“WHAT!” REGAN GASPED, ALMOST STAGGERED BY HIS words. “America is full of boorish, illiterate people who live in log cabins. What is there besides wild Indians and terrible animals, not to mention great, savage people? No, I will not under any circumstances go to that backward place.”
The humor quickly left Travis’s eyes as he rose to come toward her. “You damned Englishwoman! I get this all day from your ‘gentlemanly’ countrymen. I get snubbed because they don’t like the way I talk or dress, or they had a relative killed in a war that happened when I was a boy. I’m getting damned tired of being looked at like something unclean, and I’ll sure as hell not take it from you.”
Backing away from him, Regan lifted her hand to her throat as if to protect herself.
“I’ve tiptoed around you enough, and from now on you’re going to do what I say. If I left a child like you alone here, when it’s quite clear you haven’t a friend in the world, I’d never sleep again. I won’t bore you with what America is when you have such clear ideas of your own, but at least in my country we don’t toss young girls out just because they’re disobedient. When we get to Virginia you’ll have choices of what you can do—something more suitable for an English ‘lady’ ”—he sneered the word—“than walking the streets as would be your only alternative if I left you here.”
Narrowing his eyes, he glared down at her, pressed against the wall. “Is that clear?” He didn’t give her a chance to answer before he slammed from the room, locking the door after him.
“Yes, Travis,” she whispered to the still echoing emptiness.
She was glad when he was gone, since it was quite impossible to think when Travis was around. At least, perhaps, if she made him angry enough, he wouldn’t force her to do those horrible things in bed, and he just might possibly release her if she provoked him. Smiling, she sat down and began to imagine her escape, how good it would be to get away from this boorish American. Imagine! she thought. The very idea of her going to America!
Snuggling in the chair, a quilt around her, she fantasized about what a dreadful place America must be, remembered every tale that had been told to her by a maid whose brother had traveled there and returned with horrible, treacherous stories, all of which the maid had told Regan in gory detail. As the candle sputtered and the room grew dark, she began to glance at the door, wondering when Travis was going to return. Sometime deep in the night, she left the chair and climbed into the big, cold bed, placing the pillows so that she could snuggle against them. They weren’t as good as a large, warm body, but at least they helped.
In the morning, her head ached, and she was in a foul mood. That the American would leave her alone all night, unprotected, and at the mercy of anyone who could get the key to her room made her furious. One moment he made speeches about how much he was going to care for her, and the next he abandoned her to the mercies of any outside element.
Her sulks were interrupted when the door was given a quick tap and then unlocked. Folding her arms across her chest, she tilted her chin up, preparing to let Travis know she was unaffected by his abandonment of her. But instead of Travis’s deep voice came the light laughter of women. Turning, Regan gasped in astonishment at the sight of three women who entered her room carrying great books and several baskets.
“You are Mademoiselle Regan?” asked a pretty little dark woman. “I am Madame Rosa, and these are my assistants. We have come to begin your wardrobe for your journey to America.”
It took Regan several minutes to piece the story together, but it seemed Travis had engaged Madame Rosa, a French emigree and former dressmaker to one of Queen Marie Antoinette’s ladies, to create an entire wardrobe for his captive. Too angry at his presumption to speak at first, Regan just sat in the bed and gave a vacant stare to the women. But as she saw the puzzled looks on their faces she knew she could not let them be on the receiving end of her anger. Her quarrel was with Travis Stanford and not these women who were merely doing their jobs.
“Perhaps I will look at your wares,” she said tiredly, thinking of all the other times she’d been allowed to choose clothes. Her uncle had allowed her to wear pink or blue or white, and the only trim was what she and her maids embroidered.
Smiling delightedly, the designer and her assistants began to spread fabric samples out on the bed. There seemed to be an endless array of colors and textures, most of which Regan had never seen before. There were a dozen colors of velvet, more of satin, linen, at least six types of silk, and dozens of colors in each type. Wools took up one corner of the bed, and Regan marveled at the variety: cashmere, tartans, a long-haired softness she was told was mohair. And the muslins! There seemed to be hundreds of colors, stripes, painted, printed, embroidered, pleated.
Eyes wide in wonder, Regan looked up from the beauty of the fabrics to Madame Rosa.
“Of course, there are the trims,” the woman said, signaling for those samples to be brought.
Feathers joined the fabrics, then satin and velvet ribbons, topped by hand-drawn laces mixed with strings of tiny seed pearls, silver cord, jet beads, silk flowers, gold net, and intricately knotted frog fastenings.
Bewildered, Regan didn’t move but just looked at the glorious colors.
“Perhaps it is too early for Mademoiselle,” Madame Rosa said gently. “Monsieur Travis said we were to get everything done in one day so the clothes can be cut before you are to sail. He has hired a woman to sail with you to do the sewing so everything will be ready when you reach America.”
As her head began to clear, Regan wondered if Travis knew what he was getting himself into; she doubted if a Colonial had any idea of the cost of women’s clothes. Uncle Jonathan had certainly made Regan aware of the exorbitant fees dressmakers charged. “Did Travis ask after the cost of the clothes?”
“No, miss,” the dressmaker said, surprised. “He came to my house late last night, saying he’d heard I was the best in Liverpool and he wanted a complete wardrobe for a young lady. There was no mention of price, but then I got the impression Monsieur Travis didn’t need to ask.”
Opening her mouth and then closing it, Regan smiled. So! The big, brawling Colonial thought he was still in the forests of America! It might be fun to play with fabrics and trims for the day, to pretend to order an extensive wardrobe, and then watch Travis’s face when he received a bill higher than any sum he’d ever imagined. Of course, she’d have the bill presented before the women began to cut the clothes; she wouldn’t want them to lose out when Travis couldn’t pay.
“Where shall we start?” Regan asked sweetly, her eyes dancing as she thought of defeating the braggart.
“Perhaps with day dresses,” Madame Rosa suggested, lifting the samples of muslin.
Hours later, Regan was quite wistful about the whole plan. Too bad she wasn’t going to get the clothes, because she’d planned a wardrobe a princess would love. There were muslin dresses of every color and trim, ballgowns of satin and velvet, walking dresses, a riding habit which made Regan laugh since she had no idea how to ride a horse, capes, cloaks, redingotes, spencers, as well as many nightgowns, camisoles, and lace-edged petticoats. When she finished, there wasn’t a single fabric she hadn’t used and very few colors.
The noon meal was brought to them, and Regan was glad the session was over because she was getting tired.
“But we have only started,” Madame Rosa said. “The furrier is coming this afternoon with the milliner, the cobbler, and the glovemaker. And Mademoiselle must be measured for everything.”
“Of course,” Regan whispered. “How could I have forgotten?”
As the afternoon wore on, she ceased to be astonished at anything. The furrier brought pelts of sable, ermine, chinchilla, beaver, lynx, wolf, and angora goat, and she chose linings, collars, and cuffs for the coats she’d already selected. The cobbler took samples of cloth, planning to dye a pair of soft, heelless slippers to match every outfit, and he described the walking boots he would make. The milliner and Madame Rosa coordinated hats and clothes with the glovemaker.
At dark, everyone’s energy began to fade, especially Regan’s. She felt bad at the thought that the day’s work would come to nothing because no American could possibly pay for all the clothes she’d ordered. She told Madame Rosa she was to submit everyone’s bills to Travis before a pair of scissors was raised, that she should see the money in her hands before she started filling the order. The dressmaker smiled politely and said she’d have it ready first thing in the morning.
When she was finally alone, Regan slumped into a chair, weary from the long day and the constant feeling of guilt. All day she’d known she was playing a game, but the tradespeople were going to be very angry when they learned that their day’s work would go unpaid.
By the time she heard Travis’s heavy footsteps on the stairs, she was feeling quite low—and it was all his fault. The moment he opened the door, she threw her shoe at him, hitting him on the shoulder.
“What’s this?” he grinned. “I thought tonight you’d at least be a little glad to see me. You’re always complaining because you have no clothes.”
“I did not ask you to do anything about my clothes! You have no rights over me whatsoever and especially not to take me to your barbaric country. I will not go, do you hear me? I am English, and I will stay in England.”
“Where all your family and friends are?” he asked sarcastically. “I’ve just spent another day trying to find where you’ve spent your life, and I can find nothing. Damn them!” he said, running his hands through his hair. “What kind of people could discard a child like you?”
Perhaps it was the tiredness from not sleeping well and the exhausting day, but her eyes filled with great, crystal tears. She’d been so angry for the last few days that she’d had no time to think about her feelings at hearing Farrell’s disgust at the idea of marrying her and her uncle’s declaration that he detested her. For days she’d lived in a dreamworld of hoping they would rescue her, but no doubt Travis had gone to their door. Had Farrell and her uncle told him they didn’t know her?
Before she could speak, Travis pulled her into his arms. Pushing him away, she tried to protest. “Leave me alone,” she whispered feebly, but even as she attempted to pull away from him, he held her tightly until she buried her face in his chest, and the sobs began tearing through her body.
Travis wasted no time before he lifted her into his arms and then sat in a chair with her, cradling her like a child. “Go ahead and cry, kitten,” he said softly. “I guess if anyone deserves to, it’s you.”
His holding of her, this stranger who made love to her and saw that she was cared for, when the people who should care for her denied her existence, made her cry harder. Worse than anything was the end of her dreams of being rescued by Farrell, of once again seeing the man she loved. Now she’d never even have a chance to prove to him that she could be a good wife; now she was going to be dragged off to America, and they’d never even know she’d gone.
As her sobs finally began to quiet, Travis stroked her damp hair. “Want to tell me what you’re so unhappy about?”
She couldn’t possibly tell him about Farrell. “Because I’m a prisoner!” she said as firmly as possible, pulling away from his shoulder.
Travis continued stroking her hair, and when he spoke his voice was full of patience and understanding. “I think you were a prisoner before I ever met you. If you hadn’t been, you wouldn’t have been discarded like so much rubbish.”
“Rubbish!” she gasped. “How dare you call me that!”
Bewildered, Travis smiled at her. “I didn’t say you were rubbish, only that someone had treated you as such. What I can’t understand is why you seem to want to return to someone who treats you like that.”
“I…I…no one….” she sputtered, tears beginning again. He had such a crude way of stating everything.
“It’s not so bad being an orphan,” he continued. “I’ve been one a long time. Maybe we belong together.”
Regan looked up at him, thinking that she couldn’t imagine this man belonging to anyone. No doubt, in spite of what he had said, he often kidnapped young girls and held them prisoner.
“I don’t think I like what you’re thinking,” he warned. “If you’re getting any ideas, let me warn you that I take care of what belongs to me.”
“Belongs to you!” she exclaimed. “I hardly know you!”
He smiled just before he brought his lips down on hers and kissed her with such tenderness, such longing, that Regan found her arms going about his neck. “You know me well enough,” he said huskily. “And get it through your head that you are mine.”
“I’m not yours! I’m….” she trailed off as he began to kiss her neck with little nibbling bites, and Regan sighed as she bent her head to one side.
“You are a temptress,” he laughed, “and you’re playing havoc with my work schedule.” Firmly, he pushed her out of his lap. “As much as I’d like to stay with you, I have business to attend to, and I’m afraid it will take me most of the night. Did you know we sail day after tomorrow?”
Head lowered, she didn’t answer him. She felt like such a fool because she’d reacted to him so quickly and so totally. Day after tomorrow! she thought. If she was ever to escape his hold over her, she must do it very soon.
“No goodbye kiss?” Travis joked, standing by the door. ‘Nothing to keep me warm out there all alone?”
Grabbing her other shoe, she threw it at him, but this time he ducked before it hit him. He was laughing as he locked the door behind him and went down the stairs.
At least tonight she was too tired to stay awake, but the bed did seem to get larger each night.
She woke to the quiet thunder of what could only be Travis attempting to tiptoe about the room. Keeping her eyes closed, she pretended to be asleep, even when he leaned over her and kissed her cheek. When he seemed to have left the room, she drowsily listened for the now familiar turn of the lock, and when it didn’t come she sat bolt upright in bed. After rubbing her eyes twice, she was sure that what she saw was real—the door was wide open.
Not another second was lost as she jumped out of bed, slid the velvet dress over her head, and grabbed her shoes. Ever so quietly, she hugged the door with her back as she left the room and went onto the stair landing. Never having seen the inn except for the inside of one room, she was startled to see how isolated the room was—alone at the head of narrow, steep stairs, and, from the smells, at the bottom seemed to be the kitchen. Craning her neck until it threatened to break, she saw what was unmistakably Travis’s leg and high boot near the foot of the stairs. But even as she began to lose hope, a clatter of horses and carriages sounded outside, and a man’s voice cried for help. With great happiness, she saw Travis run for the door.
Within an instant she was down the stairs, through the nearly empty kitchen, where the few employees were intent on the activity outside, and finally out into the bright sunlight of the street.
There was no time to spend on the fact that her feet were bare, because she knew Travis would discover her escape very soon. For now she had to put time and distance between them if she was ever to manage her escape.
In spite of her good intentions, her feet began to hurt too badly to ignore them much longer, and people were beginning to notice her. Slowing down for a moment, she saw a dark alleyway between two buildings, and she made her way there, crouching down between several horrible-smelling wooden fish crates. I must think! she commanded herself, because she knew that without a plan she could never gain her freedom.
Sitting on one of the crates, she slipped on her shoes, tying the laces about her ankles. As she did so, she calmed her racing heart and began to consider her alternatives. She needed somewhere to go, a place to hide until she could get a job, and especially a place to hide until that insane American left the country.
Lost in thought, she wasn’t aware of the shouts in the street until she was practically looking at Travis, his legs spread wide, hands on hips, his profile to her. It was minutes before she realized that he didn’t see her, that he was only shouting orders to the people in the streets. The idea that he’d give orders to strangers renewed her determination to escape this man. Making herself as small as possible, she crouched down among the boxes, praying he wouldn’t see her.
Even when he turned and ran down the street, she didn’t relax or move, because she felt he wasn’t one to give up. No, Travis Stanford was too sure he was right to ever give a thought to anyone else’s opinions. If he’d hold someone prisoner, he’d certainly not let that prisoner escape without a fight.
Remaining in her stiff, uncomfortable position, she tried to come up with a plan. First she’d have to get away from the docks, and the way to do that was always to keep the sea at her back. Smiling, she thought that shouldn’t be difficult to do and was sure she had half her problem solved. The other problem was where to go when she was away from the docks. If she could find her way back to Weston Manor, maybe Matta, her old maid, would know of some place Regan could go.
Hours and hours seemed to pass, yet the sun was still bright, the noise of the docks still loud. Using all her powers of concentration, she tried to ignore the cramps in her legs, and the ache in her back. Twice she saw Travis go by, and the second time she was close to calling out to him. Perhaps it was the pain in her aching body, but she seemed to remember all too clearly the last time she’d been alone on the docks. Of course, then she’d been wearing only her nightgown, and how could she expect to be treated as a lady when she was dressed as a woman of low morals? Now, wearing the elegant velvet dress, everyone would recognize her as a lady, and they wouldn’t dare touch her.
Smiling, her confidence somewhat restored, she tried to twist her hair into some semblance of order. Yesterday the French dressmaker and her assistants had worn their hair short, à la greque, and Regan wondered if possibly she should cut hers. Maybe it would give her an added air of sophistication in her new life—whatever that was to be.
Her musings made the time pass, and when she saw that the sun was setting she felt as if she were about to embark on a great adventure. She had escaped the awful American, and she was free to go wherever she wanted.
Slowly, painfully, she left her crouch, shaking her tired legs, and letting the blood return to them as she put her weight on them. As she stood erect, she realized that her feet were cut and the sores inside her shoes were covered with dried blood, which broke apart when she took her first step.
Pulling her courage together, she stepped toward the darkening street. A lady, she reminded herself. She must carry herself like a lady and not let a little thing like lacerated, swollen feet make her limp. If she kept her shoulders back, her spine straight, her chin high, no one would bother her—no one would dare molest a lady.
