by Joan Smith
“Walk, and us with nearly thirty pounds between us?” Luane asked in astonishment. “Don’t be such a gawk. We’ll find a private carriage for rent.”
This quickly proved unfeasible. The one gentleman Gab had the fortitude to put the proposition to laughed in his face. “We’ll start walking,” he told Loo in a commanding tone. “It’s only eight miles to Maldon—won’t take more than a couple of hours if we hustle. We can rent something there.”
“There’s a little village half-way to Braintree—only a few miles away. Let’s go there instead,” she countered.
“It’s in the wrong direction. If there’s nothing to rent there, we’re farther from home than ever.”
This detail was quickly talked down as no reason at all, and before he knew what had happened, she was on her nag, being led towards Braintree by himself. Between the mount’s slow gait and stopping every time a carriage rumbled past, cloaking them in dust, it was some two hours before they reached the little village, only to discover it boasted no stable at all.
“I guess it must have been somewhere else I thought I saw a stable,” she said wearily.
It was now five o’clock. They were miles from home, with no means of conveyance, tired, dirty, and hungry. With Luane, the last named was the first attended to, and they went directly to the only public place—a small, disreputable inn with no private parlor. They ate an unappetizing meal in near silence. Gabriel’s mind was roving over the nonexistent possibilities of coming out of the affair with honor, and Luane’s was wondering where they should sleep for the night.
“This is the only inn in town. We’ll have to put up here for the night,” she told him.
“This is no place for a lady.” The boisterous company, mostly masculine, was becoming interested in the pretty young lady who sat eying them nervously, and began making comments.
“I know it isn’t. That huge man with the fierce mustachios is looking at me. You’ll have to speak to him, Gab.”
Gabriel turned and intercepted a leering look from a man a foot taller and twice as broad as himself, and at least ten years older. “We’d better leave,” he said.
She went reluctantly with him, and as they left, a gentleman got up and followed them. Gabriel was prepared for the worst, and was relieved to see the fellow was old, and not so very large. He proved not to be after Luane at all, but only concerned for their safety. After a few polite preliminaries, he gave them some good advice.
“I advise you to go directly to the rectory,” he said. “The rector will be happy to put you up for the night. It won’t do to put the young lady up at the inn. An unsavory place at the best of times, and on a Saturday night . . .”
The rectory proved to be only a quarter of a mile away, and they had both just enough strength to haul themselves to it and throw their weary bodies on the rector’s mercy. All was arranged speedily and satisfactorily. The young lady would sleep with the rector’s daughter, and the gentleman would have the spare room. Tomorrow he would escort them to Witham and try for a chaise, or if necessary take them to Maldon himself. It was such a relief to Gabriel that he felt in the few moments between his head hitting the pillow and the arrival of sleep that he had rubbed through pretty well. Given the circumstances, he didn’t see what his uncle could charge him with.
After the youngsters had gone early to bed, the rector turned to his wife and said with a sage nod, “There’ll be a set of angry parents after that pair of runaways before morning, or I miss my bet.”
“They seem very young to be getting married,” she answered.
“They do surely, but when it comes to running away and being away overnight, there’s nothing for it but to have them decently married. I’ll have out my book and brush up on the ceremony. They’ll want it done before the young lady is taken home in disgrace. Aye, and wanting today’s date on the certificate, which I don’t hold with.”
“Where’s the harm, dear?” his wife replied, handing him the book of services to peruse while she sat in happy reminiscence of her own wedding day twenty years previously.
* * * *
Claudia flew into the dining room all in a flutter when she saw her cousin’s room to be empty, but Miss Bliss made little of it. “She’s gone for a canter to get rid of her temper. Does it all the time. She’ll be in better curl when she comes back.”
“I’m surprised she’d miss lunch,” Claudia replied.
“She’s got her purse full for a change. She’ll run over to Billericay and fill up on sweets. She’s quite a baby still.”
“Does Sir Hillary allow her to ride about all alone?”
“He’s only just become her guardian,” Miss Bliss pointed out. “Sophie allowed her to ride between here and Chanely alone, and she occasionally sneaked over to the village. Everyone knows her, and it’s safe enough.”
Claudia was satisfied with this, but after lunch she went to the stables to make sure the mount was gone. She was told Miss Beresford had set off for Chanely, which was along the road to Billericay, but a little later when she had still not returned, Claudia went to her cousin’s room. Remembering Jonathon’s remarks the previous evening about an elopement, she began to fear that possibility. But the closets held all their customary garments, and on that score at least she could be easy.
As she returned belowstairs, her mama and the Trump were tooling up to the doorway in a magnificent carriage—black, drawn by four black horses, and escorted by two outriders, though they had only been to Maldon. Such a cavalcade stunned Miss Milmont, and she ran to her mama to compliment her on such high style.
“How grand you and the—Mr. Blandings look. Quite like royalty, in such a carriage. Do you always travel so grandly, Mr. Blandings?”
“No, I usually just jaunter about in a little open phaeton and pair, but I brought my traveling carriage with me, and have no other conveyance at my convenience here. You will be all right, Mrs. Milmont?” he asked with concern.
“Is something the matter, mama?”
“Nothing in the world. Mr. Blandings is leaving. That’s all.”
“So soon?” She hoped mama had not had a tiff with her wealthy suitor.
“It’s oh revwahr, not good-by,” he said. “I’ve been put on to a little property over Chelmsford way—a thousand acres with a mansion on it, that’s looking for a mortgage. The terms the agent mentioned sound good, and will be better before the deal’s closed or I ain’t the Trump of Mortgagees, heh, heh. Wish me well, Marcia. I won’t be back tonight. It’ll be dark, and I won’t be able to pace it out when I get there. Tomorrow I’ll be up bright and early and into my walking boots. I’ll just remind my man to pack them. I never travel without my walking boots. Tell Sir Hillary—well, there’s no need to tell him anything. He is taking care of that—er, other matter we spoke of. I must run up and have a bag packed. I’ll be down presently, my dear,” he said to Mrs. Milmont. “You’ll wait and say good-by to me, I hope?”
He nipped up the stairs two at a time, so eager was he to be off snapping up another mortgage, and Mrs. Milmont and her daughter went into the Crimson Saloon to await his descent.
“What an interesting life he leads,” Claudia said.
“As to that, he seldom goes to a party, and spends all his time in business deals. I doubt he attends the opera three times a year, though he takes an excellent box for the season.”
“He could go to the ton parties if he wished. Sir Hillary said he would not object to knowing him socially, and as far as that goes . . .”
“Did he indeed?” her mother asked eagerly. “How came he to say such a thing?”
“We were just talking. I told him Mr. Blandings had arrived and the subject arose.”
“And Sir Hillary said that? Dear me, if he only meant it, it would make everything . . . But no doubt he was being satirical.”
“No, he was serious. He thinks Mr. Blandings an excellent man.”
“I had not thought Sir Hillary would take any notice of him.”
“He says there are a dozen young girls throwing their caps at him, and once he is married, I suppose he will ease up on his business and lead a more sociable sort of a life.”
“What young girls?” Mrs. Milmont asked sharply.
“He didn’t give any names, mama. They would not be known to me, you know.”
“It’s Miss Warren, that’s who it is. Mr. Blandings mentioned her name twice recently. Had some dealings with her papa—he was selling Jerry some jewelry, I believe. They are all to pieces and would be eager to nab him.”
“Very likely she is one of them. I wonder who the other eleven could be.”
Mrs. Milmont was entering into a state of high perturbation, to hear of these incursions on her beau’s affections. “Mrs. Dorringer is another, mark my word, though she is no longer a young girl, I assure you. Twice she has paid me morning calls, and I was at a loss to discover the reason. I scarcely know the woman, and she is very good ton, too. She looked to meet him at my home, bold hussy. Certainly that is what she was at, for now I come to think of it, she asked me half a dozen times whether I was going out, or whether I was expecting any other company. Here I thought it was Jonathon she was after. And wasn’t she wearing a new bonnet each time, too, and a pound of rouge on either cheek.”
“A man of his handsome appearance and wealth will surely be snapped up quickly enough,” Claudia said airily. “It’s a pity you could not bring him up to the mark, mama.”
“Not bring . . . you silly chit! He has been hounding me to have him any time these two years. It is only with the greatest effort I have held him at bay so long. Did he not name his country place after me—Marcyhurst? And you heard him say the other night . . . Well, upon my word, I think I must make up my mind very rapidly.” She did so in about a tenth of a second.
Claudia quietly excused herself, that they might have privacy to bring their amour to a head before the Trump went dashing off to pace out the environs of Chelmsford.
It was conveyed to Mr. Blandings by a coy smile and a hint that she wished for his speedy return, that her affections were reaching their apogee; and he, no skulker when opportunity knocked, popped the question again as he hastened to the door with his walking boots tucked under his arm. It was settled in the hall, and before he was out the front door he was enquiring whether she would prefer Lady Nolan’s emerald cut diamond or the Duchess of Avon’s emerald baguette for an engagement ring.
“Both, by Jove. I’ll give you both,” he chuckled.
“Oh, Jerry,” she slapped his arm playfully. “Next you will be saying you want to give me a different one for every day of the week.”
“Why not, eh?” he laughed merrily. “We’ll decide as soon as I am back. I can’t dally, for Curzon is interested in this Chelmsford property, and he is such a flat he will give them a better offer than I mean to do. I think I can screw the fellow up to twelve per cent. I feel this is my lucky day. Tomorrow we’ll set the date and all that.” He was off, contented that Lady Luck had now favored him in the heart as well as the pocketbook.
Marcia Milmont went up to her room to be congratulated by her daughter, who was accidentally the first to bear the stunning news; and to drop a half a dozen notes to her bosom bows informing each in secret that she had accepted an offer from Mr. Blandings, since he wouldn’t be put off any longer.
Chapter Sixteen
It was not much later that Sir Hillary fulfilled his promise to return to Swallowcourt to see the Milmont ladies. He did not speak to the mother, however, as the daughter diverted him from it by telling him in some alarm that Luane had been gone since morning.
“Has anything been done to find her?” he asked.
“Miss Bliss felt she had only gone for a ride into Billericay, but it is four hours now, and she would surely be back. Do you not think we ought to go looking for her?”
“Yes, certainly. Get a bonnet and pelisse, and tell your mother where we’re going.”
This was done, and within five minutes they were going at a quick pace down the hill to Chanely, thence to the main road. “She wouldn’t have done something foolish like run away, would she?” Hillary asked.
“I looked in her room, and nothing is gone.”
No trace of her was found at Billericay, even when they appealed to Miss Miller, the queen of gossips, who surveyed the village constantly from her bow window.
“At least she hasn’t run away with Gabriel, for he was on the post by the time she left the house,” Claudia comforted her companion.
“Scatterbrain that she is, I don’t think she’s eloped without a nightshirt. I’ll take you home and if she isn’t back, go on to Maldon. We don’t want the family worrying about two runaway brides.”
“Speaking of brides, there is another one, but in no danger of elopement. Mama has accepted Mr. Blandings.”
Hillary smiled and nodded. “This will set Jonathon hot on your trail. Remember to avoid him.”
“He has something else on his mind. I saw him collecting tools with Tuggins. Very likely he means to dig up Sophie, and he won’t have a bit of competition either, for everyone else has dropped out.”
Hillary heard this with no great concern and immediately changed the subject. “When do you think your mother will marry?”
“Not very soon, with Aunt Sophie just buried.”
“Yes, she is a sister. It would be improper for her to wed soon.”
Miss Milmont ignored this meaningful comment, and drew his attention to a particularly fine stand of willows growing along the creek’s edge. Back at Swallowcourt, a second searching of Loo’s room brought to light the half-written letter. It was read without compunction by Sir Hillary who said, “She started to light into him by letter but changed her mind. She must certainly have gone after him.”
Miss Bliss, when appealed to, thought it unlikely, without so much as a bandbox to hold a change of linen.
“The girl hasn’t two bits of brain to rattle together. I thank God she is at least not wearing that green poke bonnet to call attention to herself. I’ll leave for Maldon at once and see if I can pick up her trail.”
“She has such a head start on you, you won’t overtake her tonight,” Claudia remarked.
Sir Hillary and Miss Bliss exchanged a worried glance. “The devil of it is I have spoken to Miss Miller of her flight,” Hillary said.
“It is as good as announced in a paper,” Miss Bliss informed him.
“Looks like another wedding on our hands,” Thoreau said grimly. “If she overtook him, and I can’t think she would have stayed away so long otherwise, I sincerely hope they find some minister to marry them before nightfall.”
“She’s under age,” Miss Bliss said. “They couldn’t even get a special license.”
Sir Hillary promised to let them know at once if he discovered anything, but the ladies could think of no means of letting him know if she returned before him. It was learned of a footboy half an hour later that she had been seen on the road to Maldon, and they gave up on any local search.
Sir Hillary’s misgivings mounted to alarm as he followed the course of his charges. Their trail was picked up at Maldon and followed to Witham where he learned they had headed north. He was certain they were en route to Gretna Green for a marriage over the anvil. He hastened to Braintree, thinking they meant to hire a chaise there and never even stopped for a moment when he went past the rector’s house, where they were ensconced. At Braintree, his most diligent enquiries drew a blank. It was pitch black by then, and his team puffed from the hot pace he had set. As he dined he examined a map, and decided that for some unknown reason they had gone northeast to Colchester rather than due north to Braintree. He stabled his team, rented a nag and set out in the dark for the twenty-mile ride to Colchester, reaching it at midnight.
His thoughts wandered widely—to his own share of blame in not permitting them to marry sooner, to Claudia, to Marcia and the Trump, and to Jonathon. He’d have easy pickings of the necklace tonight. By morning the casket
would have been pried open and with no witness. Have to find the necklace in his possession to prove him the culprit. With so much to ponder, the trip passed quickly, yet he was bushed when he reached Colchester. If they were there, they were bedded down at some public inn, disgraced in the eyes of the world. He’d have to see them married before he took them home and pretend the ceremony had taken place a day sooner. Damned fools. The stables were closed, and his enquiries had to wait till morning. He booked a room at an inn and left a call for six the next morning. The rounds of stables and coaching offices took up a good deal of time, and he came to the decision that his best bet was to go straight to Gretna Green and hope to meet them there. With this in mind, he must return to Braintree and get his own fast team.
It was drawing on to noon by the time he arrived, and the first sight of interest to meet his eyes was Gabriel and Luane, straggling along the street, leading Loo’s mount. The pair of them looked so bedraggled and in such ill humor with each other that he had hardly the heart to give them the trimming they deserved. When Luane promptly broke into lusty sobs in front of the whole town, he hustled them into an inn’s private parlor to hear their story. It was delivered in a disjointed fashion, with each contradicting the other when any allotting of blame arose, which is to say, every minute.
But the gist of it was soon discovered, and Sir Hillary breathed a sigh of relief to hear that at least they had found a decent night’s lodging. He smiled too at the attempts of the rector to hold on to them till their parents should arrive, and their sneaking away by pretending to be going to church, when they really were setting off for Braintree to hire a chaise to go home. Gabriel was as abject as a whipped puppy, and Loo too tired to fight.
“Now what is to be done with the pair of you?” Hillary asked, more of himself than them.
