Summer Escapade

by Charlotte Louise Dolan

  On the other hand, it was not merely the thought of lame horses and broken wheels that was causing him to want to reject Lady Dunmire’s suggestion. It was, in fact, Lady Dunmire herself. She met his gaze quite calmly, but her expression was now shuttered, and he could no longer tell what she was feeling.

  He knew exactly what he wanted her to feel—the same attraction that he was feeling. No, he wanted more than that. He wanted her in his life permanently. He wanted to be able to come to her with his troubles, the same way the boys did.

  Well, perhaps not exactly the same way as the children.

  “Do you know,” he said finally, “I rather think that would be a waste of my time.”

  “You are not going to search for your niece? You are going to abandon her—an innocent young girl?” The widow no longer was displaying her accustomed composure. In fact, despite her avowed renunciation of physical violence, she looked as if she were ready to throw the contents of her teacup in his face.

  “Driving all over half of England would be rather inefficient,” Terence said calmly. “Instead I shall send letters to each of the girls’ parents, asking them to question their daughters. I shall be much more comfortable awaiting their replies at Colthurst Hall, than I would be racketing around the countryside, and I am more likely to find my niece this way.”

  Alicia looked at Mr. Kinderley in dismay. Colthurst Hall? He was planning to stay in the neighborhood? The success of her plan to conceal his niece from him depended entirely on his rapid removal from the scene—on her persuading him to set off on another wild goose chase.

  But he was clearly determined to remain close at hand. Staring back at her just as openly as she was staring at him, he smiled. Not only in the neighborhood. She was willing to wager that he had decided to come calling every day—indeed, she would be surprised if he did not intend to live in her pocket.

  How on earth could she keep him from discovering Marigold was right there under his nose?

  “Do you not agree that it will be more efficient this way?” he now asked.

  “To be sure,” she answered faintly, unable to deny that she quite liked the idea of seeing him frequently. Unfortunately, sooner or later he would see his niece when she was not covered with mud, and then she, Alicia, would have a great deal of explaining to do.

  Why had she not remembered that deceitfulness invariably led to disaster? When he discovered the truth—and he was bound to sooner or later—how on earth could she explain that she had deliberately lied to him? She had had the best of motives, to be sure, but that was a rather feeble excuse, and not one she would accept from any child under her care.

  “I must be going now,” he said, rising to his feet.

  “I shall obtain that list of names from Mrs. Wychombe, and send out the letters immediately.”

  After a few polite formalities on her part, he was gone. Like a young schoolgirl, she found herself going to the window to watch him until he was out of sight. She had the lowering feeling that when he discovered her treachery, he would ride out of her life forever.

  Ever since her first husband had died, she had politely but firmly sent away all the gentlemen who had come courting her. If someone had told her even eight days ago that she would someday meet a man she wished to encourage, she would have thought that that person had windmills in his head. Moreover, a few short days ago she would likewise not have believed that she herself could engage in deliberate deceit.

  She did not feel entirely comfortable with her new self—with the woman who longed to be with one particular man—and standing there at the window, gazing down the now empty road, she almost wished time could be reversed, and that somehow the real Clara had come instead of the pretend Clara.

  Which was indeed a totally pointless wish, since if Marigold had not run away, Alicia would never have met Mr. Kinderley, and as unfortunate as the ending would be, she could never regret having him come into her life.

  Sighing, she finally turned away from the window. Might-have-beens were unimportant. Marigold was here, under her protection and, willy-nilly, Alicia was going to do her best to make the girl’s visit a happy one.

  Even if that selfless and noble goal could be achieved only at the cost of Alicia’s own happiness.

  * * * *

  Tucking her young visitor into bed that evening, Alicia could tell something was bothering the child.

  “The gentleman who was visiting you today—has he gone away again for a long time?” Marigold alias “Clara” asked.

  “You are referring to Mr. Kinderley? No, I believe he is planning to stay in the neighborhood for the present,” Alicia replied.

  “He is not going away to look for his niece? Does he not wish to find her?”

  “Oh, indeed he does. But he has decided it will be more efficient if, rather than going in person, he sends letters to the parents of each of your classmates, asking them to question their daughters about Marigold.”

  The child slid down further under the covers and looked so guilt stricken, Alicia expected to hear a confession, which would, of course, solve Alicia’s present dilemma very nicely, since she could tell Mr. Kinderley tomorrow without revealing her own complicity in the deception. Unfortunately, if Marigold admitted her true identity, she would be thrust right back into the miserable situation she had only just escaped from a week before.

  But the moment for truth passed without any words of disclosure. Instead, Marigold’s features relaxed and she said in a confident voice, “Algernon says that there is no point worrying about what might happen in the future, because if it doesn’t happen, then we have wasted all the time we spent worrying. And if things do go wrong, then worrying about them ahead of time doesn’t make them better either. That sounds reasonable, don’t you agree?”

  Marigold looked up at her expectantly, and Alicia had to admit that Algernon’s logic was impeccable. Granted, sooner or later Mr. Kinderley would be very angry that she had known, almost from the beginning, where his niece was and had deliberately not told him.

  On the other hand, Alicia realized, since the final outcome would inevitably be the same whether she worried or not, there was little point in fretting about the future. It would be far better to enjoy Mr. Kinderley’s companionship for as long as she could. At least that way, when it was all over and he had stormed out of her life forever, she would have pleasant memories to look back on.

  “Yes,” she said finally, “I agree with Algernon. There is no point worrying about things one cannot change.”

  For someone who had just received assurance that worrying was pointless, Marigold still looked remarkably worried. Finally she asked timidly, “Would it be all right if I wore breeches every day? All the time? They are much more ... much more convenient than skirts and petticoats, and it is such a bother to change back and forth all the time.”

  With a smile, Alicia gave permission, and she was rewarded when Marigold smiled back. The marked improvement in her young visitor, Alicia decided, made this whole game of deceit worthwhile, even though she doubted Mr. Kinderley would agree.

  * * * *

  A week later, Alicia adjusted her riding hat at a jaunty angle, picked up her gloves, and descended to the foyer, where Mr. Kinderley was waiting to ride out with her. To her surprise, she found him quite distraught.

  “Did I mistake your invitation yesterday?” she asked with a smile, which faded when he did not respond with a smile of his own.

  “Please forgive me,” he said, “and believe me when I say I have been looking forward to our excursion today. Unfortunately, this morning I received the last answer to the letters I sent out, and none of the girls was able to provide me with any information about my niece.”

  “What do you plan to do?” Alicia managed to ask, her calm voice not revealing her inner turmoil. Desperately, she cast about in her mind for some way to postpone the too rapidly approaching confrontation, but she could think of nothing.

  “It appears I have made a serious erro
r in judgment. With everyone telling me how unhappy my niece has been, I acted on the assumption that she left Mrs. Wychombe’s Seminary of her own free will. Now it appears more likely that she was kidnapped.”

  “Kidnapped?” Alicia squeaked out. “But surely you would have received a ransom note?” Even as she said it, she remembered hearing from the vicar’s wife that young girls who were spirited away by wicked people usually were sold into white slavery on the Continent. No wonder Mr. Kinderley looked as if he were reeling from a terrible blow.

  “At this point,” he continued, “I can see nothing else to do but go to London, where I intend to secure the services of a Bow Street runner. I can only pray it is not already too late.”

  “It will not be necessary for you to go that far,” Alicia said, unable to look him in the face. “If you will follow me?” Feeling wretched, she led the way out into the garden, then on through the gate. Pointing at the children playing tag on the lawn, she said, “All of the present viscount’s sons have blond hair.”

  It took a moment for Terence to grasp the meaning of what she was saying. Then the picture of his niece drugged and in a brothel on the Continent faded away, to be replaced by the memory of a young “boy” with short black curls and mud on his face.

  A white-hot rage ran through his veins, and he turned toward his hostess, ready to rake her over the coals. It only increased his anger to find that she was already retreating to the dower house—not that she would find safety there.

  Approaching the children, who were all shrieking and laughing as they dashed about, Terence began to formulate in his mind the scathing things he would say to the scheming widow. But first he had to deal with his niece, who was as yet unaware of his presence since her back was to him.

  One of the littler boys charged at her, and in an attempt to get away, she turned and crashed right into Terence. Catching her by the elbows, he looked down at her. Almost, he could have believed it was all a hoax.

  The young girl who lifted her head to look up at him was too vital and alive to be his niece. Her cheeks were too rosy, her eyes sparkled too merrily, her smile ...

  On recognizing him, her smile faded, and a dejected look replaced the happiness in her eyes. “I am not at all sorry I did it,” she said, but her attempt at defiance was not very successful, and tears filled her eyes.

  Was he such a brute then, that his own niece, whom he loved like a daughter, had felt it necessary to run away from him?

  At a word from the biggest boy, the younger children scampered away, leaving only Sybil and the young man, who introduced himself and then explained, “We have been conducting scientific experiments for the last fortnight, and we have determined that your niece’s constitution is not at all weak.”

  “That’s right,” Marigold said, speaking with unaccustomed forcefulness. “We have discovered that despite what you have always told me, I am not allergic to animals, and I am becoming quite a good rider, and I don’t get sick in a carriage even when the driver springs ’em, and I can eat whatever I want without getting sick, and exercise is what makes you strong, not resting in bed, and—and—and I am not sorry I ran away!”

  With those words, the tears she had been blinking back spilled over, and Terence pulled her unresisting into his arms and began rubbing her back in an attempt to soothe her. Sybil, however, continued to glare at him so pugnaciously, he had a momentary wish that he had a friend to lend him support ... or to guard his back.

  But this was ridiculous—why should he feel defensive? He had done nothing wrong—from the beginning, when Marigold had been a wee thing in his arms, he had had only the best of intentions regarding his niece.

  * * * *

  Marigold was upstairs packing her trunk with the help of Sybil and two of the maids, which meant that whether he wished it or not—and he most certainly did not—Terence was trapped for a short time in the company of the lovely, albeit treacherous, widow.

  He could only hope that the maids, at least, would be efficient, because he did not wish to spend a minute longer than necessary in the company of Alicia Lady Dunmire. Or so he tried to convince himself.

  Although there was guilt in her eyes, she looked at him quite boldly. “Not all of your accusations are well-founded,” she said with a trace of belligerence in her voice. “To begin with, I did not suspect that I was housing an imposter until several hours after you had departed for Scotland.”

  “Ah, yes, the wild goose chase that I was sent on by your daughter, who doubtless learned her deceptive ways at her mother’s knee,” Terence said sarcastically.

  “If my memory serves me right,” the widow said, her voice icy, “my daughter stated quite plainly that she did not believe that Marigold had eloped to Scotland.”

  “You know, and I know that your daughter deliberately tricked me, so let us not quibble about the way she accomplished it. We have more important things to discuss.”

  “We certainly do.” Crossing the room to where a little writing table stood before the window, Lady Dunmire picked up a piece of foolscap and returned to thrust it in his face. “I have prepared for you a list of things that young girls need. I can only hope that your anger at me does not prevent you from following my advice.”

  Unwillingly taking the paper from her hands, Terence did no more than glance at it. The list was rather long, and the handwriting was not neat and precise—it looked, in fact, as if someone had written it while in a state of high passion.

  And that someone was still glaring at him, obviously not the least bit repentant at the unnecessary worry he had been put through. Her eyes, in fact, were flashing at him, as if he were the one in the wrong, and her breast was heaving ...

  Blast the woman, why had she done the one thing guaranteed to destroy their chance for happiness together? The one, unforgivable thing, which made a mockery of all they had shared for the last week?

  As much as he wanted to pull her into his arms and kiss her, there was now a wall between them that he could not surmount.

  “Why?” he asked, his voice surprisingly hoarse. “Why did you not tell me that first day after I returned?”

  He expected her to admit that she had deliberately kept him there to entrap him, but again her answer surprised him.

  “Your niece was so happy—she told me she had never been happier in her life. Long before you returned from Scotland, I decided to do whatever necessary to give her a few more days of freedom, or, if you could have been persuaded to go in person to talk to the other girls, even an entire summer of freedom. Seeing how Marigold had improved in just one week, I thought myself justified in taking such measures.”

  “The end justifies the means?” he asked, not troubling to keep the disdain out of his voice.

  “My intentions were good,” she replied, her voice every bit as cold as his.

  His own intentions had likewise been the best, but no one seemed ready to give him credit for that. “Did you never hear that the road to Hell is paved with good intentions?”

  She blanched, as if he had struck her, and the subsequent pain in her eyes was too much for him to bear. Turning away, he said tiredly, “I shall wait in the carriage. Please send my niece out as soon as possible.”

  * * * *

  During the drive back to Colthurst Hall, his niece was sunk in gloom, but her spirits were no lower than Terence’s. Every clip-clop of the horses’ hooves was taking him farther and farther away from the deceitful widow—who, he was forced to admit, was the only woman he might have loved.

  No, he corrected himself, there was no might about it; he had indeed fallen deeply in love with the lovely widow.

  Now that his initial anger had faded somewhat, he realized he could eventually have forgiven her for having tricked him. After all, his niece had not been in any way endangered by the deception, and there was no way he could deny that Marigold’s health had improved immeasurably during her stay in the dower house.

  But what he would never be able to forget was tha
t Alicia Lady Dunmire, the woman he had hoped would become Mrs. Kinderley, had made a complete and utter fool out of him. How many times had he seen the “boy” with the short black curls without recognizing his own niece?

  Doubtless the widow—and Sybil and Algernon and even Marigold herself—had derived a great deal of amusement from the fact that he had been blind to what was going on right under his nose.

  How could a man be expected to court a woman who had cast him in the role of buffoon? Who had deliberately and effortlessly turned him into a comical fellow who would be right at home in a farce?

  He had no way of even knowing how bad the situation actually was. Had the younger children known “Clara’s” real identity? Had the servants been in on the secret? Had the present Lord and Lady Dunmire been kept in ignorance, or had they known with whom their sons were playing?

  “I suppose now you will never let me ride on a horse again,” his niece said, interrupting his thoughts. She sounded even more miserable than he was feeling, although that seemed scarcely possible.

  “Lady Dunmire gave me a list of things that young girls need,” he replied. “I rather suspect that a riding horse will have a high priority.” He was rewarded with a tremulous smile.

  “And may I go back to Mrs. Wychombe’s Seminary next term?”

  “We shall see,” he said, and she looked so downcast that he began to wonder if there might not be some way he could allow her to attend the school. If, for example, Sweeney took her there, then he himself would not be in danger of accidentally running into any of the Dunmires.

  The rest of the drive was spent making desultory plans with his niece, and when they arrived back at Colthurst Hall, Terence gave Sweeney orders to unstrap Marigold’s trunk from the back of the phaeton and load it into his own coach. Then he went to take his leave of his host and hostess.

  Entering the house, he found so much hustle and bustle and scurrying about that he might have been forgiven for thinking the Prince Regent himself had come to call.

  “It’s a boy, sir,” one of the footmen explained, a broad grin splitting his face. “Her grace has been delivered of a second son.”