I loosened my death grip on the ledge and clasped my thumping chest.
Not caught.
Not mocked by Markham again.
Not falling or tipping over . . . yet.
Breathing in and out, I swung my feet as if I sat on the docks watching ships come into Demerara. For one moment, the air smelled fresh like the sea. To go home with Lionel, that was my dream now. And we would be happy and safe, no longer sneaking and hiding, no longer living under rules that made no sense.
Elated, relieved, I laughed. I’d accomplished tonight’s mission. Lionel was fed, and there was still time to head back to Lady Shrewsbury’s before she discovered her wayward widow missing. I reached over to the window, but the pane wouldn’t budge.
It was locked.
No! No! No.
No?
Three stories up. What to do?
Break the glass and be caught? Bedlam.
Stay here and be caught in the morning’s light? Bedlam.
Jump and be caught dead? The notiondeservedBedlam.
Wait for the ghost of my dream or one of Hamlin Hall’s to come and float me down? Yes, Bedlam again.
Staying here was impossible. I’d have to get help or turn myself over to Markham.
My stomach clenched at the thought of being at his mercy again. If my mother were alive, she’d put a root on Markham so that bad luck would be his and only his.
But West Indian magic nonsense was as bad as English ghost lore, and none of it could explain why Markham kept winning—he had my house, my son, my dignity.
I slapped the ledge. My fingers stung, and my resolve wavered. Better to live and fight another day. “Lionel, your mother’s not crazed. I tried.”
I readied my knife to break the glass, but a flash caught my gaze.
I squinted toward the woods outside Hamlin’s stone gates and saw the light again. I put down my knife and used both hands to cup my eyes.
The pattern repeated, bright to dark, bright to dark.
A signal?
It was steady, like the ones on the big ships slipping through the fogged bay. Could that be Jemina St. Maur sending a warning? My friend insisted on coming and keeping watch tonight. Brave woman.
My risk-taking had endangered my friend.
I couldn’t surrender and save Jemina, too. Markham wouldn’t let me help her.
Sweating through my shirt, I opened my livery. My flailing elbow brushed leaves, the thick English ivy, the long vines I’d admired from the first day Colin brought me to Hamlin. I reached over and pushed at one. It was solid and gnarled like a tree. Like a coconut tree.
Would it hold a reformed tomboy? It was now or never. I wedged a boot into the mortar joint between the limestone bricks.
On the count of three, I’d grab the fat tree trunk.
One.
Two.
