Page 37 of Barely a Woman
“How we are dismissed as empty vessels, pretty to the eye but hollow inside. How we are given simple tasks to keep us busy and out of trouble. How a woman who dares speak her mind is called a harpy, and the one who shows intelligence is considered a witch. How those who attempt to rise above the low expectations of men are punished and discarded as a warning to the rest.”
“I have noticed.” He sounded sadder still. “For that, I am sorry.”
She shook her head. “Do you know what is worst about this?”
“No.”
“You may have noticed, but until recently I did not.” She heaved a ragged sigh. “I was once content to occupy my place, and sometimes even become complicit in the regulation of others. That is the genius of our suppression. That our captors use us to guard and reprimand one another.”
He dipped his chin. “But you notice now? What changed?”
She stiffened her spine and swept a hand from her chest to her legs. “This changed. This costume. This identity. This ruse of masculinity. For the past several weeks, when I have worn this suit and hat, I have never been insulted for the circumstances of my birth. I have endured no leering looks, inappropriate remarks, or cold dismissals. I have suffered no prospect of assault by strangers and acquaintances alike. I have walked without fear, expressing my opinions openly, and garnering respect from those who hear them.” She paused to breathe. “I did not know, until now, what has been stolen from me since birth. And it demolishes me.”
Steadman stood from his seat, removed his hat, and clutched it before him with both hands. “Morgan. I am sorry for how our society treats our precious sisters. How it mistreatsyou. And I am sorry for every action that has made me complicit in that injustice.”
She stood to face him, just out of arm’s reach. “Do not apologize. It is just the way of things.”
“It should not be the way of things.”
He leaned toward her, apparently ready to say more. Or do more. A drunken laugh froze them both. Morgan followed the sound to find Jack emerging from the house. She mimicked Steadman’s example by pressing herself against a wall, deep in shadows. The subject of their surveillance stood in the doorway with a woman entangled in his arms, exchanging passionate kisses. His clothing hung askew as if hastily reassembled after, well, Morgan could venture a guess. He disengaged from the woman, pinched her to elicit a squeal, and swaggered away in the direction of Stoke Farthing. They watched him go without following.
“So,” said Steadman finally, “He is conducting amorous liaisons with a woman not his wife.”
“It would appear so. What now?”
He turned his gaze upon her, his eyes locked in shadows. “Return to the inn to sleep. We will try again tomorrow night. Our choices are limited at this point.”
Morgan nodded and followed Steadman as he made good on his plan. However, she disagreed with him on one point. Her choices were not just limited, but instead non-existent.
Chapter Eleven
Steadman awoke from restless and troubled sleep with a desire to make right a crumbled world. The cause and subject of his determination were the same—Miss Morgan Brady. The woeful expression of loss on her face the night before had plagued his dreams. He had awakened time and again thinking of her hair, of its wavy amber hue, imagining how it might appear cascading past her shoulders. He failed in every attempt as her blasted suit interfered with the vision.
“Good morning, sir.”
Morgan greeted him before he spied her waiting at the breakfast table. The earnest manner of her eyes, the prominence of her sculpted cheekbones, the softness of her voice—these all conspired to obliterate the last vestiges of Mr. Brady. He continued to be confounded by why it had taken him so long to notice how feminine she was. And how astonishingly beautiful she was. He straddled a chair to join her. “Good morning to you. Did you sleep well?”
“Not particularly.” Her puffy eyes told the tale of lack of sleep and perhaps a few tears.
“Nor did I. But I have a notion to help us both.”
“Oh?”
He gave her a warm smile. “Rather than moping about the inn or Broad Chalke at large, I propose a short journey to a magical place.”
A slight smile erased her grim expression, threatening to reveal those elusive dimples. “I do like magical places.”
“Then we are of an accord.”
“I believe so.”
***
Steadman spurred his horse off the road just outside the hamlet of Coombe Bisset and led Morgan into a thicket of trees along a well-beaten path. Just as he remembered, the trees crowded the trail ever closer with each stride of his mount. Within a half mile, the press of green formed a natural tunnel through the dense wood. He glanced back at Morgan to find her eyeing the branches closing ranks overhead.
“Nearly there,” he said. As if by premonition, the trees before him abruptly thinned before thrusting him into a cathedral of the forest. Immense yews, twisted with age, formed the columns, while their gnarled branches stretched toward one another to form a wooden mesh of ceiling. Morgan’s gasp from behind him marked the moment she entered the domain of the yews. Her appreciation pleased him. No, not just that. It awakened a yearning that confounded him. He desperately wanted to hold her in his arms. Instead, he led her into the midst of the arboreal giants before dismounting. She followed suit, still staring in wonder and running a hand across a weathered trunk.
“What is this place?”
