“Sometimes. Sometimes it’s that way in London. We mostly try to stick to our own. We don’t venture too far from London, not without setting up the trip far in advance. Some will refuse, but others won’t care because our money is gold. That’s the only color that matters.”
She could hear the fury growling in his chest, and in his eyes she saw the want of something, or perhaps the haunting of being powerless. Then she remembered waiting for Papa to come home, waiting to hear his snores. She hated that feeling, but it was too common, too ingrained in her soul.
Ester sighed. “Bex, this is how it is. I’m grateful for what I have, for you. You look at me and your mind doesn’t see foreign or exotic, or loose morals. Hopefully, all you see is a girl going with a boy to Gretna Green to marry and live happily ever after.”
“I see that, but I also see the injustice, and it burns. Prince William, the new king’s own brother, is rumored to have kept his enslaved lover offshore because she’d be free if she stood on our soil. Things must change.” He swiped at his neck as if it was bathed in heat. “Perhaps when abolition is law in every part of this world, then this attitude held by the innkeepers will change, too.”
“It’s so difficult to change the world, difficult and dangerous. Bex, I just want to know you’ll return to me safely.”
His fingers massaged the tired muscles of her shoulder. He made the horses move so smoothly it lulled her. Her eyelids grew heavier.
“I’ll take better care, Ester. Definitely take better care of you. But I won’t stop speaking out against enslavement, not until it is done.”
“With your dreamy voice, and some well-placed providence, all things are possible.” Another yawn pushed out. “Will you promise to think about your safety?”
“Let’s talk on this later. Sleep, my sweet fiancée. I’ll wake you at the next coaching inn. Maybe we’ll have better luck then.”
Bex’s idealism was heartwarming, but Ester saw the world as it was, not as she wanted it to be. And people like Bex, they got hurt with their do-gooding. She didn’t want him hurt, and she didn’t know how many times she could see him get knocked down, put in his place.
“Sleep, Ester. Know that you are safe with me. We’re halfway to Scotland.”
Blinking, she snuggled against his thick arm. His voice sounded so comforting, like it always had on stage, but this was only a moment in time, a respite between storms. Halfway was a point of reflection. There was time to change minds, to come to new understandings.
Ester wanted to marry Bex, but if he persisted in putting himself at risk, how could she stand it? Marrying her might not be best for him, his career, or even his safety. And she cared about him enough to protect him, even use the money Theodosia gave her and take a coach back to London. That would save Bex, but what about Ester?
How could she live with the shame of almost eloping, of being that brazen girl who ran off with an actor? Frederica struggled with the stigma of being a loose woman because of her courtesan mother, but nothing would save Ester from the cuts-direct, the awful whispers, the hurt of seeing Mama’s proud, crestfallen face.
There was no escape, not now. Ester would be branded low, as if Bex had taken a heated iron and smote the words on her forehead. She’d enslaved herself to this path by eloping,
“Ester, you don’t look like you’re sleeping. You look pensive.” Bex’s voice was soothing, like hot tea, warm crusty bread, or a dip in a steaming bath. “Do I want to know your thoughts?”
“No.” He didn’t need to hear of her want of a bath or of the need to convince him to take a quieter path and merely focus on his acting so she wouldn’t fret about receiving his bloodied frockcoat and have no hope of him coming home. “The world is dangerous, Bex. Things happened to Papa’s brother, and a few family friends. Their murders never made it into Mama’s papers.”
Bex put his arm about her. “We’ll just have to take more care but keep moving in the right direction.”
She shivered again, and his hold tightened.
Would he ever understand the danger? Would he promise to be sensible? Ester needed to convince him before they took their vows. She wasn’t going to sit on the couch hoping to never hold his battered frockcoat.
No, that wouldn’t do for Ester at all.
Chapter Eleven
Rocky Roads
Arthur drank the hot coffee he’d procured at the last inn. It wasn’t good to drink too much of it, but he had to. They’d gone another full day and night with only stops to change horses and to get something to eat. The strain of it all wearied his soul, but he’d not give up going north, not until they made it to Gretna.
His seatmate nibbled on an apple. Ester’s appetite seemed small, and that smile she’d had at first had waned. Eloping without a plan for how to travel had been foolish. He had never thought it would be so difficult, so draining, but now this was a battle he must win. “Eat some of the mutton stew, Ester. It’s quite good.”
“The apple is filling, Bex. It’s hard to swallow watching you suffer.” She put down her charcoal from the new sketch she was drawing.
“Done with your art?”
“Bex, could I have another go at driving?”
The poor girl asked every time they stopped, and now every twenty minutes or so. “You’ve done enough with the highwayman. That can’t be the highlight of this trip. And I’ll not ruin your buttery soft hands on these straps. Ester, enjoy the scenery. Smell the cooler air.”
“How do you know my hands are so soft? I’ve barely been without gloves.”
