Lost Lady Read Free

had no reason to show any of the spirit she’d inherited from her mother.
    â€œI’m leaving,” she said quietly.
    â€œRegan, be reasonable,” Farrell said. “Where will you go? You don’t know anyone.”
    â€œShould I perhaps stay here and marry you? Won’t you be embarrassed at having such an ignorant wife?”
    â€œLet her go! She’ll come back,” Jonathan snapped. “Let her get a taste of the world, and she’ll come back.”
    Regan’s spirit was leaving her quickly as she saw the hate in her uncle’s eyes and the contempt in Farrell’s. Before she could change her mind, before she fell to her knees before Farrell, she turned and fled the house.
    It was dark outside, and the wind from the sea moved the tree branches overhead. As she paused on the doorstep, she lifted her chin high. She would make it; no matter what it took from her, she’d show them that she wasn’t an ineffectual person, as they seemed to believe. The stones were cold under her feet as she walked away from the house, refusing to think about the fact that she was in public—however dark—wearing only her nightgown. Someday, she thought, she’d return to this house wearing a satin gown and tall feathers in her hair, and Farrell would go down on his knees to her, saying that she was the most beautiful woman in the world. Of course, by then she’d be renowned for her brilliant house parties, a favorite of the king and queen; she’d be celebrated for her wit and intelligence as well as her beauty.
    The cold was becoming so intense that it was overriding her dreams. Stopping by an iron fence, she began to rub her arms. Where was she? She remembered Farrell saying she’d been kept a prisoner, and it was true. Since she was two years old she had rarely ever left Weston Manor. A succession of maids and frightened governesses had been her only companions, the garden her only place of amusement. In spite of being alone, she rarely felt lonely. That feeling didn’t come until she met Farrell.
    Leaning against the cold iron, she put her face in her hands. Whom was she trying to fool? What could she do alone in the night wearing only her nightgown?
    She lifted her head when she heard footsteps coming toward her. A brilliant smile lit her face; Farrell was coming after her! As she moved away from the fence, her sleeve caught in the iron and tore at the shoulder. Ignoring the tear, she began to run toward the footsteps.
    â€œHere, girly,” said a poorly dressed young man. “So, you came to greet me, all ready for bed.”
    Backing away from him, Regan tripped over the edge of her long gown.
    â€œThere’s no need to be afraid of Charlie,” the man said. “I don’t want nothin’ that you don’t want.”
    Regan began to run in earnest, her heart pounding wildly, her sleeve tearing a bit more with each movement. She had no idea where she was going, whether she was running toward something or away from it. Even when she fell the first time, she hardly slowed her pace.
    It seemed like hours before she slipped into an alleyway and allowed her heart to calm enough to listen for the man’s footsteps. When everything seemed to be quiet, she leaned her head back against the damp brick wall and smelled the salty, fishy odor from the sea. She could hear laughter from somewhere to her right, a door slammed, there was some metal clanking, and she could hear the call of the seagulls.
    As she looked down at her nightgown, she saw it was torn and muddy; there was mud in her hair and, she guessed, on her cheek. Trying not to think about how she looked, she wanted only to control her fear. She had to get away from this bad-smelling place and find shelter before morning—a place where she could rest and find safety.
    Trying as best she could to smooth her hair, pulling the torn pieces of her gown together, she left the alleyway and started