Sitting on sheets that had lost the warmth of Adam’s body but teased the scent of his Bay Rum cologne ripped everything wide open.
I didn’t know who owned these tears—Mama, Adam, or me?
I had to get out of this room that now felt too big and empty.
Over my corset and chemise, I yanked on my favorite dress. I buttoned it fast and crazy, missing hooks and holes. There wasn’t time to fix it, so I hid the uneven placard under my shawl.
This, my wedding gown, should be worn with care. Fragile, soft silk, colored in primrose yellow, I’d worn it with pride when I’d become Mrs. Adam Wilky.
Fussing and cussing sounded outside my door. Maybe the innkeeper had found another couple to evict.
I’d wait until the corridor cleared, and then I’d leave.
Quiet. No footsteps. No creaking floorboards.
Locking my heavy trunk, I then struggled with it, and walked out of the room.
I held my breath, tiptoeing with my head up.
Soon I was halfway to the stairwell, too far to turn back. My boldness and pride kept me from retreating. I shifted the trunk and mumbled that I was resilient. I was a Croome as much as a Wilky. That should mean I possessed strength like my papa and shrewdness like Mama.
But I was alone, and none of these notions seemed to stick, not when someone had cursed at me and wished me dead.
Resting for a moment, I brushed at the creases in my dress.
Mama’s hot scolds about lazy bones admonished my soul. The spring muslin gown should’ve been folded, placed with its bodice lines straight on the chair, not tossed with lover’s abandon, without thought or care.
I laughed, a gut-wrenching chuckle. Fleeing for my life had fashionable consequences.
Come on, Ruthy, I said to myself, modeling Adam’s way of keeping me calm. We were only a half day’s travel to London. A few more hours and we’d be at Nineteen Fournier to face my parents. The grief I’d caused shifted through my brainbox, raising questions I didn’t want to think about.
Did we rush to elope?
Had we found love too fast?
Would this passion last?
Yes.
Moonlight streamed through an open window. I headed toward it like a moth, swinging my heavy trunk. I peeked out the glass to get a glimpse of Adam or the carriage.
Nothing.
The light of the stars made the silver band on my finger sparkle. Pride cut through the confusion in my bosom.I am Mrs. Adam Wilky, the wife of a man who understands me better than any. He is worth it. I just need to find him.
I forced my chin to lift, forced my limbs to move, forced myself to believe I’d soon be safe in my husband’s arms.
Meow.
Glowing slit eyes crossed my path.
I ran. The heaviness of my trunk jerked my shoulders. Blinking, I turned the corner and saw nothingness, especially nothing soft or furry or as scared as me.
My sight wasn’t normally bad, but thick-rimmed reading spectacles like Papa’s would someday be mine.
Finally, finally, finally—I found the stairwell, dashed inside, and hid in its blackness.
Back flat against a wall, I filled my lungs and waited.
