by M C Beaton
“Tredair’s a big man. How are we supposed to carry him out? We cannot managed him between us.”
“My servants will do the work. They have been told it is a practical joke and have been paid to keep their mouths shut. Do come along, my love.”
Had he been less besotted, then Mr. Fordyce would have refused. But he felt as drugged with love as their victims were with sleeping powders.
It all went like a dream. The heaving of the bodies into Lady Artemis’s traveling carriage, the ride through the night, the grunts of the servants as they struggled with the bodies at the other end. “Get the key,” hissed Lady Artemis to Mr. Fordyce. “it’s in the gutter.”
Mr. Fordyce felt along the gutter until his fingers encountered a key. He took it down and opened the door.
“Do we dump them in bed together?” he asked.
“That would be quite shocking,” said Lady Artemis primly. “See, there are two easy chairs, one on either side of the fire. Place them one in each chair. Now, I shall leave money on the table. We will lock them in so that they can have an adventurous time trying to escape. La! I hope these powders were not too strong. I don’t want them to sleep forever. Have the fire made up so they do not freeze and put blankets over them. Good!”
Mr. Fordyce performed the duties allotted to him. It all seemed like such a good joke. He and Lady Artemis giggled like schoolchildren when they finally crept out after the servants and locked the door and took away the key.
One of the servants drove back, while Lady Artemis and Mr. Fordyce traveled inside, hugging and kissing and laughing.
The cottage was some twenty miles outside Brighton, so it was dawn by the time they reached home.
As he undressed for bed, Mr. Fordyce wondered sleepily whether the earl would call him out, but then Tredair could hardly do that, provided they all kept to the story that the house had been broken into during the night and that Fanny and the earl had for some cruel and mysterious reason been abducted.
He did not awake until two o’clock the following afternoon. The events of the night came rushing back to him and he clutched his hair.
Tredair would not believe one word of that rubbish about abduction. Tredair would kill him!
He scrambled into his clothes and rode like a fury for the house where he had left Tredair and Fanny.
The door was lying splintered on the front path.
There was no one inside.
The earl and Fanny had gone.
Chapter Ten
The earl stretched and yawned. He slowly opened his eyes. At first he did not think he was awake but merely moving into a strange dream. He saw the sleeping figure of Fanny in an armchair opposite, clad only in her nightgown. He twisted his head and looked vaguely around at the cottage parlor. Then he looked down at his own body, at his nightshirt and bare feet. He moved one foot and struck his toe against a footstool. With dawning horror, he realized he was not in a dream.
He got to his feet, nearly banging his head on the rafters, and went out of the room into the vestibule and tried the outside door. Locked!
He shook his head to clear it.
Trickery and treachery, he thought bitterly. What a fool he had been to believe all that nonsense about Mrs. Waverley trying to stop him marrying Fanny. All the while she had been plotting and scheming. She must have been afraid he might change his mind because of Fanny’s birth, and so this was her way of making sure he would have to marry Fanny.
He walked back into the parlor, leaned down, and shook Fanny roughly by the shoulder. “Wake up!” he shouted.
Fanny groggily came awake. Her eyes widened when she saw the earl standing over her in his nightshirt. “Where are we? What are you doing here? How did I get here?” she cried. She tried to get to her feet, and then sat down again with a groan. “I feel sick,” she said, “and my throat is dry.”
“We have both been drugged,” said the earl. “I do not know where we are, but wherever it is, we are locked in without our clothes.”
“Were we attacked?” asked Fanny. “The mob … Fanny, Frederica … Mrs. Waverley? Are they all right?”
“The facts appear to be this,” he said. “Your Mrs. Waverley, far from trying to stop me marrying you, has plotted and planned to make sure I do so. Well, I shall not be coerced into marrying you. I shall …”
“Mrs. Waverley would never do such a thing,” said Fanny. “Never! But Lady Artemis would.”
“Why?”
“Sheer, simple spite,” said Fanny furiously. “Painted useless trollop. I could kill her.”
“I do not believe you,” he said, striding up and down with his hands clasped behind his back. “This is what comes of women holding unnatural views. This is …”
“Shut up,” said Fanny crossly. “If you are going to be pompous, wait until you have some clothes on. I have been drugged, I am cold, I am thirsty, and I am not going to put up with a jaw-me-dead from a man in a nightshirt.”
“You are right,” he said with a sudden grin.“How sad that I should look ridiculous in my nightwear and you should look so enchanting.”
“It is no time for empty compliments either,” said Fanny briskly. “Whoever played this trick must be confounded. I have no intention of marrying you. I already have no reputation to speak of, and I can live down this scandal. It is only women who hope to marry who must worry about their reputations. Where is the kitchen?”
“I do not know, madam. I have had a lot more to think about than …”
“Men!” Fanny got to her feet and went out into the little vestibule. She rattled the outside door and then turned about and went back into the parlor then through a door at the back that led to a kitchen that had obviously been built on as a recent extension. Through the kitchen window, she could see a pump standing in the yard. At that moment the hardest thing to bear, as far as Fanny was concerned, was having to stand in that kitchen with a raging thirst and not be able to get a drink of water.
The earl had followed her in and was trying the back door. “Locked and stronger than the front,” he said.
Fanny wordlessly pushed past him and went upstairs. There were two bedrooms with dormer windows set into the thatch. There was a chest on the floor of the one that had obviously been used the most. She threw open the lid and found a pile of old gowns. She was just selecting one of the gowns, when the earl came in to join her.
“You seem to have found what you need,” he said. “Any men’s clothes?”
“Try the other bedroom,” said Fanny curtly. “That is, if you don’t mind stealing.”
“This is not stealing. This is necessity.”
“Oh, it’s always different for you,” said Fanny.
“May I point out that I am imprisoned?”
“Like I usually am,” said Fanny. “Go away and do something useful. My head hurts.”
Fanny found a pair of flat-heeled shoes in a cupboard. They were a trifle large, but she lashed the ribbons tightly around her ankles to secure them. The gown she had put on was of expensive material, but old-fashioned in cut and smelled strongly of camphor. She had also found a shift and stockings in a chest of drawers. There was a toilet table in one corner laden with jars of creams and pomatums. The water jug was empty.
“Found anything?” she called to the earl.
“Yes,” he replied. “I shall be with you presently.”
Fanny sat down at the toilet table and picked up a brush and brushed her hair and then braided it into a coronet on top of her head.
The nausea she had felt on waking had gone, but the raging thirst was still there. She was just thinking of all the nasty things she would like to do to Lady Artemis when the earl came in.
Fanny stifled a snort of laughter. “What clothes!” she said. “You look like a peasant beau of the 1790s!”
The earl was wearing a tight-waisted coat with very long tails. The ruffled shirt, which showed at his throat, was slightly yellow with age. He had on a striped waistcoat and yellowish-white breec
hes and boots. “The boots fit,” he said, “but that is all that does fit. Whoever lived here was a lady to judge by the quality of your clothes, and to judge by the quality of mine, she once had a very low and shabby beau in residence. But the soles of these boots are quite thick. If I cannot force the front door with my shoulder, at least I can kick it down.”
They went down the stairs again. The earl was getting tired of having to walk with his head bent to avoid hitting it on the ceiling.
Fanny went back into the parlor. “There’s money on the table here,” she called over her shoulder. “Good, we can take it and walk to the nearest place and hire a gig.”
“Leave it,” said the earl. “I will not take anyone else’s money—something that is hard, I know, for you to understand.”
“It is Lady Artemis’s money!” shouted Fanny.
“It probably belongs to whomever owns this cottage. It is one thing to borrow a few old clothes, quite another to take money.”
“You know,” said Fanny in conversational tones, “you are a very silly man. I am glad we are not to be married. What a cold and pompous fish you have turned out to be.”
“It is very hard to try to explain morals and right and wrong to someone who is amoral,” he snapped.
“If you were not in such a childish rage, you would take the money, but you are determined to make me feel bad about taking that jewelery,” said Fanny. “Don’t worry. I still feel wretched about that.”
He went back out of the parlor and looked at the front door. He thought of the trick that had been played on them. He kicked at the lock with savage force. There was a splintering sound as the lock gave. He continued to take his rage out on the door, kicking now at the hinges. Then he flung his weight against it and the whole door fell off its hinges onto the garden path and the earl with it.
Fanny walked delicately around his prone body and disappeared around the side of the cottage. He got to his feet and went after her. She was energetically operating the pump handle in the back yard.
“Let me,” he said, shouldering her aside. Soon a jet of clear water came pouring out, Fanny cupped her hands under it and drank and drank and then splashed water over her face.
While the earl washed his face, she looked about her. It was a sunny morning. A lark soared up into the clear air from the fields behind the cottage. The air was full of the smell of honeysuckle and roses from the tangle of the neglected garden.
Fanny took a deep breath and began to counsel herself. “You are safe and well, Fanny Waverley, and all we have to do is find a village. Now, do I take that money? No, I cannot. He will jeer at me and call me thief.”
“I suggest we set out immediately,” said the earl.
She looked so pretty, standing there in the sunlight, that he began to feel he had been behaving like a bear. It was not her fault that they were in this situation. Once again, he was amazed at her courage. She had been drugged and abducted and placed in a humiliating position, and yet she had neither screamed nor fainted.
He looked at her with a certain amount of tenderness in his eyes. Fanny saw that look and somehow it made her angrier than all his insults.
“If we are going, let us go,” she said sharply. “You do look so utterly ridiculous in those clothes, I find it hard not to laugh.”
“Very well, Miss Fanny,” he said, turning about.
“Are you not going to take the money?” she said, falling into step beside him as they reached the road.
“No,” he said. “It is a fine day and we will soon be rescued.”
It certainly looked as if their rescue was to be quickly at hand. They had only walked about half a mile when they saw a smart gig coming along the road toward them. In it sat what seemed like a prosperous-looking farmer and his wife. The earl hailed them.
The farmer reined in his horse and eyed them with disfavor. His plump wife clutched the reticule in her lap even tighter.
“I say, fellow,” said the earl in his lazy drawl. “We are anxious to get to Brighton. Can you take us up?”
The earl’s manner and voice, which would have been quite in keeping with his normal appearance, seemed like sheer impertinence to the farmer who only saw a jackanapes in the clothes of a shabby dandy.
“Brighton’s the other way,” said the farmer. Brighton was actually in the direction the farmer was going, but he wanted shot of this odd and sinister pair.
“My name is Tredair,” said the earl. The farmer looked at him blankly. “Lord Tredair,” said the earl. “If you will take us at least a little way along the road, say to the nearest village, you will be handsomely rewarded.”
“Stand out of my way,” growled the farmer, raising his whip. Now he knew this man to be a villain. What lord ever wore such clothes?
The earl stood back in surprise. The farmer cracked his whip and the gig bowled past them. They both walked into the middle of the road and looked after it.
“Good gracious!” said the earl. “What odd behavior. Why are you laughing in that idiotic way?”
“It’s you,” giggled Fanny. “You should see yourself. ‘I am Tredair,’ indeed. Of course he didn’t believe you.”
The earl gave a reluctant grin. “At least we know we are on the right road. I hope we come to somewhere soon, for I am sharp set.”
The couple smiled at each other in sudden friendship. He held out his arm and Fanny took it. Together they strolled along the road, confident they would either soon see the buildings of Brighton across the downs, or at the very least, some sort of house and village.
But they walked and walked through the lazy, dusty sunshine without meeting anyone, without seeing a single house. Fanny’s feet were beginning to ache. She stumbled once or twice, but when he offered to carry her, she refused.
And then at last, like a mirage, rising up among the dust and sunshine, they saw a trim country house set back from the road.
“Sanctuary!” said the earl, giving Fanny a quick hug. “Come along. Breakfast and pots and pots of tea!”
With quickened footsteps they went up the short drive. The earl pounded at the knocker.
The door was opened by a thin, spare woman in a cap and apron who looked them up and down.
“No hawkers, no gypsies,” she said, and made to close the door. The earl put his foot in it to stop it closing, and the woman ran off into the house, screaming, “Mr. Digby! Mr. Digby!”
“Is everyone quite mad?” said the earl testily. “Come into the hall out of the heat, Fanny.”
“I feel like an intruder,” said Fanny, standing close beside him. A door at the far end of the hall opened and a man in clerical clothes, carrying a large horse pistol, came out and stood facing them.
“I am Mr. Digby, the rector of the parish of St. Paul,” he said. He leveled the pistol at the earl. “Leave!”
“Mr. Digby,” said the earl haughtily. “My name is Tredair, the Earl of Tredair, and this is Miss Fanny Waverley.” The pistol remained pointed at him. “Come, sir. Show some charity. We are tired and hungry.”
“What is an earl doing, wandering the countryside in such dreadful clothes?” said Mr. Digby, who had a dry scholarly voice to match his thin scholarly face.
“We have had a dreadful trick played on us,” said the earl. “We were both abducted and left locked in a cottage some distance from here. We were both in our night rail and had to borrow these old clothes from the cottage. If you will send a servant into Brighton with a letter from me, the matter can be straightened out.”
“Brighton is quite a distance away. I do not trust you, sir,” said the rector. “You have the look of a highwayman about you.”
The earl would have stalked out had he been on his own, but pity for Fanny made him say, “Can you please not give this lady something to eat and drink?”
Mr. Digby studied them for what seemed an age. Then he slightly lowered the pistol. “Although your appearance is villainous,” he said, “I cannot find it in my heart to believe ill of your sweet lady
. You are no doubt one of those villains of the road who drag some poor, loyal wife about with them on their nefarious thieving expeditions. Very well, you shall have food and drink … after you work for it.”
“What is this work?” demanded the earl, who was tired of protesting and arguing.
“You will find wood in the pinking shed that has not been blocked. There are three tree trunks, two to be blocked off, half of the other to be blocked, and the remaining chopped for kindling. While you get on with that, your lady may weed the flower beds.”
“Gladly,” said Fanny.
“The quicker you do it, then the quicker you will be fed,” said Mr. Digby. “But do not plague me anymore with tales of earls, or I might change my mind. Every hale and hearty beggar who comes to my door must work for his charity. The lame, and sick, of course, do not need to do so.”
“I shall do the work for you,” said the earl crossly, “but leave this lady to rest.”
“I see no reason why a perfectly healthy young woman should not earn her keep,” said Mr. Digby.
“Quite right,” agreed Fanny.
Soon she was bent over the flower beds, busily weeding. Mr. Digby had told her the gardener had been sick for some weeks and so the garden had become neglected. As she weeded, Mr. Digby’s words rang in her head. “I see no reason why a perfectly healthy young woman should not earn her keep.” Fanny’s mind raced. Even when the housekeeper briefly emerged to hand her a gardening hat, Fanny’s plans and thoughts went racing on as her nimble fingers pulled out the weeds. She could find a post as a governess. The earl would surely help her to do that! Oh, to be free! No longer would she be dependent on Mrs. Waverley. She would have her own money. Make her own life.
She was so busy with her thoughts that it came as a surprise when she heard Mr. Digby and the earl approaching. Mr. Digby was saying severely, “You did that work in record time. What a waste of a life. Take my advice, young fellow, and apply yourself to a trade.
“Come along, Fanny,” said the earl. “We are to be fed at last.”
