He was stroking her hair again, and murmuring close to her ear. ‘You’ll think of a way, won’t you, Sara? You’ve always been cleverer at those sort of things than I.’
She listened to him with a sense of shock. His tone seemed to appeal to her to be strong for both of them, to find a way out. She knew then that she would have to fight for her possession of Richard, or he would be taken away from her ‒ not willingly, but inevitably. He could be taken away because he was too weak to fight the obstacles facing the marriage. But she accepted this ‒ after all, she was stronger than Richard, tougher than he. In a sense, he was like Sebastian all over again ‒ needing her love and strength.
‘Yes. I’ll find a way for us both, Richard,’ she said firmly. ‘We’ll manage it.’
He bent and kissed her again, his lips seeking hers with a young eagerness. They were both new to this experience. It was exciting, like the sour, sharp bite of a green apple. Neither had known anything like this before. They were flushed and shaken when at last they drew apart.
Then, for a few moments, they did not meet each other’s eyes, feeling some sort of shame that their passion had broken loose, briefly, from the bonds they had learned to impose upon it. Sara, slightly irritated that something so deeply satisfying had of necessity to be regretted, raised her eyes, to find Richard’s upon her. There was no apology or repentance in them. Her lips parted, and seeing her beginning to smile, he laughed aloud.
Carried on the elation of the moment, he impulsively drew off the ring he wore on his left hand, the one Sebastian had given him at the end of the summer. He caught her hand, pressing the ring into it.
‘Keep it, Sara,’ he said. ‘Keep it until we meet in London ‒ I’ll claim it back when we meet again.’
She turned it over on her palm. ‘Your ring, Richard …’
His gaze upon her was tender and possessive. ‘Promise me you’ll keep it until I come to claim it?’
She nodded slowly.
He smiled and kissed her, a light kiss that was there and gone before she was fully aware of it. Richard himself was gone almost as swiftly.
The draught of the closing door set the candle fluttering again, and the shadows leaping over the stained floor and the desks. Sara stood still, the ring clasped in one hand, the fingers of the other pressed against her lips where Richard had kissed them. Then she snuffed out the candle; its acrid smell mingled with that of the chalk and the old books. She made her way in the darkness to the door, groping then to the stairs leading to the attic.
She did not talk alone with Richard again before he left Bramfield. They had only momentary encounters upon the stairs and in hallways, and the secret smile that passed between them had to serve as their only communication. There was gossip, too, in the kitchen, about the amount of time he spent away from the rectory. No matter what time he returned, either the cook or Nell seemed to hear the rumble of the wheels of Sir Geoffrey’s carriage when it dropped him off at the gates. But in her possession of the ring, hidden carefully in her mattress in the attic, Sara was sure of Richard. His visits to Alison’s home hardly troubled her. Aware of the sluggish flow of life about her in the austere rectory, she understood how a nature like his would crave the ease and comfort of the baronet’s house on the edge of the Marsh. Day after day, as the curve of the dyke road swallowed up Richard’s diminishing figure, she forgave him for the characteristics she loved and feared; she let him carry all his indolence and weakness with him when he went to visit Sir Geoffrey, and she wondered again and again if the gentle Alison was completely blinded by his charm.
Spring came at last to Romney ‒ softer winds from the sea, and a sudden showering of pale, tender greens through the grass, the reeds, and the water-plants; the new colours showed through the blackthorn hedges and the willows. Sara waited daily for her summons to London, and whenever Sir Geoffrey made a call at the rectory she hung about the hall until his departure. She began to fear he would never speak, that the plan would never come to anything, when he halted her one day as she hurried to open the front door for him. He strolled in a leisurely way from the drawing-room with Mr. Barwell, where they had been shut up for most of the afternoon.
‘Well, miss!’ he said, taking a firm stand upon the elegant silver-topped cane he carried, ‘you’ll soon be off to London.’
Her eyes widened eagerly. ‘There has been news, Sir Geoffrey?’
‘Yes. Lady Linton landed at Portsmouth six days ago. She will be at her estate in Devon for three weeks, and then she plans to open the London house. She will send me word when she requires you.’
Sara dropped a curtsy. ‘Thank you, Sir Geoffrey.’
He made a move on, then paused, examining her with shrewd, kindly eyes, almost lost in their thick pouches of flesh. ‘You’ll be glad to go to London?’
Sara shot a glance at the ominously still figure of the rector. ‘Thank you, Sir Geoffrey … but I’ve not been unhappy here. The Rector and Mrs. Barwell have been most kind.’
‘I know. I know,’ he answered. ‘But you’ll have more excitement in Lady Linton’s house, I’ll be bound.’ He chuckled, his whole body shaking. ‘I’m told, Rector, that it’s excitement all young girls look for. Well, there’s plenty of it wherever Lady Linton is!’
He paused, looking hard at Sara. ‘Those clothes won’t do. Lady Linton’s a great dresser herself ‒ and she likes those around her to give a mind to their appearance. Here …’ he searched in his purse and produced three guinea pieces, ‘take this now and buy yourself something to wear. Mrs. Barwell’ll tell you what you’ll need.’
She reddened, and stammered her thanks, which he waved aside. Mr. Barwell’s eyes, she knew, were on the money; she knew, too, that she would have to hand it over to his keeping as soon as Sir Geoffrey was gone.
‘My daughter is looking forward to joining Lady Linton in London shortly,’ Sir Geoffrey went on. ‘Shopping, y’know. Nothing but the London shops will do that young miss these days. So you’ll be seeing something of her.’
Sara replied dutifully. ‘It will be a great pleasure, sir, to see a face I know among so many strange ones.’
He chuckled again. ‘You’ll not lack familiar faces, my girl. I don’t doubt young Master Richard will be a frequent guest at Lady Linton’s house.’
Sara struggled hopelessly with the colour mounting in her cheeks at the mention of Richard being in London. But it didn’t attract attention for the rector had laid a restraining hand upon Sir Geoffrey’s arm. The two now faced each other.
‘Surely, Sir Geoffrey, this … er … information is premature? There is nothing settled yet.’
‘Nonsense, Rector! Nonsense! It’s all as good as settled! ‒ will be, anyway, when Richard comes home next time. I’ll talk to him myself. There can be no doubt about it. Richard it not unwilling ‒ nor is Alison.’
‘That’s true, Sir Geoffrey ‒ and nothing could give me more pleasure than a union between Richard and your sweet daughter … But, surely … Gossip …’
Startled, Sara listened to them. The world seemed to wheel about her as she tried to sort out the meaning of their words. This was not what Richard had told her ‒ this was not the truth! And yet the vicar’s pale face had never seemed more serious, and Sir Geoffrey was not merely hinting at the matter. Her whole body was taut as she waited for what he would say next.
The baronet faced her again. ‘I’ll warrant this miss is no gossip. Knows how to hold her tongue, I can tell. In any case, the news will be out soon enough. It is my wish that they should marry in the summer. However, we’ll see … we’ll see.’
Without a further glance at Sara’s low curtsy, he turned and went down the steps to where the rector’s groom held his horse.
Sara stood and listened to their conversation.
‘Looks as if we’ll have rain, Rector,’ Sir Geoffrey said, ‘and I’ve two calls to make yet. That coachman of mine is a plaguey nuisance ‒ been abed with a fever these last three days, and I’m without anyone to driv
e me. I’m getting too old now to sit in the saddle for long.’
Then his speech trailed off into a series of harsh grunts while he attempted, with the aid of the rector and the groom, to mount. Sara saw that they were fully occupied, and she sped in the direction of the back stairs and the temporary refuge of the attic.
Once there she flung herself upon the mattress, letting her misery and wretchedness have charge of her body and her thoughts. She shocked herself by the fit of weeping which shook her, taking away all her strength and resistance. She was enraged as well as disappointed.
‘Richard!’ she whispered. ‘Oh, Richard, what have you done?’
She lay there while the spring afternoon faded quickly, and the light fled away down the Marsh. Richard was lost to her, she knew ‒ he was taken beyond her reach for ever, and there was nothing she could do about it. It seemed unlikely that he was fully aware of what was being planned for him, but she felt with certainty that he would not be able to withstand the pressure Sir Geoffrey and his parents would bring on him. They would know how to play upon him, understanding that his was not the sort of strength to hold out against the blandishments of wealth and influence. He was poor and unknown, and he would be offered background and powerful family connections. His nature was not built to refuse such potent attractions. And Alison herself, with her sweet, lovely face and gentle manners, would make a wife any man might well desire. It was inevitable, she told herself. Richard’s struggle with his conscience would be true enough, but it would be short. He would remind himself of the long wait, and the battle against family prejudices, before he could marry Sara, and he would say that their love could not last through such a time. He would accept what came easily to hand, not caring to fight for what, in the end, might turn out to be an empty prize. She had recognized these weaknesses in his nature long ago, and excused them. Now she called herself a fool for the excuses she had made. The images twisting and shaping themselves in her mind slowly grew more detached. She saw the future with a sharp clarity, saw Richard’s visits to the London house ‒ visits that were to Alison, not to herself. She saw the preparations for the marriage in which she would have a servant’s part, the trappings of the fashionable wedding she would be expected to share. Her unhappy mind painted the scenes much too vividly. Fearfully she tried to turn away from them, feeling, even now, the agony of being forced to play her subordinate role.
As she turned restlessly on the mattress, Nell’s voice on the stairs roused her.
‘Sara? Sara, are you there? The mistress is looking for you this hour past!’
Sara sat up quickly, and called out, ‘Coming!’
Nell’s rough tones were a sudden spark to her sense of injury. It was Sebastian’s unsubdued pride that now flared into resentment against this indignity, and against all the others she would suffer before the summer was out, and Richard and Alison were finally married. And in that instant the thought of flight occurred to her for the first time. It chilled her for a moment; then the simplicity of the plan made her bold. Why not? she asked herself. There could be an escape from her hated position, which was also an escape from watching her lover succumb to Alison, and all the attractions Sir Geoffrey offered. There was no wind of prudence in Sara to cool her impulse, and the idea, once it occurred, was irresistible.
In a fever of indignation and hurt pride she flung herself off the mattress and groped in the stuffing until her fingers encountered Sebastian’s ring. She had not held it in her hand since Richard had given it to her on Christmas Day. At the sight of it, her anger rose on a new wave, heating her face, bringing tears to her eyes. Then, with an effort, she put it out of sight, stuffing it in the folds of her handkerchief, along with the gold coins belonging to Sir Geoffrey.
Before she left the attic she changed into her heavy shoes, and threw a cloak about her shoulders. She encountered no one on the stairs; it shocked her sense of the importance of the occasion to find how easy it was to leave the rectory unnoticed. She passed the kitchen door like a quick shadow. The heavy smell of cooking food reached her, following her down the passage until the fresh air, at last, gently touched her face. She closed the door behind her, hurrying towards the low wall which separated the rectory garden and churchyard. The daylight had suddenly gone, but scents of the day were still there, drifting, unanchored. Sara was aware of this, and of a fear only half conquered, as she sped past the ghostly tombstones, and the dark, squat church, making for the dyke road, deserted and lonely in the sharp spring evening.
To keep clear of Rye, where she might easily be recognized, was her greatest concern now. She turned in the direction of Appledore. But the thought of reaching Appledore itself brought no heartening feeling of familiarity, for the walks she had taken with Sebastian and Richard had never brought them so far. Behind her, the lights of the rectory cut into the gathering dark but only faintly. And, having looked at them once, she did not look back again. She felt no regret; her hard bitterness was softening into relief that her flight had not been intercepted, and that by morning she would be far away. She marched grimly onwards, at first unaware of the bite of the wind, and then feeling it keenly, but never once afraid of the emptiness about her ‒ not afraid as she had been in the churchyard ‒ the open road seemed to be her own territory, and she had a sense of rightfully belonging to the Marsh. It was the place she and Richard and Sebastian had called their own.
She had walked what she judged to be about three miles before the first rain swept her face. It came on quickly, making her gasp and twist her head away from it. And with the rain her resolution palled a little. She became more soberly aware that the lights of Bramfield lay far behind, and unknown country beyond. At the same time, the whispered tales of the Marsh stirred in her mind, the hushed stories of the wool-running to France, the inns and even the churches which secreted their share of the contraband lace, silks and brandy. There were rumours of murder committed to safeguard the fortunes won by smuggling, and the thought struck at her now. As the rain suddenly worsened, she began to realize her utter defencelessness, and that she faced a night on the Marsh without shelter. Too late to regret that she had not bided her time at Bramfield until the morning came ‒ and yet, in the midst of the fear that had begun to possess her, her heart rebelled at the very thought of remaining at Bramfield. She began to run, trying to ignore the continual urge to glance behind; trying to forget the fact that she had not eaten since the midday meal.
She went on a further two miles. Her steps were slow again because the rising wind had tired her, and because each step and each minute brought her closer to the inn, The Angel, which marked a crossroad about a mile ahead. The reputation of The Angel, the collection of gossip and rumour which combined to give it its unsavoury character, brought fear to her heart. She dreaded the approach to it, yet longed to be past and away. It represented a goal of distance to her also; once beyond, she would let herself look for some barn or outhouse to shelter until morning.
The wind dropped briefly, and in the lull the sound came to her of horse’s hoofs and wheels on the road behind. She stood still, terrified. They were close, but the wind had prevented her from hearing them. She had a moment’s frightened wonder, thinking that the rector, on finding her gone, had sent one of his nearer neighbours in search of her. She dismissed the idea as a more terrible one occurred. A horse and cart on the Marsh at night? She panicked at the thought, for no one cared to question the passage of a horse and cart abroad on the Marsh once nightfall came, or if seen, the incident was conveniently forgotten by morning. It was this thought which started her casting wildly about for cover. The road was treeless and bare; the night itself the only shelter. The dyke bounded the road on one side, and it was already too late to attempt to cross to the other. The swinging arc of the cart’s lamp came nearer; she turned towards the edge of the dyke, flinging herself full length on the sloping bank. She dug her fingers and nails into the new spring grass, praying that the cold rain might have numbed the unseen driver’s wat
chfulness. With her face pressed close to the earth, she fancied she felt it throb beneath her in response to the steady clopping. There were moments of agonized terror for her while the horse drew level and she sensed her prostrate body was exposed to the wavering light. She waited for a cry from the driver ‒ but it did not come. The cart itself was level now ‒ and then past. And the darkness covered her again. She lay still, relief breaking coldly over her; a sigh of thankfulness escaped her as the distance increased between herself and the cart.
At last she raised her head cautiously to peer at the diminishing light.
As she did, she looked directly into a second lamp, swinging only a few feet away from her eyes. She stared in horror at the hand that held it, and then her eyes lifted to take in the dim figure of a man.
She uttered one strangled sound of astonishment, and shrank back.
He advanced almost gently, then, with a quick gesture, clamped his hand on her arm, pulling her to her knees. The lamp was thrust close to her face.
‘Don’t touch me! Don’t!’ she cried, frightened, trying to twist away.
But the man’s grip held her tightly.
‘Well! What have we here!’ he said softly. ‘What have we here!’
Suddenly he bellowed over his shoulder. ‘Daniel! Wait!’
Sara struggled to find a foothold on the sloping bank, but he jerked her forward beside him on the road. He planted the lamp on the ground, and with one effortless heave, grasped her around the waist and tossed her over his shoulder.
‘Put me down! Do you hear ‒ put me down!’
She screamed, but she knew there could be no response along the empty road. She tried pounding her closed fists fiercely into the man’s back. If he felt it at all, he took no notice; he picked up the lamp again and started in a half-run to catch up with the cart.
The bouncing gait gave Sara no more breath to cry out; her terror, in any case, would have prevented it. It was useless to struggle against the giant arm holding her. The man had enormous strength. She was dizzy and shaken when he put her on her feet beside the driver of the cart.
Sara Dane Page 6
