At night, his voice carried through the walls, sometimes raised, sometimes low and vicious. Doors slammed. Her mother’s choked replies drifted up the stairwell, torn between devotion and fear.
Gwen lay awake, listening, her fists clenched in the sheets, counting her heartbeats until the front door banged and his tread faded into the night.
On the second afternoon, as grey light bled thinly through the clouds, Martha entered with a letter on a tray.
“For you, My Lady,” she said. “Just arrived by express messenger. The seal looks unfamiliar.”
Gwen’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of Cousin Edith’s firm, looping script. Her fingers shook as she broke the seal.
My dearest Gwen,
Your letter startled me, but I am very glad you wrote. I will not ask for details you cannot give. It is enough that you feel you must leave.
If you can come to Cheltenham, my door will be open to you. We need a governess for the boys and a steady influence in the schoolroom. You are more than qualified. Your room will be modest, but your independence will be your own.
Come as soon as you are able. Send word when you are on the road, that we may expect you.
With affection,
Edith Fairchild.
Gwen read it twice, her vision blurring. Relief crashed over her so suddenly that she had to sit down.
She had a way out.
“Is it good news?” Martha asked tentatively.
“Yes,” Gwen whispered. “It is everything.”
Martha nodded once, satisfied, though a line of worry creased her brow.
“Do not worry, all will be well,” Gwen added.
Martha’s brow smoothed slightly, before she curtsied and left the room.
That night, Gwen packed only what she could carry without drawing attention. Plain gowns. A few books. Her father’s miniature. The pouch of coins. Eleanor and Arabella had promised to manage the rest: the hired carriage, the quiet questions about service times, the diversions necessary to keep Howard’s attention elsewhere.
“We have one chance,” Eleanor had said. “If he has the slightest suspicion, he will lock you in your room.”
“Or worse,” Arabella had added softly.
They chose a night when Howard planned to dine at his club and stay late. Cordelia was told only that Gwen intended to visit Arabella for a few days. Gwen could not bring herself to say goodbye properly. It would have broken her.
She left the house through the servants’ door at half past nine, cloaked and hooded, trunk already carried ahead by a boy Eleanor had bribed. The hired carriage waited at the corner, plain and unremarkable.
The driver touched his cap. “Cheltenham, miss.”
“Yes,” she said. Her voice shook only a little. “Cheltenham.”
She climbed in.
The interior was dim, lit only by the occasional wash of lamplight as they rattled through the streets. Her heart pounded with every turn, waiting for a shout, a hand on the door, Howard’s voice calling her back. But none came.
At last, the city gave way to sparser houses, then to an open road. The night wrapped around the carriage like a cloak. Gwen sagged against the worn squab, pressing her hands together in her lap.
It was done.
She had left.
