I woke to the juddering shake of a carriage dropping in and out of a pothole.
My head was a slamming throb, and I reached up carefully in the half-dark and touched a raw spot just behind my left ear. There was a goose egg the side of my fist. I wondered if I was concussed. Probably.
"Good evening, my dear," Mr. Lewis's voice said from directly across from me. I jumped, pressed myself backwards and into a corner, but there wasn't too far to go, and the motion made my headache worse.
I opened my eyes. We were in the secluded and horribly intimate interior of a small, fussy carriage. The curtains were drawn shut and only the faintest amount of evening light was filtering through the cracks.
"Where are we?" I croaked. "Where's Francis?"
Mr. Lewis reached forward, pressed something cool and metallic into my good hand and forced both my hand and what I realized was a flask up against my lips. I turned my head to the side, felt the cold liquid slither down my jaw, down my neck. Mr. Lewis made an angry grunt, grabbed my nose and jerked my head back around so I was forced to swallow in order to breathe. Liquor, burning and disgusting, slid down my throat. Vodka or scotch or rum or something else that I never drank straight.
I coughed, spluttering, spraying droplets that stung horribly in the cut on the inside of my lip, and he withdrew.
"Where's Francis?" I asked again, feeling the lump or fear and helplessness press against my larynx.
"We are on our way to church," Mr. Lewis said, refusing to answer my question. "I expect you to behave yourself in front of the Reverend. I had to call in several large favours that I had been hoping to keep for later to make him agree to forgo the reading of the banns and marry us tonight."
"Tonight?" I repeated, and my fingers and toes were tingling with either numb horror or the knock on the head or the alcohol. "No," I said. "I won't."
Mr. Lewis surged forward, slammed me hard against the back of the carriage, making the world swirl and the darkness threaten again. I was seeing little sparkling spots. The booze was poured down my throat again and I had to swallow or drown.
"You will," he said. "Or I will kill you."
His rough treatment made the split reopen. I spat bloody booze on his cheek. "Fuck you."
Another well-placed slap made my whole head spin. A third shot of liquor was forced down my throat and I gagged and reached out blindly for some sort of weapon. All I found was more padded bench and a carefully folded bundle of fabric: denim and rubber-soled shoes and the black dress that Francis and I had ruined in the alley. My handkerchief package lay on the top, open.
I reached out and snatched it up, balling the fabric around the ID cards, the cell phone, tying the edges into tight knots.
"I found it pathetically easily," Mr. Lewis sneered. "You lied to me; those are not letters from your family. They are... what are they? Cards from the bottom of the sea, Jane Jessica Franklin?"
I swallowed hard. "How...?"
"Your identification cards. You go by your middle name, I see."
"Jane is a name for old milk cows."
"Did you know they claim that you were born in 1996?"
"Printer's mistake. It's a ...a joke... It's supposed to be, uh," I did the math quick, seventeen, uh, eight-three!"
He sat back and frowned. "You are twenty-three years old?"
"A spinster," I said. "Hardly worth marrying."
He laughed. "Oh, you are amusing. This will be a most enjoyable challenge."
"No."
"Oh. Yes. I will have you, ahem, cowed soon enough, Miss Franklin. You will be a very obedient Mrs. Lewis."
"No! Francis won't... he won't let you..."
"By the time Francis finds us, we'll be married and there will be nothing he can do about it."
"No," I said again, but the more I said it, the less I was starting to believe it.
* * *
I was drunk by the time we arrived at the church. It was dark and I was forced to lean against Mr. Lewis to stay upright in the evening gloom. The Reverend met us at the front door of the parish church, and ushered us inside.
"She's nervous, poor thing," Mr. Lewis said, his voice so warm and affectionate that I might have even believed his concern was genuine. "She drank a little too much in the carriage on the way over."
The Reverend smiled indulgently. "I've married nervous women before. Drunk women, too." His eyes twinkled mischievously, well meaning teasing that would have been reassuring if I hadn't been here against my will. "Do not worry, my dear; Mr. Lewis will be gentle with you. He's had a wedding night before this."
"No," I mumbled, but the world was spinning and my head hurt so much even breathing was painful. I just wanted to lay down and die.
I was pulled into the warmth of the church and led up the aisle to the altar. Mr. Lewis's driver followed us in, my twenty first century clothing tucked into a cloth bag that he held loosely in one hand. He was, I supposed, meant to be our witness.
There was no ceremony; just Mr. Lewis signing a certificate on the altar, and him leading my hand in a messy version of my own name. It was not at all my signature, but there was no record of that, no way to prove from past documents that my mark was not official.
The Reverend joined our hands and asked George Henry Lewis if he wished to take me for his wife, with all the adjuncts about richer or poorer skipped. He said yes. The Reverend turned to me and before he could even ask, I said "No. No, no, never."
The Reverend blinked, taken aback. Mr. Lewis's grip on my hand squeezed in warning, but I didn't care. Let him break my remaining useable fingers. I was not going to say yes.
"Mr. Lewis," the Reverend said, clearly puzzled. "What is the meaning of this?"
"She's just nervous," Mr. Lewis said again, with more force. "She does not mean it. She's signed the certificate. It's official."
"Not without her verbal consent, I'm afraid it's not," the Reverend corrected with a shake of his head. He turned back to the altar and rolled up the certificate, clutched it in his fist. "Now, this wedding will not go forward until the lady has made it clear what she means. We will sit until she is sober."
"No!" Mr. Lewis snarled, not about to be thwarted by morals. "Give me the certificate. Now."
"Mr. Lewis!" the Reverend admonished.
Mr. Lewis lunged, but the Reverend ducked behind the font and called for someone named Peter, whom I assumed was his assistant. I didn't wait for Mr. Lewis to turn back around. I dashed back down the aisle as fast as I could, snatching the bag with my clothing and ID out of the driver's startled hands. I clasped it to my chest and burst out of the doors, into the frigid January air.
It was sharp and painful and sucked me back down into moderate sobriety.
Behind me, I could hear the Reverend and Mr. Lewis both screaming my name, but I wasn't about to stop now. Freezing to death in the deep English winter was preferable to staying and marrying that son of a bitch.
I dashed down the stairs, out into the darkness of the cemetery. The snow came up to my shins, soaking through my dress, slippers and stockings in an instant, raising goose pimples all up my back. Mr. Lewis's voice got closer and I poured on as much speed as I was able, slogging through the drifts.
It was so dark, and the snow was so high, that I didn't even see the headstone until I'd tripped over it. I spilled ass over teakettle right over the top of it and landed hard in a large drift on the other side of it.
Mr. Lewis's voice was too close for me to move, so I crouched down in the snow bank, covering the bag, wriggling to the side so more of the snow fell over my head, disguising the dark splotch of my hair. My dress was white, and blended in already, even if it was so thin that I was already shivering.
"Jane Jessica Franklin!" Mr. Lewis snarled, his voice booming in the darkness, carrying across the wide open graveyard. "Jessica!"
I didn't move, sucking in small shallow breaths and trying to be as still as the shivering would allow.
"I will leave you here to freeze to death, you stupid whore!"
I did not reply. That was what I wanted.
He stomped around and screamed for another hour. By then I had stopped shivering, I was so cold. I couldn't seem to keep my eyes open, but I knew, I knew that I had to stay awake. If I fell asleep, I would never wake back up. Especially with a concussion making things worse.
Luckily, Lewis had cut so many paths through the snow that there was no way he could possibly follow my tracks to my hiding place. Finally, his voice retreated. I didn't trust him to not be waiting at the entrance to the cemetery, so I stayed where I was.
I drifted, fighting to stay awake but unable to make my eyelids obey. I don't know how much time passed before I heard a small, soft, "Jessie?" carried over the snow.
"F-Francis?" I whispered, recognizing his voice.
I tried to lift my head, to peer over the tombstone, but I couldn't seem to get my body to unfold. Everything felt stiff and sore and I was floating.
"Jessie!" he called again, closer, his voice agitated. "Jessie!"
"F-f-Francis!" I called back, trying to swallow, my mouth dry and my teeth clamped shut.
Feet shushing through high snow, Francis' high, desperate voice, and then something hot, unbearably hot on my face. "Jessie, oh, Lord in Heaven, Jessie!"
"No," I whimpered, because whatever he was holding against my cheek hurt. It felt like a hand, but a hand that was on fire.
"Hold still, I've got you," Francis said, and then I was swirling up into the air and it felt so much like drowning all over again that I closed my eyes and finally gave in to the darkness. "I am a complete fool, but I have you."
* * *
I assume I slept through the night, and probably well into the next morning. I had flashes of tea that tasted of painkillers, and soup, and a cool cloth on my forehead. I saw dark eyes hovering above mine, that pretty cupid's bow mouth that I had loved to kiss so much, that dark flop of hair, but the rest of the features were hazy and indistinct.
I reached up, ran the pads of my fingers down that soft, pretty jaw, over that shoulder where I had once dug in my nails, and slurred, "Sorry," and "How could you?", and "I don't love you anymore," which may or may not have been the truth, but in my swirl I couldn't tell.
My throat and chest burned for the coughing and I cursed myself for my weakness, for being ill, for the stupidity of courting relapse, for trusting Francis Goodenough, for getting on that fucking plane, for ever having dreamt of Paris to begin with.
* * *
When I had finally recovered enough to actually feel awake, it was in a modest room that I had never seen before, under a pile of rough blankets on a low seatee. I shivered all over, my teeth chattering, and the sound attracted someone on the other side of the room. The Reverend came over to hover beside me and smile.
"Hello, Miss Franklin," he said softly. "Welcome back to the land of the living."
"T-thanks," I chattered back. "L-Lewis?"
The Reverend's face fell. "My most hearty apologies. I was quite convinced that his affection was genuine; however, Captain Goodenough has opened my eyes."
"F-Francis?"
"Out on business, but he will return."
I sighed and relaxed back into the pillow.
"Tea, Miss Franklin?"
I nodded, and he bustled out of the room. While he was gone, someone else came in. At first I tensed, terrified that Mr. Lewis had not, in fact, been driven off. But it was Francis, my beautiful, wonderful Francis, who came in.
He dropped my bag by the fireplace and sat on the edge of the settee and grabbed the hand that I held out. "Miss Franklin," he said, and his voice was tight with regret. "How can I ever—"
"Oh, shut up, you m-moron," I said.
"I should never have—"
"Th-that's for damn sh-sure," I tried to snap at him.
Francis stopped trying to apologise and simply sat back on his heels, hands folded on his thighs, contrite.
"F-first, fu-fuh-fuck you for leaving me with L-Lewis back the-there." He tried to speak and I held up my hand, finger up, shhh. He shushed. "Se-second. F-fuck you for flirting with me when you h-had a f-fiancee." He opened his mouth again, then snapped it shut immediately. "Thirdly -a big, big fuck you for not stopping me when I k-kissed you. And, er, other st-stuff. Lastly--" I reached up with my mangled hand and pressed the back of it against his mouth. His lips were hot, hot, when he pressed a soft peck to the back of it. It made my whole hand tingle. "K-kiss me goodbye," I said.
Because otherwise I would resent him. I would resent that I needed a man to take care of me in this place, that I needed anyone to take care of me. I would resent what we had done in that alley, resent him for setting me up for a life as chattel, when in this time and place it was the kindest thing he could have accomplished.
He flushed delicately, like a girl, and a warm affection swelled in my chest. What a silly boy. "I... beg your pardon?"
"You're g-going to m-marry this other g-girl, so give me a goodbye k-kiss," I said, trying to be reasonable.
Because it had occurred to me while I was laying in the snow, prepared to die for my freedom, I could be the bigger man. Woman. Whatever. Because I had realized that, you know what? I didn't have anything on the line, or a life planned with this guy, or any of that.
Because, you know what, for all that I wanted to cling to him, I didn't think I actually loved Captain Goodenough? And maybe she did. Maybe she didn't, and was only hooking up with him because she had no other choice, too. But that didn't matter. She wore his ring, not me. She would bare his children and she would keep his house, and it was she who entitled to his presence and presents, pay-cheques and affection. She, and her family, needed him, and if I took that away...
Then she would end up like me: abandoned, alone, with nothing.
No. I had skills, I had a will to take care of myself and the ability to do so because I had no family's reputation to ruin, or friends to offend, or society to impress. Better me than her, because I was ready to rise to the challenge of caring for myself. (And yeah, maybe that was unfair to this Miss Gale, for me to assume she was just a pretty ninny whom society would scorn if Francis threw her over, but c'mon, we've all seen the costume dramas, right?)
So I couldn't begrudge the soon-to-be Mrs. Captain Francis Goodenough, whoever and wherever she was. And I couldn't take what was rightfully hers - the safety and security of what I hoped was a marriage filled with real love.
I could only wish that I had been less of a romantic mush ball, less of a horny, desperate, half-mad, unthinking little moron, and that Francis... that he had not encouraged it with his beautiful eyes and cupid's bow mouth and clever, clever fingers. And honestly, if he couldn't pledge himself to me, then I hoped that he could at least take what I'd shown him in the alley and use it on her to good effect. I mean, somebody better be getting orgasms out of this whole thing, even if it wasn't me.
God, I'm really bad at this jealous girlfriend thing, huh?
So that was it, then.
"Kiss you?" he asked.
"For the last time." I offered him a smile, small little smile to show him that I was serious, but that it wouldn't be a trap. "Then we can be friends and then we can talk about what an a-ab-absolute prick you've been."
He leaned down, his mouth as hot and wonderful has I could have ever hoped for, even if the kiss was dry and chaste. And it tore at me – because I wanted it, still. I wanted Francis Goodenough, (a man, for god's sake, I hadn't fallen for a dude in years), and it wasn't for sex. It was because he was warm, and safe, and known. It was because, despite my fantasies of independence in this era, I needed his protection and I hated that it was true.
"That's over then," I said as he pulled away, taking a deep breath and blinking a lot to keep from bursting into stupid overwrought tears. "This has been a hell of a day."
"Over," he agreed. "Now what am I to do with you?"
"My debt?" I asked. I shivered again, and he suddenly pulled me upright, tucking his hot body up close to mine, wrapping the blankets close around us both. It was terribly intimate for someone who was going to marry someone else, but he was warm and I didn't care. It was done between us, so I could fool myself into pretending that this was just a show of friendship, of concern.
When had I gotten so bad at lying to myself?
"Repaid," he said. "Your watch ... the watchmaker was absolutely speechless with wonder. He has never seen such a contraption."
"And he never will again." The warmth leaking from Francis' body into mine was slow at pushing back the severe chill in my bones.
"You are such a puzzle," Francis whispered against my neck.
"I know."
"And a tease."
"I know."
He pulled back, probably suddenly remembering that he was engaged to someone else.
"I won't go back to London," I said softly, breaking the affectionate mood.
"Very well," he breathed out between his teeth. "I have no other choice then. I'll pawn you off on my sisters, Margaret and Rose. They have despaired of having a good companion for months. Perhaps they can employ you in their household. Your eccentricities will entertain, if nothing else."
"Margaret?" I repeated. Something inside my head pinged. "Wait a minute, Margaret Goodenough?"
"The very same," he huffed, but his tone was understanding, light. "For she, like you, refuses to do her womanly duty and marry."
"Hey, don't pin this on me." It was meant to be funny, but it fell utterly flat.
There was a long, uncomfortable silence.
And wow, did I feel like a prick or what?
"Margaret Goodenough," I repeated, awed.
"What other Margaret is there?" Francis asked.
It was everything I could do not to slap my forehead. Of course.
*
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