One more time, Miranda went over the plan with Annabel. “Keep a lookout as I go downstairs. Remember, if lights come on in the house, you’ll need to create a diversion. Start screaming. Pretend there is an intruder. Get the servants to search the rooms. Keep them indoors, to minimize the chances they might spot me as I make my dash for freedom.”
Annabel nodded, long dark hair gleaming in the moonlight. “I’m not totally useless.” Irritation sharpened her tone. “Screaming is my specialty.”
“That’s the spirit, Scrappy,” Miranda said and took a deep breath. “Here I go.”
She pulled the door open, slipped out without a sound. Like a silent wraith, she moved through the house. She’d been practicing, taking the stairs with her eyes closed while the servants were busy with their chores. Now her diligence paid rewards. One, two, three...
Miranda counted out the twenty-seven steps down to the hall, sliding her hand along the polished mahogany balustrade. She kept her eyes open, letting them become adjusted to the lack of light. It would be impossible to see anything in the house, but it might help her when she stepped out into the moonlight.
In the hall, Miranda dragged her feet, in case there was a boot or an umbrella carelessly flung about. She fumbled at the air until her fingers tangled in the fronds of the big potted palm. Three steps to the right. Her outreached hand met the carved timber panel of the front door, homed in on the iron lock.
Slowly, slowly, she twisted it open. Click.
The sound broke the silence, as loud as a gunshot in her ears. Miranda flinched, waited a few seconds. When the house remained quiet, she eased the door open, stepped across the threshold, pushed the door shut behind her and leaned back against it, applying pressure until the lock clicked again.
Ahead of her, the arrow-straight gravel drive and the lawns flanking it loomed dark in the moonlight, the colors flattened to black and gray. Night air enveloped her, soft and warm. It was a small consolation she was making her escape in July instead of the winter.
Gravel crunched beneath her feet as she set off at a cautious run along the drive. After a dozen paces, she turned left, across the lawn. Scents of lavender and roses drifted over from the flowerbeds. Beyond the gardens, Miranda could hear the dull roar of the ocean. Nothing else disturbed the quiet. No sounds of alarm from the house.
But what was that? Another crunch of gravel? Was someone following her?
Like a hunted animal, Miranda froze on the lawn, halfway between the drive and the shelter of the forest. Listen! Listen! She swallowed, a labored movement of her fear-dry throat. For a few seconds, she waited, poised in utter stillness.
Nothing but the steady crashing of the ocean against the cliffs. She must have been mistaken about the sound of footsteps. Bursting back into motion, Miranda darted into the cover of the trees. She had hidden a bag there, smuggling out the contents bit by bit, pretending to be coming out to admire a goldfinch that nested in the big maple by the edge of the forest.
First step completed. She was clear of the house. Next, she’d have to walk four miles to the railroad station in Boston, where she’d sell her mother’s ruby-and-diamond brooch and use the proceeds to buy a train ticket to New York City. From there on she would have to find her way to Gold Crossing, Arizona Territory. Without money. Without the protection of an escort.
But Charlotte had managed it, and so could she.
Her bag was a soft canvas pouch, sewn in secret from a piece of sailcloth. Miranda hoisted it from its hiding place, dusted off the moss and dried leaves and flung the bag over her shoulder.
The thick forest canopy blocked out the moonlight, and she fumbled her way through the oaks and maples, arms held out, feeling her way forward like a blind man. Branches swiped across her face. Twigs snapped beneath her feet.
Her footsteps seemed to have an echo. Twice, Miranda paused, suspecting she might have heard the stealthy sounds of someone following. Both times, the crashing and thudding and the snapping of twigs ceased as soon as she stopped moving.
It must be her imagination, Miranda decided. She had made her escape. She was on her way to join Charlotte in the rough, uncivilized West.
To her surprise, new sensations stirred inside her. A wildness. A sense of adventure. All her life, she’d felt stifled by the constraints that fell upon a young woman in polite society. Now those constraints were gone. She could be whatever she wanted to be.
* * *
Dawn came. Woken by birdsong, Miranda got up from the grassy knoll where she had settled for a few hours of sleep, so she could walk to Boston in daylight. By now, her escape might have been noticed. The footmen and grooms might be looking for her, and it remained imperative to avoid capture.
She brushed twigs and bits of grass from her hair and clothing, then set off walking along the forest path, her body stiff from the rough night, her stomach growling with hunger, her skin itchy beneath the dew-damp gown of black bombazine. As the sun climbed higher, the air grew cloying with heat.
A loud crash sounded ahead, followed by alarmed voices. A public road skirted the edge of the forest. Miranda crept closer and peered between the trees.
A fine carriage, drawn by a matching team of four, had come to a halt. Silver gleamed on the harnesses. A burly coachman in green livery sat high up on the bench. Miranda craned forward for a better view. The coach was listing to one side, a wheel loose from its bearings.
The coachman climbed down from his perch. “Mrs. Summerton?” he bellowed. “Are ye all right?”
“I am fine, Atkins.” The reply came in a calm, refined voice.
Miranda waited. Atkins went to the coach door, yanked it open. He held out not one hand, but both. Puzzled by the boldness of the gesture, Miranda watched, got an explanation as the coachman lifted out a little girl with blond ringlets and a frilly dress.
He repeated the action. Again. And again. Four little girls, as alike as peas in a pod. Next, a beautiful woman emerged. She was fair-haired, dressed in an elegant blue gown tailored to accommodate her rounded belly. She looked no more than twenty-five.
“Thank you, Atkins.” The woman glanced around. “Where is Jason?”
“The footman ran ahead for help.”
Frowning, the woman surveyed the listing conveyance. “How long before we can get going again?”
“Depends on how long it takes to round up help. Once we have enough men to lift up the carriage, it will only take a moment to secure the wheel.”
One of the little girls tugged at the woman’s skirts. “Can we play, Mama?” The little imp, perhaps seven or eight, gestured at the mud on the roadside.
“But darling, you’ll get dirty, and we are going to a birthday party in Boston.” The woman glanced up at the rising sun and wiped her brow with a lace handkerchief.
The four little girls swarmed around her. “Can we play, Mama? Can we play?”
Atkins lifted a wooden stool out of the carriage and propped it on the ground. Mrs. Summerton sank gratefully onto it and gave her forehead another pat with the cloth. Miranda could feel exhaustion coming off the woman in waves.
The little girls darted around their mother, giggling and shoving, as bouncy as rubber balls. The woman closed her eyes. Her body swooned on the stool. The coachman put out a hand to steady her.
Taking pity on the pregnant mother, Miranda stepped out from the cover of the forest. She picked up a smooth pebble from the ground, wiped it clean against her canvas bag and walked up to the group.
“I’m a magician,” she said. “The fairies in the forest sent me to amuse you.”
Miranda