She cocked her head a little to one side and clucked at the young lady. “Well, my dear! That’s all I wanted you for. Bye the bye, have you plans for today? I ought to do some callin’, if you would like to come.”
“I am invited to ride in Hyde Park, Auntie—with—with Lord Blandford.”
“Ah! Ridin’! How very nice. Do you want a mount, dear?”
“Lord Blandford is to loan me his filly, Auntie.”
“Oh!” Lady Pendleton blinked after the retreating figure of her young guest. Such a pity! And of course he would not be there! Or, if he was—but she doubted it. Poor lamb! Then perhaps after all her scheme was unnecessary.
Her ladyship sat down with a sigh to compose some other notes, wondering how, after all this was taken care of, she could contrive to set Antonia’s heart upon the proper course. And there was still poor Mr. Lytton-Smythe to see to! She could not let Serena, with her kind heart and rather weak head, be molly-coddled into an alliance with St. John. “How provokin’!” she muttered to herself.
Just then, there was a tap upon the door. “My lady,” said James, bowing, “I have been to Grosvenor Square, to the Marquis of Blandford, as you ordered.”
“Yes, James, where is the reply?”
“There is none, my lady. The Marquis, according to his valet, left early this morning for Scotland. He shall not be at home for a fortnight at least.”
“Scotland, James? Are you quite sure?”
The footman bowed. “That is what I was told, my lady.”
How astonishin’, thought Lady Pendleton. Where shall it all end! To Scotland—poor Antonia! He has run off again! But at least he is out of the way—she’ll be better off without him, I dare say!
But suddenly an idea came over her. Tottling rapidly, she climbed the stairs to Antonia’s room, and knocked firmly. There was a prolonged pause, before the voice said, “Come in!” Had she heard shufflin’ about? Antonia’s head, rather feverish and untidy, looked up from the writing table.
“Lord Blandford shan’t dine with us tonight dear, I am sorry to tell you.”
The girl looked actually relieved! Lady Pendleton tried to get a glimpse of the letter Antonia was writing, but it was hidden by her arm.
“Oh, well—perhaps next week!” said the young lady quite cheerfully.
“What time did you say he was to ride with you, my dear?”
“Two o’clock, Auntie.”
“Ah! Well take care you wrap up well, pet—such a chill in the air! And tell him I am sorry he cannot join us.”
“I shall, Auntie.”
Lady Pendleton walked out into the hall, feeling a curious uneasiness. If only Roland had been there to advise her! But then, he never had been! Always off in some campaign or other—still, it was a pity . . . Lady Pendleton toddled down the hall, pausing absentmindedly before Serena’s bedchamber. The door was slightly ajar, and, thinking perhaps the young lady had come in from her walk, her ladyship pushed it open. No one was in the room, but she advanced nonetheless, muttering to herself.
“I wish there was someone besides me who had a brain!” she exclaimed. “So provokin’, all these people trottin’ about, and no one to help. Dear, oh, dear—and whatever shall I do? I know the child is up to no good! Cheerful little devil! Not a trace of regret in her face that he could not come to dinner! I wonder if she knows about Scotland? But then, of course, she wouldn’t have made that plan to ride—”
Lady Pendleton stood quite still, struck by her idea. Unless, of course, she was to go with him! She stood perfectly still, only striking at her round little chin with her small paw, dumbfounded by the notion. “Two o’clock!” she exclaimed aloud. “I lay ten to one that’s it! Serena, where on earth have you got to?”
The clock struck one, a single dull sound issuing from the diminutive grandfather clock upon the chest. Lady Pendleton gave it an impatient glance. But her eye caught upon a sheet of folded paper lying beside it, and, with the same instinct which had made her keep silent about Blandford’s journey to Scotland when she had spoken to Antonia just now, she moved toward it.
Lady Pendleton was not encumbered with any of the false notions of propriety which fetter the actions of some ladies. Wed for two-score years to a general admired for his daring quite as much as for his strategic genius, she had “picked up a trick or two,” as he would have put it, and lost half a dozen inhibitions. One of these was to pause at reading other people’s mail, if she thought it might help win the war. Of course, she had no reason to suspect that such an innocent-looking piece of parchment could give her any clue—but then, unlike the General, she was blessed with that divine, and totally unreasonable sense, called instinct. She strode toward it, therefore, without a second thought, and picked it up. She was almost instantly gratified.
“Ooh, la, la!” cooed she. “Ooh, la, la! So he has taken that tack, after all! Eleven o’clock! Dear me, and now it’s one! Her old green cloak cannot have put him off! I wonder . . .”
Chapter XXV
“One o’clock!” cried Lord Blandford angrily. “Cannot you work any faster, man?”
The smithy looked up without a word. Hoity-toity folk! As if they knew what it meant to mend a broken wheel! That gent was fair popping at the seams, he was, to be off. The smithy turned back to his fire with a contemptuous look, hidden by his huge arm, which held the wheel and spoke in place. And where were they off to, anyway, in that little racing vehicle? Not meant for highways—nor for ladies, neither! The smithy had been fair struck by the sight of that young woman—tall and thin as a spoke on this very wheel, and dressed as dowdy as you pleased, but clearly a lady. She had been tremblin’ like a reed in the wind, but her eye had been fiery! No doubt they were aquarreling—and no wonder—what an arrogant piece of baggage was this gent! The smithy got a better look at the source of his vexation by moving his arm a little thither-wise.
“Been down to London for a spell?” inquired he.
“What’s it to you?” was the fellow’s expression, but he said naught.
“Fair luck you drew up just there! Naught but a farm or two within these hills, and them without any fire of their own! I’m the only smithy in these parts—too close to town, don’t yer know. Farther down the road a piece there’s Wilfred Cruster, with his shop. But none on this side. Fair lucky you were, m’lord!”
“Where is my wife?” demanded the gent, with a strange leer.
“Sent ’er in to me wife, my lord—oh, Emma’ll take care o’ her! Give ’er a good ’earty custard, I expect! Nothin’ to touch Emma’s custard, sir!”
“I dare say,” drawled the gent. “Perhaps you would be good enough to call her?”
“She looked fair sick,” protested the smithy, thinking of the lady’s white cheeks, and her trembling hands, when he had led her into his cottage.
“She is not ill—but was, not long ago,” replied the gentleman, looking irritable. “Be good enough to fetch her, man—now, if you please!”
The smithy laid down his spoke, and rested the wheel up against his furnace. Wiping his great beefy hands upon his leathern apron, he went off, grumbling to himself of the rudeness of the “haristocracy.”
He swung open the cottage door to see his wife, Emma, bent over the rough-hewn table in their single room, staring at a bit of paper.
“Coo!” she was muttering, “coo, my lady! Is it just true?”
“Yes,” came the voice of the traveling lady. Her face was turned the other way, but he could see she held a quill in her hand, and was explaining something to his wife. Her voice was different—soft and low, and with an accent unlike anything he was used to hearing, even from the occasional member of the aristocracy who broke down before his shop. It seemed to hang upon the ends of words and linger, as if loath to let them go.
“Emma,” he said, “ ’is lordship is wantin’ ’is wife jest now. ’Ave you given ’er some of yer custard?”
“Oh, Calder! Listen noo to whot ’er ladyship’s been tellin’ me! ’E dra
gged ’er off, ’e did—good an’ proper! Said ’e would marry ’er whether she wanted to or no! Jest listen!”
“Whot? Whot’s this?”
“It is true, sir, I am afraid,” said the lady, turning toward him. “I need your help!”
“What’s this?”
“An’ you just listen to ’er, Calder! She’s tellin’ the trooth! I ne’er liked that gent from the ferst moment I set me eyes ’pon him!”
Serena raised her eyes to the great tall smithy with a pleading look. “You must believe me, sir! I was tricked into getting up into his carriage—and, now he means to elope with me! I am not his wife—I barely know him!”
The smithy gave her a suspicious look. “Whot’ ’e wont to elope with yer for, then, m’lady?”
“He—he wants my money!” exclaimed Serena, in perfect anguish. She saw the smithy give her cloak and dress a doubtful look, and jerk his head.
“Looks like he has plenty o that,” snorted he.
Serena breathed a deep sigh, and tried to think of something she could say to convince the man. His wife had been much easier territory to conquer, for she had listened spellbound to the tale, her eyes wide and her mouth agape. But she could see the smithy was made of solider stuff—perhaps he held the view that a man, any man, was better worth believing than a woman? Serena dared not hope for anything. The sudden breaking down of Blandford’s cabriolet had come as an unlooked-for blessing, and, at first, when she had seen how sympathetic was this woman, she had hoped there might be some method of getting a message to Lady Pendleton.
With that wild hope in mind had she written a brief note, to be entrusted to the smithy and his wife, in hope that they might find a way to convey the message to a traveler going in to London. But, after all, what were the chances of that happening? The smithy had said himself that hardly anyone stopped here. It was a part of the road without any houses, no village nor posting house for another ten miles. And even if Lady Pendleton could receive such a note, what could she do? A little woman of advanced years! And no man to help her—Freddy might, of course, but!
Serena had really not much hope to go upon. Seeing the look upon the smithy’s face, all doubt and suspicion, she felt her heart sink. If only she could get away! She glanced furtively at the door to the little cottage—there was only one. And there, to her horror, stood the figure of Blandford.
“Well, my love,” said he, “if you are feeling better, perhaps the air would do you good. Our man here”—nodding at the smithy—“has nearly done with the wheel. We shall be upon the road again in no time at all.”
Serena saw, out of the corner of her eye, the smithy’s wife grimacing at her husband, but he appeared to take no notice.
“No time ’tall!” echoed he cheerily. And turning, his huge figure moved toward the door. Serena saw Blandford smile, and draw something out of his pocket—a change purse! The purse was handed, quite openly, to the smithy, and the great man took it, without so much as a word. So! She was to be sold for the contents of that purse, was she? Serena sat up straight and glared at Blandford, who smiled lazily back.
“My love?” said he, holding out his arm.
Serena stood up and walked toward him, her heart full of loathing. She ignored his outstretched arm, but walked ahead of him, nevertheless, without any idea, now, of escape.
Chapter XXVI
The scene, some hours later, at Cadogan Place, was not a cheerful one.
Lady Pendleton and Antonia were closeted in the small drawing room, where they had been since four o’clock. Her ladyship sat very straight in an armless chair, her nose twitching slightly, her whole figure erect, as if listening. Antonia, slumped down in the corner of a sofa, was as white as a sheet. Her eyes were puffy from weeping—oh, not over Blandford, she had got over that soon enough!—but from the tumult of emotions which had come over her, following the news of Serena’s abduction. How on earth she could have allowed herself to be so smitten by a blackguard who would stop at nothing, she could not tell! If only she had listened to Freddy—to Freddy, who had tried to warn her! And Serena, too—poor, poor Serena! Antonia could hardly bare to think of what agonies that young lady must now be enduring—Serena, with her gentle nature, her inability to defend herself! If only it had been she instead!
At the thought, Antonia could not suppress a mirthless laugh. How would it have been in that case? How long before she would have discovered that her marriage was not to be the silly romantic ideal she had envisioned? And how would he have taken the news, after they were wed, that she had but a pittance of what he had supposed? Oh, idiotic girl! And added to her own shame, remorse, and humiliation was now this dreadful fear and anger at what might now be befalling her cousin!
Antonia had never set forth for Hyde Park gates, to await her lover. Only a few minutes after Lady Pendleton had interrupted her farewell letter-writing, the little woman had reappeared at her door, perfectly white in the face, and shaking slightly. With a voice like a general’s, she had demanded to know if Antonia knew Lord Blandford had planned to go to Scotland. Antonia endeavored to look amazed at this piece of news, though amazement she certainly had felt at hearing it from her ladyship’s mouth! But now Lady Pendleton had marched straight up to her, and taking her shoulders in her own small hands, had commenced shaking her, till she thought her teeth would rattle!
“Don’t play the fool with me, my girl!” commanded her ladyship, in that same frightening voice. “Don’t try to fib to me! You did know, of course you did! And now Serena has gone off with him! I suppose you were goin’ to elope together or somethin’? So I thought! Impudent girl!”
So astounded was she by this speech, together with the small woman’s violent shaking, that Antonia could scarcely find her tongue. But having protested once or twice, she burst into tears, whether from pent up emotion, or the burden of secrecy, or both, she could not tell. And the instant she had done so, her ladyship had taken her, as best she could, into her small plump arms, and rocked her back and forth.
“Never mind,” she said, “you’re but a child, my dear. But now we must think what to do!”
And then there had followed a most confused explanation of what had occurred the previous evening between Lady Pendleton and Lord Blandford, of what the Duke of Clarence had told her, and of what Lady Pendleton herself had planned, in the way of persuading Antonia to dislike the man.
“But you see, my dear,” chirped her ladyship vexedly, “it was not a proper strategy. Dear me! I must have left somethin’ out, for now it appears Blandford has got hold of Serena, and bein’ the sort of devil he is—likin’ to strike ladies, and so forth—he has perhaps carried her off!”
Now Antonia, though the regret of having lied to her relations and friends was most keen, could not be persuaded to believe, so easily, that her inamorato was a villain, nor that he had no love for her at all. It took some little effort on the part of her ladyship, distressed as she was, to make Antonia understand her. In the end, Antonia had been dragged along to St. James Street, still uncomprehending the dire fate she had so narrowly escaped. There, to the befuddlement of Freddy Howard, and his friend Mr. Lytton-Smythe, her ladyship had stood twittering sharply at them all, and waving a letter in her hand. Not till Cuffs, seizing the letter, had read it through, was any coherence lent to the proceedings.
“You think Miss Powell could have been tricked?” inquired that gentleman sharply.
“Tut! Well, she is not back yet, you know! And he implored her to tell no one! So provokin’! And then—all this connivin’ with his carriage, and so forth! Why did he not just go walkin’ with her? No one would have noticed, at that hour!”
Having seized upon the single fact that Antonia had meant to elope with Blandford that very day, Freddy had stood stock-still throughout the rest without a word. But now his head began to nod violently, and he cried, “Then he has taken her to Scotland, Auntie!”
“It would appear so,” agreed Cuffs, with the look of a man who has got murder in
his heart. Glancing at the clock, he muttered, “Nearly two already! They have got three hours’ start on us, Freddy. Can you run round to Grosvenor Square, and interrogate the valet? I shall get the horses ready, and meet you in the Square.”
“Right-o!” cried Freddy, and without another word, he dashed off. Cuffs stayed only long enough to give Lady Pendleton’s hand a small pressure, and to say, “If there is any God in Heaven, we shall find ’em before nightfall, my lady. You were dashed clever to come so quick!” And, with only a contemptuous glance at Antonia, he was gone.
“Oh, Auntie! It is all my fault!” cried the young lady, as soon as he had disappeared. “Whatever shall we do?”
“Nothin’ to be done, my dear, just now, but go home and wait, in case there is some mistake. Perhaps Serena will be there when we get in!”
But with only this slender hope to lighten their hearts on their journey back to Cadogan Place, the ladies were very silent, and very fearful that such would not be the case. It was not until they were quite in the door, and Bentley, with a grave shake of his head, had informed them that Miss Serena had not come in, that the full weight of Antonia’s misery descended upon her.
She had gleaned enough, from hearing the letter read out loud, and piecing together the fragments of Lady Pendleton’s information, to know that her heart had been foolishly bestowed upon the Marquis of Blandford. To think that with all his chivalry, his fashionable friends, and his ton-ish ways, he was really no better than a mean highway robber! But added to the grief of having her vanity thus trampled was the far more bitter knowledge that she was in many ways to blame for the fate which had befallen Serena. “Had I not consented to an elopement,” she told herself, “surely this could not have happened! The idea would not have been in his head, nor the means for abducting Serena so easily at hand!”
Contrary Cousins Page 24
