by Ella Edon
“Come on, then,” she said. “We need time to make ready.”
“Until tomorrow, then.”
Head reeling, he went inside to prepare for tomorrow and all that it would hold.
Chapter Eleven
Setting Out on a Journey
Raymonde waited in her bedroom, her fingers squeezing each other nervously while she did so, her mind running through her plan.
“We’re ready,” Raymonde said to herself.
She had packed the evening before. Cutler Wingate was ready. Miss Bridge, her lady’s maid, knew of their plan. After some discussion, she and the Lieutenant had informed Lord Westmore in writing. It was safer that way, as their trip should be known about by as few people as possible.
“Now all we need to do is leave.” Raymonde felt her stomach tighten in a knot.
The plan, as far as she knew, was to travel to the Lieutenant’s home, a small cottage on the border. It was the furthest North she’d ever gone. He’d shown her on the map.
It’s exciting, not frightening, Raymonde Hunsdon.
Simply thinking about it made her anxious. She could not have put a finger on why. In principle, it was a simple undertaking, as easy as her trip from London to here, albeit longer. But thinking about it filled her with a fear she couldn’t understand.
This is utterly unlike anything I’ve ever done in my life.
She was, to all intents and purposes, running away with a man. It was something that she – as a well-raised lady – would never have dreamed to do. It was like a fairytale, though not for romantic ends, she told herself sternly.
It’s a matter of safety.
It was safer – assuming that the Lieutenant was correct about the danger she was in.
And I have to believe him.
Raymonde felt her stomach twist queasily. She didn’t like having to blindly trust in anyone.
Checking her reflection in the mirror, Raymonde glanced down at the clock on her dressing-table. Its lacy hands showed that the time was ten minutes to eight in the evening.
I should go soon.
They had agreed to meet at eight o’ clock.
Raymonde swallowed through a throat tight with nerves. All was organized – why was she so scared? She had no cause to be.
She glanced at her reflection again, as if assuring herself that all was as it should be.
Her hair was arranged in ringlets at the sides, the rest of it pulled up into a chignon that was bound back with a ribbon of dark velvet. Her dress was a traveling-dress of muslin: cream, with figures of leaves in dark brown. The color brought out the dark eyes that seemed enormous in her pale face.
I look respectable.
She knew she wanted to look more than that. Her cheeks were naturally flushed – the result of nerves – and she knew that she looked pretty, though she also felt she shouldn’t really care.
“I’m leaving for my safety,” she said to herself once more.
“My Lady?” Miss Bridge called around the door.
Raymonde whirled around, startled. Why was she here? She was meant to be downstairs already, and waiting! Raymonde felt her fingers close into fists, her nerves getting the better of her.
“What is it?” she whispered through the door, doing her best to keep her voice level.
“It’s the coachman. He says that we should take a smaller case.” Miss Bridge sounded scared.
“Oh…” Raymonde replied. “Yes,” she whispered, making herself remain calm. “Come in, do. We can use the canvas packing-case. You can add your goods to mine, if we must take only one.”
That should do it, she thought distantly. If they needed to be abstemious with luggage, she would share a bag with Miss Bridge. It could do no harm.
Her maid appeared in the door way, eyes huge. “Oh, My Lady!” she exclaimed. “That’s kind of you, indeed!”
“Of course. Please see to it that the things are transferred,” Raymonde said swiftly.
It was five minutes to eight! She should go down.
Feeling her heart flutter at the thought of the delay, she turned to the door and called back to her maid. “I’ll instruct the coachman to wait another five minutes, should we need it. I will also inform our Lieutenant.”
It was going to be hard to explain the delay, she thought fretfully.
She hurried downstairs.
Everything was silent. No guests were about; it being just after dinner. They had picked the time perfectly. The house was silent, even the servants occupied with clearing the dining room or lighting lamps in the upper rooms.
Raymonde drifted down carpeted hallways and marble stairs like a ghost, heading downstairs.
In the hallway, she paused. Everything was so quiet.
Lord and Lady Westmore were upstairs with their guests, taking refreshment in the drawing-room. It was a normal evening at their home, and Raymonde regretted the need for their secretive departure. Everybody else would be making merry or playing bridge, engaging in lighthearted fun.
She took a deep breath. There was a sudden sound of footsteps. She jumped.
“I’ll keep letters aside for you, Lady Raymonde,” Mr. Hall, the butler, said as he crossed the entrance way, heading up the stairs.
“Thank you, Mr. Hall,” Raymonde murmured, feeling nervous. Of all the things guaranteed to make her feel exposed, the fact that Mr. Hall knew about their departure was one of them. What if the Lieutenant’s fears were reasonable? She smiled at him in thanks, then hurried out.
There’s no reason to be fearful. The Lieutenant fears a man he knew from childhood. Is it not possible that he is less dangerous than he thinks?
She took a long breath in and hurried to the stable.
“Is anyone here?” she whispered.
A horse snorted. A harness jingled. She headed around the corner and stopped.
The coachman had drawn up the coach in the drive behind the stable-yard. In this position, it was screened from the view of the household.
“Anyone here?” she called again.
Her stomach twisted in a hard knot. The coach stood there, the sides cream, picked out in black, a lantern hanging from the driver’s seat. It was an old-fashioned coach, and she smiled to herself, glad they were taking the transport least-likely to be missed. The proper Landau coach the Westmores used was safe in the coach house, ready for them.
“And we’ll take this.”
Raymonde tried to feel at ease with the prospect of the trip, but she couldn’t. Where, for example, was the driver?
“I’m sure he’s gone to fetch our cases,” she assured herself. She drew out the pocket-watch she kept in her purse. It had been her uncle’s and he’d given it to her. The hands showed eight of the clock.
“Where’s Lieutenant Wingate?”
She looked around. The garden was bathed in liquid sunshine, the evening golden and drowsy. The shadows beneath the oak-trees were long and gray-dark, the garden bathed in evening mist. It was a lovely, late summer day. In an hour, she guessed, it would be dark. They would want to be underway by then.
“Come on,” she murmured to herself, after two minutes had passed. Surely the coachman should be here?
She walked around to the back of the coach, nerves making her feel unsettled. Why was the Lieutenant not here yet? If he wanted them to go, if he hadn’t planned this to trick her, why wasn’t he here already?
“Who’s there?” Raymonde turned, hearing the sound of a footfall.
Nobody replied. She made herself breathe steadily. She was imagining things. It had been the horse, stepping on a twig.
“Easy,” she murmured to the four coach-horses. The front most horse blew out through his nose, a gentle sound.
“I know,” Raymonde empathized, reaching up to touch his forehead softly. “It’s a long wait out here, and it’s cold, isn’t it?” She drew her shawl around her shoulders, feeling a slight chill.
She hoped that Miss Bridge had remembered to pack her thick shawl and bonnet. With only two
day-dresses to keep her going for the duration of the trip, coats and shawls would be essential apparel.
“Where is everyone?” she murmured. This time it was a footfall. She knew it. The horses were still. They had stopped their pacing, and waited as attentively as she was, listening to the sounds. There was someone there, she was sure of it.
Probably the coachman, she assured herself. Or Miss Bridge. Or even a gardener, making his way to the stables.
“Who’s there?” she called again. Why was the person so quiet?
She heard a twig crack and impatience got the better of her. She strode around the back of the stables, a challenge on her lips.
“Who goes there?” she demanded.
At that moment, something hit her on the head and the world exploded in sound.
Chapter Twelve
A Change of Events
“No!”
Cutler shouted as he heard the gunshot roar through the trees. Suddenly, his instincts from the war and his care for Raymonde blurred together into a wild, seething panic. He ran, heedless of the packing-case he held, or of the wet grass, or the need for secrecy. He saw a man running across the garden and at first his blood froze, thinking it was the attacker, but then, as he neared, he saw it was one of the estate gardeners, dressed in the same garb all of them wore. He’d clearly heard the gunshot.
All the rest of his worries slipped to the back of his mind, displaced by the very real fear that somebody had harmed Lady Raymonde.
He breathed out the terror, running at full-tilt across the lawn towards the source of the uproar.
At the coach, he found her.
She had fallen forward and was on her knees. Her body was crumpled over, her hair falling around her shoulders. She lay face-down and he could not see if she was hurt.
Cutler dropped to his knees beside her, crying her name. She couldn’t be hit. She couldn’t be. If she had been shot…his mind refused to comprehend it. Everything after that fact was a blank.
As he reached out to touch her, she shifted her position, rolling onto her side. She took a gasp of breath. His heart almost stopped. Corpses did not generally breathe.
“Raymonde! Raymonde. Are you harmed?”
“No…” she murmured. She got herself into a sitting position staring around dazedly.
“Raymonde,” he breathed, not even thinking to use her title. It was a situation of urgency and all that mattered to him was her wellbeing.
“Somebody shot at me…” she murmured. Her hair was in disarray and she reached up and tucked it behind her ears. Her eyes were wild.
“Yes,” Cutler murmured. “I heard it.” His heart was thumping. They were far away down the garden, and whoever had shot at them could come back again.
“Who did it?” she whispered.
“I don’t know.”
At that moment, the gardener Cutler had spotted ran up to them. He stared down at the scene in horror.
“Sir! Sir! What happened. I heard a gun, sir.”
Cutler looked up at him firmly.
“Go and call a doctor,” he commanded, as instantly as he would have had he been on the field in Spain. T
“No…” Raymonde shook her head. “I don’t want anyone making a fuss. Please, Cutler. Just stay with me?” She glanced behind the gardener, towards the distant house. They could just see the arbor and the front garden, painted like a doll’s house on the slight rise of the landscape.
Cutler swallowed hard. It was the first time she’d used his name; absolutely the first time she’d asked him to stay with her. He understood, too, what she meant. If the gardener ran off and created a scene, the whole place would be full of party guests and gawping onlookers – many of whom would be all too ready to spread a scandal about him and Raymonde. They’d never get away in secret then.
“Wait,” he said to the gardener firmly. “Scout the grounds first. Whoever fired that should not have gone far.”
Cutler felt his belly twist sourly. The culprit would already be through the gates by now. As he turned around, Raymonde tried to get to her feet, stumbling forward as her boot twisted beneath her.
“Raymonde,” he whispered urgently. “Let me help you. Are you hit?”
She sat up an looked up at him dazedly. “N…no,” she murmured. “Only bruised. And tired. And we need to go. Now.”
It was the shock, he thought. She was white and drained, her eyes huge. When people had a bad shock, they always looked like that and felt dazed and tired.
“If I may help?” He put his hands on her shoulders and drew her upright, letting her lean back against the side of the carriage.
She sighed and looked up at him. Her hair was loose and she tucked a curl behind her ear, moving it off her face.
“Are you alright?” he asked gently. He glanced sideways, but the gardener had gone.
“Yes,” she murmured. She bit her lip and looked away. Cutler studied her surreptitiously. Her face was white and a streak of dirt ran down the side of it, from where she’d fallen to the ground. A trace of tears ran down her cheeks. There was no sign of other injury, save the shock.
She never did anything to harm anybody! How dare they?
“Lieutenant. We must go.” She glanced into the bushes, voice urgent. “We don’t know that they have gone. And we don’t have much time anymore.”
“Yes,” Cutler agreed, swallowing his rage and sobering suddenly. “We must go now.”
They needed to leave fast – not only because the assailant could be nearby, but also because soon people would be coming out of the house, drawn by the sound of gunfire. Their departure would not remain secret for long.
He lifted her up and then, without thinking, wrapped his arms around her waist and hoisted her into the carriage. Her body was warm and soft, her form beautiful – slender waist, firm bust, long legs. She smelled like spices and perfume – something she used to freshen her clothes, he guessed. The scent of her body was warm and fragrant and exciting.
Cutler forgot the whole world for a moment, aware only of the woman he held in his arms. He felt his eyes close and he wished he could stand here, his face pressed to the fabric of her muslin gown, his arms wrapped tight around her, forever.
He heard running feet. The sound broke the spell and he set her gently in the coach, looking out in the direction of the disturbance. When he turned to hoist himself up, he found himself facing a man dressed in pale clothes, running up the path.
“Sir!” the coachman, breath heaving as he ran, stopped at the front of the carriage. “Sir? What should we do?”
“Drive us away,” Cutler commanded. “Now, if you please.” His voice was stiff.
He watched as the man clambered up without hesitation and took the reins. As he did so, another shot rang out. This time, it was close. Cutler heard the whizz as it rattled past the window. He drew a breath in horror. He was still out there!
“Whoa!” the coachman shouted. The horses reared and plunged. Out of the grasp of the coachman, before anybody was ready for it, they turned sharply about and sped off down the path. “We’re going!” the coachman yelled.
“I know!” Cutler shouted back. Of all the extraneous statements a person could make, that was easily the worst.
He stared through the window, trying to see if he could spot the shooter, but he could see nobody. They were moving too fast to see anything, the trees and bushes like streaks of green and ocher as they sped along the path towards the gate.
Cutler felt himself pushed back into his seat as they slowed, the coachman doing his best to calm his team. They raced through the gate at a brisk canter, slowing as they headed onto the road.
Cutler opened his eyes and looked around. He was on the seat opposite Raymonde, his legs twisted so that they did not bump hers, his body turned so that he faced the window. He hauled himself into a decorous position, turning to face her.
“We’re alone,” she whispered.
Cutler could see the horror of the situation on her face.
She was here, in the coach, alone with a man and no maid to act as chaperone. She was as good as ruined, from this moment, and it was his fault. Cutler felt his stomach cramp with pain.
“My Lady,” he said gently. “I am sorry. I am so sorry.”
Raymonde turned to look at him. The horror was in her eyes and she seemed for a moment to be unaware of where she was. She blinked and focused on him, and some of the fear evaporated.
