The Bride Lottery. Tatiana March

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      To her surprise, new sensations stirred inside her. A wildness. A sense of adventure. All her life, she’d felt stifled by the constraints that fell upon a young woman in polite society. Now those constraints were gone. She could be whatever she wanted to be.

      * * *

      Dawn came. Woken by birdsong, Miranda got up from the grassy knoll where she had settled for a few hours of sleep, so she could walk to Boston in daylight. By now, her escape might have been noticed. The footmen and grooms might be looking for her, and it remained imperative to avoid capture.

      She brushed twigs and bits of grass from her hair and clothing, then set off walking along the forest path, her body stiff from the rough night, her stomach growling with hunger, her skin itchy beneath the dew-damp gown of black bombazine. As the sun climbed higher, the air grew cloying with heat.

      A loud crash sounded ahead, followed by alarmed voices. A public road skirted the edge of the forest. Miranda crept closer and peered between the trees.

      A fine carriage, drawn by a matching team of four, had come to a halt. Silver gleamed on the harnesses. A burly coachman in green livery sat high up on the bench. Miranda craned forward for a better view. The coach was listing to one side, a wheel loose from its bearings.

      The coachman climbed down from his perch. “Mrs. Summerton?” he bellowed. “Are ye all right?”

      “I am fine, Atkins.” The reply came in a calm, refined voice.

      Miranda waited. Atkins went to the coach door, yanked it open. He held out not one hand, but both. Puzzled by the boldness of the gesture, Miranda watched, got an explanation as the coachman lifted out a little girl with blond ringlets and a frilly dress.

      He repeated the action. Again. And again. Four little girls, as alike as peas in a pod. Next, a beautiful woman emerged. She was fair-haired, dressed in an elegant blue gown tailored to accommodate her rounded belly. She looked no more than twenty-five.

      “Thank you, Atkins.” The woman glanced around. “Where is Jason?”

      “The footman ran ahead for help.”

      Frowning, the woman surveyed the listing conveyance. “How long before we can get going again?”

      “Depends on how long it takes to round up help. Once we have enough men to lift up the carriage, it will only take a moment to secure the wheel.”

      One of the little girls tugged at the woman’s skirts. “Can we play, Mama?” The little imp, perhaps seven or eight, gestured at the mud on the roadside.

      “But darling, you’ll get dirty, and we are going to a birthday party in Boston.” The woman glanced up at the rising sun and wiped her brow with a lace handkerchief.

      The four little girls swarmed around her. “Can we play, Mama? Can we play?”

      Atkins lifted a wooden stool out of the carriage and propped it on the ground. Mrs. Summerton sank gratefully onto it and gave her forehead another pat with the cloth. Miranda could feel exhaustion coming off the woman in waves.

      The little girls darted around their mother, giggling and shoving, as bouncy as rubber balls. The woman closed her eyes. Her body swooned on the stool. The coachman put out a hand to steady her.

      Taking pity on the pregnant mother, Miranda stepped out from the cover of the forest. She picked up a smooth pebble from the ground, wiped it clean against her canvas bag and walked up to the group.

      “I’m a magician,” she said. “The fairies in the forest sent me to amuse you.”

      Miranda held out both palms, tossed the pebble between them and fluttered her hands about, the way Cousin Gareth had taught her long ago, before he went to seed and became an enemy. She closed both fists and held them out. “Which hand is the stone in?”

      “That one! That one!”

      Mrs. Summerton opened her eyes and observed the scene in silence. Glancing over to Atkins, she appeared reassured by the man’s presence. Big and burly, he had the means to restrain any threat from a lunatic.

      Miranda spoke, allowing her education to show. “My name is...” her eyes strayed toward the trees from which she had emerged “...Mrs. Woods.” She disliked lying, but it made no sense to leave a trail for Cousin Gareth to follow.

      “I was taking a stroll in the forest,” she went on. “I needed a moment of privacy after my husband’s funeral. I am on my way to back to New York City, but the train can wait. I thought you might benefit from assistance to entertain your young ones.”

      Miranda opened her right fist. Empty. The left fist. Empty. She tugged at the nearest blond pigtail, shook the pebble out of it. The little girls jumped up and down, screaming in delight.

      Mrs. Summerton broke into a smile of relief. “Thank you. If there ever was an angel sent from heaven, you must be it.” She pointed at the little girls. “Two sets of twins. Can you believe it?” She rubbed her belly. “This one will be a boy. My husband is convinced.”

      While they waited for help to arrive, Miranda kept the four little girls occupied, allowing their mother a moment of peace. Soon a young freckle-faced footman brought a crowd from the public house down the road and they hoisted up the carriage for the coachman to secure the wheel.

      “Would you like to ride to Boston with us?” Mrs. Summerton asked.

      It would save time and keep her out of sight. And she could hear the plea in the woman’s voice. Miranda accepted the offer. By the time they reached the city, Miranda had adjusted her ideas about the joys of motherhood. She alighted at the railroad station, with another four dollars in her pocket and an offer of a position as a governess if she ever needed one. The mere thought made Miranda shudder. She hurried away, the voices of the four little hoydens ringing in her ears.

       Chapter Two

      The money Miranda had earned entertaining the boisterous Summerton children allowed her to buy a ticket on the train to New York City, which avoided having to sell Mama’s brooch in Boston where someone might have recognized her.

      On the train, she kept her face averted, her bonnet pulled low. An express service covered the journey in six hours, but to save money Miranda took a slow train that made frequent stops. By the time they arrived in New York City, darkness had fallen.

      Once the passengers had dispersed in their carriages and hansom cabs, only creatures of the night remained—gaudily dressed women past their prime, accosted by men willing to benefit from their favors. The evening cool did little to clear the sultry air thick with coal smoke.

      Appalled at the squalor, Miranda found a hidden corner behind an empty newspaper stand and huddled there for the night. All thoughts of finding a jeweler to sell Mama’s brooch vanished. She hated the city and could not wait to leave. In the morning, as the station grew busy again, she snuck on board the first westbound train.

      Traveling without a ticket proved easier than Miranda had expected. Days turned into nights and nights into days. The train made frequent stops, in small towns and at water towers, and she used them to move from car to car, to minimize the chances СКАЧАТЬ