Twenty-nine
The Ride Through the Night
Shoulder to shoulder, galloping over silent fields in the light of the moon, Prudence and Sir Anthony passed through the country unseen and unheard. There was little said; the pace was too fast, and Prudence too content to talk. This then was the end, in spite of all. The large gentleman swept all before him, and faith, one could not be sorry. Several times she stole a look at that strong profile, pondering it; once he turned his head and met her eyes, and a smile passed between them, but no words.
It seemed she was very much the captive of his sword; there could be nothing more to say now, and, truth to tell, she had no mind to argue.
She supposed they were off to his sister, but the way was unfamiliar to her. The gentleman seemed to know the country like the back of his hand, as the saying was; he eschewed main roads and towns; kept to the solitary lanes, and ever and anon led her ’cross country, or turned off through some copse or meadow to avoid a village, or some lone cottage on the road. There would be no one to tell of this mad flight through the dark hours; no man would have seen them pass, nor any hear the beat of the horses’ hoofs racing by.
Sure, they seemed to be the only people awake in all England. The failing daylight had gone hours since; there had been a spell of darkness when they rested their horses in a walk along a deserted lane; and then the moon had risen, and there was a ghostly pale light to show them the way, and the trees threw weird shadows along the ground. There might be heard now and then the melancholy hoot of an owl, and the chirp and twitter of a nightjar, but all else was hushed: there was not so much as a breath of wind to rustle the leaves on the trees.
They saw squat villages lying darkly ahead, swung off to skirt them round, seeing occasionally the warm glow of a lamp-lit window, and reached the road again beyond. Once a dog barked in the distance and once a small animal ran across the road in front of them, and the mare shied and stumbled.
There was a quick hand ready to snatch at the bridle. Prudence laughed, and shook her head, bringing the mare up again. ‘Don’t fear for me, kind sir.’
‘I need not, I know. Yet I can’t help myself.’
The moon was high above them when they reined in to a walk again. Prudence was helped into her greatcoat; the horses drew close, and the riders’ knees touched now and again.
‘Tired, child?’ Sir Anthony’s free hand came to rest a moment on hers.
Faith, it was a fine thing to be so precious in a man’s eyes. ‘Not I, sir. Do you take me into Hampshire?’
‘Be sure of it. I’ll have you under my sister’s wing at last.’
Prudence made a wry face. ‘Egad, I wonder what she will say to me?’
There was a little laugh. ‘Nothing, child. She’s too indolent.’
‘Oh, like Sir Anthony Fanshawe – upon occasion.’
‘Worse. Beatrice is of too ample a girth to indulge even in surprise. Or so she says. I believe you will like her.’
‘I am more concerned, sir, that she may be pleased to like me.’
‘She will, don’t fear it. She has a fondness for me.’
‘I thank you for the pretty compliment, kind sir. You would say you may order her liking at your will.’
‘You’re a rogue. I would say she will be prepared to like you from the outset. Sir Thomas follows her lead in all things. It’s a quaint couple.’
‘Ay, and what are we? Egad, I believe I’ve fallen into a romantic venture, and I always thought I was not made for it. I lack the temperament of your true heroine.’
There was a smile hovering about Sir Anthony’s mouth. ‘Do you?’ he said. ‘Then who, pray tell me, might stand for a true heroine?’
‘Oh, Letty Grayson, sir. She has a burning passion for romance and adventure.’
‘Which Madam Prudence lacks. Dear me!’
‘Entirely, sir. I was made for sobriety.’
‘It looked excessively like it – back yonder in the coach,’ said Sir Anthony, thinking of that shortened sword held to poor Matthew’s throat.
‘Needs must when the old gentleman drives,’ said Prudence, smiling. ‘I should like to breed pigs, Sir Anthony, I believe.’
‘You shall,’ he promised. ‘I have several pigs down at Wych End.’
The chuckle came, but a grave look followed. ‘Lud, sir, it’s very well, but you lose your head over this.’
‘An enlivening sensation, child.’
‘Maybe. But I am not fit to be my Lady Fanshawe.’
The hand closed over her wrist; there was some sternness in the pressure. ‘It is when you talk in that vein that I can find it in me to be angry with you, Prudence.’
‘Behold me in a terror. But I speak only the truth, sir. I wish you would think on it. One day I will tell you the tale of my life.’
‘I’ve no doubt I shall be vastly entertained,’ said Sir Anthony.
‘Oh, it’s very edifying, sir, but it’s not what the life of my Lady Fanshawe should be.’
‘Who made you judge of that, child?’
She laughed. ‘You’re infatuated, sir. But I’m not respectable, give you my word. In boy’s clothes I’ve kept a gaming-house with my father; I’ve escaped out of windows and up chimneys; I’ve travelled in the tail of an army not English; I’ve played a dozen parts, and – well, it has been necessary for me often to carry a pistol in my pocket.’
Sir Anthony’s head was turned towards her. ‘My dear, will you never realize that I adore you?’
She looked down at her bridle hand; she was shaken and blushing like any silly chit, forsooth! ‘It was not my ambition to make you admire me by telling you those things, sir.’
‘No, egad, you hoped to make me draw back. I believe you don’t appreciate yourself in the least.’
It was very true; she had none of her father’s conceit; she had never troubled to think about herself at all. She raised puzzled eyes. ‘I don’t know how it is, Tony, but you seem to think me something wonderful, and indeed I am not.’
‘I won’t weary you with my reasons for holding to that opinion,’ said Sir Anthony, amused. ‘Two will suffice. I have never seen you betray fear; I have never seen you lose your head. I don’t believe you’ve done so.’
Prudence accepted this; it seemed just. ‘No, ’tis as Robin says: I’ve a maddening lack of imagination. The old gentleman tells me it is my mother in me, that I can never be in a flutter.’
Sir Anthony leaned forward, and took the mare’s bridle above the bit; the horses stopped, and stood still, very close together. An arm was round Prudence’s shoulder; the roan’s reins lay loose on his neck. Prudence turned a little towards Sir Anthony, and was gripped to rest against a broad shoulder. He bent his head over hers; she had a wild heart-beat, and put out a hand with a little murmur of agitation. It was taken in a firm clasp: for the first time Sir Anthony kissed her, and if that first kiss fell awry, as a first kiss must, the second was pressed ruthlessly on her quivering lips. She was held in a hard embrace; she flung up an arm round Sir Anthony’s neck, and gave a little sob, half of protest, half of gladness.
The horses moved slowly on; the riders were hand-locked. ‘Never?’ Sir Anthony said softly.
She remembered she had said she could never be in a flutter. It seemed one was wrong. ‘I thought not indeed.’ Her fingers trembled in his. ‘I had not before experienced – that, you see.’
He smiled, and raised her hand to his mouth. ‘Do I not know it?’ he said.
The grey eyes were honest, and looked gravely. ‘You could not know it.’
The smile deepened. ‘Of course I could know it, my dear. Oh, foolish Prue!’
It was all very mysterious; the gentleman appeared to be omniscient. And what in the world was there to amuse him so? She gave a sigh of content. ‘You give me the ha
ppy ending I never thought to have,’ she said.
‘I suppose you thought I was like to expose you in righteous wrath when I discovered the truth?’
‘Something of the sort, sir,’ she admitted.
‘You’re an amazing woman, my dear,’ was all he said.
They rode on in silence, and quickened presently to a canter. ‘I want to rest you awhile,’ Sir Anthony said. ‘Keep an eye for a likely barn.’
‘The horses would be glad of it.’ Prudence bent to pat the mare’s neck.
They were in farm-land now; it was not long before they found such a barn. It lay by some tumbledown sheds across a paddock, where a little rippling stream separated field from field. The farm buildings were hidden from sight by a rise in the ground; they rode forward, past what was left of a haystack, and dismounted outside the barn.
It was not locked; the door hung on rusty hinges, and inside there was the sweet smell of hay.
Sir Anthony propped the door wide to let in the moonlight. ‘Empty,’ he said. ‘Can you brave a possible rat?’
Prudence was unbuckling her saddle-girths. ‘I’ve done so before now, but I confess I dislike ’em.’ She lifted off the saddle and had it taken quickly from her.
‘Learn, child, that I am here to wait on you.’
She shook her head, and went on to unbridle the mare. ‘Attend to Rufus, my lord. What, am I one of your frail, helpless creatures then?’
‘You’ve a distressing independence, on the contrary.’ Sir Anthony removed the saddle from the roan’s back, and led him into the barn. For the next few minutes he was busy with a wisp of straw, rubbing the big horse down.
Prudence went expertly to work on her mare, and stood back at last. ‘It’s warm enough here,’ she remarked. ‘They’ll take no hurt. When they’ve cooled we’d best take them down to the stream. Lord, but I’m thirsty myself !’
Sir Anthony threw away the wisp of straw. ‘Come then. There’s naught but my hands to make a cup for you, alack.’
But they served well enough. They came back at length to the barn, and found the horses lipping at a pile of hay in the corner. A bed was made for Prudence. ‘Now sleep, my dear,’ Sir Anthony said. ‘You need it, God knows.’
She sank down on to the sweet-smelling couch. ‘What of yourself, sir?’
‘I’m going to take the horses down to the stream. Be at ease concerning me. What, must you be worrying still?’
She lay back with her head pillowed on her folded greatcoat, and smiled up at him. ‘A pair of vagabonds,’ she said. ‘Faith, what have I done to the elegant Sir Anthony Fanshawe? It’s scandalous, I protest, to set you at odds with the law.’
Sir Anthony led the horses to the door. ‘Oh, you must always be thinking you had the ordering of this!’ he said teasingly, and went out.
When he brought the horses back her eyes were closed, and she had a hand slipped under her cheek. Sir Anthony took off his greatcoat, and went down on his knee to lay it gently over her. She did not stir. For a moment he stayed, looking down at her, then he rose, and went soft-footed to the door, and paced slowly up and down in the moonlight. Inside the barn the horses munched steadily at the armful of hay he had given them. There was silence over the fields; the world slept, but Sir Anthony Fanshawe stayed wakeful, guarding his lady’s rest.
Thirty
Triumph of Lord Barham
Speculation concerning the result of my Lord Barham’s coming meeting in Grosvenor Square was in abeyance. The strange flight of the Merriots formed the topic of every conversation in Polite Circles. It was a seven-days’ wonder, and society was greatly put out to think it had received this couple with open arms. It was felt that my Lady Lowestoft had been very much to blame, and quite a number of people who heard my lady’s lamentation felt a glow of superiority. They had a comfortable conviction that they would never have been so foolish as to invite such a chance-met pair to stay. One or two persons had an odd idea that they had heard my lady say she was acquainted with the Merriots’ father, but when they mentioned this my lady was positively indignant. Voyons, how could she have said anything of the sort when she had never set eyes on the elder Mr Merriot? She had been most grossly deceived; no one could imagine how great was the kindness she had shown the couple; she had had no suspicion of foul play. When she heard that Mr Merriot was taken by the law for the killing of Gregory Markham she was so shocked, so astonished, she could scarcely speak. And then, next morning, to find Kate flown, and a horse gone from her own stables – oh, she was prostrated. The affair was terrible – she believed she would never recover.
It seemed like it indeed. Society grew tired of hearing her on this subject, for she could talk of naught else. And where had the Merriots gone? Who were the men who snatched Peter from the coach? One had undoubtedly been the servant, John, but who was the other? The unfortunate gaolers swore to a man of gigantic size, but no one paid much heed to that. It was the sort of exaggeration one would have expected.
Sir Anthony Fanshawe heard of it down at Dartrey, and took the trouble to write to his friend Molyneux. He protested he could not believe young Merriot was the villain this affair showed him to be. He was inexpressibly shocked by the news, but he felt sure some explanation must sooner or later be forthcoming. He ended by telling his friend that he had some notion of extending his stay with my Lady Enderby, since her ladyship had with her a most charming visitor.
Molyneux chuckled over this, and told Mr Troubridge that Beatrice Enderby was once more trying to foist an eligible bride on to poor Tony.
In the meantime there could be found no trace of the fugitives. They had vanished, and no man saw the way they went. Nor did any man see the way John returned, for he came secretly and looked quite different. The black hair had changed to a grizzled brown crop; the black brows became sandy, and the ugly mole beside his nose had vanished. It was not to be expected that the Merriots’ swarthy servant wore a wig, darkened his brows and lashes, and affixed a seeming mole to his face. Nor could it cross anyone’s mind that an old servant of my lord’s, who had been in waiting on the young Tremaines should have any connection with the Merriots’ lackey. Such a notion occurred to no one, more especially since it appeared that more than once my lord had warned my Lady Lowestoft that she should not trust too much in her youthful visitors.
People could not help admiring my lord’s perspicacity. He shook his head at my lady, and said only: ‘Ah, Thérèse!’
Whereupon my lady put a handkerchief to her eyes, and confessed that she had been wrong in her estimation of the Merriots, and my lord right. It became known that my lord had warned her many times; he had suspected something to be amiss from the first.
For three days everyone had theories to put forward, and exclamations to make, but on the fourth day interest veered round again to my lord’s claim.
My lord was to meet the lawyers and his cousin at Grosvenor Square, and he would give conclusive proof of his identity.
Mr Rensley, with his arm still in a sling, awaited the issue with not unjustifiable impatience. The family lawyers, Clapperly and Brent, were the first to arrive: young Mr Clapperly brought old Mr Clapperly, long since retired from the lists; and Mr Brent brought a grave clerk, and many documents.
Mr Brent rubbed his hands together and murmured over a list he held. He desired to know whether a Mrs Staines, and a Mr Samuel Burton had arrived.
Mr Rensley stared at that. ‘Burton?’ he echoed. ‘Do you mean my lodge-keeper?’
Mr Brent coughed. ‘Let us say, sir, the lodge-keeper at Barham. You know we said we would not be – er – controversial.’
Mr Rensley said something under his breath, at which Mr Clapperly frowned. ‘Why should he arrive?’ he asked brusquely.
‘The claimant, sir, desired it. Also Mrs Staines, who is, I believe, Burton’s sister.’
‘
I know nothing about her,’ Rensley answered. ‘Has that impostor bribed them to recognize him?’
Young Mr Clapperly, a man of some forty years, begged Mr Rensley to moderate his language. Mr Brent assured Rensley that my lord had not set eyes on either Burton or his sister since his arrival: both brother and sister were as mystified as he was himself.
Shortly after this the couple arrived, and were ushered into the big library.
Burton was a stockily-built man of middle age, sandy-haired and blue-eyed; his sister was rather older, a respectable-looking woman, who dropped a shy curtsey to Rensley, and another to the lawyers. She was given a chair by the table, and sat down on the extreme edge of it, with her brother beside her.
‘Three o’clock,’ said young Mr Clapperly, consulting a large watch. ‘I think we said three, sir?’
A coach was heard to drive up, as though in answer. In a few minutes the door opened to admit my Lord Barham, my Lord Clevedale, and Mr Fontenoy.
My lord swept a magnificent leg to the assembled company. ‘I am late!’ he exclaimed. ‘I offer a thousand apologies!’
‘No, sir, no, almost to the minute,’ Mr Brent told him.
Mr Rensley was looking with dislike upon my lord’s companions. My lord addressed him at once. ‘You scowl upon my friends, cousin. But you must remember that I have the right to bring whom I will to this interview.’ He turned to Mr Clapperly. ‘Is that not so?’
‘Oh, perfectly, sir! There can be no objection. Pray, will you not be seated, gentlemen?’
They were grouped about a table that stood in the middle of the room. My lord sat at the end of the table, with old Mr Clapperly opposite to him. My lord produced his snuff-box, and unfobbed it. ‘And now my cousin Rensley wants to put some questions to me,’ he said gently. ‘There is no reason why I should answer any of them. I stand proved already Tremaine of Barham. You have tried to find that I stole my papers, and you have failed, gentlemen. I condole with you. Let me hear your questions; I shall endeavour to satisfy you.’
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