DEVON, 1820
Three months until the wedding
It was the perfect morning for a duel.
Or, at least it would have been had Miss Phoebe Fairfax lived between the covers of a novel where the heroine actually did things, as opposed to watching her brothers do them all instead.
The chief offender among them was undoubtedly her eldest sibling, Lord Thomas Fairfax, currently snoring in his bedchamber after the devil’s own luck at the races, followed by an even worse run at faro.
Which only made her own betrothal all the more vexing. To be betrothed by one’s eldest brother was bad enough. To find oneself promised to a gout-ridden old goat more than twice one’s age, and without so much as a by-your-leave, a downright outrage.
All of which had left her little choice but to embark on her current course of action – a dramatic yet highly essential dawn flight through the misted grounds of Knightswood Manor.
‘Papa wanted this match and you’re in no position to object, I’m head of this family now.’
A ready scowl descended as she hastened through the frostbitten grass of her childhood home. Head of the family or not, it seemed Lord Thomas Fairfax, twelve years her senior, and her legal guardian for the last two, had little regard for anyone or anything, except washing his gambling hands of his siblings as fast as possible.
‘The earl is an old family friend, and the match will help to reestablish the Fairfaxes among the ton. Even you have to see that there is no discussion to be had; you will be the Countess of Cumberland in the spring and make the best of it!’
In truth, while becoming a countess didn’t sound too terrible, she would challenge any young lady to remain in the same room as the crusty old earl for longer than two minutes without concluding it to be the very worst fate to be inflicted on anyone at all.
Phoebe conjured the image of his overstuffed waistcoat and moist, purple lips before shuddering. Quite apart from the fact that he couldn’t recall her name, their first meeting last week had only confirmed all the reasons why she should never become a countess.
‘Step forward into the light girl! Where I can see you!’
‘Well, well, your brother could do with feeding you up a bit, but you’ll do… Nothing worse than a skinny countess, I say!’
She shuddered again, recalling the way his gaze had rested on her, making her feel the best prize calf her brother could offer after a long, hard winter. Except she had always been the Fairfax least expected to marry, let alone marry well.
Not that she couldn’t understand Thomas’s perspective, of course. No one had expected Papa’s sudden demise from a pernicious toe the year before and, despite being a veteran of the Napoleonic Wars, Thomas was still only thirty years of age himself. Mama used to refer to it as a gentleman’s dangerous age, the time when he either married, drank himself into oblivion, or became a confirmed rake. Since Thomas had never made any mention of entering into domestic bliss, Phoebe could only assume he intended to embrace one of the latter two options, while subjecting the rest of his long-suffering brothers and sisters to his Monstrous Marriage Master Plan, as her sister Sophie put it.
Phoebe stole a glance back at her bedchamber window, just visible in the pale clutch of dawn, and suppressed her rising guilt. Sophie was more than capable of keeping an eye on the Fairfax brood for three months, and she needed this time. She might not be able to escape Thomas’s master plan forever, but she could escape it for three months. Three precious months in which to live a lifetime of dreams; it was ambitious enough for any heroine.
She drew a steadying breath and hurried onto the carriageway through Knightswood’s famous avenue of oaks.
Thomas’s Monstrous Marriage Master Plan had begun the moment they lay dear Papa to rest. Phoebe’s four brothers didn’t feature of course, they were all in varying stages of education, and would have as much freedom as they wished, leaving all of Thomas’s unwanted attention directed at herself and their three sisters: Sophie, seventeen, Josephine, sixteen and Matilda, twelve, who was already on her third governess this year.
Phoebe frowned at a burst of hopeful snowdrops, trying to escape the frost.
Even if Papa’s will had contained a request for his first-born daughter to make a match with his closest friend, the Earl of Cumberland – who was nearing sixty and alarmingly purple – it was a brother’s duty to protect her from such a fate, wasn’t it?
Or at least, give her a fighting chance.
Instead, he seemed more than happy to write off a London season as an expensive and unnecessary prelude, and go straight to the main marital event, which seemed just a little unfair when her younger sisters would have ample time to find suitors of a less gout-prone age.
Indeed, the more she’d thought on it, the more it seemed she’d been dealt the largest slice of ill luck since she’d won the hoopla at Knightswood Fair and Alfred, her second-eldest brother, made off with the candy floss. Yet, it was her fate all the same, unless she did something about it. And since she couldn’t imagine any of her favourite literary heroines marrying a crusty old earl without a dramatic adventure or two to sustain them for the rest of their days, she really had little choice but to embark on her current course of action.
A flicker of a smile flitted across Phoebe’s face – if only Fred could see her now, stealing away from Knightswood Manor in his old frock coat, breeches and boots, her dark copper tresse pinned up beneath a rotund country hat that had seen so many better days. Not that Fred’s lack of fashion bothered her. She
was quite certain that the more bourgeois her appearance, the less likely she would be to attract attention and the sooner she would be mistress of her own destiny. Plus, she was quite certain breeches could be the work of actual goddesses, and was in no mind to trade them for a skirt any time soon.
She paused as the bushes ahead rustled suddenly, and a juvenile doe stepped out on the path. They locked eyes briefly, before the doe bolted towards the rest of the herd in the park. Wistfully, Phoebe watched her darting path through the silver grass towards a waiting buck, his majestic antlers glinting in the amber light. She sighed. Papa used to tell stories about their elusive herd granting wishes, yet none of her siblings had ever been stolen away by moorland fae, leaving her little choice but to conclude that, at best, they were unreliable indeed.
Resolutely, she pushed on, drawing comfort from the sway of her reticule beneath her frock coat. She wasn’t such a ninnyhammer as to keep all of her pin money in one of her marvellous new pockets, now that she’d decided to board the common stage, and she still planned to write to dear Fred about a loan the moment she reached London.
A brief smile flitted across her face.
Dear Fred was the least vexing of all her brothers, as well as the one least likely to squeal to Thomas about her whereabouts once he knew the truth; plus he still owed her from the Hexworthy Races two years before. Briefly, she recalled the traditional Dartmoor horse race Fred had dreaded, while filling every bone of her defiant body with envy. Ladies weren’t permitted to compete, of course, but with the aid of his riding shirt and breeches – as well as another miraculous hat – she’d not only managed a very credible pass, but also brought home a highly coveted third place in his name. And now he could return the favour.
Phoebe inhaled brightly. She’d never travelled by stage before and was considerably excited by the prospect. Her old governess used to mutter about springs and padding for days after a journey, but she also had a taste for hogs pudding, which Phoebe found most suspicious. Besides which, she
really had very little choice; the mail coach would be the very first place Thomas looked, and she could hardly take the Fairfax family chaise, or his favourite racing phaeton to London – there were some things even she wouldn’t do.
Humming, Phoebe diverted off the carriageway, and headed towards a discreet estate gate. On reflection, she was quite satisfied she’d managed things reasonably well enough for any girl hoping for a heroic adventure or two. She’d even settle for marginally unheroic if it didn’t involve being told exactly what to do and think, by someone who’d been absent for most of her life. She would be as free as any of her brothers, or favourite fictional heroines – and even if the latter had rather more important matters to consider than clean stays and lodgings, she was certain her many years imagining adventures with her siblings would stand her in good stead.
‘I’m not sure a headless ghost would escape in a chintz curtain, Phoebs – what about the settle throw instead?’
A faint smile flickered across her face. Fairfax Theatrical Company had been a part of their family for as long as she could remember, as well as her only reprieve from a life of corsets and cotillion practice. She never once thought she’d ever actually escape, and yet somehow, at this very moment, she was embarking on a real adventure. She had a change of clothing, coin enough to secure a private bedchamber, and she was more than certain she could imitate dear Fred’s gentle manner when it came to ordering luncheon, or some such similar refreshment. There was, after all, nothing worse than an empty stomach – it got in the way of plain, sensible thinking. This was a sentiment that had proven quite the bone of contention for her poor, deceased mama, who had given up on her eldest daughter ever contenting herself with just one slice of cake, when Cook had clearly intended her to eat three.
Phoebe’s smile widened as she climbed the estate gate, quite certain that breeches were a male conspiracy, too. For years, she’d been inched and cinched into suffocating layers of petticoats, creating a rise of heat she could only equate to one of Cook’s rice puddings, and even Sophie had to admit that a hoop and petticoats were a positive disadvantage when it came to that time of the month, which must never be mentioned in polite company.
By contrast, Fred’s attire felt like utter freedom, and she was never more convinced that ladies’ clothing had been designed with canaries in mind, which only fuelled the importance of the next three months. She had this one utterly unique chance to forego all the rules and chase every dream she’d ever had – which was so much more inviting than Sophie’s parting accusation.
Briefly, her sister’s words echoed through her head. But the more she considered them, the more she was persuaded she wasn’t actually running away, but rather towards the opportunity to discover her own inner heroine.
Because everyone had one of those deep down inside – didn’t they?
She was also more than certain she had to have at least one bareback-horseracing-at-midnight kind of adventure waiting for her, despite Sophie’s considerable doubts. Why else would she have been blessed with such a lively imagination and, as Mama would say, hoydenish ways, if there wasn’t some master plan at work?
She nodded briskly at a chirruping robin before turning into the country lane. It had ever been the same. Most of the young ladies of her acquaintance seemed as prone to fits of the vapours, as she was to ravenous hunger; and it was certainly one of Mama’s greatest regrets, that she had the most practical
head, when needed.
‘Really Phoebe, you have the fortitude of an ox!’ she complained, the day Phoebe dragged Matilda from Knightswood lake after a skating incident.
From this, Phoebe could only conclude it would have been far more ladylike to let her younger sister drown while she herself expired from shock, which felt a stretch – even for Mama. And while she had nothing against oxen in particular, they did seem quite banal creatures when all was said and done.
Still, Mama had always been somewhat of a stickler when it came to matters of propriety.
‘A young lady needs a certain air of … fragility about her person,’ she would say reprovingly, whenever Phoebe was sighted scaling one of the many trees around the park.
‘Not ruddy cheeks and splinters!’
Considering an air of fragility seemed synonymous with a life of impressive dullness, Phoebe was certain she would never meet Mama’s exacting expectations. It was one of the reasons she’d escape on Misty whenever she could. On the moor, she could ride until she believed she really was Mary Queen of Scots; or a time traveller from some distant, trouser wearing age that finally treated men and women as equals – if such a thing were ever really possible.
She sighed. For the most part, she also knew better than to rely on any sibling support, despite being considered an all-round good egg when it came to quarrels. She no more ratted on the brother who snuck off to a prize fight, than the sister who spent all her pin money on ribbons; and while this loyalty had earned her admiration and reproof in equal measure, there was no lack of genuine affection between them all.
She had still tried to call on these affections when challenging Thomas’s Monstrous Marriage Master Plan, but as he controlled the purse strings, and therefore every whim and wish of the Fairfax brood, they’d fallen to the wayside quicker than even she’d expected.
‘You’ve got to see it from our perspective, Phoebs,’ Fred pleaded, after Thomas threatened to cut off his allowance. ‘Tom has us over a barrel until we come of age. And the old earl isn’t that bad really… You’ll have a fine house, your own carriage … and just think of all the climbing trees in his grounds.’
Phoebe’s face darkened as she strode down the last section of country lane. Fred could try to placate her as much as he liked, but how he, or any of her brothers and sisters, could expect her to willingly tie her life to an old man who made her feel like a skinny pullet trussed for the Sunday roast, was beyond her. Let alone the fact that when he walked, a decided scent of onions wafted about his person.
Onions! Phoebe wrinkled her nose just thinking about it.
Matilda was first to notice, and had levelled the accusation when Phoebe refused to buy her a second macaroon on a village outing. But her youthful nose had a sound point, and it was one of the reasons Phoebe knew she had to act – that and the unfortunate incident.
Phoebe closed her eyes briefly. In truth, if it wasn’t for the unfortunate incident, Thomas probably wouldn’t have felt quite so compelled to enact phase one of his Monstrous Marriage Master Plan. But Sophie had laid a wager and Thomas, above all people, should have known a wager was a matter of
honour.
‘I cannot believe Knightswood’s church organist intended to create a scandal with Miss Kettering,’ Sophie had mused. ‘In fact, I would even go so far as to wager that any impoverished, romantic young gentleman would have little choice but to offer elopement if his liaison is discovered. It’s either that or die of a broken heart – don’t you think, Phoebe?’
Phoebe was quick to concede that any church-organist-turned-disgraced-eloper was very deserving of her sister’s empathy, but also that Sophie’s assertion gave like gentlemen such a poor reputation that she was duty-bound to disprove it – which was how she’d set upon Monsieur Dupres, their unfortunate pianoforte tutor.
In her defence, she absolutely did not set out to encourage him to fall in love with her – she’d just wanted to prove to Sophie that, even if a gentleman was impoverished and hopelessly romantic, he didn’t always propose elopement.
And if she’d underestimated Monsieur Dupres on this occasion, she was wholly convinced he was the exception, rather than the rule.
Thomas chose not to understand the matter at all, of course, calling her an ignorant, foolhardy girl he’d gladly pack off to convent were it not for his unwavering belief she’d get herself expelled, before the sennight was up. Instead, he’d talked of Papa’s will and bringing forward the dreaded wedding, which had only hastened her own plan, safe in the knowledge that once everything was taken into consideration, Thomas would have to concede he was wholly and utterly to blame.
It was while she was enjoying the comfort of this certain victory, and her brother’s well-deserved guilt, that Phoebe spied her new travelling companions gathering in the frosty grass beside the public road, and felt a first rise of doubt.
If only Thomas had let her have a season… If only he hadn’t found the elopement proposal from Monsieur Dupres… If only she’d been able to bring some Fairfax Theatrical Company costumes with her… She could have put them to excellent use where she was going.
The thought gave her a surge of strength.
Where she was going was a secret of the utmost gravity that she hadn’t even shared with Sophie, her most suspicious sister. Not only was Sophie unable to keep any kind of secret, let alone under pressure, she would also feel duty-bound to read her one of her sisterly lectures which were beginning to sound, uncannily, like dear Mama’s. And the truth was, Phoebe’s destination wasn’t in the least bit de rigueur for a young lady of her social standing, at all.
A rueful smile crept across her face, one that mirrored the gleam in her moorland eyes. Of all her schemes over the past eighteen years, this one had to be the most daring, and she could only imagine Thomas’s rage if he could see her now: clad in their brother’s hand-me-downs, unaccompanied, and about to board the common stage. If it were divulged in polite company, it could ruin her and yet Phoebe knew her brother far too well for that. The moment Sophie reported her absence, Thomas would concoct some plausible tale of an indisposed distant cousin, while using every means possible to find her – and all to protect his Monstrous Marriage Masterplan.
Let him search. She’d been dreaming of this adventure her whole life long, and even if it was only for three precious months, it would be enough to sustain her for a lifetime.
It had to.
