The woman snorted. “What d’yer want?”
For a moment the apparently simple question vexed her completely. What did she want? To report the terrible crimes that her cousins had perpetrated upon her, and planned to perpetrate upon her brother. To send word to her mother of her situation. Most of all, to prevent Simon from traveling to Mars and carrying out his monstrous scheme. But that could all come later. Just now she was cold, and weary, and hungry. “Please, ma’am,” she rasped, “I’ve been the victim of a horrible crime. If I might come in, and warm up for a bit, and—”
“Strumpet!” the old woman interrupted. “Away with ye.” And with a firm, harsh motion she shut and latched the door. A moment later her eye reappeared at the window nearby, fixing her with a hostile glare.
Arabella stood motionless, stunned and appalled by the woman’s inhospitality.
A hand joined the eye at the window, gesturing unequivocally: Go away.
Arabella spat at her—or tried to, her mouth being so dry that only a tiny drop of spittle escaped her lips to fall ineffectively on the dirt before the door—turned, and walked away.
She cursed herself for her naiveté. A filthy, disheveled, bloodied young woman, in a scandalous state of undress, with a mad story of imprisonment, betrayal, and murder? She should never have expected to be believed. And even if she should somehow find someone who accepted her outlandish tale, it might be hours or days before they took any action. In that time Simon could easily take passage to Mars, and once the ship had launched he would be beyond the power of any one to stop him.
Arabella gritted her teeth and turned her steps toward the rising sun.
Toward London.
*
She could not walk all the way to London, of course—not if she wished to catch up with her cousin in time. Simon had taken the mail-coach, but no such option was open to Arabella. Even though she had what she hoped was sufficient money for the fare, for a woman of quality to travel on a public conveyance without male accompaniment was completely inconceivable.
If only she had not been born a woman.…
Arabella stopped dead in the path, appalled at the notion which had just occurred to her.
She shook her head and walked on.
As she proceeded, she debated with herself whether theft and deception could truly be justified by necessity. At the same time, she kept a sharp eye out for an opportunity to commit those very sins.
Finally, as she topped a rise, she came upon a small but prosperous farm. Wheat waved in the fields, chickens scratched in the yard, cattle grazed contentedly.…
And clean clothes hung on a fence, apparently having been left to dry overnight.
Arabella looked all around. There was no one in sight.
To steal was a sin. But at this very moment Michael might be rising from his bed, yawning and stretching, unaware of the doom that approached him.…
“I have no choice,” she whispered to herself, touching the locket.
Moving as quickly and as quietly as she could, she descended from the rise and scrambled over the low stone wall marking the edge of the property. From the wall it was only a few steps to the fence on which the clothing hung.
There were several complete sets of clothes here, men’s and women’s both.
After only a moment’s hesitation, she selected breeches, hose, a shirt, a coat, and a soft cap which seemed to be about the right size for her. She attempted to assuage her guilt by taking only those articles which seemed the most worn, which she hoped would be missed the least and might also provoke the least suspicion. Finally, from her reticule she drew a single shilling, leaving it where the clothing had been—a token payment to be sure, but she knew not what other expenses might come her way.
Gathering up the clothes into a compact packet, she took one last guilty look back at the farmer’s cottage before running away across the field.
*
Secreting herself behind a hedgerow which blocked the view from the farmhouse and the nearby road, Arabella clothed herself in her stolen garments. The coat was too broad across the shoulders, she had neglected to obtain a neck-cloth, and there seemed to be several other minor articles missing, at least to judge by the buttons in the breeches which attached to nothing she could find. The space in the front of the breeches she filled with a wad of fabric torn from her tattered shift.
She left the rest of her ruined garments rolled up in the hedgerow, along with the reticule, whose contents she distributed among her pockets. From her previous clothing she retained only the shoes, sturdy Mars-made half-boots which she hoped would not appear too girlish.