This was the day that Mr. and Mrs. Robinson were to leave for New York to take their passage on the Manhattan to England.
I had recently taken Mama’s money and promised not to go with them. Of course, I lied to her, but I needed the money desperately, and I was determined to leave this place by whatever means I could manage. And I intended to travel with the Robinsons, whatever happened. I had spent every spare moment considering how I could wreak revenge for their cruelty to me. What I had not foreseen, however, was Mama’s distrust of me.
Yesterday morning, I awoke to hammering on my bedchamber door. When I tried to open it, I could not.
Cook brought my breakfast up on a tray a half hour later. I heard her slide a bolt back. Then she entered. “Oh, Miss Powell,” she said in a whisper, “the missus has had a bolt put on the outside of the door. You will not be able to leave, she tells me, for several days.”
“What am I to do, Cook? Has this room become Newgate prison?”
“Do not worry,” she said, looking over her shoulder as she set the tray on the step stool beside the bed. “Lucy and I are on your side. We have a plan.” Then, hearing footsteps on the stairs, she departed. I heard her slide the bolt back into place.
A minute later, there was another movement of the bolt, and Mama and Eliza entered. The two of them stood in the doorway. They had been sharing a joke, it seemed, for both of them were smiling.
“I am to be imprisoned like some madwoman?” I asked.
Mama instantly became serious. “The Reverend Mr. Strachan and your brother Grant are now downstairs in the withdrawing room,” she said. “They are here to keep an eye on things all this day and evening. Eliza will sleep in your Papa’s bedchamber. You will stay here until the Robinsons leave. Eventually, the house will return to normal.”
“It is all so much like the plot of one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels,” I said, not adding that the lady knew how to enact a happy ending, and that I intended the same for my own little drama.
They actually seemed disappointed that I had nothing more to say. They shrugged their shoulders and departed, leaving me in prison.
I began to plan my escape, but I soon had another shock in store. When I looked at the foot of the bed, I discovered that the captain’s trunk that had lain there for years had disappeared. At the same time, I heard the front door close. Going to the window, I saw Mr. Strachan’s servant on the footpath carrying that very trunk in the direction of the rectory that lay to the west of our house.
So Mama seemed to have covered every aspect of my intended escape. The captain’s trunk was to have been the repository of all my worldly goods that I intended to take to England. Now, if I did manage to get out of Newgate, it would be with the clothes on my back.
* * *
It was now the evening of the day of the Robinsons’ departure from York. I had spent the hours in solitary confinement except for the entrances and exits of Cook and Lucy to bring meals and empty the chamberpot. Each time they came, however, they reassured me that they had a plan in place for my escape. Heartening news, indeed!
Dear Cook, how little did I imagine that my small act of kindness in assisting her unfortunate niece in childbirth all those years ago would reap such benefits now! As for Lucy, I had always known that I could trust her to support me. I remembered how she had kept my secrets and helped my escape to Niagara on that day in 1813.
So I waited in hope to see what would evolve.
A few minutes later, I heard the bolt slide. The door opened. It was Lucy with my supper. She put a finger to her lips, came close to me and whispered the news I had been longing to hear.
Two of my gaolers—Grant and Mr. Strachan—were asleep in the withdrawing room. Mama was taking a hip bath in her bedchamber. Eliza was in Papa’s room, having retired early after spending the day stitching a new waistcoat for the man. There was a sleigh waiting for me in front of Frank’s Tavern with a driver whose name I recognized. Jacques Vallière, of course!
I knew I must act immediately. While Lucy stood at the door keeping watch, I went to the wardrobe and drew out my warm redingote with a shoulder cape and a matching wool turban. I pulled on leather, side-laced boots. Then I put a brooch, a gold ring, Mama’s money, and a small bottle of laudanum into the folds of a fur muff. I was ready. With Lucy’s footsteps shielding my own, I made my way down the staircase.
In an instant, I had passed the withdrawing room with its snoring occupants, opened and closed the front door quietly, and was down the pathway towards freedom.
* * *
Jacques was waiting for me at the tavern. He had brought a pile of bearskins to keep me warm, and I climbed up behind him on the sleigh and snuggled beneath them. “You are not Guy this time,” he said, noting my long skirts. “You will be my sister, Angelique. That pleases you, oui?”
“Oui,” I said. “Bonne idée!”
A light touch of the whip on the horse’s back, and we took off along the Kingston Road. The trials of the last two days had overwhelmed me, and I soon fell asleep. When I woke up, the sun had already risen. Snow lay everywhere, though the runners of the sleigh coasted smoothly over the drifts, probably because just ahead of us was a fine carriage; in it, no doubt, were the Robinsons.
“Attention!” I called to Jacques. “Do not overtake them!” I in no way wanted to let them think that I was chasing them.
He pulled at the horse’s reins, and the animal came to a stop. “Et maintenant?” he asked.
I had to think of some way to keep us from moving on. An answer soon came to me. “Je dois pisser.” It was vulgar, I realized, but I did not know how to express myself more formally.
Jacques, ever courteous, pointed towards the forest to the left of the road. He helped me down from the sleigh, then made a point of moving to the other side where he could not observe my activity. Perhaps he, too, needed a forest “break.”
Mission accomplished, I came back. Though I’d worn my “Adelaides,” as my boots were called, my feet were cold, but the bearskins lent welcome warmth. Best of all, as I looked down the road ahead, I noted that the Robinsons’ carriage had disappeared.
We resumed our quick pace. A few miles farther, we passed an inn, where I saw with relief that the Robinsons’ carriage had pulled into the laneway. No doubt they were making a stop for breakfast or for Emma to use a chamberpot. No forest toilettes for that fine lady!
The hours passed. At the town of Kingston, just before nightfall, we stopped at a roadside hostelry. The horse was tired. Jacques was tired. I was tired. Jacques concocted a tale that seemed to convince the innkeeper. We were brother and sister, he said, and he was taking me to New York to meet our mother who was coming from France to join us on our farm on the shore of Rice Lake. He managed to get all this explained in his broken English, and when the innkeeper turned to me for affirmation, I shrugged my shoulders and said, “Je ne comprends pas.”
A servant took us up a creaking wooden staircase to a small room with two narrow beds separated by a baize curtain. It was perfect. On my side of the curtain was a mirror, a washbasin and pitcher, and towels. In a moment, I rearranged my hair, washed my face, and wiped off my boots.
“Le souper, maintenant?” I called to Jacques whom I could hear clumping about on the other side of the divide.
We went down to the dining-room where several travellers had already seated themselves around the table. Jacques repeated his story, I kept up my pretence of understanding nothing of what was said, and in a very few moments we were all slurping down a hearty venison stew.
For the first time in several days, I enjoyed the meal. Already I was envisioning my entry into a new world. In Tolpuddle I could perhaps be of some use to Geoffrey Loveless in his campaign for decent wages. I could also lend my assistance to Uncle Henry and Aunt Jane and make a career for myself as a midwife.