Peter allowed that he was sorry to hear it, his granny would be sorry to hear it, too, being a good friend of Mrs. Pollard from way back, and wasn't it hard how old folks suffered. However, he did move slowly toward the stalls. Jean began to hope.
Half an hour later they were off. In fact they followed in the wake of Clanross's curricle. Jean held the bay in check until she could see the last of the well-wishers had gone into the house, then she set off down the carriageway at a smart trot, Polly twittering beside her.
They reached the gate house. Jean, in her Maggie-role, smiled at the lodge-keeper, whose breakfast they had clearly interrupted. She saw that the curricle had passed from view. Clanross's team, though not so swift as the pair Sims was driving to Bristol, moved faster than the sedate bay Peter had chosen to draw the gig. The bay was definitely a Maggie-horse.
Jean feathered a corner neatly and entered the single street along which the trim cottages of Earl's Brecon had been built. She trotted the bay past the church and the rectory, eyes straight ahead, slowed for a cart near the inn, and caught sight of old Mrs. Pollard tending to her flowers. Mrs. Pollard gave her a cheery wave.
Jean waggled the whip in response. She hoped the news of Mrs. Pollard's miraculous recovery would take some hours to reach Brecon.
That was the only mishap. Jean reached the newly metalled road to Lincoln, remembered the toll in time to hand Polly her purse, and trotted the bay gently onward. She supposed she would have to conserve the bay's strength as long as she might. All her funds would be needed for the journey.
* * * *
Maggie slept until half-past nine. She had mourned for Jean, and more for herself, because Jean had spurned her sympathy, until nearly one. Even so, she slept later than she might have. Polly had not brought her hot water at the usual hour. That puzzled Maggie. She stuck her tousled head out the door and asked a passing footman to bring water.
Briefly she considered slipping Jean's bedchamber, but if her sister had contrived to sleep late, too, she ought to be left in peace. Maggie brushed her hair, thanked the footman sleepily when he brought a cannikin, and asked him where Polly had got to. He seemed as puzzled as she.
When she had dressed in an old blue muslin, Maggie drifted down to the breakfast room. Elizabeth was still there, though she was bound for the nursery.
"Is Jean awake?"
"I think she's still abed." Maggie dropped two lumps in her tea and stirred, suppressing a yawn. "I decided not to disturb her."
Elizabeth frowned, abstracted. "I'm troubled for her, Maggie. She was too quiet yesterday."
"She's sad."
Elizabeth sighed. "Of course she is. I hope... Well, do what you may to comfort her, my dear. I'll come to her when I've seen the babies." She left, and Maggie munched cold toast and drank sweet tea, and stared vaguely at nothing.
She returned to her own room, set out several items for Lisette to mend, considered seeking Johnny out in the book room for a stroll in the garden, wondered if she ought to look in on the schoolroom, and heard the clock strike the half hour. Half-past ten. Jean had still not come out, or she had done so without the usual good morning greeting.
Maggie rose. She was about to go to Jean's room when Lisette knocked and entered the dressing room, looking as disturbed as her smooth facade permitted.
"What is it, Lisette?"
"Lady Jean is not in her chamber, my lady, and your habit is missing from the press."
Maggie's heartbeat quickened. "Are you sure?"
Lisette almost wrung her hands. "It's very strange. Please come, my lady. Something must be amiss."
Maggie needed no urging.
Jean's bedchamber presented the picture of hasty ablutions. Her nightcap lay on the floor and the bed was unmade.
"That Polly," Lisette grumbled, but she looked worried.
Polly. Maggie ran back into the dressing room. Again signs of haste and, carelessly tossed on the cold and garnished hearth, snippets of red hair. Maggie knew herself to be slower-witted than her twin but she was no dunce. Jean had run off. It did not take genius to guess where.
Maggie cleared her throat, and forced herself to speak calmly. "Desire Lady Clanross to meet me in the book room at once, Lisette, if you will be so kind." Johnny would be at work in the bookroom. She needed Johnny.
Lisette dipped a quick but correct curtsey and hurried off. Maggie abandoned her false serenity and dashed to the library.
Johnny was there and Mrs. Falk. At her entry, Johnny leapt to his feet. "What's wrong, Maggie?"
"Jean has eloped." Maggie clung to the doorknob. "There's no other explanation. I think she must have persuaded Polly to help her. Ma'am, did Polly bring your water this morning?"
Mrs. Falk laid the slim volume she had been holding aside. "No, and she didn't come to help me dress, either." She rose. "Are you sure, Lady Margaret?"
Maggie was sure as death. "Jean cut her hair off, you see." Her voice broke and she took a deep breath to compose herself. Not the time to be falling into the vapours. "When we were younger we sometimes tried to fool people into thinking one of us was the other." She gulped. "It was a game. Miss Bluestone cured us of it. I think Jean must have passed herself off as me in the stables."
Elizabeth came in, out of breath. "Lisette says Jean has run off!"
"She's gone and she didn't tell me." Maggie flung herself into her sister's arms and burst into tears.
* * * *
Elizabeth hugged Maggie fiercely and tried to think, but fear and anger made her head whirl.
Johnny and Emily Falk exchanged glances. "Find Richard," Emily suggested. Johnny yanked the bell- pull, and Fisher himself appeared with suspicious alacrity.
Servants, Elizabeth reflected with some bitterness, always know everything.
Maggie shuddered with sobs. How could Jean have been so unkind to her twin? Elizabeth patted the girl's shoulder. And for what? A tweedling poetaster with the spine of a boiled leek.
Emily Falk was saying, "The colonel was out on the lake with Matthew, Fisher. If he's come in, he's with Tommy in the schoolroom."
Fisher bowed and retired.
Maggie's sobs had begun to ease. When Elizabeth thought the girl might reply coherently, she said, "Tell us what you know, Maggie, and for the love of heaven hold nothing back. Did she have help?"
Maggie's sad tale tumbled out.
Emily was frowning. "I cannot believe Polly... such an obliging girl...but she didn't come to help me dress this morning."
"She was supposed to wait on you," Elizabeth blurted, almost as shocked to know that her guest had been neglected as that Polly was corruptible.
Emily made a moue. "I usually send her off once she's laid out my gown, and I surmised she'd given up on me this morning. I didn't think twice about it, Elizabeth, but I see now that I should have. I beg your pardon."
Johnny had been working things out in his head. "If Jean passed herself off as Maggie in the stables, then she'll be riding Joybell. I can overtake her."
Colonel Falk entered still wearing buckskins and boots, and everyone burst into speech at once. Elizabeth overrode the babble and gave him a terse summary.
He looked thoughtful. "As we came from seeing Tom off, I caught a glimpse of a gig driving away at a smart clip. Does Lady Jean drive?"
"Jem taught both of us," Maggie said, hiccupping. "J-Jean's a capital whip."
"Then she probably took the gig so the maid could ride with her."
There was some slight comfort in thinking that Jean was not galloping about the countryside alone, though in the circumstances Polly could scarcely be considered a respectable escort.
"And she's making for Bristol." Colonel Falk turned to Johnny. "Set for action?"
Johnny drew a long breath. "Certainly, sir."
"If you will trace the gig's progress, I'll try to overtake Tom. He means to stop the night in Huntingdon."
Maggie straightened and drew away from Elizabeth. "I'm going with Johnny!"
"My
dear, you can't." Elizabeth tried to keep her voice calm but the effort showed. "A young lady--"
Maggie turned on her. "Pho! We can take Lisette with us in the barouche. Johnny and I can lend Jean countenance, and she's more likely to...to cooperate if I persuade her."
"The barouche," said Elizabeth, "is probably the only vehicle left on the estate."
That provoked constrained smiles from everyone but Maggie.
"On mature thought," Elizabeth continued, "you may be right. She will need the comfort of a female of her own blood. I would go myself, but I clearly don't have Jean's confidence."
Maggie's mouth trembled. "Nor do I."
Although Elizabeth felt another pang for Maggie, there was no point in wallowing in sympathy. "But she will listen to you, and someone must stay here to prevent chaos. What of the Runner?" She looked at Colonel Falk.
"He's bound to follow the girls." Falk frowned. "If Lady Jean drove through the village he probably caught the scent and has gone after her."
"Lord, what a mull. Tom-"
"Perhaps he can forestall the Runner, send an emissary to the magistrate's court, or some such thing. I'm no lawyer," he added apologetically. "Tom should be informed, however. I'll catch him up at Huntingdon tonight, and go directly to Bristol if he thinks I ought."
"Then there's a chance you may reach Owen before Jean does. She won't know the route," Elizabeth mused. "Once she leaves the Great North Road, she'll be asking her way."
"Grantham," Johnny said decisively. "She'll turn west at Grantham. I'll go out to the stables, sir, and see what Fosse has to say for himself. Maggie--"
Maggie gave him a look of such obvious reliance that he blushed. "I'll have a footman pack your things," she offered.
Johnny looked alarmed. "Er, a cloak bag merely. And for yourself and Lisette, Maggie, only such items as may be necessary. We shall be four in the barouche coming back."
That was the most reassuring thing he could have said. Maggie beamed at him. Elizabeth thought him overconfident but she was not about to cast doubts.
Maggie and Johnny went their separate ways, and Elizabeth regarded the Falks rather helplessly.
"I'm obliged to you again, Colonel. Jean is--"
"Hot in hand?" He smiled.
Elizabeth sighed. "Just so. Pray don't judge her too harshly."
Red tingled his cheekbones. "I'm the result of such an elopement, so I'm the last man likely to hold her up to censure, ma'am."
Elizabeth bit her lip. "I--"
"However," he added thoughtfully, "we had probably better try for a rescue. Young Davies appears to be even less reliable than my father, if that's possible. I shall leave at once." He executed a crisp bow, kissed his wife on the cheek, and went off, leaving the two women to stare at each other.
Elizabeth ran her hands over her face. "I beg your pardon, Emily, since it's too late to beg the colonel's. That's the second time I've spoken to him with gross want of tact. I don't watch my words with him."
"He's oversensitive on the subject," Emily said calmly, "because he avoided thinking about his mother for years. Her death forced him to brood a bit. It's probably good for him. In fact, I find his admiration for Lady Jean most encouraging."
"Admiration?"
"He speaks highly of her spirit."
Elizabeth gave a hollow laugh.
"I find the Lady Margaret more agreeable myself." Emily tidied her skirt. "But Richard, you see, needs to forgive his mother."
"And helping to rescue Jean would be an act of approval?" Elizabeth heaved, a sigh. "I wish I had your understanding of people's motives. Clearly I don't even understand my own sister, and Jean, of all my sisters, is most like me in temperament."
"I daresay that's why her conduct annoys you."
Elizabeth stared. It was all too true.
"But now is not the time for philosophizing. Tell me what I may do to help."
Elizabeth blinked back tears. "Keep me company, Emily, I hate waiting."
"So do I," Emily said, giving her arm a gentle pat, "and I've had a great deal of practice. Let us go oversee Lady Margaret's preparations."
24
"What the devil brings you 'ere, me lady?"
"Sims!" Jean pulled at the job-horse's stubborn mouth. Conflicting feelings brought her to a halt.
On the one hand she hadn't expected to find Sims still in Bristol. He was Clanross's valet and ought to have followed his master to London once Owen was delivered to his fate. Sims's continued presence at the port was a blow to her plan.
On the other hand, it was past nine o'clock at night, the horse and Polly were nearly dead with fatigue, and Jean had not yet found Owen's inn. She was beginning to wonder if she would find a room at any hostelry. Landlords, she had discovered in Warwick the previous night, did not want the patronage of young women travelling without male escort.
The night before, she had wheedled and bribed a room at a shabby inn after being turned away twice from more respectable establishments. The place had been dirty and noisy, and only the sight of a gold guinea produced a private parlour. Although she had pawned the pearls in the morning, she had had to hire the nag. She wasn't sure she could pay for a room and parlour in Bristol, and for her passage, too. Sims looked like rescue, and Sims, like Jem Fosse, had been her ally in the past.
Indecision--and weariness--held Jean still.
Sims's heavy body tilted the gig sidewise as he climbed up beside her. "Move over, me lady." He took the reins from her nerveless grasp.
"What are you going to do? You can't stop me, Sims. I mean to join Owen aboard the North Star."
"If I can't stop you," Sims growled, "the master can. She don't sail till the evening tide."
"Tomorrow?"
"Aye. 'Is nibs and me 'as rooms at the Crown and Anchor."
"I know. Someone, Elizabeth I think, mentioned the inn, but I can't find it."
Sims's mouth compressed. "It's in the Welsh Back, of all the 'eathen names. I'll take the pair of you there."
The Crown and Anchor was bound to be costly. Jean sighed. At least she would see Owen. "I have some money."
"'Ave you now? That's a wonder, me lady. D'ye 'ave common sense too, by any chance? 'Ere's a fine kettle of fish." And he went on scolding as he turned the gig and headed the shambling job-horse down a wide waterfront street toward the inn. She could make its sign out by the light of torches. She'd been looking in the wrong street.
The moon was up and nearly full, but the flaring torches dimmed her night vision. Her eyes hurt, and her back and wrists and arms. She wanted to fall onto a feather bed and die. She'd even stopped wanting to eat.
Beside her, Polly moaned. "I'm hungry, me lady."
"A bit less free with the 'me ladies,' girl," Sims said with magnificent inconsistency. "We don't want that Redbreast to find 'er la'ship, now do we?"
Polly straightened. "I want to eat."
Sims drew up at the inn and handed the reins to the ostler. "Stable 'im, lad."
"On your reck'ning, zur?"
People in the west had strange accents, Jean thought sleepily. Was the Runner in Bristol, too?
"That's right. These ladies is kin to the lad."
The ostler winked. "Prime articles, zur."
"Mind your tongue," Sims roared.
The man ducked his head, grinning, and Sims descended. His weight shook the flimsy vehicle. He handed Jean down tenderly and Polly less tenderly, and took their cloak bags, which he gave to a florid man who appeared at his elbow.
"Miss Carter and her maid will be wanting a bedchamber, Mr. Oates. I 'ope you ain't going to tell me you're out of rooms."
"No, sir, Mr. Sims. We've one room left should suit... What did ye say the lady's name was?"
"Carter." Sims said firmly. "Miss Jane Carter. Of the Lincolnshire Carters. Swells, Mr. Oates. D'ye understand me?"
The man had disposed of the cloak bags to a slatternly maid who scurried off with them. Now he rubbed his hands. "Any kin to your Mr. Evans?"
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"First cousin," said Sims. "Come to bid 'im farewell. The ladies is famished, Mr. Oates. You may bring meat and bread to me parlour in a quarter hour. I'll see the ladies to their room. Can't be too careful, can we, with the riffraff as 'ang about the docks."
Hand on Jean's elbow, Sims surged into the crowded ordinary of the inn like a ship under full sail. Polly and the host followed in his wake, the host promising culinary miracles despite the late hour and Polly whimpering.
The room was cramped but clean and the bed looked like heaven. The chambermaid had brought water. She pulled a truckle for Polly. Unpinning her hat, Jean washed the dust of too many miles from her face and hands. She looked at the crumpled muslin gown the girl had laid out and decided she hadn't the strength to change from Maggie's travel-stained habit. That would shock Owen, she supposed. She ran a comb through her hair--it looked as if mice had been gnawing at it--and sat on the room's sole chair whilst Polly made herself tidier.
What was she going to say to Owen? Jean's tired mind groped for the speeches she had been rehearsing along the way, but she could think only of bed.
Sims knocked and Polly unlatched the door. Jean had forgot how fond of Sims she was. He had once given her a looted ribband of the Legion of Honour. Well, he would be awarding no medals tonight.
Stifling a groan at the stiffness in her limbs, she rose and followed him to the parlour. "Where's Owen?"
"Out. 'E wanted to catch the moonlight on the tower of some big church. St. Mary's I think 'e said. Aye, St. Mary Redcliffe. Famous place," Sims added, massively unimpressed. "'E's writing a pome."
It was a relief not to find Owen waiting. She wanted to see him, talk to him, go with him, but not in her present condition.
Sims carved ham and cut off slices of bread. The waiter had brought ale and fruit. Jean swallowed a draught of ale and Sims fed her like a bird. Polly wolfed down meat and bread and drank off a tankard of ale in no time at all.
"I want to go to bed," Jean announced. "We'll discuss...talk 'bout...g'night, Sims." Her eyes drooped. She pushed herself to her feet. "I forgot to say thank you."
"You're welcome, I'm sure," said Sims.
Love & Folly Page 25
