http://www.awe-struck.net

     On this sultry June evening the town house in fashionable Mayfair was ablaze with light. A crush of carriages on the street outside attested further to the festivities within. Inside the crowded rooms diamonds winked in the snowy cravats of stylish gentlemen, and brightly-colored gemstones sparkled on the bosoms of the women in their high-waisted, low-cut gowns.

     Garlands of flowers decked the reception rooms on the first floor, above street level, of the narrow house. The drawing and music rooms had been cleared to allow musicians room to play, with a small area set aside for dancing. The soiree was starting. Excitement was in the air.

     Downstairs, at any rate. Upstairs, in the chamber of the Honorable Charlotte Finbury, for whose benefit all of this had been done, misery hung like a cloud. The young lady in question sat at her dressing table, oblivious to the breath-taking picture she presented. In a few short hours her parents were to announce her engagement to the utterly wrong man. And it seemed there was nothing she could do about it.

     "The Earl is so very old," she wailed to her abigail, Betty. "He is losing his hair. He will be bald any day now. And his fingers are perpetually stained with snuff!"

     " 'Orrible, Miss," said the young Irish maid as she deftly twisted Charlotte's thick dark hair into a topknot. She secured it firmly and teased some pretty curls around her face. Picking up a spray of white roses from the table she tucked it into her mistress's gleaming coiffure. "It fair makes me blood boil to think of a young girl like you with that old man. So what if 'e's rich?"

     "So what indeed," echoed Charlotte. "He is not the least bit like Cyril."

     Cyril. The very mention of his name sent Charlotte back to last autumn and Miss Adam's Seminary for Young Ladies in Bath, where she first laid eyes on the man of her dreams. Cyril Cholmondeley was the older brother of Amelia, her friend at the seminary. Actually, Amelia was rather annoying, but once Charlotte had met her brother she was willing to put up with her silliness.

     From the instant she had seen him, Charlotte knew he was her one true love. Cyril looked like Lord Byron, only it was clear to the most impartial observer that he was far handsomer than the much-vaunted poet. Cyril was lean, almost gaunt, with curly brown hair and blue eyes that held a haunted look. He even had a slight limp, which she had no doubt he had earned heroically. He was young, too, only a few years older than Charlotte, and he most emphatically did not use snuff.

     He came to visit Amelia often that fall, though he saw more of Charlotte than his sister. Amelia had a romantic soul and good-naturedly included Charlotte on all her outings with her brother.

     While Charlotte had to concede she and Cyril had never actually plighted their troth, they had exchanged many meaningful looks and soulful sighs under the changing leaves of the trees by the river Avon. She was sure Cyril meant to ask for her hand in marriage, just as soon as he had enough fortune to impress her father.

     And that is what she told her parents when they told her they had arranged a good match for her with Lord Satterly.

     They in turn had laughed. Laughed! And used terms such as "green girl," and "little pea-goose" while muttering darkly about the effects of too much time and too many novels. The end result was that the engagement was on, with tonight's soiree by way of a formal announcement.

     "If Cyril knew I was being forced to marry against my will, he would come here tonight, and, and, challenge Satterly and my father to a duel!"

     "'eaven 'elp us!" whispered Betty in awe.

     "And just at the last moment, after Satterly had cried craven and Cyril had my father at point non plus, his sword point at his very throat, he would declare his undying love for me. And my mother would cry and say how could she have been so blind, and my father, after being graciously spared by Cyril, would humbly ask if we would accept his blessing. Then we would be married in St. Paul's and go to Italy for a glorious honeymoon. I can see it now, Betty-picturesque landscapes, just like those we saw in the paintings at the Royal Academy, and romantic gondola rides through the canals of Venice."

     "Ahh," Betty could only breathe.

     "Charlotte!" came an anxious voice from the doorway. "Are you quite ready?"

     "Yes, Mama." Charlotte reluctantly stood for inspection.

     "My heavens, child, but you do look lovely," said Lady Finbury, regarding her daughter who was exquisitely gowned in silver spangled net over white satin. Not that Charlotte had any need of expensive modistes, or indeed any artifice, to look beautiful. Her skin was unblemished and translucent; her lips, full and rosy; thick, sooty lashes fringed her sapphire eyes; and her lustrous hair shone blue-black in the candlelight.

     "I vow, many a heart will be broken tonight when we announce your engagement to Lord Satterly. I came to tell you it is time we went downstairs, daughter. Our guests will be arriving, and we should be forming the receiving line. Betty, you may go now."

     "Yes, Lady Finbury," said Betty, bobbing a nervous curtsey and scuttling with downcast eyes through the doorway past the Baroness.

     "Charlotte, have you been speaking familiarly with Betty again?" the Baroness chided gently. "Betty is very young, and doesn't know yet how to maintain a proper distance. If you, as her mistress, don't teach her, she will never learn, and then she will have a most difficult job retaining a good position in a respectable household. You do understand, do you not? "

     "Yes, Mother," said Charlotte, who really didn't. She enjoyed talking to the young abigail. Now that Charlotte was home from school, there were so few young ladies her own age she saw regularly and to whom she could confide her deepest feelings. Betty was an uncritical listener, interested in everything Charlotte said. And Betty never, ever told her she was a pea-goose.

     Her mother sighed. "You have always been a headstrong, impulsive girl. Your father and I overlooked much of your behavior because you were such a sweet, delightful child, and now we are reaping the rewards of our indulgence. Are you still averse to your betrothal?"

     "I will never be resigned to it. Never!"

     The Baroness sighed again. A handsome woman in her early forties, worry lines were beginning to form around her fine blue eyes. "I have spoken to your father, and he is adamant. Satterly is a good man, Charlotte. He will never hurt you. He has an ample fortune, and will take good care of you."

     "He is so old, Mother!"

     "Forty-five may seem old to you at eighteen, but believe me, child, he is not yet at his last prayers." A ghost of a smile lit the Baroness's face. "Oh, Charlotte, I can see you have some trepidation now, but soon you will come to care for Satterly, and know we have chosen well for you. I am convinced of it. I am aware there is much talk these days of marrying for love, but trust me, Charlotte, a carefully-arranged marriage is still the wiser course."

     She crossed to Charlotte, and gently stroked her daughter's soft cheek. "Love in most cases is nothing more than physical attraction, Charlotte, and that fades with the years. When two parties are matched on the basis of mutual interest, temperament, and station in life, by those who know the parties well and have their best interests at heart, you have the basis of a stable, harmonious, and long-lasting relationship."

     "Stable is right," answered Charlotte bitterly. "It sounds as though you are discussing the breeding of one of Papa's prime bits o' blood, or a transaction at Tattersall's auction yard, instead of your daughter's marriage. I will not have my future decided as though it was some sort of cold-blooded business arrangement!"

     "But that is exactly what it is, my dear," said her mother, unruffled. "A business arrangement which often turns to love. I so well remember my own wedding day. I barely knew your father, who was also my senior by fifteen years. I was terrified then, yet you must allow our marriage has since proved to be a happy one."

     "But you had not yet met your true love. It was all the same to you."

     The Baroness clicked her tongue impatiently. "You are not going to bring up that Cholmondeley person again, are you? I vow, Charlotte, I would never have sent you to that school, no matter how your Aunt Agatha praised it, if I had known you would take such a maggot in your head. If the boy wished to be a serious suitor we would have met him by now. You made your come-out months ago. You must forget about that halfling, Charlotte, and grow up!"

     Charlotte made one final appeal.

     "Please, Mother, do not make me do this!"

     Her mother ignored her daughter's outstretched arms.

     "It has been decided, Charlotte. At midnight, your betrothal to Lord Satterly will be announced, and you will be married to him before next Christmastide!"

     Knowing it would be useless, Charlotte made no further entreaty. Her mind was quite made up, anyway. By midnight, she would not be standing meekly at her father's side, her hand clasped in the dry hold of Lord Satterly. She would be long gone. And by Christmas she would be married, but not to Satterly-to Cyril!

     Charlotte decided the stroke of midnight would be the perfect time to leave. Until then, she must give no indication of her plans. She would dance with Lord Satterly, smile and be gracious. Her parents would suspect nothing.

     The soiree was a huge success; the rooms were so crowded people could barely move. Lord Satterly was ponderously polite. He smiled at Charlotte with a kind of sweaty eagerness that made her squirm. He was not an ill-favored man, though his hair was thinning and he was somewhat stout. When they danced he trod on her toes, and his conversation consisted mainly of the newest additions to his stables and the hunts he had ridden. Charlotte suspected the gentleman was far more comfortable on the hunting field than in a drawing room.

     Like many a member of the ton, he had come to London this Season to find a wife, someone to act as mistress of his manor and provide him with heirs. It probably did not matter to Satterly who he selected from the Marriage Mart, thought Charlotte, as long as she had the right bloodlines-which again made her think of Tattersall's.

     During the long evening many dashing young bucks danced with Charlotte, and paid her pretty compliments, but they all maintained a respectful demeanor. The on-dit had spread: she was soon to be pledged to the Earl.

     Charlotte glanced at the clock every time she could manage it. The minutes ticked by, so slowly she thought she would scream with impatience. Her mind was working feverishly, forming one plan after another as she chatted and danced to the lilting music. She remembered every romantic novel she had ever read (courtesy of Mr. Lane's Minerva Press) and thought of all their courageous heroines. Surely none of them would quail at running away from their homes to escape dreadful fates. She could do no less.

     Finally it was half past eleven. She stole a glance at the young gallant who was escorting her off the dance floor in the direction of her watchful mother. He was looking straight ahead. With a tiny gulp Charlotte resolutely and deliberately stumbled forward, the toe of her slipper firmly catching the hem of her dress.

     "Oh," she cried. "My gown! I fear I have torn it !"

     "I say, I'm frightfully sorry," said the young man. Charlotte could tell from his stricken expression that he assumed he had done it.

     "I assure you, it was my fault," she said truthfully. "It is of no consequence, really. I believe I can effect a speedy repair."

     She smiled brightly at her mother and pointed ever so slightly with her fan to her torn hem. Then she gracefully left the room and mounted the stairs. The Baroness looked baffled, Charlotte thought, stifling a qualm as she headed for her chamber. She had to do this. If only her mother wouldn't get suspicious and come looking for her!

     She closed the door of her chamber firmly behind her, and crossed quickly to her bed. Still wearing her silvery gown, she knelt to pull a large trunk a few feet away from the footboard. She took the key from under the mattress, and working the lock threw back the heavy hinged lid. Lifting out the linens and laces stored there, which were meant to accompany her into married life one day, she extracted from the bottom of the trunk a set of rather worn boy's clothing.

     Charlotte had gotten the idea of wearing boy's clothing from gossip she had overheard about Lady Caroline Lamb, Lord Byron's temperamental lover. She heard the eccentric Lady Caroline often liked to disguise herself as a pageboy, in order to go about freely in society. The idea of such freedom seemed utterly delicious to Charlotte.

     And tonight, she felt free!

     The sudden crack of a door hinge made Charlotte whirl around. "Betty!"

     "Miss?" Betty's eyes were as big as saucers.

     "What are you doing here?"

     "The Baroness sent me to 'elp you fix your gown." She gulped. "Whatever be you doin' with those clothes, Miss?"

     "I'm running away, Betty," Charlotte announced dramatically. "I refuse to marry one man while my heart belongs to another. You can go and tell my mother, if you wish, but if she stops me I will only do it another time."

     "I'll not be tellin' your ma, Miss Charlotte," protested the abigail excitedly. "But where will you go?"

     "I will not tell you that. What you do not know you will not be held accountable for. But have no fear. I have a plan."

     She had decided to go to the nearest posting inn and take the stage to Bath, where her aunt lived.

     It was a stroke of genius to bring Aunt Agatha into her plan. Aunt Agatha was the one who had suggested Miss Adam's Seminary to her parents. Aunt Agatha had given her some of her favorite romance novels to read, novels which had seemed to mirror her very thoughts and feelings last autumn. Charlotte regularly had luncheon with Aunt Agatha when she was in Bath, and Aunt Agatha had loved hearing about Cyril. She would understand. And she would help her. Aunt Agatha would intercede for her with her parents, make them see why she could not marry the Earl. Her parents would listen to Aunt Agatha.

     Like many children of the ton, Charlotte did not have a close emotional bond with her parents. She had been raised primarily by her nurse and governess. Still, the Baron and Baroness had proved to be indulgent, if absent parents. She had never been denied anything she wanted, nor thwarted in a desire. Charlotte was confident her parents would eventually come around to her view of the matter. All she needed was time, and Aunt Agatha's intercession. Which was why she had decided to go to Bath tonight.

     She had some money saved, enough she hoped to purchase a seat on the Bath coach with some leftover to secure some sort of lodging for the remainder of the night.

     She trusted her boy's disguise would keep her from drawing too much attention. It wouldn't have to be for long. Given the amazing speed of the stagecoaches these days, she ought to be in Bath by tomorrow evening!

     Eagerly, and with Betty's help, she undid the tapes of her silvery dress and donned the shirt and pantaloons.

     "Um, Miss," Betty cleared her throat.

     "What is it, Betty?" Charlotte was looking through the chest for the coat she had hidden there.

     "Beggin' your pardon, Miss, but you don't look much like a boy in that there shirt." She giggled.

     Charlotte regarded her reflection in the cheval glass. She saw nothing amiss. Then she turned, and looked at her profile. A gasp of dismay escaped her.

     "No, I do not, do I? I wonder if the coat will obscure my, er, feminine attributes?"

     She put the heavy coat on. Besides its shabbiness, it was a distinctly ugly shade of green.

     "It don't fit right across the chest, that it don't," said Betty bluntly.

     "Hmm." Charlotte thought for a moment, then rummaged around the chest till she pulled up an old woolen shawl. "This ought to do the trick, Betty!"

     She took off the coat and the rough cotton shirt. Working quickly, she wrapped the shawl firmly around her bosom, binding her breasts tightly to her chest. When she was done, she made a small, firm knot in the shawl under her arm.

     "There," she said with satisfaction. "Now the coat will fit better."

     "Saints preserve us," breathed Betty, crossing herself. "You're as flat as a lad!"

     Charlotte laughed. "That is precisely the idea."

     Again she donned the rough woolen shirt, and struggled into the green coat. From the bottom of the trunk she extracted a pair of boots and stepped into them, showing plainly that they were a few sizes too large for her small feet. Plucking the flowers from her hair, she grabbed a boy's cap and tried to set it on her head.

     "Oh, bother. This cap will not fit over my topknot. And I surely cannot wear my hair down." Charlotte stared at her image in the looking glass. "I suppose there is only one thing to do."

     She undid her hair and reached for the scissors she kept in her dressing table. Her long, thick hair shone black as midnight in the glow of the tapers. Charlotte knew a moment's regret. Then she thought of all the brave heroines she had read about. She lifted the scissors.

     "Oh, no, Miss Charlotte." Betty's hands flew to her face. "You're not going to 'ack off all that lovely 'air!"

     "I'm afraid it cannot be helped, Betty. Besides, short hair has been fashionable for some time now. I'll be all the crack."

     Without a moment's further hesitation she cut her long hair up above her ears. And what a surprise awaited her! Free of its heavy length, her hair now curled beguilingly all over her head. Charlotte was amazed at how easily and softly her hair curled. And how very feminine it looked.

     Betty moaned softly at the long dark locks of hair on the floor as Charlotte stared intently into the mirror again.

     "This still will not do," she muttered. "I do not look anything like a boy with these curls." She raised the scissors again, then stopped, with them poised in mid-air. She did not want to cut all her hair off. What would Cyril think?

     "I 'ave an idea, Miss," said Betty tentatively. "Maybe if you just smudged up a little..."

     "Betty, what a famous notion! Of course, no one will look too closely at me if I appear to be just a dirty boy."

     Charlotte hurried to the fireplace, and scooped up a handful of ashes. She smeared the soot all over her face, and into her hair. Her hair became a muddy grey, and her face dirty. She yanked the cap down low over her forehead and on her ears, hiding most of the betraying curls. She smiled, pleased with her appearance. Much easier to pass undetected through the streets of London now.

     "There now, your own mother wouldn't know you," said Betty admiringly.

     "I sincerely hope not," was Charlotte's fervent reply. "You've been a real Trojan, Betty, but you had best leave now," she added kindly. "The Baroness is going to notice you have been gone a long time. Now don't you make up any tarradiddles on my account. Just tell my mother you do not know where I am. That is the truth, after all."

     "Be careful, Miss Charlotte." Betty's brown eyes were filled with worry.

     Charlotte crossed the room, and enveloped the girl in a quick hug. "You can be sure I will. Thank you, Betty, for all your help. I hope my adventure does not get you into any trouble."

     "Don't worry about me, Miss," said Betty stoutly. "And if they come a'looking for you, I'll tell 'em you went downstairs the back way."

     Charlotte waited for Betty to leave and close the door. Going back once more to the trunk, she took out a small wooden box that contained a pile of guineas she had carefully hoarded. Twisting the gold coins into a handkerchief, she stuffed it into her coat pocket.

     She hurried to her escritoire and extracted a folded letter lying beneath a pile of writing paper. She had written the letter earlier, before she went down to the soiree, but she took a few moments now to go over it one last time.

     Reading through it, she felt a sharp pang of guilt. They would likely be most angry, and distressed, and she had no wish to cause them pain. She hesitated, letter in hand. A picture of Lord Satterly came to her mind, and her resolve hardened. Her parents had to understand she could not marry him! She folded the missive and left it propped up against the looking glass on the table.

     Under her bed she had stashed her bedsheets, which she had earlier pulled off her mattress. As fast as she could she knotted them together into a long rope. She felt exhilarated; why, she was every bit as resourceful as anyone she had ever read about! Quickly she tied the end of the last sheet to the bedpost nearest the window. Flinging open the sash, she cast her makeshift rope over the sill.

     From deep inside the house she heard the clock start its long midnight chiming. By now, she knew, her father would be standing next to Lord Satterly, while her mother searched the room for her. Charlotte gave one backward glance over her shoulder to her room, and the security she had known there. Then she hoisted a leg over the window sill.

     Footsteps echoed in the corridor outside her room. Her heart pounded against her ribs as if to break free. Her throat was dry, breathing rapid, but her mind was clear. Quickly she lifted her other leg over the sill, and with scarce a downward glance grabbed the roped sheets and plunged feet first into the night.