A Second Spring

by Carola Dunn

  If he remained distant, impassive, uninterested in discovering what sort of person she really was, let him look elsewhere for a bride.

  She went back to bed and slept soundly.

  * * * *

  In the three weeks to follow, Nell received two letters from her betrothed. One informed her that he was at his country house, refurbishing and redecorating the apartments which would be hers. Apparently it did not dawn on him to consult her taste in colours and furnishings. The second letter informed her that he would be unable to arrive at Brantwood until the eve of the wedding as he had business in London the previous day. He failed to explain his business and expressed only the most polite, proper, perfunctory regret.

  Both missives addressed Nell as “Madam,” and were signed with equal formality, “Your most obedient, humble servant, Clifford.” She didn’t expect professions of undying love, but still…

  Nell told Agnes to pack.

  “I wish you could come with me,” she said, “but Miss Lindisfarne’s cottage is far too small. You shall join me as soon as I have found a suitable house to rent. In the meantime, I wish you would take a holiday and visit that brother of yours who is forever inviting you. Of course I shall pay the coach fare and your salary and a living allowance.”

  “And you’ll look for a house right away, my lady?” the abigail asked anxiously.

  “Oh yes, at once. Maera will scarcely fit in the cottage and I don’t like to entrust Vulcan and Vesta to outside stables. Now, how are we to smuggle my bags down to the dog-cart?”

  “Any of the footmen’ll do it, my lady, and gladly, and won’t none of them nor the grooms neither give you away to… anyone.”

  That was part of Phyllis’s trouble, Nell realised. Brantwood’s staff were still loyal to her, not to their new mistress. Well, she’d be taking advantage of their devotion for the last time.

  She smiled at Agnes. “I shall leave it to you, then. Don’t pack more than is absolutely necessary for a few weeks. I shan’t take any jewelry. I’ll leave immediately after luncheon, claiming I need an airing to calm my nerves. With luck I shall not be missed until dinner.”

  * * * *

  By three o’clock on that fine June afternoon, Nell was well on her way. Beside her on the seat of the dog-cart Maera perched, her black nose in a constant state of twitching ecstasy. Vulcan and Vesta, chestnut coats gleaming in the sun, trotted westward through the maze of lanes between hedges twined with wild roses and the white trumpets of bindweed.

  In the exuberance of her new freedom, Nell took off her blue-ribboned Leghorn bonnet and set it under the seat. “A few freckles are a small price to pay for the warmth of the sun on my face,” she told Maera. “No one is about to see except the haymakers in the fields, and little they care if Lady Eleanor Lacey is so lost to propriety as to go hatless.”

  In the hamlets she drove through, an occasional villager stared as she passed. She waved blithely and Maera barked a greeting.

  Maera began to pant, her tongue lolling from the corner of her mouth. Vesta and Vulcan were sweating. Next time they came to a patch of woodland, Nell drew rein in the shade of a huge old oak to rest the horses and let them cool off.

  Maera leapt down from the carriage. First she went to touch noses with her equine friends, then she loped off beneath the trees on the scent of a rabbit or a squirrel. Nell knew she would not wander far.

  Though dressed in thin blue muslin rather than a shaggy brown fur coat, Nell herself was hot and glad of the shade. The flask of lemonade she had brought with her was very welcome. Her neck was sticky where her hair had started to come down, and her face in particular felt hot and rather tight. Guiltily she pushed in a few loose hairpins and put on her bonnet.

  Corking the lemonade, she called for Maera.

  Nearby bushes rustled and shook. From them emerged not a large, happy dog but a large, masked man with a pair of pistols in his hands.

  And both pistols were aimed unwaveringly at Nell.

  “Stand and deliver!”

  She held herself rigid. “I cannot stand any stiller,” she pointed out, hoping she sounded more reasonable than terrified, “and I have no valuables with me.”

  “As to vallybles, we’ll see about that, missy, but it’s them prads as interests me.”

  “Prads?” she asked uncertainly.

  “Hosses.” He moved forward, larger and more threatening with every step. “That’s a fine pair o’ prancers you has there.”

  “W-what does a footpad want with a pair of horses?”

  “Footpad! Here, you watch who you’re calling names, missy! I’m a bridle-cull, a gentleman o’ the road, I am.” He wore riding breeches and boots, she saw, shabby but clean, as were his green coat, shirt, and the yellow Belcher handkerchief at his neck. The mask hiding the upper part of his face was incongruous black satin, fit for a masquerade ball. “My Rumbo were shot out from under me,” he continued, “and it’s another nag I… Hey, you keep away!”

  Maera had appeared from nowhere. Stiff-legged, teeth bared, she stalked towards the man, a low rumble issuing from her throat. The thick hair on her neck bristled in a ruff, making her appear even larger than usual.

  The highwayman turned his pistols on her.

  “Don’t shoot!” Nell cried. “Maera, down! Stay!”

  The dog glanced at her in disgust but obeyed. Every muscle tensed, she hunched down, lips still drawn back in a snarl, the ominous growl still rumbling, baleful stare fixed on the stranger.

  “That brute’s yourn?” he asked incredulously. “You do what I says, missy, or it’s dead. Drop that whip, geddown, and hurry up about it.”

  Nell’s knees wobbled as she scrambled down. She didn’t dare reach for her own pistol, under the seat. She might take him unawares but the thought of Maera bleeding, dying…

  “Open up the boot.”

  As she trudged around to the back of the carriage, he moved to where he could both watch her and keep an eye and a pistol aimed at the dog.

  He made her take all her bags and boxes out of the boot. When they were piled in the dusty road, he said, “Right, now get the dog in there.”

  “But she’s never been shut in there! She’s far too well-behaved to need to be—”

  “In!” He waved a gun.

  “Maera, come.” Her voice was sharp with fear. Maera slunk to her feet. “Good girl. Up.”

  With a look of bitter reproach, the big dog sprang up and lay down in the confining space.

  “Latch it.”

  Her heart in her half-boots, Nell obeyed. Despite the louvred ends, on such a hot afternoon poor Maera was going to stifle.

  “That’s better,” grunted the highwayman, approaching. The pistols were trained on her now. “Let’s have them bags open, and be quick about it.”

  Luckily she had hidden her roll of banknotes in a concealed compartment under the seat cushions. Hurrying to undo buckles, straps, and catches, she ventured to protest again, “Truly, I’ve brought nothing of value with me.”

  “Well, missy, if you values your life, go and stand under that tree there and don’t move a muscle.”

  She watched as he set down one pistol and rifled through her possessions, flinging out gowns and chemises, slippers and shawls, sheets of music and her favourite books. His gaze and the second pistol never wavered from her except when he cast a quick glance into each container to make sure it was empty.

  “Bloody hell!” he snorted in disgust. “Got your gelt in your pocket, eh?” He eyed her as if considering the best way to approach and search her without risk of her snabbling his pistols.

  “Just a few shillings,” she said hastily, and tossed her small netted purse to him.

  It jingled as it landed at his feet. He swiftly bent to retrieve it, but gave another disgusted snort as he weighed it in his hand. “No more’n a guinea or two. What’s a gentry mort like you doing wi’out a good supply o’ the ready rhino?”

  “I don’t need money when I’m going to visit friends
. They are expecting me and will come looking for me if I’m much longer delayed.”

  “Ho, they will, will they? Then Nimble Jack’d best be on his way.” He stowed the purse in a pocket and pulled out a knife.

  “W-what are you going to do?” Nell stammered.

  Tramping across heaps of clothes on his way to the front of the dog-cart, Nimble Jack looked surprised. “Why, cut the harness, missy. I ha’n’t got time to fiddle wi’ buckles.”

  “But you can’t take Vulcan and Vesta!” she cried. “They’re not even saddle horses.”

  “Then I’ll have to ride bareback, won’t I? You keep back now, and don’t let that dog out till I’m out o’ sight.”

  A moment later, he vaulted onto a startled Vulcan’s back and, leading Vesta, galloped off down the lane.

  Nell stared after him in despair. An encounter with a highwayman was a just punishment for treating Lord Clifford rather shabbily, she acknowledged, but to lose her beloved horses was too much! She hurried to release Maera, hugging the big dog, who licked her face before jumping down and padding off to investigate the situation.

  A sudden gust of wind fluttered the papers scattered in the lane. Stooping to collect them, Nell tried to think what to do next. She hadn’t passed a house for two or three miles. Surely here, in heavily populated Berkshire, there must be some kind of habitation not too far ahead.

  A stronger gust caught at her skirt as she stuffed the sheet music into a box and hoisted it into the boot. Silks and muslins stirred. An invisible hand turned the pages of a book lying open on its back. She started to pick up the precious volumes.

  Maera returned to whine at her. Trotting off a few paces, she looked back and whined again.

  “What is it, girl? Yes, I know they’re gone, but the villain can’t keep a pair of matched blood-horses hidden for long. We have to find a constable or a magistrate, and they’ll soon find Vulcan and Vesta.”

  Maera yelped. As Nell moved towards her to retrieve the last book, she started off again. Nose to the ground, she passed the dog-cart and continued down the lane.

  Obviously Maera knew exactly where she was going and had no doubt about the right thing to do. She was no bloodhound, but she could hardly mistake her stable-mates’ trail. Nell didn’t dare risk letting that trail fade. Dumping the books in the boot, she slammed it shut and abandoned her wardrobe without a backward glance.

  Maera waited for her, white-tipped tail waving impatiently. Pausing just long enough to possess herself of her money, she joined the dog and together they tramped onward.

  * * * *

  Riding ahead of his crested travelling carriage, Benedict reached Brantwood shortly after four o’clock on the eve of his wedding day. His temper was decidedly ruffled, though he knew from long practice that nothing of his resentment showed on his face. On the way, he had encountered not only his sister and her husband, as expected, but several aristocratic friends and acquaintances bound on the same errand.

  Lady Eleanor had herself requested a quiet village wedding, which suited his taste exactly. She might at least have consulted him if she had capriciously changed her mind!

  His annoyance was not in the least lessened by a vaguely guilty feeling that he had rather neglected his bride to be. After all, spring was the busiest season both on his estate and in Parliament. Somehow he had managed to find time to set his affairs in order in view of his changing circumstances, and even to have her rooms redecorated. It wasn’t as if it was a love match, he thought, a trifle wistfully. He and Lady Eleanor had the rest of their lives before them to get to know each other.

  Nonetheless, guilt as well as etiquette had a hand in the choice of the bride-gift reposing in his breast pocket. He had noticed she favoured green gowns, so he had purchased emeralds and diamonds, a magnificent necklace in the form of a garland of leaves sprinkled with dewdrops. If she was miffed at his lack of attention, that would quickly restore him to favour.

  Setting aside his annoyance over the wedding plans as unworthy of him, he was eager to witness her pleasure at his munificence. As soon as Lady Derrington’s effusive welcome showed signs of ending, he asked Lady Eleanor’s whereabouts.

  “I am not certain where she is,” said the sharp-faced countess guardedly. “She went out for a drive earlier, just to take the air, you know. I shall send to see if she is returned.”

  Benedict waited impatiently in the hall. He frowned as the footman sent to fetch his bride returned and whispered urgently with his hostess. Both hurried away.

  Pacing back and forth, he wondered whether Lady Eleanor could possibly be refusing to come down to punish him for his lack of attention. Juliet had claimed she was not petty, but how well did Juliet know her? Had he committed himself to a capricious female who indulged in the sulks whenever she imagined herself crossed?

  Too late for misgivings: no gentleman could cry off and continue to consider himself a gentleman.

  Derrington approached, looking distinctly sheepish. A large young man, more horse-breeder than aristocrat, he handed Benedict a sheet of paper, folded and sealed, and a tiny packet wrapped in tissue paper.

  “Phyllis told me to give you these,” he said gruffly. “She got them from Nell’s abigail.”

  Benedict had no need to open either to guess the contents. “She’s calling it off?” he asked, his voice ringing harsh in his ears. “I must talk to her.”

  “She’s gone,” her brother confessed.

  For a moment Benedict poised between relief and wrath. Then wounded pride came to the fore. After inviting half the Ton, she was jilting him, making him a laughingstock. It was not to be endured.

  “I’m going after her.” He stuffed the unopened note and ring in his pocket with the necklace. “Tell me how to find her.”

  “Phyllis says she has gone to her old governess, in Hungerford.”

  “Along the Bath road, then?”

  “No, she avoids driving on the post-road. I can direct—”

  “She drives herself?” Benedict asked, incredulous, recalling the quiet, demure female to whom he had offered his hand. “Well, at least it means I shall catch up with her the sooner.”

  “Don’t count on it. Her pair are no slugs, and the dog-cart is—”

  “A dog-cart and pair? Good gad!” He had a bewildered notion they were speaking of two different people.

  “I’ll lend you my speediest nag,” said Derrington, eager to make amends for his sister’s disgraceful behaviour, “and explain exactly the way she always takes.”

  “Then I’ll be off,” Benedict said, adding grimly, “and make no mistake, come hell or high water I shall get her to the church on time.”

  As he cantered down the drive on a splendid bay gelding, he met the Faulks’ carriage just arriving. Juliet’s astonished face at the window brought his feeling of ill-usage to the boiling point. Saluting her curtly, he rode on.

  * * * *

  A gusty wind arose and the sunny June day swiftly clouded over. When rain began to fall, at first Benedict welcomed the laying of road dust and the relief from the humid heat. Soon, under a steady drizzle, the dust turned to mud, the relief to damp discomfort. It did cross his mind to wonder whether Lady Eleanor was worth the trouble, but anger and his dread of ridicule drove him on.

  Entering a wood, he saw a vehicle ahead, abandoned at the side of the lane. As he approached, he recognised it as a dog-cart and drew rein. The ground behind it was strewn with sodden clothing, gowns, bonnets, pelisses, gloves, handkerchiefs, chemises, nightdresses, tossed about in wild abandon. The carriage appeared undamaged, but the traces were cut. No sign of the team or their driver. What the devil had happened?

  It must be Lady Eleanor’s equipage. What the devil had happened?

  The uneasy sensation in the pit of his stomach flared into alarm. If she were fit for Bedlam, naturally he couldn’t marry her, but at present he had to consider himself responsible for her safety. The only proper course was to follow the route her brother had described and
to hope he came upon her quickly.

  At the first crossroads he came to, his instructions were to turn left. However, his eye was caught by a strip of white fabric tied to a twig in the hedge on his right. He dismounted to examine it.

  It was a piece of lace, torn and dripping wet but clean, not at all yellowed by exposure to the elements. A sign? Even if Lady Eleanor did not expect to be followed, she might leave a trail for herself in this labyrinth of identical byways. If so, was it the cunning of madness or intelligent forethought?

  Benedict was horribly afraid she was in trouble—trouble not of her own causing. He turned the bay down the right-hand lane.

  Another piece of lace where the road forked, and then a third. Watching for a fourth, he almost missed the next marker, a blue satin ribbon. Thank heaven she was wearing blue. He’d never have found green among the leaves.

  He cantered around a bend, and there ahead of him a hunched, bedraggled figure in blue plodded along, topped with a soggy, drooping straw bonnet. Thank heaven!

  * * * *

  Hearing the jingle of a harness, Nell swung round and found herself practically nose to nose with Bertie’s favourite hack.

  “Hallo, Grenadier,” she said, too weary—and too glad—to be surprised her brother had found her. She raised her eyes. “Hallo…Lord Clifford! What are you doing here?”

  He glared down at her, his brow like thunder. “It may have escaped your memory,” he said bitingly, “that we are to be wed tomorrow. I’ve come to take you back.”

  How could she have thought him impassive, indifferent, insipid? He was a brute!

  “I’m not going back,” she said, bristling. “You cannot dictate to me. We are not married yet and never shall be. I’m going to Miss Lindisfarne’s—as soon as I have rescued Vesta and Vulcan.” Angrily she brushed away the silly, involuntary tears.

  “Your cattle?” he asked in a much more moderate tone of voice. He swung down from Grenadier’s back. “Come, let us not brangle. Tell me what happened.”

  She thought of Nimble Jack and shivered. Now that Lord Clifford was on a level with her and not scowling, his resolute, respectable presence was a decided comfort. “All right, but we must go on before the trail grows too faint.” As she spoke, she turned and trudged on.