Back Roads to Bliss (Saskatchewan Saga Book #6): A Novel (6 page)

Allison’s eyebrows lifted with surprise. Her lips curved with pleasure.

“A ball,” her mother said, watching her daughter, “that will launch you into society—”

“Uh—Midbury society?” There was instant scorn in Allison’s voice. For a moment it appeared that she would fling back the covers and expose her fully clothed, indignant self.

“—and be a springboard to marriage,” her mother continued calmly. “A proper marriage. With your father’s money and my connections, you should do very well for yourself. We have high hopes for that, you know, Allison.”

Letitia clearly hinted at matters of great import, and though Allison managed to control herself, subsiding and clutching the covers to her, rebellion filled her heart. Was there anywhere in the entire world a woman . . . girl . . .
was free to make her own choices? It was narrow-mindedness such as this that was forcing her into the scandalous alternative of a Gretna Green marriage!

“Think about it, my dear, during these hours when you have nothing else to do.” Noting a disturbing tightness in Allison’s face, Letitia emphasized, “It
is
coming; it
will
happen, in case you have any silly, girlish thoughts otherwise.”

Well pleased with the outcome of her visit, Letitia stooped and laid a cool kiss on her daughter’s forehead. “I’ll see you in the morning,” she said and swept from the room. Sarah, quiet throughout the entire performance, remained.

About to rise from the bed, Allison was stopped by the accusing look in her younger sister’s eyes. Arms akimbo, mouth tight, Sarah looked the picture of disapproval.

“What’s the matter?” Allison asked crossly.

Sarah shook her head.

“Speak up, Sister! Has the cat—Miss Mouser—got your tongue?”

“I was just listening to you, Allie. Listening to you and your lies—”

“Are you back to that dreary subject again? I thought we covered that before. It’s all in the game . . . the game of life.”

“We talked about my lies; this is about yours. You lied about why you’re in bed—sick, you said, when you’re strong and healthy and planning to run off. You lied about Fifi, poor little innocent creature that she is.”

Allison bit her lip. What a time for Sarah to act like an adult!

“I had to,” she defended, shoving back the covers and getting to her feet; fully dressed, she shook out her garments. Bending down, she pulled a canvas bag from under the bed; she had managed, with no trouble at all, to sneak it from the attic. It was bulging, and Allison viewed it with a frown; adjustments in its contents had to be made, that was obvious.

“How can a marriage based on lies turn out well?” Sarah pursued, not about to give up the subject.

“How many marriages start out with lies, do you suppose? Love, honor, and
obey?
I’m certain!” Allison scoffed. But even Allison was uncomfortable with the thought of bald-faced lying. “Sometimes, Sarah, it’s necessary to shade the truth.”

Sarah’s accusing eyes, her shaking head, spoke for her.

Tired of the subject and of being accused, Allison said, “You always did pay too much attention to the Scriptures our governess assigned to us. I daresay she’d be so pleased. You need to keep in mind that the verses were meant for memory work; they weren’t oracles to live by.”

“I don’t think so, or why do they keep popping into my mind? And in yours, I’ll be bound, if you’d admit it. How about, ‘Thy word have I hid in mine heart, that I might not sin against thee’? Remember that one, Allie?”

“You’re a spoilsport, Sarah, that’s what you are,” Allison said crossly. “I’m sorry I told you about my plans. I thought you’d be excited; I thought you’d be happy for me. Now look what you’ve gone and done—spoiled everything!”

The light had faded as they talked, and shrill and insistent, a whistle was heard, wafting up from the garden below.

“Stephen! It’s Stephen! Help me get this bag shut!”

But for the second time that day, Sarah had slipped through the door and was gone.

A
llison opened the window and leaned out. Below, a slender, pale face was turned up to her. At the sight, her anxious fears were as nothing; gaining Stephen was worth any effort.

Afraid to speak aloud for fear of being overheard and knowing a whisper would not reach him, Allison gestured her welcome and her excitement as well as she could—clapping her hands together, bobbing her head, wriggling a little, smiling. Stephen, if he felt any of the rapture she was demonstrating, managed only a nervous gesture:
Come on down
, it said, and he made repeated motions with his hands.

With a final wave, Allison shut the window and turned to the hodgepodge that was her room. There was no time to do anything more in regard to the trip, and her bag was stuffed. But there was time to remove her slippers and don heavier footwear. And now she blessed Queen Victoria for her Balmoral petticoat and boots; at this moment they made good sense, promising warmth and comfort. But something in Allison
rebelled at the heavy, cumbersome,
ugly
items, and at the last moment, standing in her boots and swathed in her petticoat, she stuffed her fine Morocco slippers into the bulging canvas bag. If she had her way, she’d stand before the anvil with feminine feet!

About to leave the room, she turned back with a gasp, having forgotten the velvet pouch containing Grandmama’s contributions and donations and gifts, given on special occasions over the years. The thought of forgetting the money to fund the entire undertaking and finding herself and Stephen stranded somewhere, helpless, sent a shiver through Allison. Hastily she tucked the money away in her bag and turned again to the door.

Once again her hand dropped; once again she paused. A note! Should she leave a note for her parents?
By the time you read this, I’ll be Mrs. Stephen Lusk
 . . .

But of course she wouldn’t be, not when they read it. They would find the note in the morning, and she and Stephen would be well on their way but not yet arrived, not yet married.

The longer it took her parents to discover her absence in the morning, the better. No doubt, first of all, a maid would spend a few minutes looking for her, going from her room to Sarah’s, checking the bathroom, eventually making her way to her mistress to report Allison’s mystifying absence. Allison could imagine how things would go from there as the household went from calm normality to disbelief, to dismay, to tumult. Letitia, from dallying over her breakfast tea, would make a casual passage upstairs. Here her air of petty annoyance, her sighs at having her daily schedule interrupted, would change to agitation as she searched for her daughter, as she noted the absence of certain articles of clothing and the disarray of the room. She would hasten to Allison’s father, who would turn turkey red over his paper, spluttering in his coffee. Finally, Letitia would take to her bed with a headache.

Though there was no one to see, Allison grinned impishly. No, she’d not leave a note. In any case, it wouldn’t take her
parents long to dredge the truth out of Sarah. Then and only then a search would be initiated.

A pebble rattling against the window woke Allison from her reverie. Still she hesitated. How odd, how wrong it seemed, to leave one’s home without a send-off, without a wave, without a kiss. At the last she longed for Sarah’s thin arms around her, Sarah’s sweet kiss of approval on her cheek. It was not to be. Allison had made her decision and would pay whatever price was necessary.

Still, it was rather wistfully that she whispered, “Good-bye, Fifi. Ta ta.”

Fifi made a snuffling noise, opened one eye, and went back to sleep in the swirl of bedding where she spent her days as well as her nights. Fifi, forever on the lookout for her own comfort, would happily move her headquarters to Sarah’s room if a bon bon was forthcoming from time to time.

With bulky boots on her feet, a warm cloak over one arm, and a heavy bag dragging at the end of the other one, Allison moved down the hallway toward the back stairs. Once, hearing a noise nearby and startled into immobility, she made a quick decision to put on the cloak. Setting the bag down, she swung the garment into place, fastening it securely, pulling up the hood and tucking her hair inside. It was the nearest she could come to a disguise. If she were noticed and recognized, her garb and her stealthiness would raise immediate questions, of course, as well as her use of the stairs ordinarily reserved for the servants. But she dare not use the front staircase and could think of no other means of descent, aside from the window, which was, as she had pointed out to Sarah, beyond reach, beyond reason.

Once away, no one would know exactly where to look for her or which direction to go to find her. They would check her friends first, she thought, to see if she were with any of them. The name Stephen Lusk—until Sarah broke—would never enter their minds.

The stairs were manipulated with secrecy and safety; no servant had need of them, no one came to investigate the strange bumps and scrapes coming from the narrow stairwell, caused by Allison’s bag.

Once through the door and outside, Allison breathed more easily. Eagerly now, though carefully, she maneuvered herself through bushes, around corners, under windows lit and unlit, until—a hand went over her mouth.

Her scream stifled before it was born, for one brief second Allison thought all was lost and that she was discovered. Then Stephen’s voice whispered in her ear. “Shh now. No talking. Just follow me.”

Turning, Allison allowed time for one quick embrace. Leaning against the slim form, she gathered what strength she could from it, and what courage. Through the dark, Stephen’s face was a white oval, and his eyes—so large and moist in the daylight, reminding one of an innocent fawn—seemed filled with something akin to panic on this night. The sight took the adventuresome Allison aback.

Quickly she reminded herself of all that was at stake for Stephen. Far more, probably, than for her if they were caught. She could bear the recriminations; his entire future would be in jeopardy. Quincy Middleton could be counted on for no mercy. So she excused Stephen his natural reaction and his croaked words, “Hurry! The stagecoach is due any moment. We’ve got to make it!”

Stagecoach. Allison was disappointed. She had hoped for a conveyance of their own, preferably a post chaise. Far more comfortable than the public stagecoach or mail coach, the post chaise was a favored means of travel. But it was expensive to hire. Although holding only two people—which pleased Allison’s romantic nature, thinking of two days shut intimately inside with Stephen—it used two or four horses, which must be changed regularly on an extended drive. For so small a conveyance, it required a post boy as well as a coachman and, riding at the back on the dickey, or platform, a groom. Yes, a
post chaise was expensive. It was Allison’s first experience with straitened circumstances.

Aside from the Lusk cart, not at all suitable, Stephen had made the decision to arrange seats on the stagecoach. Not a vehicle of the rich, like the post chaise, or of the poor, like a wagon or cart, the stagecoach was the transportation of choice for the ordinary person. Not the most comfortable, not the fastest, it was the only way to visit most places. As for trains, Stephen knew nothing of train schedules or routes into Scotland, nor did he have the courage to inquire. And probably not the money.

With Stephen leading the way and Allison stumbling behind, her bag bumping her leg painfully, their feet crunching through the newly fallen snow, they made their way toward the village and the inn. Here a dozen people had gathered, bags and boxes were strewn around, and even as the couple approached, fresh horses were being herded into place.

Someone was flinging baggage to the roof of the coach, shoving it into the boot. Already a satisfied man was firmly ensconced above in the box seat by the coachman, a favored place, perhaps the best of all. Except for the four inside seats.

Four people, four only, would mount the step and ride inside. Crowded, cold, their state was much to be preferred than that of the poor wretches whose purses allowed only an outside seat; their suffering, long before they reached their destinations, would be dreadful.

Now men and women alike, regardless of blowing skirts and flying shawls, were being handed up top, scrabbling for toeholds, settling themselves as best they could, pulling something, anything, around them against the wind and the snow.

Dumbly, Allison turned her eyes on Stephen.

“Inside,
cherie
,” he said with pride.

Stephen had studied French at school, as well as Latin, and knew Shakespeare and the great masters of art and literature. Allison was sure he would be an asset to Middleton enterprises. But did he know commerce, trade? Could he handle
investments, use funds to advantage? Well enough, it seemed, to arrange a seat inside the coach, and poor, shivering Allison thought it money well spent.

“Oh, Stephen!” she said with relief. “Thank you!”

Their baggage was hoisted above, and at the hostler’s urging, Stephen gallantly handed Allison into the rig. Bending, crushing her skirts to her side, she was thrust in, and turning, she fell with a plop into the seat. Fell onto a lap.