tightly, and walked quickly away from the Bellingham mansion.
17
Kate Brandon made her way with forced enthusiasm to the Luxembourg Gardens after quitting her rather dismal room at 47, rue Saint Germain. She sat down on a wooden bench and drew the journal from her pocket. Her attention was drawn to the sound of a child’s voice. She looked up to see a small boy skip past her, with his nanny in pursuit. A gentleman and lady strolled by, their heads close in intimate conversation. There was a small gleam in the gentleman’s eye and a shy look of confidence on the lady’s face. She silently cursed the romantic gardens, heaved a deep sigh, and forced herself to turn back to her unopened journal. She thumbed her way through the pages until she found the advertisements for positions. It seemed to her that no one ever filled the various posts, for the same ones appeared day after day. A butcher’s assistant, a linkboy— ah, a blasted governess. A dark look came over her face on seeing the listing.
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