Miss Hilversham’s Seminary for Young Ladies, Bath, 1820
Just before the first pale streaks lit up the grey morning sky, a gangly youth scrambled out of the top window of Miss Hilversham’s Seminary for Young Ladies in Bath.
His feet sought support against the brick wall as he dangled precariously, clinging to a makeshift rope made of knotted linen sheets. His knuckles grazed the wall. Clutching the rope tightly, he dropped a few metres and jerked to a halt. His leather bag toppled to the ground. He cursed. Then, with a sharp intake of breath, he let himself fall.
He rolled onto the grass and listened—but the house remained quiet. He hastily collected the items that had fallen out of the bag and squashed a mangled top hat on his head. Sucking on his grazed knuckles, he crawled under the bushes to the neighbour’s garden. The house had been empty for months. He opened the iron gate with a creak.
After a furtive look left and right, the boy scurried along the road and disappeared.
Just as the church bell chimed four, a man wearing a massive greatcoat and carrying a lantern and a stick sauntered around the corner from the other end of the street—the night watch.
He threw a probing glance up at the stern, grey mansion house with the Palladian portico. Yawning until his jaw cracked, he proceeded to stroll down the street.
Everything was in good order in Paradise Row twenty-four.
Miss Penelope Shakti Reid,known to her friends as simply Pen, sat in a mail coach to London, her heart thudding violently in her ribcage. She did not know whether that was because she was about to see Marcus soon, or because she’d just run away from Miss Hilversham’s Seminary for Young Ladies, disguised as a boy. She was finally on her way to London. Alone.
Had she completely lost her mind?
Remember, you’re a man now, she told herself, untucked her legs and sprawled them out widely in what she hoped was the indolently languid, masculine fashion of occupying more space than was necessary. Judging from the irritated look from the woman with the cabbage basket who sat next to her, who shuffled aside to avoid their thighs touching, she may have succeeded.
Pen’s coat stretched too tightly across her chest. The trousers were too short, and that annoying top hat kept falling over her eyes. Sally, the maid, had miscalculated her size when she had procured her the clothes. She’d cut her hair earlier in roughshod fashion, leaving it long enough for her to tie together at her neck. The shears she’d used had been blunt, and her short black hair stuck out in all directions. She’d stared at her narrow face in the dim mirror and blinked. The short hair, which she’d chopped off beneath her ears and tied back severely, made her look more masculine. Her eyes were still huge, her nose possibly too dainty, her mouth a tad too long, and there was nothing to be done about those endlessly long eyelashes. But her figure was good. Pen had always been tall and slim. She’d bound her breasts tightly with bandages and worn her corset on top. She made a dapper, if somewhat gangly, youth.
Pen tilted the hat forward, so it shadowed her face. Crossing her arms, she pretended to sleep. After the last stop she really must’ve fallen asleep, for when she opened her eyes, the coach drew into The Golden Cross Inn at Charing Cross, London.
Pen had forgottenwhat London was like.
She did not know what was more overwhelming. The sounds, which consisted of the clattering of horse hooves, the calls of the pedlars and vendors – “Sweep!” “Two a penny!” “Milk below!” and “Four for sixpence, Mackerel!” – or the overpowering smell of the city.
Faugh! How could one breathe in this noxious air? It was a miasma of rotten meat and sweat mixed with the sweetness of freshly baked bread and candied almonds. Now and then a waft of hot air from the Thames carried the smell of fish and faeces, decay, and urine.
Pen gagged.
She stood under the black statue of King Charles I on a horse and clutched her leather bag. Gaping, she watched Charing Cross Road, the hustle, bustle, and congestion.
Which way did she have to go? Right, left, or straight on?
Someone pushed her from behind, and she stumbled over the cobbles and nearly fell into a pile of horse manure.
“Move on, boy, move on,” said a man carrying a crate. “Yer standing in the middle of the street.”
So she was. A coach rattled by closely, and she jumped aside.
She ducked out of the way when a chimney sweep swung his ladder into her way.
“Watch it,” she said, then cleared her throat. Her voice was too high. She’d have to lower her voice and grumble more.
Pull yourself together, Pen, she scolded herself. Anyone will know you’re a clumsy country bumpkin if you continue to behave as you do. Even worse, they’ll unmask you as the girl you are. Recall what you came here to do.
Marcus. She had to find Marcus.
She drew herself up. Walk like a man. Chin up. Chest out. Long strides. With purpose and confidence.
It worked. The little newspaper vending boy jumped aside.
“The Morning Chronicle, sir?” he piped after her.
Pen shook her head.
