Athenia's Choice (ON HOLD)

Athenia's Choice: Chapter Nine

Chapter Nine

If I hadn’t been tying the fraying scarf about my head at that moment, around the side of the house, Father would’ve definitely recognised me. I had to make a choice, and quickly. I could sprint away like a cheetah, steal a horse, and give some of my grubby coins to a young lad willing to take me… Alternatively, I could march straight up to Father and tell him I’m Athenia Reynalds, to give him a surprise. Which I wasn’t going to do.

I figured Rosemary’s father, who was distinctly quite poor, would tell my Father about seeing me, for fear of bother from the ‘rich folks’!

Fastening the scarf tighter, feeling my greasy, tangled hair whilst doing so, I crashed through some overgrown bushes towards a crowd of people dismounting from a group of sweating horses.

“’Scuse me sir,” I began hesitantly, walking up to a man handling one of the horses.

“What d’ya want lass?” he snapped, in a Scottish accent, pulling on the horse’s faded blue bridle.

“Would this mount be available, to lend to me, only to Tunbridge Wells?” I pleaded, rather flustered, tangling up my words and adding too many to‘s. I became aware of my body sweating like the horse beside me, and I realised how much I feared my Father finding me.

“Scamper off, you gaudy little beggar girl.” I did exactly so with haste; I did not want to draw any attention to myself! I looked back over to the butcher’s shop flat. My Father’s boastful, clear voice could be heard celebrating through the cracked windows. A wave of remembrance hit me, but I pushed it away firmly- I was desperate now, hammering on doors of houses.

“Please, have you a horse!” I cried, but the answer was a blunt ‘no’ every time. Who would take me seriously? Tears swelled up in my eyes- Father was going to catch me soon if I didn’t make a swifter move. There was this urge to lash out against him pumping inside me.

I scurried down side streets. I found a tavern. Lanterns beamed comforting heat, dwindling in the daylight. My ankle started throbbing, short, sharp, shots of pain.

I scuttled into the grimy back yard where some horses were tied, in poor conditions. There was one around reasonable height for me to ride, I thought, as I examined their muddy coats and greasy manes. Softly and quietly, I untied the steed and swung my good leg over it, but that meant I had to put pressure on my ankle. I gritted my teeth.

The horse whinnied suddenly, making me panic.

“What are you doing with my horse?” someone yelled.  I didn’t look back.

My fingers grasped the slippery reins as I pulled myself further up. There was a sound of heavy footsteps on the dry ground but I kicked the horse so it instantaneously reared up into a wild trot. I hadn’t much experience in riding, so I just pulled the reins in the direction I wanted my mount to go, then kicked, even though my ankle was screaming in agony.

I heard cries of anguish behind me from the horse’s owner that made me feel somewhat guilty, but how else was I supposed to escape from my Father’s clutches? My farthings must have slipped out of my pocket because there was a slight clink-y clattering on the cobbles behind me. I was grateful that that the man would be able to find passage back home.

I had soon ridden out of the village onto quiet country lanes, which were dots in the masses of acres of bland farmland. I was given quite a few funny looks, for a young girl riding not only astride but bareback was probably deemed most ridiculously crazy! Perhaps it was the state of my torn clothes.

Delight bubbled in me as I crossed the border into Kent, where apple and blossom trees lined the more bustling roads. As I waited in a spot of horse and cart traffic, I wondered if I would ever return to Sussex.

I left my horse by the side of a river so the owner wouldn’t find it with me. I noticed the fading, peeling letters on the bridle were H.B. My feet were positively collapsing with soreness as I trudged to Charles’ house, praying they were home. I knocked tiredly, waiting.

“Athenia,” Charles gasped as he threw open the door, “Whatever are you doing here?”

He sat me down by the crackly dimming fire so I could recount my story. Charles suggested I reported Father for the way he had treated me. There were lots of reasons why I was not going to report him.

My next step was to see how much Charles truly cared for me- for I will admit I had a deep, intense fixation on him.

“Thank you for your hospitality, but I must wander away to find some lodgings,” I said absent-mindedly, starting to get up. Charles grabbed my hand, looking into my face with uttermost affection and care. My heart skipped a beat.

“Please, Athenia, stay and lodge here with us. My mother will not mind. After all, we are family.”

The world seemed to spin around me. Shock was seeping through all the nooks and crannies in my body. Fear was creeping up on me. My horror was obvious as my jaw dropped down. Charles looked concerned, placing a hand on mine, there was that spark again. I pulled away, a jumble of thoughts running through my head.

Was I Charles’ long lost sister? Was the reason my Father despised me so much because I wasn’t his daughter? But then how could my relationship with Charles continue if we were so closely related?

“What do you mean?” Charles’ face was one of surprise, confusion, and almost slyness as if I was lying about something.

“We’re cousins,” he told me, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. My body sagged with relief, but I was almost disappointed we were just plain old cousins through my Great-Auntie Charlotte De La Blois, nee Carpenter. Her sister Emma was my grandmother, and Charlotte was his. Charles even drew out a family tree, which I thought was quite sweet, but there was one thing was missing, his pencil lingering. It was so simple but such a blow. He knew.

Charles found me a clean set of clothes; the new dress was even more appalling and minx-y-ish than the other one! His mother's stockings were too large and holey so I made do without, showing ‘a bit of shapely leg’. Or so Charles said.

*****

Half an hour later, there was suddenly a horrible yell, almost a scream, as the Beaumont household’s door creaked slowly open. Tripping over my own feet, I rushed out the room, but ran back in again as Charles pushed me away. Mrs Beaumont and Cordelia were supporting Charles’s drunken father in their arms, as blood seeped through his shirt, fresh, every few seconds…