Josephine's Lists

Chapter 32- Bullets and Bourbon

Josephine watched as the gun barrel shadowed her movement, leaving no room for indecision. The short walk to the bench stretching for miles. Against her mind's desire, Josephine's chest rose and fell in rapid succession. Wanting to hide the fear, but finding it manifest from her pinched brows, down to her shaky, slipper-clad feet. Josephine's calm had fled out the window, along with her sanity. Could she diffuse the situation? If anyone was an expert at disagreeable men, it was Josephine. But disagreeable and murderous were two different things. THIS she had no experience with, nor ever wished to.

The housemaid may have told someone where Josephine had gone. Perhaps, someone would come to her aid. And there was a party of people nearby after all. Not within earshot, but definitely within gunshot. They would hear. The options were few, but she tried to focus on the positive. Mr. Horace Tennyson would never actually shoot her. His plan must be to scare her into submission. Scare her into leaving his son. But, staring down the barrel of his flintlock, Josephine knew she was swallowing a lie to drown the truth. Horace was capable and willing. Almost eager to kill. Her body wracked with shivers.

They say the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. But in Horace and Charles' case, Charles belonged in a spring orange grove. And Horace? One rotten apple tree.

The smug man pushed a sheet of parchment across the desk. "You need to write precisely as I dictate, and we will both walk out of this room. Understood?"

Horace possessed the upper hand gripped in a pistol, but Josephine couldn't suppress asking, "Why? What would you have me write?"

Horace slammed his fist on the desk and cocked the hammer for credibility, shouting. "I said write!"

Josephine grasped the quill with unsteady hands, hoping the violent thud of fist to wood had caught someone's ear. She glanced at the door with salvation in her eyes. Horace took that opportunity to rise, never taking his gaze from Miss Yorke, and locked her only means of escape. Sitting back in his spot, Horace said, "Dear father..." He glared at Josephine's hand when she made no move to write. "Dear father..." he said more firmly.

Her hand moved in self-preservation, writing the words in slow realization. Dear father, please forgive me. She looked up at Horace but said nothing. He continued with his dictation, devoid of expression, which somehow made his face all the more frightening. Dear father, please forgive me. I cannot continue with this. Yours Josephine

Continue with what? The ambiguity of the letter made her guts twist and heart ache. What could she not continue with? Tennyson? Her father? Life?

Again, she dared to look up at Horace, the question in her eyes. With his free hand, he jerked the missive from beneath her fingers, sliding it around to face him. Bending up the top portion for examination. Horace wiped his self-satisfied mouth.

"There. You have your letter. May I go?" she attempted nonchalance, as if Horace might let her leave.

"I did promise you would walk from this room, and walk from this room you shall."

Josephine didn't dare question his authenticity. She stood as if to head for the door. But was halted by Horace's words. "I never said you would leave through the way which you came in." Both glanced from the door over to the open window. Another large swallow of a lump she couldn't remedy.

Walk through the window and play into Horace's hands or refuse and test his brazenness, willing to shoot with a house full of people. The window bought her more time, time to be found, to be seen. Horace wasn't surprised with her choice. As she lifted her skirts to straddle the window frame, corset digging into her skin, Josephine wondered where each choice would have led. Would choosing the door have been her salvation? Was crawling out the window her saving grace? Or was she doomed either way?

For his age, Horace had deftly scaled the window, a short drop to the ground. Not even enough to rattle the pistol. Josephine stood, unsure which direction she should travel. Would he shoot her in the garden? Perhaps down the south road, leading away from town and away from all whom she loved?

Horace pointed her toward the line of trees flanking the property. How many times had she and Constance played in those woods thick with firs? Horace was marring the precious memories this home held. She tightened the fists at her side.

A not-so-subtle movement drew her attention. Two greys waited, saddled, tied, and chomping at the bit.

He would lead her away on horseback? Josephine had wasted all the time she could afford. There would be no dying alone in the woods or wherever Horace planned to enact his evil scheme. It would have to be here. On the lawn of her dearest friends home.

Giving no time to reason, Josephine swung around, her forearm hitting the outstretched pistol in Horace's hand. She felt the cold of metal before hearing a deafening boom shatter the quiet, terrifying but somehow making her feel less alone. The hair trigger shot hit dirt, filling the air with a cloud of dust and smoke. Wordlessly, Horace pounded the pistol against the side of her head. And like the bullet, Josephine, too, hit the dirt. Everything fading to black...

~~*~~

She slowly roused to her head pounding harder than the hooves beneath her. Slung over a horse's back with the warm dampness of blood seeping from her scalp. Josephine ached to touch the sore spot, but thought it prudent to feign unconsciousness.  She wasn't one to give up hope, but the lack of illumination told her they were no longer near Constance's family home. Far from the safety of an engagement party. From any would-be rescuers. The evening sky had abandoned its colors, casting eerily into dark. Suddenly, the urge to fade back into sleep wrapped tighter. If not for the horse's slowing gait and the addition of an unfamiliar man's voice, Josephine might have given into the urge. Instead, her ears ticked up as Horace dismounted, leaving her uncomfortably hanging like a rag doll.

"Knocked 'er out cold, you did," came the unknown man's gruff voice. "If you've ruined the pretty face I was promised, then I ain't paying the agreed price."

Agreed price? Of all the scenarios Josephine had conjured, this hadn't been one. To be sold, not killed. Leave it to Horace to plan a fate worse than death.

Horace coldly replied, "A man from Cork once attempted at bargaining with me. Shall I tell you how that story ended?" He waited for a beat in silence. The other man remaining muted. "Good. This once I will overlook your lapse in judgement. A kindness I never extend twice."

Josephine could hear the lurch of carriage wheels inched further by restless mares. Her presumed conveyance into a new life of torture. And again racing plans of escape unfurled in her mind. She tried to keep her thoughts from Charles. To stop the pound of worry when her whereabouts came to light. Or what her disappearance might mean for the rest of those she was leaving behind.

The advancing footfall had Josephine holding her breath. A cold fingertip brushed stray curls sprawled across her brow. A low whistle cut the quiet still of night. "About as pretty as a doll as I ever seen. It's a shame I gotta ship her off. There's some places in town that..."

Horace's booming voice threatened, "I do not care where the girl ends up, but if it is on English soil. You will regret ever taking her, regardless of the hefty sum."

Josephine felt the hair fall back into her face, then the weightlessness of being hoisted over the man's shoulder. The odor of musty fabric and cheap liquor assaulted her senses, making her stomach roil. A few strides later and with an indelicate thud she hit the floor of a carriage, her feet dangling on the threshold. Fetters of rope were tied about her wrists, and Josephine prayed they wouldn't hinder her escape attempt. She tried to focus on the positive. Horace hadn't shot her. She was still alive and breathing. And where there is life there is a chance of escape. Hope.

That glimmer of hope swelled to a full ray of light! The most unexpected and sweetest sound Josephine had ever heard.

"Father." Tennyson's tense voice intruded. "Give me my fiancé."

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I promise I will finish this book someday!! There is seriously only 2 chapters left (hopefully!) Thanks for reading
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