He was silent now, drinking, trying to think it through but failing to reach any rational conclusion.
“Best not to risk it, do you not agree? Take legal advice tomorrow.”
For a long time, he said not a word, drinking, refilling his glass, drinking again, then abandoning the glass and drinking directly from the bottle.
Then, “Damnation!” he said. “Hellfire and damnation! They swore to me— Damnation!”
~~~~~
It was several hours before Melissa could be sure that Mr Pontefract was sufficiently soundly asleep for her to risk retrieving the key. He drank steadily for some time, glowering at her, and she did not dare to move or to set the poker down, in case he became drunk enough to lunge at her.
This gave her ample opportunity to wonder why on earth her guardian would go to so much trouble over her. Even if Cornelius owed Mr Pontefract money, surely she had no value to offset the debt? Mr Pontefract had never met her before that night when she had been summoned to join the family for dinner, so he could not be harbouring a secret passion for her. He was a man of some wealth, so he could find a wife in a more conventional way if he had the desire for one. Yet all three of them had come tearing north from Hampshire, had hired thugs to ensure her compliance, had bribed a clergyman, had obtained a special licence and were prepared to use the most despicable means to accomplish their foul plot. Yet why? She could make no sense of it.
And when her racing brain finally gave up the puzzle, there was Monty to fill her thoughts. He was so sweet and loving and everything the brutish Mr Pontefract was not. Dear Monty! Her heart ached for him. If only he were there to rescue her! She beguiled the long, lonely hours by imagining him riding through the night on his sturdy steed to save her. Except that he could not, for how could he ever find her? He had no idea where she had been taken — she did not even know herself! Somewhere to the south, and on the main London to York coach route, but how would anyone know where to begin looking? It was hopeless, and therefore she could not depend on aid reaching her. She would have to be her own rescuer.
Eventually Mr Pontefract fell asleep, or lost consciousness, she could not tell which, the almost empty brandy bottle slipping from his fingers to the bed. Even then, she waited until he was snoring loudly. When she plucked up the courage to lay down her poker and venture nearer, her first attempt to retrieve the key succeeded only in half rousing him, so that he rolled over onto his side, facing away from her. Now she would need to crawl on the bed to recover the key, and she dared not, for if he woke, she would be completely in his power and he might not remember in his drowsy state the unwisdom of violating her.
Again she waited. Outside the door, there was no sound, and she was hopeful that no guard had been set on watch. Below the window, the inn yard was quiet, but every hour or so it came alive with the clatter of coach wheels and horses’ hooves and the shouts of ostlers and passengers and guards. But regular coach departures were a good sign. If she could ever escape from her little prison, she would have a means to return to Sagborough.
After an interminable wait, Mr Pontefract again rolled over, this time facing Melissa, and the pocket of his waistcoat gaped invitingly open. It was the work of a moment to retrieve the key. Then she stood beside the door, trying to find the courage to open it and face the unknown that lay beyond. But it could not be worse that what lay, snoring in stentorian manner, within. The lock gave a great clunk as it disengaged, but she did not wait to see if Mr Pontefract woke, opening the door and slipping out in seconds. Then she locked it behind her, but left the key in place. It was a risk, she knew, but she could not quite bring herself to take it with her. It hardly seemed fair to the innkeeper to force him to break down his own door.
There was no one on the landing. As quiet as a mouse, she crept down the many flights of stairs, feeling her way where the lamps had guttered out, and after many false turns found her way out to the yard. It was quiet just then, but she heard voices in the stables and from the kitchen, the occasional clatter of a pan or a pot chain. There was still a hint of stew in the air, making her stomach rumble. When had she last eaten? Breakfast, most likely, and that must be yesterday now. But she dared not draw attention to herself by going into the tap room, so she found a dark corner with an upturned bucket, no doubt where the scullery maid sat when she was supposed to be working, and waited quietly.
Before too long, horns could be heard in the distance, and the yard came to life. Ostlers rushed out with horses, doors were thrown open from the inn, and several people wandered out into the yard. In a few minutes more, a coach rumbled under the arch and came to a halt, the horses steaming and blowing and stamping, amidst a great confusion of inn workers and passengers and postilions and boxes and horses. The coach was bound for London, so it was of no use to Melissa, but in the gaggle of passengers disembarking and making their way to the tap room, she was able to follow along and hand over her coins for coffee and bread and meat like everyone else.
This raised her spirits greatly, and in the crowds milling about here and there, she ventured under the arch and looked up and down the main street. Tadcaster, she had heard the coach guard announce as they arrived, but she had no memory of the place from her previous journey by coach. Nor were there any other inns within sight where she might go to find a coach northwards. The White Hart seemed to be the only one with any traffic, and surely soon there would be a York-bound coach?
It seemed she was out of luck. These quiet hours of the night saw little traffic, and after a while she was forced to go into the inn in search of warmth. The tap room was almost empty, just two men stretched out on settles, fast asleep, and a family with three young children waiting patiently. Melissa found a seat near the fire and settled down to wait. But it was hard to sit patiently, when every footstep on the stairs, every voice from the bed chambers aloft might mean discovery. She tried to sit still, and tried not to cry, but a few tears escaped anyway. She closed her eyes, and rested her head against the back of the chair.
Half asleep, Melissa sprang to alertness only when the noise of the coach passing under the arch became deafening. She jumped to her feet and rushed outside, where the first light of dawn was already casting grey fingers over the yard. At last! The board showed that the vehicle was bound for York, although it was the mail coach and not likely to wait.
She raced across to the driver.
“Can you take me to Sagborough? Please? I can pay.”
“Are you on the waybill? Then no. Buy a ticket, get tomorrow’s coach.”
“I can pay,” she said again, producing a gold sovereign from her reticule. Oh, the pleasure of having money to wave under the noses of these people!
The coachman turned to look at her. He was quite a young man, and she imagined that he might have a wife and children back home in London, and the inducement would be tempting.
“There are rules…” he began.
She produced another coin. He hesitated. A third and then a fourth lay in her palm. He waited. One more, then.
“Sagborough? Get inside.” And he scooped the coins from her hand, gesturing towards the open door of the coach.
She was so engrossed in her transaction that she failed to notice the door of the inn open. It was only when Lord Bentley’s voice could be heard even above the hubbub of the yard that she recognised her danger.
“Melissa? Melissa! Get back here this instant!”
21: Confrontations
She froze. He had a cloth in his hand, as if interrupted in the middle of his breakfast, and his face was dark with anger.
“Come here at once!” he yelled. “You are the most troublesome child.”
Her hand was already on the door of the mail coach. So close to freedom! But what could she possibly do? No one would help her. Already people were stepping away from her, looking uncertainly from her to the earl, judging the situation, seeing, perhaps, nothing but a family dispute, a man accompanying his niece or ward, who was giving him trouble. He would
box her ears and haul her back inside where, no doubt, they would both laugh about it later. Just a joke, that was all it was. For who would guess the truth? No, she could not depend on anyone coming to her aid. It would take a miracle to save her now.
There was no miracle, just a lone voice from the crowd.
“What is your claim on this girl?” The man from the family in the taproom. They were waiting to board the mail coach, she now saw.
“Claim on her?” The earl’s face was enough to curdle milk. He threw down the cloth and strode across the yard. “She is my ward, that is my claim on her, and she is trying to run away from me.”
“I’d say she has reason,” the man said stoutly. “I watched her in the taproom, and the poor child was terrified and in tears. You must have mistreated her badly. I say we find a magistrate and let him judge the situation.”
Melissa could scarcely believe her luck. In the watching crowd she saw heads nodding, and some people glared at Lord Bentley.
“He is trying to marry me off to a horrid man,” Melissa cried, seeing her opportunity. “He is trying to force me!”
The earl only laughed. “Nonsense, my dear,” he said, with a softer tone. “What strange ideas you do take! Come inside and eat your breakfast, and let me explain again all the benefits of the match.” Then, to the man from the taproom, he said in confiding tones, one man to another, “These young girls! They always think they know best, and make the deuce of a fuss, but really they need a great deal of guidance from wiser heads, would you not agree? Oh, forgive me, I have not introduced myself. The Earl of Bentley.”
And that was the end of it. No challenge could prevail against a peer of the realm. No one could save her now. She was so sunk in despair that she scarcely noticed the expensive travelling coach that swept into the yard just then. It was only when a familiar voice hailed her that she turned.
“Melissa! Melissa! At last!”
And there, racing across the yard, weaving expertly between horses and heaps of bags and packages, was a true miracle — Monty, his face alight with joy, arms outstretched.
“Oh, Monty!” she cried, hurling herself into his waiting arms and bursting into tears. Here at least was one person who would not be the least cowed by the earl.
“There, now,” he murmured into her bonnet. “Hush, hush. Did they hurt you?”
“Not at all.”
“Nor shall they. You are safe now, my love.”
And with his arms wrapped tight around her, she felt utterly safe and protected.
“Well, now, how touching,” drawled the earl. “Pray unhand my ward, sir.”
“Lord Bentley, I presume?” Monty said calmly, turning to face him, although without loosening his embrace of Melissa in the slightest. “She is no longer your ward, since she is my wife.”
Lord Bentley laughed, a harsh sound that sent shivers down Melissa’s spine. When she dared to look at him, the earl was smiling in a twisted sort of way. “She is not your wife. My ward is not yet of age, and therefore needed my permission to marry you, which I did not give. Therefore her marriage to you is invalid. She has, however, this night contracted a legal marriage to another. You are too late, sir.”
“Your grasp of the law is faulty,” Monty said, his quiet tones yet ringing with authority. “Your permission is only an essential prerequisite if the marriage is conducted by licence. If the banns are called and no objection is lodged, then the marriage is valid.”
Melissa gave a gasp of astonishment. All this time, she had been mistaken — Monty was truly her husband. For the first time, she saw doubt pass across Lord Bentley’s face, but he masked it quickly.
“Nonsense! How could anyone object to banns read in a different county entirely? That is nonsense.”
“Shall we go to York and ask the Archbishop?” Monty said. “I am certain he can give us a definitive ruling. And as to the so-called marriage conducted this night, I am very sure my wife did not give her consent and that is a prerequisite of any legal marriage.”
By this time, Melissa saw that the Marquess of Carrbridge, Lord Reggie, Lord Humphrey and Mr Merton had all descended from the marquess’s travelling carriage, as well as several grooms. Behind Lord Bentley, however, his henchmen had arrayed themselves, with Cornelius and Mr Pontefract now pushing through to stand beside the earl. But Monty was very calm, his arm firmly around her waist, and she clung to him as if to a floating spar in a flood.
“What is going on?” Mr Pontefract said, his face red. Then, seeing Monty, he cried, “Unhand my wife, sir, at once!”
To Melissa’s amazement, Monty actually laughed. “And who are you, pray?”
“Norman Pontefract, of Winchester, and that, sir, is Mrs Pontefract. And this, in case you are too ignorant to know, is Lord Bentley. The Earl of Bentley, you know. Kindly respect his lordship’s wishes in this matter.”
“By all means, let us introduce ourselves,” Monty said affably. “I am Lord Montague Marford, and you are acquainted with Lady Montague, I believe. This gentleman is my brother, the Marquess of Carrbridge.”
“Ah.” Mr Pontefract looked from Monty to Melissa to the marquess and then to the earl. “Bentley, I do not think—”
“Have no fear, Pontefract, we shall have the little whore back in your bed before long.”
“Bentley—”
“Really, Lord Bentley,” Monty said, “that is no way to speak about your sister.”
There was an abrupt silence. Melissa looked at Monty in astonishment. That story would never fly! The earl knew perfectly well— Yet he did not speak. He only exchanged a quick glance with Cornelius and made no effort to deny it. Surely it could not be possible?
Mr Pontefract threw up his hands in surrender. “I care not who she is, but this is too tricky by half for me. You are not worth it, my dear, fortune or no. You may have her, and welcome, Lord Montague. She is a little termagant, and will make your life a misery, I daresay.”
“But she is my little termagant,” Monty said complacently.
Pontefract stumped back to the inn, and Lord Bentley seemed flummoxed. His mouth opened and closed once or twice, but no sound emerged.
“Well, I shall bid you all a good—” Monty began in amiable tones.
It was Cornelius who let out a shriek of pure anger. “Are you just going to stand there, Randolph, and let it all slip away? Well, if you have not the guts to take action, I do.” He produced a pistol from one pocket. Several people in the watching crowd screamed, and jumped backwards in alarm. “If Pontefract is not to have your money, you little witch, then you will not either.”
And he pointed the pistol directly at Melissa.
Monty spun her abruptly round to put himself between her and the gun. There was a violent bang, Monty gave a squeak of surprise, and then slid silently to the ground.
~~~~~
Monty could not quite work out what had happened. He was lying down in a public place, which was something a gentleman ought never to do, and somewhere nearby there seemed to be a mill going on, for he could hear shouts and scuffling and shrieks and the unmistakable sounds of fists colliding with bony structures. And then there was this searing pain that made it hard to think.
“Monty? Oh, Monty! Is he alive? He is alive, I think.”
Melissa. He tried to say her name, but it came out as a groan.
“His feet, Merton. Now… lift.”
The world shifted, pain exploded everywhere and Monty screamed. Then, darkness.
When he came to himself again, he was in a carriage which was, it seemed to him, being jounced about with the sole intent of aggravating the pain in his side. No, not his side, his arm, he thought. His eyes stayed closed but he could hear voices.
“Is he going to die?” Melissa, sounding terrified.
“Nobody dies from piffling bullet holes like that. Went straight through.” The confident voice of Humphrey.
“But I do not understand…” Carrbridge, in plaintive tones.
Another excessi
ve jolt brought a groan to Monty’s lips.
“Monty? Oh, Monty! You are going to be perfectly all right. We are just taking you to a surgeon.”
He opened his eyes a fraction, and there she was, his lovely Melissa. “’Lissa,” he murmured happily. “Per… fectly a’ right.” And he was, he decided. Everything was all right as long as Melissa was there. “Don’ go ’way ’gain.”
“I shall not, I promise.”
Then there was the surgeon’s house to be got into, and the fellow poking him about in the most abominable way, and then bandaging him up tightly. After a dose of laudanum, however, he felt much more the thing.
“There, you’ll do, my lord,” said the surgeon. “How far do you mean to travel today?”
“Just beyond Sagborough,” Carrbridge said.
“Ah. Good roads most of the way, then. Get him straight to bed when he gets home, and have your own man look at him every day, and he will do well enough. I’ll have your carriage brought round.” And he disappeared to attend to it.
“Well,” Monty said, looking around at the sombre faces of Melissa, his brothers, and Merton afterwards. “A fine set of fellows, these Brockenhursts. I suppose they will get away with it.”
“I suppose they will,” Carrbridge said gloomily. “For Lady Monty’s sake, we do not want to announce to the world that she spent the night at a coaching inn with a fellow like Pomegranate or Pomfret or whatever his name was.”
“Pontefract, like the town,” Melissa said.
“Did he… injure you?” Carrbridge said gravely.
“He did not. I told him that he would be hanged if he touched me, and he was in sufficient doubt not to risk it. When he fell asleep I was able to escape.”
“How clever you are!” Monty said, reaching out his hand. She took it, and knelt beside him.
Lord Montague Page 20
