Emma's Chance (2000 words ~ A short story prequel to Second Chances)

Emma’s Chance
England, August 1821

Emma tried to turn the doorknob again, knowing it was still locked.

Other times she’d frantically yanked at the knob for hours, but eventually learned it did no good and only served to heighten her fear. With no moon tonight, it was dreadfully dark—too dark for shadows. And her every move caused the floorboards to creak and moan. She despised being locked in the attic.

Two days now, and her father had not opened the door. Scratching an itch on her cheek started it bleeding again. She hunched over and tugged the hem of her skirts to her face to wipe the wetness.
Her father never struck her before yesterday. She couldn’t understand why he’d gotten so angry. After being introduced to her betrothed, she’d gone for a long ride on Lancelot. From the time she was a young girl, her father explained she would be married shortly after turning sixteen. Nevertheless, actually meeting her betrothed, an entire year before the wedding, was a bit of a shock and she’d needed to be alone to adjust to the idea.

When she returned, her father was waiting at the stable. He yanked her from atop the horse. “You will not ride off alone again,” he shouted, and cracked the back of his hand across her cheek, so hard her head snapped to the side. His ring must have cut her, because her cheek had bled intermittently ever since, and the spot where he hit her smarted.

Now, as she remembered meeting her fiancé, Lord Ashton, a chill ran up her spine. His age surprised her more than his paunchy build. He must be older than forty years, or fifty. When he kissed her hand, he hesitated and stared at her with frighteningly cold eyes. She couldn’t even recall what color they were.

The scrape of the key in the lock startled her. She straightened and stepped away from the door. Emma saw the outline of a woman’s skirts. Was she bringing Emma food? Only her father ever opened the door when she was punished.

The woman grabbed Emma’s hand and tugged her toward the open door. Emma snatched her hand back. If she left the attic and her father returned to release her, he would be furious if she wasn’t here. She didn’t want the maid to get into trouble because of her.

“Come with me.” Emma recognized Selma’s soft voice.

“But—”

“Now.” The maid’s words were quiet, yet forceful. She pulled Emma’s hand and this time Emma followed. Without so much as a candle to guide them, they tiptoed down the servants’ stairway and rushed through the kitchen to the back door of the house. Selma unlatched the lock and they escaped into the night.

Taking a deep breath of damp air, Emma stopped and lifted her face to the heavens. The August night, filled with the sweet scent of roses, smelled so much better than the musty attic.
Selma yanked Emma’s wrist. She took the maid’s cue and ran alongside her. Having not eaten in two days, her stomach burned. After a short while colors flashed before her eyes. Her legs caught on her skirts and she stumbled. Selma helped her regain footing and they rounded the house and darted through the garden on the front lawns of her father’s estate. The property was handsomely enriched by beautiful flowering gardens. Once in a part of the garden protected by a stone wall, Emma ripped her arm from Selma’s hold and stopped running. She bent over at the waist and tried to catch her breath.

“We must continue,” Selma said. “It isn’t much farther. You do want to be away from your father, don’t you?” Selma pointed down the path.
Two silhouetted carriages waited.

They ran fast as they neared the coaches. Emma’s legs gave out again. She fell face first into the grass. Selma tried to pull her hands, but Emma was too exhausted to pick herself up. “Selma. Go. I—”