Disclaimer- I do not own Young Guns. I do own my OC Grace.
Two years prior to the events of Young Guns I-
Grace, a young woman of 18 stood in her bedroom as a servant unlaced her corset. Having just returned home from a ball her feet were sore from dancing, and her ribs ached from the crushing constraint of popular fashion. As the offending garment was finally cast off she thankfully took in a full breath of air. Standing before a mirror she saw her grandmother reflected in the glass, stepping into the room. The older woman was dressed in black as she always was and gazed at Grace with unveiled disdain, again as she always was. The lady of the house crossed her arms and spoke.
"Do you have to break all the rules at every ball?" she asked. Grace smiled sweetly in the mirror watching her grandmother.
"It wouldn't be fun otherwise."
"Despite your antics at the ball this evening a gentleman has asked for your hand."
Smile disappearing Grace turned from the mirror,
"Who?" She demanded. Her grandmother grinned and walked back toward the hall. Pausing in the doorway she half turned, her hand resting on the frame.
"The Governor's eldest son for reasons unknown to me has taken quite a fancy to you. Naturally as your guardian I have accepted on your behalf. The engagement will be announced in the morning papers." With that she quit the room.
Grace stood stunned for several minutes. She knew that it would happen eventually but not so soon. Mr. Adamson was a full decade older at least, had already gone through one wife, and had a mean streak a mile long. The dance they had shared at the ball had been the worst waltz of her life to date. The man had held her far too close and his breathe had reeked of brandy and cigars.
Angrily she ushered her servants from the room shouting that she could dress herself. Standing in her undergarments she stood there fuming. Feeling like a trapped animal with no escape she began pacing the room. I can't marry him and I won't, she thought adamantly. She had to get out of it, but how? Stopping in the center of the room she tapped her chin scheming, when she spied her riding boots just underneath her bed and then glanced over to the riding habit still lying over a chair from earlier that day and put it and the boots on. Rashly she went to her wardrobe throwing wide the doors and pulled out her travel bag. Tossing in a few riding skirts, blouses, various undergarments, and an extra pair of shoes, she turned back to the room. Only what you can carry. Walking to the bookshelf she pulled off a couple books she simply couldn't do without, from her nightstand she withdrew all the money she had, the portrait of the family she had lost, and finally her small box of jewelry. All was packed away in the bag which she hugged to her chest for a moment before leaving the room forever. Outside in the hallway all was dark and silent. Surely by this late hour everyone was long since asleep. Still she made her way as quietly as possible through the house. Halfway down the winding staircase a few warped floorboards squealed. One hand grasping the handle of her bag, the other on the rail, her heart pounded so loud she was certain that had they not heard the floor, her heart would give her away. Once outside she breathed a sigh of relief and rushed to the stables. As she rode away from the house that night she didn't look back.
Through the coming months she traveled west.