Chapter 3

3

Today was the day.

Genevieve paused in the doorway of the parlor, clasping her hands together to keep them from trembling.

Shortly after moving in, Lenora had hired one of the best interior designers in New York City to renovate the house. Even at midmorning, with the August sunshine streaming in from the tall front windows, every lantern in the room was lit because Lenora wanted to make sure each piece of polished furniture gleamed and every gilded decoration glinted.

Perched on the edge of a settee across from Mr. Morgan, their lawyer, Lenora was attired in a new garnet silk dress. Her brown hair was styled in a high updo with short curly bangs framing an elegant face that was only just beginning to show her forty years.

At the sight of Genevieve, her conversation came to an abrupt halt, and she stood, surveying Genevieve as she usually did to make sure she was the picture of perfection.

Mr. Morgan, not only their family lawyer but also a longstanding friend of Papa's, rose too. "Nice to see you, Genevieve." The perfect gentleman, he wore a wool frock coat over a matching vest and trousers, and a white cravat accented with a gold stick pin. He'd shed his tall hat, and his dark hair gleamed with hints of silver.

Genevieve forced herself to smile congenially at both Lenora and Mr. Morgan—or at least, she hoped it was calm and pleasant and didn't betray her nervousness. "I'm leaving for the dress fitting." It was the weekly appointment Lenora made for her so that she was continually supplied with new gowns in order to maintain their reputation as the most fashionably attired women in New York City.

The narrow skirt of her plum silk-and-taffeta day dress made movement more difficult and wasn't ideal for what she had planned for the morning. But Lenora had chosen the gown along with the matching short-brimmed, boxy hat now tilted precariously at the top of Genevieve's head over the tight ringlets of hair flowing from the waterfall style.

Lenora scanned her a moment longer before nodding. Then her attention latched on to the black velvet chatelaine attached at Genevieve's waist with a brooch pin. Genevieve had been hoping that Lenora wouldn't notice the different purse, but she should have known her stepmother wouldn't miss that detail. Lenora never missed any details.

The woman frowned and started to cross toward her. "Why aren't you using the matching chatelaine?"

"I spilled coffee on it." Intentionally.

Halting in the center of the room, Lenora released an exasperated sigh. Then she examined Genevieve again from her hat down to her boots.

Genevieve held her breath, praying her stepmother wouldn't notice the way the bag was bulging more than usual.

After several more long seconds of scrutiny, Lenora waved a hand at Genevieve. "Fine. It'll have to do."

The wave was all the dismissal Genevieve needed. She nodded demurely, then she turned back into the entry hallway and stepped across the marble tile as rapidly as her tight skirt would allow, wanting to get out of the house before Lenora called her back.

Once Genevieve was seated in the Victoria carriage and on her way to the dress shop, she finally allowed herself a full breath. Even though the top was down and she was on display to the city as usual, the way Lenora wanted, Genevieve had accomplished step one of her escape plan—exiting the house without Lenora stopping her.

Step two—evading Bishop at the dress shop—would be more difficult. But after debating all the options over the past three days since saying goodbye to Constance at the orphanage, she'd decided the dress fitting at Madame Moreau's would allow her the best chance of slipping away from Bishop.

Genevieve pressed a hand against her chatelaine and felt the outline of the jewelry she'd placed there. Lenora didn't allow her to have any cash or coins, probably to keep her dependent as much as possible.

So yesterday, during her outing to the milliner's, she'd had Bishop stop by one of her favorite jewelers. Thankfully, he'd waited outside instead of accompanying her into the store.

The reprieve had allowed her to ask the jeweler if he'd be willing to purchase a ring and necklace from her. Of course, the older gentleman had nodded at her explanation that she was trying to downsize her collection and tactfully referenced the rumors that she was selling family assets.

She'd merely nodded and taken his offer for the elegant pieces, which had been higher than she'd hoped for—enough that she could easily pay for the expenses she was sure to encounter while traveling in the days ahead.

She'd concealed the bank notes in her chemise until she'd been able to tuck them away into her chatelaine along with as much jewelry as she could fit. She'd only had a few seconds to do so while the maid had been making the bed and had her back turned to the dressing table.

Genevieve pressed a hand to the drawstring purse again and whispered another silent prayer that the next part of her escape would go as smoothly as the first.

The dress shop was busy when she arrived, but as the best-paying and most frequent customer, she always received preferential treatment from Madame Moreau. It wasn't long before Genevieve was at the back of the shop in the most spacious dressing room—the one closest to the rear door of the establishment. It was also an area off-limits to Bishop.

Genevieve sat in the plush chair while the head seamstress brought in and hung up the two newest gowns that needed alterations.

Finally, the woman turned to her and smiled warmly—an invitation to stand and let her assist in taking off her garments.

Genevieve glanced at the corner chamber pot and pretended to be embarrassed. "Would you mind terribly if I undress myself today?" Since the buttons were at the front of her bodice, the task would be manageable—if she were actually intending to do it.

The seamstress kept her eyes averted from the chamber pot. "Of course, Miss Hollis."

"In fact, why don't you finish with your other customer first."

"Oh, it's no trouble. One of the other seamstresses will assist her."

"Please. I don't mind waiting."

The woman hesitated, then nodded. "Very well." She left reluctantly, likely fearing she would get in trouble from Madame Moreau for attending to another customer instead of their prized patron. With such reluctance, the seamstress would be back sooner rather than later. That meant the chance of escaping was much too limited. That also meant Genevieve couldn't waste a single second.

As soon as the woman disappeared and the curtain fell into place, Genevieve rose, crossed toward the back door, and let herself out as soundlessly as possible.

The narrow alleyway she found herself in was shadowed by the tall buildings on either side and deserted except for two small children a dozen paces away, kicking a ball. At the sight of her, they halted and stared with wide eyes, likely wondering what a fine lady like herself was doing there.

What exactly was she doing? Could she really run away and marry a complete stranger? What if in doing so, she found herself in a worse situation altogether? Would she be safer staying and trying to endure one more year?

Even as the thought flashed through her mind, she shook her head. Lenora had taken away the only activity giving her any hope. Without her visits to the orphanage and without anything to do, she would go mad.

Besides, she'd already decided that if living with the Colorado rancher didn't work the way she hoped, she didn't have to stay. She could sneak away from him just as she was from Lenora.

However, if he was as kindhearted as he'd sounded in his letter, the one Constance had given to her that contained his address, then she would be fine. She'd help him for a year, and in doing so, he'd help her.

She braced her shoulders, then began walking down the alley, away from the dress shop. She'd already planned to go at least two blocks before heading out to the main thoroughfare and boarding the streetcar that would take her to the train station. The trouble was that she had to get on the streetcar before Bishop realized she was gone from the shop.

With her heart thudding ominously, she picked up her pace as best she could with her tight skirt. She expected the back door of the dress shop to barge open at any moment for the head seamstress to call after her. But as she reached the second cross street and began to turn, she glanced back to see that not only was the door of the shop still closed, but the two children had raced away and were no longer there to report her whereabouts to anyone who might come out to search for her.

As she hastened to the corner where the horse-drawn streetcar made its stop, she kept in the shadows of the closest building, one eye on her Victoria carriage still parked in front of Madame Moreau's shop down the street.

Thankfully, the streetcar was already within sight. When the large conveyance pulled to a stop, she tried to hide behind the others who were getting on. But it wasn't until she was seated and the horses started up again that she took a deep breath.

Had she actually done it? Made her escape from Bishop?

She guessed she'd been gone from the shop for approximately ten minutes, which meant Bishop and others would begin hunting for her before too long.

As the streetcar rolled farther down the steel tracks at the center of the road, she kept waiting for Bishop to race after the conveyance and shout at the driver to stop. But when long minutes passed without any interference, she allowed herself to hope that maybe she could make it to the train depot and part three of her plan.

After changing streetcars two more times, she finally arrived at Grand Central Depot. The station was just as busy as it had been the last time she'd ridden a train with Lenora—the previous winter, when they'd traveled to Florida.

As she made her way inside to the ticket counters, she wished she blended into the crowds better. She knew she was leaving a bright trail in her wake—that a fashionable gentlewoman like her was sure to draw the attention of the staff and other passengers alike.

As part of step three, she bought a ticket south on the Atlantic Coast Line, hoping that anyone looking for her would believe she was on her way to Florida to the resort where she usually stayed. However, when she reached New Jersey or thereabouts, she would make a switch to another line heading west.

Before doing that, she'd find a store to purchase a valise, clothing, and any other supplies she might need. She'd change into the simpler garb, something that would make her less noticeable. Hopefully after that, anyone who might be tracking her would lose her trail.

If all went well, she'd be able to move into step four of her runaway plan, which involved riding the transcontinental railroad west and arriving in Denver in less than a week. After that, she'd have to find a way to get up into the mountains.

As she settled onto her seat and other passengers bustled around her, she slipped the letter from the Colorado rancher from her pocket and unfolded it. She hadn't dared read it since the closet at the orphanage with Constance earlier in the week. She'd wanted to keep it hidden from the servants because many of them reported back to Lenora.

Now, as she waited for the train to depart, she smoothed the letter out in her lap, taking in the bold print. She read the few short paragraphs again. His words were direct and no-nonsense. He also sounded like a dedicated father who wanted the best for his baby—so much so that he was willing to get remarried even though he didn't particularly want to.

Although the letter didn't provide much information, she felt as though she was getting to know him just a little, enough that she could tell he was a good, solid man who would treat her with respect. And hopefully allow her to be independent and free.

She drew her finger across his name at the end of the letter. Ryder Oakley. "I'm on my way, Ryder Oakley," she whispered.

The real question was, what he would say when he discovered she wasn't Constance Franklin? Would he still want her? Or should she do as Constance had suggested and pretend to be her?

A burst of the steam whistle filled the air, startling her. A second later, the wheels clacked against the track, and the train began to creep forward.

She folded up the letter and glanced out the window, which was open to generate a breeze through the stuffy compartment. Through the people milling about the platform, a man with silver hair and wearing a dark suit caught her attention. Bishop.

He was near the door of the depot and was frantically scanning the people.

With her heart picking up tempo, she flattened herself against the seat, hoping he wouldn't be able to see her through the train window.

How had he traced her to the depot so quickly?

The train car creaked as the speed increased, and the platform fell behind, away from sight. But she didn't sit forward, holding herself motionless and praying he wouldn't figure out which train she was on but all the while suspecting he wouldn't be far behind.