The thin slats of wood were blackened with age but the vines climbing it were thick and nearly reached the roof. Which meant it must be sturdy.
Didn’t it?
Furthermore, the crisscrossing rungs made for an almost perfect ladder. Was this a sign?
With her heart racing, she stepped back and paced to the opposite side of her chamber and then back, grasping the bedpost when the floor seemed to shift beneath her feet.
Her father’s slap had left her dizzy. The rest had left her overwhelmed.
All of this was too much. She was not the sort of daughter to jilt the man her father wanted her to marry. She wasn’t the sort of lady who’d run out of her own wedding, throw herself into a strange man’s carriage, and now contemplate climbing out her bedroom window.
Or am I?
A subtle force she recognized from the moment she’d fled the church rose inside her again. She was not willing to give up yet.
But she needed to make a decision, and she needed to make it quickly. Climbing down that trellis might very well be her last opportunity to take control of her own life.
She’d fled the church instinctively, almost as though another part of her spirit had taken over her body. Should she trust it?
With nothing but the clothing on her back, she’d acted in self-preservation, and yet, by not devising a plan beforehand, she’d ultimately failed.
Nia gingerly touched her cheek. It would bruise. And the ringing in her ear persisted. But she did not regret having fled. By doing so, she’d bought herself some time.
She only regretted trusting Lord Westcott.
This time, she would only trust herself. And she would be smarter.
Casting a swift glance around the room, her gaze landed on her bureau. She had not packed all her belongings into those trunks. No, she had left seemingly unimportant items behind, baubles that held no special meaning. But would they be useful to her now?
The top two drawers, she knew, were empty. Hurrying, now that she’d made her decision, Nia lowered herself to her haunches and jerked open the drawer she’d rarely had cause to open—the bottom one. She’d not even bothered to consider the contents while packing—nor had Mrs. Jennings.
Her mind raced as she rummaged through it.
An old drawstring bag she’d used as a child was folded neatly, hidden beneath two gowns she’d intended to go to charity. Both could come in handy.
And in the back, stuffed into an old wooden box, a collection she’d all but forgotten existed. A ring she’d worn when she’d been a little girl. Even if it was only made of paste, she had no doubt the metal was gold and would be of value. A few guineas lay flat on the bottom.
Nia stuffed it into the bag and then found what she’d originally sought—a string of pearls left to her by her father’s mother. She would not leave unprepared this time.
Nia had no idea how much a ticket to cross the Channel cost, but she would need more than a few guineas. The pearls, she knew for certain, held real value. She tucked the necklace into the bag and shook out the more muted of the two gowns.
She couldn’t very well make her way to the docks wearing the same gown she’d worn while sprinting down the aisle of the church. This time, if she expected to make a successful escape, she needed to avoid drawing unwanted attention to herself. She needed to look like a normal miss, not the Duke of Dewberry’s runaway bride.
Wrestling with the laces at her back, she loosened them just enough to wiggle out of her blasted wedding gown and then donned the older frock. She stuffed the second one into the bag and tied it closed.
It wasn’t much, but it was more than she’d had earlier.
Ideally, she’d have a discreet hooded cloak and a pair of comfortable half-boots, but the day before, she’d thoughtlessly tossed those very items into her trunk.
The dull green gown and her wedding slippers were going to have to suffice for now.
But already, too much precious time had passed. Someone could come for her any second.
Not allowing herself time to reconsider, Nia hitched the bag over one shoulder, pulled the window open wide, and shoved one leg through so that she was straddling the sill. With a little wiggling and stretching, stepping onto one of the rungs was easier than she’d thought it would be. The wood groaned but held secure. Ignoring all of her former governess’s instructions on propriety and manners, training that incorporated lessons on obedience to her father and eventually her husband, she swung her other foot out and slowly twisted her body so she faced the building.
When it held, she exhaled a sigh of relief. Perhaps this wasn’t going to be all that difficult after all.
And it wouldn’t have been.
