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In the grey of the morning: a woman screaming. 

Serafina was awake, bolt upright, her mouth already opened in protest before she was quite aware of the sound. 

And it was dreadful, piercing. Surely it would be heard. Surely someone would come and rescue that poor girl. Surely this would not be permitted to stand.

But, there was no pounding of feet, no slamming of doors. No-one came bursting into Lord Forthenby’s suite to prevent evil being done. A man like that might do whatever he chose. He was beyond law, morality, censure. Had not the affair with Richard and the duel had taught her that?

She had been a fool, an utter, foolish, trivial girl, for all that she had sworn she would never allow herself to be such a thing again. 

Serafina began to weep in choking sobs, hair falling over her face, stuck to the skin by the tears. She felt she might be sick, felt her throat closing, her stomach tight with it.

The day Forthenby had proposed to her, in the laurel walk in her father’s garden, she had thought of nothing but escape. Richard had been gone, all else had been lost, and so she had plunged headlong in to marriage, thinking rank and money would cushion her, would mean... something. She did not know what. 

All she had known was that to deny Forthenby’s suit would risk ruin, would leave her with no solace, no hope of liberty. Her father would have seen to that. She thought, feverish with self-justification, that as Forthenby’s wife, her husband would consider her honour to be his own, that it would stay his hand, act as a check to his violence, his infamy. 

She had been such a fool.

Serafina touched tentative fingers to where Forthenby’s hands had seized her wrist, felt the bruises resting beneath the skin. She did not doubt he could make her scream as that girl had been screaming, that he would be able to wring agony and desperation from her flesh. 
But she had been correct in one thing: a man like Forthenby did not treat his Countess like that. 

No, she was to be exempted from his tortures and his lusts. Bait him as she might, the cup of his fury would spill over on to others, tormenting them in her stead. Each time she defied him, he would practice his depravities on those he did not see as worthy of regard, while she, culpable, would be spared.

Just as he had spared her when he had destroyed Richard.

Serafina clenched futile fists and drove them down in to the fine linen sheets beside her. The screams had stopped or, at least, faded so much that she could hear them no longer. She forced herself to breathe steadily, to reign back her weak and unhelpful tears. 

What might she do? 

She was married to this man. Legally under his protection and his governance. What might she do? 

Flee. 

The answer came so easily. She could leave this place and never return to him. She could do it now – gather a bundle of clothes, and whatever coins she could snatch. She could run in to the Paris streets, to where-ever she might find refuge. Or Richard.

It would be so easy.

And impossible. 

Where would she go? Whose help might she seek? 

Oh, she could look for lawyers, but she could provide no evidence of violence against herself, no suggestion that she had been treated with anything but courtesy, that her union was anything but amicable. Polite society, legal precedent would deplore her, and send her back to his revenge. She could not hope for divorce, for sympathy, or shelter among those of her own class.

And to leave in any other fashion? 

It was all very well for heroines in a certain type of novel to run barefoot down mountainsides, to take refuge with kind crofters and trustworthy curates, but Serafina could imagine no future where such a flight did not lead to violence, hunger and cold. It might be terribly thrilling to read of such things, but one could see the truth of it where ever one looked – in the hollow eyes of children begging for coin on street corners, in their bare, bleeding feet and ragged clothes. You could see it in the women who stood in doorways at night, parting their clothes and whistling softly to catch the ears of passing gentlemen, to offer… well, to offer things that a gently-reared young lady such as herself was not expected to understand. 

That was the fate which awaited her, should she successfully evade Forthenby. 

It was altogether more likely that his vengeance would pursue her, that she would be hunted down and dragged back. I could buy you like a horse at market, Forthenby had told her once, do not think that I could not.

And had he not? He had purchased her with a gold band and a title and the promise of a tour of Europe. He had bought her with jewels and fine clothes and her father’s adulation. 

Yet, if money were the key to it all, then might she not buy her own liberty? It would take time, care, planning, yes. But might she not escape? 

Serafina knew that she had good sense, a practical turn of mind, and – expecting a modest marriage to Mr Thornton – she had trained herself to think of budgeting, of household economy and turning unfavourable situations to her own advantage.  

Such a plan would have to wait until they had returned to England. It was some time away, yes, it would mean weeks of suffering and loneliness, but that would give her time to plot with meticulous attention. Would permit her to put aside a little money so that she might take a fund of it with her. 

In one way, it would mean greater danger, for she was far more likely to be recognised in a country where she was known than in the stews of Paris, but in a country where she knew the language and the customs she would be safer, able to travel more quickly. More than that, she might be able to purchase herself passage on a ship – travel to  the Americas, or the Indies. There must be places in the world where the wrath of Forthenby could not pursue her. 

How much money would it take? 

How much did she have now?

Serafina scrambled from the bed and wrapped a dressing gown about herself. The jewels were no use for immediate plans - selling them would be too conspicuous - but she had gold, and it took her some minutes to hunt it all out, piling it up upon the bed. There was such an embarrassing amount that she was tempted to throw caution to the winds and make off with it now, but no, good sense must prevail. Generous as it might seem, it was not enough for a month’s respectable lodgings, let alone allowances made for food, firewood and a maid of all work – Serafina had no illusions about her ability to care for herself.

All the same, it was a start. And she could get more. Forthenby was so free with his fortune that he would not notice if she were to secrete most of this, if she were to add to her store weekly, while she made her plans. This was good. She would be free. And in the meantime? 

Serafina sat down, her hands catching at the strings of her purse, tucking away the shining silver, glowing gold. It was well to lay these plans, it was sensible, even necessary, but it would be half a year before they returned to England. She would have to spend the next six months in the company of my Lord Forthenby, fearing every furious outburst, every curl of his lip, knowing that every moment he wished to... wished to...

She remembered the scream of the girl from his room – how it had risen, high and primal.

No wonder that he avoided her, if every moment that he spent in her presence needled such a beast within him. 

There must be something she could do to soothe him, to prevent such outbursts. She could not bear the thought that she was responsible for causing another of his victims such suffering. 

Perhaps it would it be wiser to make herself small and meek and timid, to yield to everything he wished so that his violence required no outlet? Or perhaps should she to provoke it, blind him with his rage and ensure that it came thundering down upon no head but her own? 

Serafina flinched to recall the sound of a strap cracking in to flesh. With a single blow like that, she would be weeping, pleading. What had been done to that poor creature so that she might bear that kind of pain without complaint? And what had been done to her to make her cry out so dreadfully this morning?

Oh, but now she was weeping again, crying helplessly in to her hands, soaking her little fund of escape money. Serafina snatched a handkerchief from her sleeve to mop her face, but doing so reminded her to the linen square her Richard had handed to her the day he had seen her weep, the day that he had challenged Forthenby and ruined himself. It reminded her of the way Mr Tooting had found that same handkerchief in her sleeve, the way it had condemned her. 

No. No. 

She must compose herself, must not permit herself to bow under this. She heard her mother’s voice, cold, serious and so endlessly wise: 

Raise your chin, Serafina.

Slowly, she unfolded, scrubbing the last traces of tears from her face. 

And face this. 

Who was she to bow to a man like Forthenby? Who was he to think that he might intimidate her? She was not a creature to threatened, bullied, tamed, not a horse to be beaten or coaxed in to submission. She was Lady Serafina Valance, and she would meet him as such, would forbid him – somehow, somehow – from bringing his infamy to anyone but herself.  

Yes, it would hurt. Perhaps it would break her. But she would be planning, she would be working towards escape. She would hold that hope in the corner of her mind, and it would give her strength. 

She would certainly need it.