The Runaway Heiress

by Anne O'Brien

  Aldeborough bowed his agreement, a bland smile bracketing his mouth. It would have served no purpose to shatter the deliberate attempts at amiability, even though Frances felt an urge to fling her teacup at her aunt’s nodding ostrich plumes.

  If Viscount Torrington remembered the content of his previous conversation with Aldeborough, he showed no sign of it. He conversed equably with the Marquis on such matters as horse breeding and the need for local road improvements.

  Aldeborough was his usual urbane self, handling the whole event with cool politeness and a smile that held neither warmth nor affability. Frances could almost see the barely contained anger shimmering around him. It took all of his self-control not to take a riding crop to Torrington and whip him from the door. He tried to block out the memory of the cruelty and humiliation inflicted on Frances and the permanent scarring that would be a constant reminder of her devastated childhood. His fingers clenched to the imminent danger of the fragile china in his hand. Now was not the time, but one day Torrington would pay for his betrayal of the trust of guardianship.

  Meanwhile Frances came to the conclusion that the visit had been engineered by Charles. He made an excellent impression with his polished manners, impeccably turned out in a well-cut coat of dark green superfine and spotless white buckskins. His fair hair gleamed and his regular features could not be anything but pleasing. His smile was open and genuine as he lavished his attention on Aunt May. He flirted with her a little, encouraging her to gossip and laughing at her fine-drawn descriptions of their London acquaintance. Frances looked on in fascination.

  It was all very pleasant. As Frances measured out the tea from the caddy into the silver teapot she found herself wondering if her memory served her well. Life at Torrington Hall had been one of neglect and hard work—cruelty, even. She remembered the cold bareness of her room, the long hours of household drudgery, the crippling indifference without care or love and the agony of her uncle’s whip. The blood drained from her cheeks at the intensity of her memories and her heart increased its rhythm, but she followed her husband’s lead and smiled as she answered some trivial query of her aunt’s.

  They took their leave after the requisite period of time and Frances walked with her guests to the door.

  ‘Perhaps you will find time to visit us at the Hall,’ Lady Torrington suggested.

  ‘How kind. When estate duties permit, I will bring my wife to visit you.’ Aldeborough’s urbanity knew no bounds.

  ‘I can understand your wish not to allow Frances to make the journey alone. The highwaymen—the news of that was quite shocking.’ Charles’s tone was solemn as he expressed his concern.

  ‘I was not aware that it was common knowledge.’ Aldeborough’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘News like that spreads. Footpads are a threat to us all.’

  ‘And you did begin enquiries in York,’ Aunt May reminded her nephew. ‘Rumours are sure to spread. I expect that is how you came by your knowledge, Mr Hanwell.’

  ‘Why, yes, Lady Cotherstone. Akrill, our butler, had all the details. You know how it is.’

  Aldeborough accepted the explanation with a smile that showed his teeth. ‘Of course. Your solicitude, Charles, is most gratifying.’

  Aldeborough’s eyes met Lady Cotherstone’s fleetingly, but with a hint of warning. She merely smiled serenely and engaged Lady Torrington in a surprisingly detailed discussion of the best ways to preserve plums for winter consumption, which lasted until they were all standing on the gravelled drive beside Torrington’s landaulet.

  Charles managed a few moments of private conversation with Frances as his mother was handed up into their carriage.

  ‘I would hate to think that you were in any danger. You know that you can rely on me for help if you need it. You have only to send word.’ He paused to select his words carefully. ‘Whatever the problem.’

  ‘You are very kind. But I don’t anticipate any further danger.’ His persistence surprised her, but all she could read in his eyes was thoughtful attentiveness.

  ‘How should you? But don’t forget.’

  He kissed her hand, holding it a little too long before he turned to follow his father.

  Aunt May loomed behind her. ‘Now there is an interesting young man.’ A heavy frown marked her forehead. ‘Very presentable. I wonder why it is that I don’t take to him.’

  ‘Why on earth not?’ Frances looked at her in surprise. ‘You seemed to find him very pleasant company.’

  ‘True. But I don’t know. Perhaps he was a little too pleasant. He is most gallant with a manner that can only please. He seemed very anxious about you.’

  ‘Yes. He was. He is my cousin, after all.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Aunt May was not to be put down. ‘What a dreadfully common woman your aunt is. I am amazed that she did not ask to look through your linen cupboards.’

  Frances raised her eyebrows. ‘Were you possibly listening in to our conversation, Aunt May?’

  ‘I tried, but not very successfully. Did she ask you if you were breeding yet?’

  Frances could not control the colour that flooded her face to the roots of her hair.

  ‘Yes, she did, if you must know.’ Embarrassment clashed with indignation.

  ‘And are you?’ She had not heard Aldeborough’s approach until his gentle enquiry caused her heart to jolt. His grey eyes were suddenly intent, holding her own startled gaze.

  Frances recovered quickly. ‘You will be the first to know, my lord, when I am!’ she snapped and turned on her heel. She had had enough of family for once and it was not even midday.

  The week ended in true March fashion with high winds and violent storms. The Priory was lashed by driving rain with standing water on the lawns and broken branches everywhere. Confined to the house, Frances investigated the contents of a much-neglected still room, throwing out the noxious substances that had been decomposing in their jars for years. Aldeborough got down to some tenancy agreements while Matthew prowled about and got under everyone’s feet. Aunt May took to her bed as the only sensible place for someone of her advanced years—with Wellington and a bottle of claret for company.

  Eventually nature relented, producing a fine morning with scudding clouds and sunshine, to the relief of everyone. Kington arrived, wet and mud splattered, to report to Aldeborough who was cleaning guns in the gunroom with the renewed prospect of some shooting.

  ‘Nothing to worry you, my lord, but I thought I should report. There’s been some damage with the high winds.’

  ‘I expected as much. Anything immediate?’ Aldeborough put down the gun and started to clean the oil from his fingers. ‘The house seems watertight and we did not lose any of the roof. I have not been down to the stables yet, but Selby hasn’t reported anything amiss.’

  ‘No, that’s fine, my lord. I don’t know about the tenants yet—I’m sure I will by the end of the day. Old Huckerby’s cottage will need re-roofing again for sure. But there are some trees down in Home Wood that we need to clear and the ditches need unblocking along the West Road. The other thing is the Chinese Bridge, where Tippet’s Brook comes out of the West Lake. Some hefty branches have smashed against the supports in the wind and become wedged underneath so the bridge is unstable. It is still in one piece, but not to be trusted. I thought I should tell you in case you or Lord Matthew rode out that way.’

  ‘Thank you, Kington. I will warn everyone. It is not a priority—it is only ornamental, so no one else from the village will use it. We can put it low on the list after old Huckerby! You would do well to keep him sweet if you want him to layer your hedges—he is still the best hedger I have ever seen, in spite of his rheumatics.’

  Kington grinned. ‘I am on my way to see him now. I will leave the matter of the bridge to you then, my lord. I will go and warn Selby.’

  ‘And I will inform Lord Matthew.’

  The house seemed to be empty. Eventually Aldeborough ran Aunt May to earth.

  ‘At last. Someone alive in this place. Where is F
rances?’

  ‘I will still be alive when you are dead and gone, my boy.’ She frowned at him in mock disapproval. ‘As for Frances, when I last saw her she was planning a ride to blow away some cobwebs. If you had been at breakfast with us, you would not have to ask!’

  He ignored her sharp comments, well used to her lethal sniping. ‘Do you know if she has gone alone?’

  ‘How should I know?’ A spirit of mischief encouraged May to do a little none-too-gentle stirring. ‘Why did you not go with her?’

  ‘It may have escaped your notice, but I have been busy.’

  ‘Hmm! Too busy to ride out with your wife? It would not surprise me if she had gone to meet Cousin Charles. Now, there is a fine upstanding man. He was very solicitous when he called last week, or did you not notice? He has a very flattering way with him and could be counted quite attractive. She might like a little masculine attention.’

  Aldebrough chose to ignore the malicious sparkle in Lady Cotherstone’s eyes, but could not quite deny the sharp tug of jealousy. His lips tightened into a straight line that May recognised with a surge of unholy glee.

  ‘Since you do not know who she might be riding with, perhaps you could tell me where she was intending to go?’ His tone was clipped on the verge of impatience.

  ‘No. You should know. You are a fool, Hugh!’

  ‘Thank you. I know I can always depend on you for a useful comment!’

  He turned towards the door and then swung back, a frown beginning to gather between his bows. ‘Do you think she might have gone with Matthew?’

  ‘Did I hear my name mentioned?’ Matthew came in, dressed for riding.

  ‘Well, that answers my question.’ Aldeborough’s frown developed, his eyebrows settling into a black bar.

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘I was hoping that Frances might have gone for a ride with you.’

  ‘No. I have not seen her since breakfast. I know she was keen to take the Spanish mare out, but she did not say where she intended to ride. What’s wrong?’

  ‘Kington says the Chinese bridge is in a dangerous state so don’t use it. I think I had better go and look, just in case Frances decides to return by that route. It is probably nothing, but …’ He shrugged, but could not dislodge the sense of unease.

  ‘I will come with you.’

  They set off across the open parkland to the south. The wind was still blustery with banks of cloud looming on the horizon, but the fitful sun made it a good day for a ride. As expected, Selby had reported that her ladyship had taken the Spanish mare, now christened Beeswing, about an hour ago and had headed across the open pasture to the far belt of trees. And no, she hadn’t taken a groom with her.

  ‘She said she was going to try the mare’s paces. They looked right good together, my lord. A pleasure to see. She had her on an easy rein and they cantered off all right and tight. I don’t reckon you need to worry any.’

  And although Aldeborough agreed, the kernel of doubt still churned in his gut. He and Matthew skirted the formal lawns and rode out of the dip to canter up to the top of the rise from where they would be able to see the gleaming expanse of the West Lake with the Chinese Bridge at its eastern end.

  They heard the approach of hoofbeats even before they reached the crest.

  ‘That will be Frances now.’ Aldeborough acknowledged the relief in Matthew’s voice, pulling his horse to a walk, but then hesitated, listening intently.

  ‘If it is, she is out of control. Listen! That is a flat-out gallop.’ Apprehension tightened its grip in his chest. They reined in and waited.

  His worst fears were realised. The mare came over the rise, riderless, at full gallop. She had been heading for the Priory, for the warmth of her stable, but veered towards the presence of the two riders and familiar horses and allowed Matthew to catch her bridle without too much difficulty. They did a rapid inventory. She was wet from head to foot, her saddle covered with mud, and there was a deep graze, oozing blood, on her off fore. Otherwise she was unharmed, merely frightened, with laid-back ears and panic in her eyes.

  Aldeborough issued rapid, clipped orders to Matthew, his habitual drawl replaced by a rasp of steel. ‘Take the mare back to the stables. Bring the curricle back with you along the track to the spinney in case we need it. Spring the horses if you have to. I hope she just took a toss in the dead ground and will be none the worse for it. But hurry, man.’ Matthew needed no urging.

  Aldeborough pushed his horse into a gallop towards the crest of the rise, emotions held firmly in check. He refused to think, to imagine the possibilities of what he might find by the Chinese Bridge. Could he have done anything to prevent it? That fact that he could not made no difference. He would not allow the panic that gripped his chest and hampered his breathing to claim mastery over him.

  On reaching the crest he pulled up his labouring horse to scan the distant prospect of lake, stream and bridge. The lake had overflowed its banks, inundating the flat pasture, turning the well-mannered stream of Tippet’s Brook into a miniature torrent. The bridge was still standing and indeed appeared to be secure, but the trapped boughs were clearly visible against and under the supports. There was no sign of Frances. Aldeborough gathered up his reins and galloped on down the hill, but with some caution given the muddy descent. He continued to scan the water meadows with anxious eyes. As the angle of the bridge changed at his approach, he became aware that one side of the balustrade, made of interlocking spars in a rustic oriental pattern, had collapsed into the lake. Then his eyes locked on to a splash of vibrant green, which could not be mistaken for reeds or sedge, at the side of the bridge. Without compunction he applied spurs to his horse.

  She was lying in the water beside the bridge. Her body was partially out of the lake as if she had attempted to drag herself on to the bank, but she must have been weighed down by the heavy velvet of her habit, now completely waterlogged. The torrent was again threatening to submerge her and she did not move at his approach. Aldeborough threw himself from his mount and waded into the water, oblivious of the fast currents and the dangerous debris that threatened to drag his feet from under him. First he had to disentangle her skirts from the branches, but it proved to be an impossible and far too lengthy task with the water swirling ominously around them. Abandoning finesse and resorting to brute force, he tore the heavy material to release her body. Then he grasped her shoulders, fighting to drag her inch by inch from the mud and rushing current on to the safety of the bank. It took all his strength but he dare not relax, dare not stop to regain his breath. The only thought that filled his mind and blotted out all else was that she had been in the water some time, that her body was inert, that she might be dead.

  The events seemed to run in slow motion, to stretch for ever, but within minutes, Aldeborough had dragged them both to the sodden grass and reeds of the bank. He dropped to his knees, gasping, drawing breath painfully into his lungs, but could not rest until he had turned her unresponsive body so that he could see her face. She was soaked from head to foot and covered with mud from the stream bed. There were streaks of it on her ashen face and in her hair, which had tumbled down around her shoulders. Her eyes were closed.

  ‘Frances. Frances.’

  He gathered her into his arms, pushing the wet strands of hair back from her face, searching for any sign of injury or broken bones. She was deathly pale. For one heartstopping moment her face was replaced by that of Richard, her inert body as lifeless as Richard’s in a terrible repetition of the curricle race. He found he could not breathe. Could not think. He turned his face into her hair, murmuring her name, holding her tightly as a nightmare of memory swept through him to carry him back into the past.

  ‘Don’t leave me. Don’t die, Frances.’ He was unaware of his words, the promises he made, rocked by a torrent of despair. He cradled her against his heart.

  Gradually, through the mists, reality broke through, sense returned. There was no blood. No obvious wound. No terrible repetition of the night
mare. He forced himself to focus on the faint but steady pulse in her neck where he had pressed his lips. She gasped, began to cough and struggle against his confining arms. He lifted her a little, allowed her to sit up, but kept a supporting arm about her shoulders, taking a few deep breaths to steady himself as the immediate panic receded.

  ‘Frances?’

  Her eyes opened slowly and focused on him, confused and blurred, but cleared as memory returned. ‘What happened?’ she gasped, pushing against his arm.

  ‘Be still a moment.’ There was no hint of the ravages of emotion that had threatened to unman him in his reply. ‘You took a fall.’

  ‘Yes, I fell. I remember now. The lake.’ She grasped his arm, fear leaping into her eyes. ‘Beeswing? Is Beeswing unharmed?’

  ‘Like all sensible mares, she’s back in her comfortable stable by now.’ He worked hard to keep his tone light, an undercurrent of humour, and to still the trembling of his hands in the aftermath. ‘Can you tell me what happened?’

  ‘I was coming home. It was very windy. The water was fast, but the bridge seemed secure.’ She wiped a hand across her face to push back her hair. ‘We stepped on to the bridge. And I remember—there was a noise. A sharp crack. It must have been one of the supports. Beeswing shied and before I could do anything she seemed to lose her footing and fell through the balustrade into the lake. I remember the water rushing over me—the cold—and I couldn’t get out—and then nothing. I think I must have hit my head.’ Her eyes were blank with shock and her pupils dilated at the memory of her helplessness. She tightened her hold on Aldeborough’s arm where she still grasped it. ‘Are you sure she’s not harmed? It was a terrible fall.’

  Aldeborough got to his feet and reached down to help her to stand. She was beginning to shiver violently from cold and reaction. He must get her home, out of the cold whip of the wind.

  ‘She’s fine,’ he reassured her, keeping an arm around her.