Page 70 of West End Earl
He nodded. “You’ll need a baptism record. I’ll take care of it.”
“Thank you. I’m sorry to ask you to lie again.”
“This will bring us full circle. I took your place in the world, but now I can give you another.” The teacup rattled in the saucer when he set it down. “Go visit your brother while I find the right record book.”
The chairs scraped against the floor when they rose, then Phee held the door open for Emma.
Early evening sunlight dappled the leaves overhead as they wove through the headstones in the graveyard. At the right marker, they stopped, and Emma hugged herself at the sight. “Doesn’t it disturb you to see your own name in stone like that?”
Phee sighed. “It hurts more to not see his. It’ll actually be a relief when this is over and I can visit a headstone with Adam’s name.” Reaching out, she trailed a hand over the curved rock face, sweeping at a bit of moss that clung to theOin Ophelia.
“I don’t know how you did it, Phee. You’re remarkable,” Emma said.
Phee knelt and rested her hand on the grass atop the grave, the ever-present grief for her brother welling to the surface. “No,” she whispered. “I survived. That’s all. We do what we must. I miss him, though. I wish you could have known Adam.”
Emma placed a hand on Phee’s shoulder. “I knew a version of him. And next, I get to meet Fiona.”
As Phee looked up at her, backlit as she was by the sun, the resemblance to Cal was strong, and it added another layer of ache to her chest. “Please, God, let this be my last name change.”
Vicar Arcott was a man of his word and, thankfully, was willing to falsify records one more time. An hour later she kissed him goodbye, and he pressed a slice of pie into Emma’s eager hands at the carriage door. “Don’t stay in the village. Milton will get word if you do, especially with this fancy rig,” he said.
“I know. We’ll stop for the night closer to the coast.” Phee wrapped her arms around him one last time and closed her eyes for a moment. Needing to say everything in case this turned out to be the last time she saw him, she pulled away and looked him in the eye. “Thank you for everything. I love you. I wish you’d been my father.”
He swallowed roughly. “You’ve always been mine. Sometimes God brings us children that don’t share our blood. Come home when you can, my darling girl.”
One more hug, and then they took their leave. They’d need to push hard to get as much distance as possible between them and Warford before nightfall. She knew from experience that Milton had spies everywhere.
***
“I’m going to look ridiculous,” Phee grumbled, even as she continued sewing neat stitches in a perfect row.
“No,” Emma said. “You will look lovely. What’s going to look ridiculous is your hair. And that’s why God made bonnets. Has it always poufed like that?”
“Yes, unfortunately. As a child I had ringlets. But no matter what I did, it always became a tangled rat’s nest by the end of the day. Honestly, I think dealing with my hair at a longer length will be what I hate most about living as a woman again.” Phee snipped the thread. “There. Can you help me into it?” They were at their fifth inn, taking a deliberately leisurely approach toward the tiny seaside village of Olread Cove. They’d arrive at the leased house the following day.
During the interminable days of travel, Phee and Emma kept their hands busy by making alterations they’d marked and pinned together the evening before.
Seeing the grave again, this time so close to the end of her charade, had left Phee unsettled. Sleep had been poor, and a fidgety unease made her jumpy. What if she wasn’t ready for the next step? What if she couldn’t unlearn the pieces of her brother she’d adopted? The walk, the manner of speaking—none of that was right for a lady. Layers of binding, a shirt, jacket, waistcoat, and cravat had been an armor of sorts, protecting her from the reality of being alone in the world.
The sounds of the bustling inn drifted through the wooden-plank floor as they removed her men’s garments and she donned the gown. They’d done some version of this to fit the dresses each evening, but as Emma helped her with the pins and tapes, Phee knew. The gown was ready.
The fine chemise, gossamer thin and trimmed in delicate lace, was the prettiest thing she had ever owned. She couldn’t help but think of how Cal would react if he saw it. The thought brought a pang, so she stuffed it down. He’d become part of her past. This was the time for creating a future.
Tomorrow they would tell the coachman that Adam’s cousin Fiona had arrived during the night and Adam had set off early ahead of them. Then the charade would begin. The coachman and other staff would return to London as soon as they arrived in Olread Cove, and no one would be the wiser that Adam wasn’t waiting at the cottage like they said.
A petticoat trimmed in embroidered green silk leaves peeked out beneath the gathered hem of the skirt. She had no shoes to match, but she’d found a pair of walking boots at a used clothing stall during their travels.
The sturdy little boots made her feel better. They felt solid on her feet, like her tall boots had, and in a way this ladylike footwear straddled two worlds. The old existence of breeches and cravats, and her new reality of skirts and fripperies.
“What made you pick this copper shade?” Emma asked.
Because Cal had once told her she’d look lovely in copper or green, and no matter how hard she tried, Phee couldn’t forget a single moment of their time together. “I thought the shade would suit me,” she lied.
Using the windowpane, the women stood side by side and studied their reflections.
“The Widow Hardwick and her cousin by marriage Miss Fiona Hardwick,” Emma said, imitating the tone of Higgins announcing visitors.
Phee lost her voice, overcome by the picture they made. Except for her hair, she looked like a sophisticated young lady.
