35. Drowning

DROWNING

M uch later that night, in the darkness, with the sound of Miss Henrietta's gentle snores emanating from the trundle beside her, Amelia lay on her back, her eyes wide open as she stared into the darkness.

The material of her nightrail was loose and light, her stays locked away in the trunk, but even though nothing was physically restricting her, the breaths she took felt shallow. Her maid had drawn the heavy drapes closed, so Amelia couldn't see the ceiling. She couldn't see the moon. Each rumble coming from Miss Henrietta reminded her that she was being watched. Monitored and managed, always and forever. Here, with the people she was supposed to be with, she felt more a prisoner than ever.

She couldn't even cry. Hopelessness, that was what this was. What would it be like to succumb to this feeling?

She imagined herself in the ocean, beneath the distant surface, allowing icy cold water to fold around her. She wouldn't fight it, she'd surrender. It would tug her to and fro with the push and pull of the waves overhead, and eventually it would drag her down to the ocean floor. The water would fill her mouth, her nostrils, her lungs, so frigid it burned…

But the weights became heavier and heavier. Any second now, and it would be over.

Choking on a gasp, she shot up in bed, all but clawing at the darkness.

Air. She needed air!

The sounds coming from Miss Henrietta's bed faltered, but then returned to their even rhythm. But Amelia didn't care. She needed…

Air!

Scrambling off the side opposite the trundle, Amelia didn't bother with slippers or even a dressing gown. Even though she could hear her own shallow breaths, she didn't feel the air.

If she couldn't get outside quickly enough, she was going to die!

And she couldn't die. Not without seeing Mr. Beckworth again. Not without telling him that she loved him. She didn't know how she would make it happen, but that didn't matter. It simply must.

She had experienced perhaps a fraction of this same feeling when she'd thrown herself out of Mr. Beckworth's carriage. Her fear powerful enough to propel her into action, not allowing her to think beyond that moment. Tonight was much the same.

Frantic yet focused, she rushed to find her way out, threw open the locks, and stepped into the corridor, closing the door firmly behind her.

Standing in the hallway, which would have been completely dark if not for a hint of moonlight slanting through one window, she gulped in some air. It wasn't enough. Before she could go any further, however, the sound of her name halted her.

"Amelia?"

Amelia blinked. She hadn't heard the click of another door opening, but the voice was one she recognized.

"Clem?" The sound of her own voice seemed far too loud in the dark and quiet space.

The door to Clem's chamber opened wider and the light from a single candle illuminated her cousin's face, casting shadows that danced on the corridor walls. "What are you doing?" Clementine asked.

"I'm…" Amelia blinked. Despite their earlier conversation where they'd finally cleared the air between them, Amelia couldn't know for certain that Clementine could be trusted. So it was risky. But she wouldn't lie—not to Clem.

"I have to go back." The answer bubbled out of her, a truth that she hadn't yet acknowledged even in her own mind, but as soon as Amelia said it out loud, her chest loosened. She could breathe again.

Clementine held her gaze and then nodded and stepped to the side, opening the door wider.

Amelia hesitated. "What about Lord Winterhope?"

"Benjamin is seeing to the horses." Clem smiled. "You know how he is…"

Amelia's entire body sagged in relief, and she followed her cousin into her chamber with no further protest. For the first time, she found herself appreciating Lord Winterhope's obsession.

Once inside, Clementine led her over to the bed where they both sat down beside one another. Resting one knee on the mattress, Clem faced Amelia directly. "Where do you need to go back to?" she asked gently.

Amelia turned and lifted her knee as well. Sitting together like this, it almost felt like old times.

"To… Mr. Beckworth," Amelia admitted.

Clementine looked a little confused. "To Smuggler's Manor? Did you forget something?"

"Not to Smuggler's Manor," Amelia said. "Or at least, not the place, specifically. To Mr. Beckworth . I have to go back to him."

This time, Clem's brows lifted. "Ah… Because?—"

"I love him, Clem. And I need to tell him that." Even just saying the words out loud to somebody felt like a burden was being lifted from her shoulders. The tightness around her chest eased; the weights that had been tied around her wrists and ankles and neck lightened.

"But what about your mother? What about Society? He isn't?—"

"I know. I don't care about any of that." Amelia sagged a little. "I mean, I love my mother, I care about her, of course I do. But…" She paused, struggling to put what she was feeling into some sort of order. "I can't do this any longer. I can't live the life that she wants for me. I can't be the person she wants me to be. And she would never allow for anything else; Father wouldn't either if he was here," she added softly.

It was painful to think of him like this, and how he would disapprove when she had no way of knowing where he was, if he was safe, if he was alive , but it was true. Both of her parents had always been like this, always criticizing, always dictating. They loved her, at least, she believed they did, but their love had become her chains. Heavy. Constricting.

"I just—I want… I want to be… me."

Clementine smiled. Even in the dim light, Amelia could see that it was a smile of understanding.

"And Mr. Beckworth, he helps you with that?"

"Oh, yes." But picturing the last time she saw him, she grimaced. "Usually. At the very least, I need to talk with him. I need to know?—"

"How he feels."

"Exactly."

"What if he doesn't feel the same?" Clementine's voice had gentled again.

Amelia took a deep breath. She thought he did, the way he'd breathed her name down in that cellar, but… "At least then I'll know. Regardless, I can't be Lady Amelia anymore—not the lady my mother expects, anyhow. I won't marry Northwoods. I need to… assert myself, I suppose."

"Going back to Smuggler's Manor is certainly one way of doing that." Clementine grinned.

Amelia let out a hushed laugh, startled, but she quickly sobered again. "But I need a plan. I can't exactly walk there, can I?"

"No, you can't." Clementine bit her lip. "But maybe you won't have to."

Thirty minutes later, wearing a simple but lovely evergreen muslin daydress from Clementine's wardrobe—which fit Amelia perfectly even minus a corset—along with a pair of Clem's comfortable half-boots, Amelia was staring at the empty space in the back of an old farmer's cart.

"You don't have to do this, you know. We can all just turn back, if you like." Lord Winterhope was there as well, standing beside his wife.

His classically handsome face set in a scowl.

"My mother would never stand for that," Amelia pointed out.

"Do you think I allow your mother to dictate my actions?" Winterhope's jaw ticked.

"It will be easier this way." Amelia wasn't prepared for a confrontation. Not yet.

The marquess flicked the lace at the end of his sleeve.

Just as Clem had promised, they'd found Lord Winterhope in the stables, standing at one of the stalls and talking to one of the horses who'd thrown a shoe somewhere between The Goat's Tail and Smuggler's Manor. The marquess had shed his jacket, looking more human without the extra layer. Amelia had never seen him in less than full formal attire before, so it was somewhat of a shock to be reminded that there was, in fact, a man under all the lace and wool and stuffiness. Clementine had pulled the marquess aside and calmly explained everything to her husband. After just a few minutes, he'd reluctantly agreed to help.

Apparently recognizing that her husband might, perhaps, be rethinking his decision, Clem turned to squeeze his arm.

"If she leaves in the cart, the deed will have already been done. Besides, Amelia wants to do this on her own."

"I do," Amelia said.

"For love," Clem added.

"God help me." Winterhope's shoulders sagged a little, and he shook his head. "Very well, then. But I'll have you both know that Malum is going to want my hide. As for Lady Foxbourne… God help us both, Clem. She's going to be even more of a?—"

"Benjamin!" Clem was smiling, though. But then she turned to Amelia. "I don't suppose we should waste any more time. It's nearly dawn, and Mr. Beckworth's driver could come out at any moment."

Lord Winterhope's plan couldn't have been any more perfect, really. While doing whatever it was that he did with his horses, he'd overheard a few drivers conversing. The driver of this one, having delivered a shipment to London, was on his way back to Smuggler's Manor. And although it contained a few bulky crates held in place with a large piece of canvas, it was mostly empty.

Lord Winterhope had examined the vehicle and the space where she would be hiding and deemed it safe. Clem had fetched a pillow and a blanket to make the ride more comfortable.

"I can't thank you enough! Both of you." Amelia blinked away a few tears. She only wished that Clementine could come with her. They'd only just reconciled, and now they would be separated again. "I'm going to miss you, Clem."

"I'll miss you, Amelia. But not as much now that I know you aren't angry with me."

Amelia's smile was a little watery.

"My lady." Ever the gentleman, Lord Winterhope assisted Amelia up and into the tight little place where she would stow away.

As she settled into the space, tucking her skirts down around her, Amelia felt a sort of thrill. Although she was terrified of what the future would hold, she was more excited to be doing something about it. To be taking action, taking control. A thousand bees buzzed around her stomach as she imagined what he would say.

He might say no.

But she couldn't live her life like a handkerchief in the wind. So she fluffed up the pillow, curled onto her side, and made herself as comfortable as possible.

"You're sure about this?" The canvas covering hovered in Lord Winterhope's hand.

"Absolutely." Her voice was firm. Yes, she was nervous, but she was also completely certain of her decision.

"Be careful, Amelia." Clementine peered inside. "And good luck! I'll write to you as soon as I can!"

"Beckworth had better do the proper thing," Winterhope added. He then gave her one last grimace and pulled the tarp closed. After he was finished adjusting it, he grunted. "If he doesn't, I'll have his hide…"

It was oddly reassuring to hear, though Amelia was sure it wouldn't be necessary. Lord Winterhope sounded like he meant his words. She couldn't help but think back to the day Mr. Beckworth had snatched her from her family's carriage, how her father had dithered and made half-hearted threats and then ultimately folded under pressure, with very little protest.

Lord Winterhope had never been in love with her, she knew that much, but he felt strongly enough about this to be willing to go toe to toe with Mr. Beckworth, an objectively dangerous man, on her behalf. All because she was his wife's cousin. He must love Clementine dearly to extend his protection like this.

But truthfully, as far as Amelia was concerned, his protection would not be needed in this instance. Because she didn't want Mr. Beckworth to do the proper thing at all. In fact, she hoped for just the opposite.