by Jenny Hambly
As he left the built-up environs of town and reached the edge of Finchley Common, he put his nagging worries aside and gave his horses their wish and let them go.
Lady Rosalind nibbled the end of one slender finger thoughtfully. “I think he’s regretting it,” she murmured, as the chaise made its more careful progress towards the edge of town.
“Well if he is, you will just have to show him he’s wrong,” smiled Lucy, patting her hand comfortingly. “Have you ever travelled in such comfort? It’s his own carriage too,” she sighed.
“How do you know?” Rosalind enquired. Lucy chuckled. “Where have your wits gone begging? Didn’t you notice the crest on the panel? Two quite fierce-looking lions, a mangled snake at their feet.”
She shook her head. “We were bundled in so quickly, I scarce had time to notice anything.”
“Well I hope you noticed how he paid us every observance, handing us into the carriage himself and giving us these lovely warm rugs. A true gentleman if you ask me.”
Rosalind shrugged off-handedly. “They all appear gentlemanly, but I’ll be surprised if he turns out differently from the rest of the greedy, shallow breed.”
Lucy frowned worriedly at her charge. “Rosie, your experience has been bad, no one can deny it, but it is also limited. Living above an establishment where young bucks to and fro, isn’t something you should have experienced but you must not judge too harshly. Young ladies aren’t meant to see or hear foxed young gentlemen or overhear conversations not meant for ladies’ ears. It’s just part of growing up for them, my dear.”
Rosalind sighed and leant back against the comfortable squabs, closing her eyes for a moment. “Listen, Lucy.”
“Apart from the horses, I can’t hear anything.”
“Exactly,” Rosalind concurred, smiling slightly. “The constant hum of London has gone.”
Turning her head, she glanced out of the windows and saw that even the press of London traffic heading north had temporarily disappeared. As they rounded a bend, she saw the grassland sloped gently upwards towards a stand of trees swaying slightly in the brisk breeze. Then she spotted movement, it looked like two riders were cantering towards the road. How she wished she was one of them, riding had always been a joy for her. Thinking no more of it she closed her eyes again and gave herself up to the gentle sway of the carriage.
The unmistakeable thud of hooves grew louder and then a crack of gunshot brought her bolt upright, just as the chaise swayed alarmingly. She grabbed the nearest strap to stop herself plunging forwards, her other hand reaching into the pocket of her pelisse.
“Get down, Lucy,” she whispered, her heart thumping uncomfortably fast. Opening the window she saw the two riders were almost upon them, muffled up to the eyes. Not giving herself time to think, she pointed the small silver pistol she had retrieved, closed her eyes and fired it in the general direction of the nearest one. It was a lucky shot, he jerked awkwardly and clutched his shoulder. He shouted something in the direction of his companion and they headed off again across the common.
Opening the door, Rosalind jumped down; the postilion was thankfully unhurt but busy calming the spooked horses. “Well done, miss,” he said admiringly. “There’s been no highwaymen that I ever heard of around these parts the last few years. Who’d o’thought it? And in broad daylight too!”
Rosalind, now pale and shaking a little, put up her chin. “They weren’t very determined were they?”
“Nor stupid, miss,” he said, nodding up the road. Rosalind saw a cloud of dust and through it a small group of horses galloping towards them. They all seemed to be wearing a uniform of some kind.
“Robin Redbreasts, ma’am.”
She let out a slow sigh of relief. The irony wasn’t lost on her; last night she had been lucky to escape the clutches of a Bow Street Runner and here she was offering up a prayer of thanks at her deliverance at their hands. As they came closer she saw they were all dressed in dark blue coats and trousers, only the flash of their scarlet waistcoats and yellow buttons adding a splash of colour to their sober uniforms.
Having galloped their fidgets out, Lord Atherton slowed his horses to a walk. He was on the point of turning the curricle, feeling that it was not quite the thing to leave the ladies alone when he spotted two familiar figures riding towards him. Pulling in, he waited for them.
“Atherton, you have missed such a farce as you have ever witnessed,” called one of them.
“Good day, Philip, and to you John, this is an unexpected pleasure.”
“Y-you should have c-come with us, old boy,” said Lord Preeve. “N-never laughed so much in my l-life!”
He quirked an enquiring brow. “Barnet races? Give me a moment to turn around before telling me all about it, will you? I’m accompanying my mother’s companion to Atherton but fancied a gallop.”
A noted whip, it took only moments for him to execute a neat turn. He listened with increasing amusement as between them, they regaled him with the result of the race between a grey mare and a bay gelding, both of whom had seen better days. The grey mare had become winded halfway round the course and had pulled up and started to munch the apples overhanging the rough track at that point. The race should now have been the gelding’s of course, but the combined circumstances of the rider having imbibed too freely of his tipple of choice and his over enthusiastic celebrations before the winning post had been reached had been his undoing, resulting in him falling off as he broached the final bend.
They were still all laughing when they reached the brow of the hill and saw the situation below.
“George, isn’t that your chaise surrounded by redbreasts?” murmured Sir Philip.
He had already sprung his horses and in a few moments came upon the scene, closely followed by his friends.
Sir Philip nodded at one of the patrol. “Hello Charlie, what’s afoot?”
This individual might have been handsome if not for the deep scar that ran from his forehead to the corner of his mouth. He took the proffered hand and shook it warmly. “Hello, Captain Bray, sir. Would you believe these ladies were set upon by a couple of rascals, but owing to the young lady firing a shot at them and apparently winging one of ‘em, they made off before we got here? Two of the lads have gone after them but they had a start so I’m not that hopeful.”
Lord Atherton had visibly paled; turning to the two ladies who stood beside the carriage he bowed deeply. “Accept my apologies, I should never have left you. It won’t happen again.” He turned towards the postilion. “Any damage?” he said briskly.
“Not to speak of, sir, the horses were a bit spooked is all. It’s miss we have to thank, let off her popper in a flash and dang me if she didn’t hit one, that soon put paid to the blighters.”
Atherton looked back to Lady Rosalind, her white face looked pinched with cold. He held out his hand. “Could I see it?”
Her eyes widened in alarm but she reluctantly reached into her pocket and drew it forth. “I hope you don’t mind that I er, borrowed it,” she said hesitantly.
His eyes shot back to hers as he took the pistol, his pistol, the very one he had threatened her with only the night before. She was looking at him anxiously as well she might the little minx.
“You are full of surprises, my dear,” was all he said softly, fully aware of the interested gaze of those around them.
“By J-Jove that’s a nice piece!” approved Lord Preeve, pressing closer, but his eyes were firmly fixed on the lady, a look of keen appreciation in them.
Lord Atherton was forced to introduce them but once bows and curtsies had been exchanged he hurriedly assisted the ladies back into the carriage before thanking and dismissing the patrol. He then led his friends a little way apart.
“Y-you damned d-dark horse,” protested Lord Preeve. “W-where have you been hiding that d-dashed beauty?”
He had clearly not yet made the connection between Lady Rosalind and her father, but the fixed regard of Sir Philip told him he had. “I
’ve not been hiding anyone, John, but she has been living a somewhat secluded existence due to, er, straitened circumstances. I’d rather you both forgot about both this incident and the lady herself, for now.”
“I b-bet you would you d-devil, want to keep h-her all to yourself eh?” responded his friend jovially.
As usual Sir Philip said very little but it was to the point. “If such an unusual circumstance doesn’t make the papers I’d be surprised,” he commented, blandly enough. “The mounted patrols have all but eradicated such incidents.” He gave his friend a very direct look. “I’d say it would take someone very desperate to mount such an attack on this road in daylight.”
“The world is full of desperate people,” Atherton said. “I take it your friend Charlie was in the regiment?”
Sir Philip nodded.
“He is one of the lucky ones to find gainful employment, there are many others not so fortunate who may be forced to such desperate measures.”
Sir Philip held his eyes steadily. “As you say. Don’t worry, not a word will pass our lips, but if you don’t return to town soon, expect a visit. Where do you stay tonight?”
“I’m hoping to make Fenny Stratford, I’ve a mind to pay the lock keeper a visit.”
Lord Preeve had kept quiet during this exchange, feeling sure he was missing something although what was beyond him. But this piece of casually dropped information was too much. “V-visit a lock keeper? N- not at all the thing, G-George. C-come to think of it, F-Fenny Stratford ain’t all that either, m-much better accommodation to be f-found at Stony Stratford you know.”
Sir Philip smiled knowingly at his friend. “The Grand Junction Canal? Finally taking an interest in your father’s investments?”
“Just so,” affirmed Lord Atherton before taking his farewell.
The small cavalcade made good time from there on in, despite the somewhat hilly and often winding roads between Barnet and St Albans. But Rosalind would have preferred to continue to endure the frequent jolting that even His Lordship’s well-sprung chaise could not prevent, rather than face him over tea in the private parlour of The George.
Due to the coming and going of servants bringing tea and seed cake, there was very little occasion for private discourse, but Rosalind took the bull by the horns in one such lull.
“I hope you will forgive me for borrowing your pistol,” she ventured in a small voice. “It seemed prudent at the time.”
As usual, Lucy sprang instantly to her defence. “Well, just as well you did as where was our fine lord in our moment of need? And to think of you acting as if you were used to firing on villains every other day.”
Rosalind sent her stalwart supporter a look of entreaty but Lord Atherton stepped neatly into the breach, accepting without a blink his fall from grace in this good lady’s eyes.
“Please, don’t apologise. I understand your reservations and am thankful you showed such forethought. Mrs Prowett is quite correct, I should not have left you in such a perilous position. If I had had any concerns as to your safety you may be sure I would not have done it. The mounted patrols have, until now, effectively eradicated the nuisance of highwayman from the common.”
A not very dignified snort from Lucy was his only reply. There did not seem to be anything left to say, so after finishing the repast provided for them they made their way to Fenny Stratford, only stopping briefly at Dunstable to change horses.
The sun was setting as they broached the steep descent into the valley of the Ouse and glimpsed the roofs of their destination glimmering redly in the distance. Rosalind had long since shut her eyes in an effort to dim the thumping in her head which seemed to echo the rhythm of the pounding of the hooves against the hard-baked road, but now looked around with vague interest. She had never seen a landscape quite like it; fertile pastures and wide cornfields spoke eloquently of the bucolic ideal on one side, yet as they crossed a hunchbacked bridge she saw a calm expanse of water giving a glimpse of the industrial efforts of the country. She was fascinated by the sight of a barge being towed by a huge horse in the distance and looked forward to taking a closer look.
They had soon pulled into the large and bustling yard of The Bull Inn, and were shown to a large, commodious bedchamber that housed a very comfortable looking four-poster bed, a truckle bed for Lucy and a table set under the large window that gave views onto the canal.
Rosalind’s suggestion that Lucy might share in her comfort in the larger bed was met with a firm rebuttal as was the suggestion she joined her in the private parlour Lord Atherton had hired for dinner.
“You may forget what your correct station in life is, Rosie, I mean Lady Rosalind,” she hastily corrected herself, “but I never have and never will. You are the daughter of an earl. Things may have got a bit too relaxed recently what with you living with me and all, but whilst in London I may be the proprietress of a respectable coffee house, here I am just your personal maid and don’t you go forgetting it. Speaking of which, we better bustle about if you’re to be ready any time soon, your dress is sadly crumpled and your hair looks like you’ve been through a hedge backwards.”
She dressed simply in a plain peach gown with a soft, well-worn shawl draped around her shoulders, her hair simply arranged in a top knot with curling fronds framing her face. Lord Atherton awaited her by the fire, his perfectly cut black tail-coat and close-fitting pantaloons emphasising an athletic figure that owed nothing to artifice. He bowed politely over her hand before pulling out one of the chairs at the table already set for dinner.
“You look charming, my dear. I’m not sure which I prefer, the waif in breeches or the young lady of refinement,” he murmured provocatively as he seated himself opposite her.
Fortunately, she was spared the necessity of answering as a waiter appeared carrying various dishes. Their experiences were so wide apart it was not to be expected that an easy flow of chatter would enliven the table so Rosalind, who had realised that she was quite famished, attacked the various dishes before her with the healthy appetite of the young. The soup was surprisingly good, she followed this with some roast chicken and asparagus and made good inroads into a delicious damson tart.
Lord Atherton covertly watched her with some amusement; more used to watching the ladies of his acquaintance pick at their food in a dainty manner, he found it refreshing that she employed none of the many maidenly arts to attract his attention or impress him with her femininity. But as the satisfying repast came to an end, she raised her eyes to his and gave him one of her direct looks.
“It has occurred to me that you will hardly have had time to let your mother know of my coming,” she began somewhat hesitantly, “that there might be some awkwardness in my unexpected arrival.”
Lord Atherton took a thoughtful sip of his wine before answering. “You are right,” he affirmed. “And she may well resent it at first but trust me to smooth the way. She may not want a companion, but it is for the best, she is too much on her own and I fear must miss my father badly.”
Lady Rosalind grimaced. “So I am neither expected nor wanted, what a delightful prospect for me.”
“Have you a better one?” parried Lord Atherton. “As you have been living with your old nurse I had presumed, perhaps wrongly, that you were friendless but it occurs to me that as the daughter of an earl you must have some relations?”
She shrugged. “Not that I know or want to know. My father’s relations did not approve of his marriage to a squire’s only daughter and one who had no wish to lead a fashionable life. The squire also did not approve of my mother’s marriage, he felt my father was too unsteady and it led to a rift between them. He died almost a stranger to me. My mother was a gentle, kind woman who enjoyed a quiet life in the country and made my father happy. He did not know how to go on without her, and I was too young to be of any use.”
Lord Atherton heard the catch in her voice. “You have been unfortunate with your relatives. My elder sister, Lady Harriet, married a squire and although it wa
s not the match my father had set his heart on, my parents put her happiness first. You must have been very lonely,” he probed gently.
For a moment her eyes looked distant but then she blinked and offered him a small smile. “I had my lessons at first, although I was a sad trial to my governess, always escaping to the stables and riding out across the estate. I was always happier outside than cooped up. It was a relief to us both when she was sent away.”
“Yet you were thinking of becoming one,” he reminded her. “Have you any accomplishments, apart from breaking and entering of course?”
He saw the spark of resentment flash through her eyes and almost regretted his words but he felt safer with the spirited Lady Rosalind rather than the pathetic orphan who tugged at his sympathy. He had not enjoyed the almost haunting melancholy that he had glimpsed when she talked of her parents. He noted the sudden mulish set of her jaw and watched with interest as she pushed back her chair and marched over to the writing desk in the corner; she returned in a moment armed with paper and then reached for her reticule pulling out a short stub of pencil.
Lord Atherton felt slightly uncomfortable as he found himself on the receiving end of a piercing gaze that viewed him with objective interest, as if he were a specimen under the microscope.
“Don’t move,” she hissed, as he shifted in his chair.
She worked quickly, her hand making a series of deft, quick strokes, pausing occasionally with her head tilted to one side before continuing in the same style.
It did not take many minutes before she had finished, silently she handed it to him.
