“Of course you don’t,” Farrell began patronizingly.
“Leave her alone!” Jonathan snapped. “It’s no use trying to reason with her. She lives in a dream world just like her mother did.” His fingers bit into her skin as he grabbed her arm. “Do you know what it’s been like the past sixteen years since your parents died? I’ve watched you eat my food and wear the clothes I paid for, yet all the while you were sitting on millions, millions, that I would never be able to touch. Even after you were
old enough to inherit, what reason did I have to think you’d give me a pound?”
“I would have. You’re my uncle!”
“Ha!” He pushed her back toward the wall. “You would have fallen for some worthless, dressed-up dandy, and he’d have run through everything in five years. I just decided to give you what you wanted and at the same time make sure I got what I wanted.”
“Now see here!” Farrell half choked. “Are you calling me—? Because if you are—.”
Ignoring him, Jonathan continued, “What’s it to be? Him, or you walk out right now?”
“You can’t—,” Farrell began.
“I damn well can, and I am going to. You’re crazy if you think I’m going to support her another five years just for the pleasure of it.”
Dazed, Regan looked from one man to the other. Farrell, her heart cried. How could she have been so wrong about him? He didn’t love her but only wanted her money; he’d talked of the horrors of being married to her.
“What’s your answer?” Jonathan demanded.
“I’ll pack,” Regan whispered.
“Not the clothes I paid for,” Jonathan sneered.
In spite of what the two men seemed to believe about her, there was a great deal of pride in Regan Weston. Her mother had run away from her family and married a penniless clerk, yet because she’d worked with him and believed in him they’d made a fortune. Her mother had been forty when Regan was born, and two years later she’d died with her husband in a boating accident. Regan had been left in the care of her only relative, her mother’s brother. Over the years she’d had no reason to show any of the spirit she’d inherited from her mother.
“I’m leaving,” she said quietly.
“Regan, be reasonable,” Farrell said. “Where will you go? You don’t know anyone.”
“Should I perhaps stay here and marry you? Won’t you be embarrassed at having such an ignorant wife?”
“Let 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.
“Here, 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.
“There’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 walking toward the place where she’d heard the laughter. Perhaps there she would find the help she needed.