The Luckless Elopement

by Dorothy Mack

  Prudence departed Vicky in a surge of mingled anger and fear as she stared at the grinning gap-toothed lout. “I would not dream of going a step in your company,” she retorted foolishly.

  “We’ll see about that!” Before the startled girl could blink, the man had twisted her left arm behind her back and was forcing her toward a big grey horse standing motionless in the mist.

  In the split second of astounded silence that followed this unexpected development, the sound of approaching hoofbeats rang loud and eerily; then Lily broke into a run, screaming distractedly, “No, no, you can’t take her!”

  “Unhand that lady or I’ll put a bullet into you!” commanded a steely voice from behind the carriage.

  Several things happened at once then. The highwayman spun around to face the newcomer, using his hostage as a shield; Lily launched her small person at his bulk, clawing frantically and screeching like a banshee that he mustn’t take her mistress; and two shots echoed almost simultaneously, followed in turn by a chorus of feminine screams. For a second, all movement seemed suspended; then as the horseman slid off his mount, tumbling to the ground in agonising slow motion, the highwayman knocked Lily down with the hand that held a smoking pistol, thrust Miss Seymour aside, and headed for the body of their would-be rescuer.

  Lily was sobbing frantically on the ground; Drucilla, recognising the fallen horseman, shrieked, “Drew! Oh, no!” and toppled over in a faint.

  Miss Seymour, righting her balance after a staggering step, withdrew her hand from the velvet muff and addressed herself to the thief’s back as he bent over the fallen man: “Keep away from him and raise your hands or I’ll put a bullet into you,” unconsciously adopting Mr. Massingham’s own threat, though her traitorous voice shook a trifle in the delivery.

  Apparently the highwayman was unconvinced of her resolution, for he leaped to his feet and hurled himself at her.

  Vicky steadied her hand, closed her eyes, and fired. On opening them she was appalled to see that the huge thief was still headed her way, though he now clutched his left shoulder with his right hand in mute evidence that her aim had not been entirely lacking. He was emitting a steady stream of oaths, obviously bent on retaliation, which she must avoid. Her brain, churning along nicely, reached this conclusion, but no other part of her seemed capable of movement as she stood immobile, still pointing the discharged weapon.

  “Run, Miss Vicky. I’ll get him!”

  The sound of Amos’ voice brought Vicky’s head sharply around to the front of the chaise, where the old coachman, hatless, with a countenance distorted by pain and rage, was struggling to descend, with one useless arm in a red-stained sleeve hanging at his side. Fortunately for Vicky’s personal safety, the highwayman’s attention had also been diverted to his first victim, who was bearing down on him, whip in hand. He pulled up short, then with a snarl of inarticulate loathing directed at the girl with the gun, altered his course and vaulted into the saddle of the twitching horse, bad arm notwithstanding, and rode off into the woods from which presumably he had launched his attack.

  Though much relieved, naturally, to have escaped the thief’s vengeance, Vicky discovered in herself a cowardly wish that she too might quietly faint away. A quick but comprehensive glance revealed chaos all about her. Drucilla lay in a crumpled red heap near the chaise, which was lurching dangerously with the distracted motions of the frightened horses; Lily was rocking back and forth on the ground, holding one side of her face and weeping spasmodically; while Mr. Massingham remained where he had fallen, ominously still. Amos had run to the horses’ heads, and she followed him, tossing a sharp command over her shoulder to the maid to see to Miss Hedgeley.

  “It’s a miracle the horses didn’t bolt, what with one thing and another, all that shooting,” Amos muttered as she joined him in soothing the nervous beasts. “I’m right mortified, Miss Vicky, to pass out like that when you needed me, but the horses pulled so against the arm, the pain sent me clean out o’ my head till I heard the shots.”

  “Never mind, Amos, you got them safely stopped and you came to in time to save me from a nasty beating at the very least. Are you badly hurt?”

  “The bullet went clean through my arm. It’s not so bad.”

  “Oh, Amos!” Vicky cried in distress. “It’s bad enough, and we must get it taken care of, but if you can leave the horses for now, I must see about Mr. Massingham, I’m afraid.” Her voice trailed off, and she was grateful for the coachman’s presence as they bent over the unconscious man a few seconds later.

  “Oh, my God! He’s bleeding from the head! Oh, Amos, is he…? He’s not…?”

  “Nay, lass, he hasn’t stuck his spoon in the wall, not yet leastaways,” replied the coachman soothingly as he gently straightened the limbs of the wounded man. “See, the bullet went into his leg here, but he must have hit his head when he fell. Look, didn’t I say it? Here’s this rock all bloody beside him.”

  Vicky’s relief that Mr. Massingham had not apparently sustained a gunshot wound to the head was tempered by a fast-dawning apprehension. Their situation was grave enough as matters stood. The man’s pulse was fast and weak and he showed no signs of coming round, but when she voiced her fears on this head, Amos assured her gruffly that the lad was better off unconscious until they could get him to a surgeon.

  For the first time since the coach had stopped, Vicky had leisure to examine their surroundings. The results were scarcely comforting. A heavy mist hung in the air, reducing visibility considerably. The lamps on the chaise created a halo effect for a few feet, and then all was indistinct. Ahead of them the road wound into some woods, which had apparently sheltered their attacker. She shivered slightly and looked back the way they had come. After a few feet, the road seemed to dissolve into nothingness. Fields stretched out on the sides of the road, but no lights glimmered anywhere and there were no sounds in the night except Lily’s soft exhortations to Miss Hedgeley to wake up as she chafed her hands, and the soft jingle of the horses’ harness.

  “Try the vinaigrette in my reticule, Lily. It’s on the ground somewhere,” Vicky said mechanically, and then, “Where are we, Amos?”

  The coachman responded to the hint of panic in his mistress’ voice, addressing her as though she were a child again. “Now, Miss Vicky, don’t fash yourself, it’s not so bad as it could be. We passed an old inn of sorts two or three miles back, outside o’ Little Menda. It ain’t much of a village and the inn ain’t what you’re used to, but this lad can’t stand much of a ride, I doubt. The only thing is…” He hesitated, and Vicky looked at him apprehensively. “I could have a mite o’ trouble driving a team with this arm, and —”

  “Oh!” she exclaimed in relief. “If that’s all that’s worrying you, Amos, I intended to sit up on the box to help you in any case. Between us we’ll handle ’em. I agree that it’s imperative to get Mr. Massingham to a warm bed with all haste — and a doctor of course.” She frowned and massaged her forehead with the fingers of one hand. “I only hope there is someone in the vicinity of this inn of yours.”

  “Now, Miss Vicky, it won’t do to go all worritin’ till we need to. One thing at a time, my old pa always said.”

  “Sufficient unto the day … or rather the moment,” murmured Miss Seymour to herself. “You are right, of course, Amos. Ah, I see that Lily has succeeded in reviving Miss Hedgeley. Now we can set about getting Mr. Massingham into the chaise with the least possible disturbance.”

  This last was easier said than done, for the wounded man, though lean, was tall and well-muscled. His injuries were sufficiently serious to complicate the task of lifting a considerable deadweight, and one of the girls had to be in the carriage to receive him, since it would be advisable to support and cushion his head to spare him as much jostling as possible on the journey. Drucilla, with tears of pity in her eyes and words of self-reproach on her lips, begged to be allowed to perform this service, which left the slightly built Lily and a one-armed man to assist Miss Seymour in the formidab
le task of transferring Mr. Massingham to the carriage. After much straining and some unavoidable jerkiness that wrenched a moan from the unconscious man’s lips, they succeeded in depositing him securely in Drucilla’s lap. Miss Seymour had bound up the head wound, using their handkerchiefs as a makeshift bandage, but no real attempt could be made to staunch the blood from the thigh under the circumstances, and she bit her lip to keep from crying out as her hand came away bloodstained from arranging his legs as best she could in the confines of the chaise. She was already trembling with fatigue, and the nightmare trip was still to do.

  “Don’t you go a-swooning on me, Miss Vicky,” admonished Amos, noting her white tense face as she climbed up onto the box in his wake and accepted the whip with a hand that shook despite her efforts at control.

  A short, unamused laugh answered him. “Have no fear, Amos. There is neither time nor space enough to indulge in a ladylike fit of the vapours. But I confess the sight of your old inn will look as welcome as the pearly gates to me tonight!”

  CHAPTER 4

  Despite her rash prediction, Miss Seymour’s first glimpse of the ancient and somewhat dilapidated Green Feather did not give rise to favourable comparisons with the Gates of Heaven, though it was assuredly a blessed relief to reach any destination with chaise and passengers intact. It had not taken long to discover that driving was never intended to be a partnership activity. It was indeed fortunate that Vicky was not cursed with excessive sensibility, for Amos suffered from no reluctance to criticise her awkward handling of the whip when his professional instincts were affronted. However, she was able to console herself with the knowledge that without her assistance, unskilled though it undoubtedly was, they would not have stirred far from the spot where disaster had befallen them. Amos was unused to controlling a team with his right hand, and the addition of Vicky’s strength at several points had made the difference between a steady, safe pace for the injured man and a possible accident.

  Their arrival at the Green Feather could not be described as propitious. At an unoccupied moment sometime in the hazy future, Vicky might recall with amusement the landlord’s expression of ludicrous dismay at sight of the luxurious chaise being driven by a panting, sweating, bloodstained old giant and a slim, pale, and dishevelled young lady, but at present she was shaking with fatigue and dismay herself. The innkeeper was even less prepared for a revelation that one of his unexpected guests was badly injured and would require the immediate services of a doctor, but after the initial shock he whipped into action, sending the stable boy galloping off with a message for the nearest medical practitioner and himself supervising the removal of the wounded man to one of the two guest chambers the inn boasted. The landlord had hastily introduced himself as Septimus Tolliver over the inert form of Mr. Massingham as he took on the major burden from the stumbling Amos, now nearly at the end of his tether. Vicky expressed their gratitude in incoherent terms as she helped to support the victim’s head on the short trip up a steep staircase. The room was Spartan but clean, she saw with thankfulness as she hurried ahead to open up the bed. The sight of Mr. Massingham’s greyish complexion when she got her first good look at him by the light of a lamp hastily lighted from a candle carried upstairs by Drucilla was so alarming as to deaden her powers of observation from that point on. It was Mr. Tolliver who bellowed for his daughter to come kindle a fire in the grate and to bring a warming pan with her. Vicky had gotten so thoroughly chilled from her stint on the box that the frigid temperature of the bedchamber did not immediately register.

  The next half-hour passed in a furore of activity, some of which would have been required upon the arrival of any ordinary traveller, but much of which was directed toward preparing the wounded men for examination by the doctor when he should arrive. Since no other traveller was at present enjoying the Green Feather’s hospitality, it was a simple matter to designate the larger of the two rooms as the ladies’ accommodation. After starting the fires, the landlord’s daughter Sukey was dispatched to make up a cot for Lily. The landlord’s wife occupied herself in the kitchen preparing hot drinks for all. One look at the strained young faces of her two companions had decided Miss Seymour to banish them forthwith to bed. Both protested, but as there was no material fashion in which either could assist at present, Vicky acknowledged their willingness with becoming gratitude and kept to herself a stronger sense of thanksgiving at being able to reduce her problems by two. With the willing Sukey in attendance to see to their comfort, she bade them a hasty goodnight, cutting short Drucilla’s appeals to be allowed to take part in nursing Drew.

  A cot had been set up in a corner of Mr. Massingham’s room for Amos, whose endurance was strongly tried before the ordeal of removing all coverings from his wounded arm was over. Vicky had ruthlessly overridden his protests that he must first help to get the real patient undressed, and that it wasn’t proper for her to be present at all. She pointed out with indisputable logic that the first essential was to get Mr. Massingham warm before causing him any further discomfort. The other issue she avoided by promising to call in Mr. Tolliver, after he had seen to the horses, to assist Amos in disrobing the victim and preparing him for the doctor’s visit. Since she had been peeling away the layers of clothing from the coachman’s arm during this discussion, he submitted perforce to having his wound cleaned by his mistress and dusted with basilicum powder unearthed from his cloak bag. The bleeding had nearly stopped, and Vicky saw with relief that the bullet had exited through the back of the arm as Amos had claimed. She covered it loosely to await the doctor’s inspection and turned with much less confidence to attend to the man whose harsh breathing had been playing a persistent accompaniment to her activities since she had entered the room. His pulse was somewhat stronger but she didn’t like his colour, and above all she didn’t like that difficult breathing. Observing his somewhat restless movements in the bed, Vicky found her teeth and fingers clenching as she wondered whether or not this was a hopeful sign after an hour of deep unconsciousness. Did it signify that he would be coming around? Was that wholly desirable with a bullet still in him?

  Resolutely she banished unprofitable speculation arising from what she knew to be a woeful ignorance of all things medical, and faced the immediate task.

  “Those boots must come off, Mr. Tolliver,” she said to the landlord on his return, assuming an air of calm control, “but he must not be disturbed more than is absolutely necessary. Perhaps we had best cut them off.”

  The innkeeper was utterly scandalised at such a blatant example of waste. “Lord, miss, the gen’lman won’t thank you for that! Those boots weren’t made by no country shoemaker — likely they’re worth twenty or thirty guineas. We’ll have them off in a brace o’ shakes. Just you hold his leg steady like, and I’ll do the rest.”

  Miss Seymour refrained from voicing the tart rejoinder hovering on her lips, to the effect that saving Mr. Massingham’s money was never likely to be an object with her. Having been put firmly in her place, she meekly did as she was told, though not without much anxious scrutiny of the patient’s ashen visage during the operation. He did stir restlessly once or twice, but showed no other signs of pain as Mr. Tolliver pulled off two prime examples of Mr. Hoby’s genius with leather. At this point, Amos roused from the lethargy into which he was sinking to demand that his mistress leave the room while they got the victim undressed and into a nightshirt offered by the landlord.

  “Very well, but I shall have to see the wound to clean it, you know.”

  “I’ll do that, miss,” volunteered Mr. Tolliver. “You can go below and wait for the sawbones while my missus gets you something hot to drink. You look nigh frozen still. Can’t have you going down sick too.”

  Vicky looked deeply into the open, honest countenance of Mr. Tolliver and knew him for a kindly man. She capitulated with a weary smile and a murmur of thanks and proceeded to follow her host’s sensible advice.

  The tiny inn did not boast anything as grand as a private parlour. Miss Sey
mour peeked into the deserted taproom, where the fire had burned low in the last hour, before heading for the kitchen. This was a large, low-ceilinged chamber comfortably heated on this autumn evening by a huge fireplace. The room was obviously used for family living, as it contained several chairs, two of which were now occupied by a woman who must be Mrs. Tolliver and the girl, Sukey. The latter jumped to her feet and pushed another Windsor-style chair nearer to the fire for their guest.

  “Here, miss, you’ll soon warm up next to the fire. Can I get you some nice chocolate like I took the other ladies? It’s still hot,” she remarked, indicating a pan standing on a trivet amongst the coals.

  Miss Seymour would have preferred coffee, but accepted the chocolate with a smile of thanks and sank wearily into the hard chair. At least its unyielding surface would ensure that she didn’t nod off and miss the doctor’s arrival. The landlady, a small thin individual wearing an enormous mobcap over her greying locks, stared at her intently from an upholstered wing chair. There was a pile of sewing in her aproned lap, but she had abandoned it on the entrance of her guest.

  “I see you have a quantity of hot water ready,” Miss Seymour remarked, nodding toward a huge kettle over the fire. “I am persuaded the doctor, when he gets here, will be glad of it.” She essayed a smile that failed in its object of softening the deeply etched lines of the face staring back at her, and realised with a further descent of her spirits that the simple human kindness evident in father and daughter was entirely missing in the wife. Mrs. Tolliver resented their presence and took no pains to hide the fact.

  The landlady’s thin colourless lips moved minimally, and she spoke in a hissing voice that seemed to have to force its way out between barriers. “Be the injured gentleman your husband?”

  So that was it! Mrs. Tolliver’s sharp nose scented scandal. Without an instant’s pause, Vicky took the expedient way out. “No, he is my cousin, the son of my mother’s only sister, and almost like a brother to me,” she embroidered glibly.