by May Burnett
Hurriedly she explained her fears to the cousins.
“Don’t worry.” Violet patted her hand with a pitying glance that for some reason Monique found highly annoying. “We heard all about the ambush from Mrs. Burton. That’s why everyone is looking for you. They were talking of calling in runners, but Aunt Marianne objected, as it would be impossible to prevent a scandal if so many people learned you were missing. Our coachman Jacob is angry about the damage to the berline, and determined not to let such a thing happen to him. Nothing will happen, you are safe. Soon your overset nerves will calm down.”
Did she look so pitiful? Monique bristled, and pulled her hand back. “My nerves are perfectly fine, Violet. My journey was something of an adventure, but as long as I reach Amberley safely, I am not going to fall apart. My worry is more for the young man who helped me get here in one piece.”
Verena and Violet exchanged a glance of alarm.
“My virtue is intact,” Monique growled. Really, did they give her so little credit?
“I believe you, dear,” Verena said gently, “but you know as well as I that if a single word of this journey’s circumstances leaks, your name will be ruined.”
“Right now, I find it hard to care. When your life is threatened, your reputation seems rather less important.”
“You are safe,” Verena repeated. “Physically, at least, but not socially, and you must focus on the danger to your good name. We know, and you know, that you acted under necessity and did nothing wrong. But society would not believe it, should the question ever arise.”
Monique could not gainsay her friend. Society, in England as well as France, was pitiless on transgressors.
Society was an ass.
“Where are these garments of Amy’s?” she asked ungraciously. “I had better change before we have an accident, or something else occurs.”
“Of course.” Verena handed her a cloth bag that had been tucked under the seat. She also produced a large round hat box. "The sooner you assume your normal appearance, the better. Those masculine clothes seem to have a baleful influence, making you speak and act unlike the Monique we know and love.”
“It is certainly easier to move quickly in trousers.” She pulled off the shabby jacket and unbuttoned her shirt from the neck down.
Her friends stared. “You are not wearing any corset or chemise?”
“No, and strangely enough I survived the experience.” She tugged the confining cloth off her small breasts. That at least was a relief. The young ladies averted their eyes, but not until after seeing her naked torso.
“Am I shocking you?” Monique rummaged in the bag, found a simple cotton chemise and pulled it over her head.
“We did not bring a corset,” Verena said apologetically. “We did not imagine that you would be without one, and your size … I suppose one of the pieces I wore as a child might be found in the attic. It seemed more important to come at once.”
“Quite right.” Monique had never felt shy about her body. It might be small, but it was what God had allotted her, and she saw no reason to be ashamed of it.
“I did bring my pretty new straw hat, almost elegant enough for you,” Violet said. “I have not worn it yet, so nobody will recognize it.” She helped Monique take out the hatpins so she could get rid of the cap and shake out her hair. It was squashed flat, with little trace of her playful ringlets, and in dire need of brushing.
Her friends tactfully did not comment on its state, though she could imagine what they were thinking.
Monique’s slight build allowed her to don the garments Verena had brought without a corset. The dress might not fall as gracefully as it would on a proper foundation, but it would only have to do until she was safe in a guest room. She could pretend to have a cold until better clothes were procured, or sewed from scratch. Where were her own French clothes, still at the Blue Boar? Would they smell of the sickness in the carriage? Surely her maid would air them out, wash what could be washed, as soon as she was well enough. Within days they might all be reunited.
Had she made a mistake, running away instead of staying to care for her retainers?
She remembered the shot from the dark passing so close to her head, which had hurt her poor Rita. No, she had not had any logical choice. Staying with her sick servants would only have exposed them to additional danger.
“We need to agree on a story,” Verena urged as soon as Monique looked more or less presentable.
Though dressed as a female once more, Monique was still so far from her usual sophisticated appearance that any close acquaintance would immediately realise something was off. “Who is staying at Amberley just now?”
“Uncle Anthony and his family, Viscount and Lady Robbingsworth. Lord Davencourt and a friend, a Mr. Dashley, whose father is a baronet. Sir Percival Mallow, as young M.P. And about a dozen others, including a young German from the Prussian Embassy, and a French gentleman.”
“Ah, are these single men suitors for you by any chance?”
“Mother may have entertained some such hope,” Verena said distantly. “They are all eligible enough, but not for me.”
“Nor me,” Violet added. “As for eligible, I am not sure Davencourt and Dashley’s friendship is entirely innocent, but it matters not.”
“Surely Aunt Marianne would not make a mistake in such a matter.” Monique had the greatest respect for Lady Amberley’s social acumen.
“They pay their addresses to us, most convincingly,” Verena said. “Violet may be mistaken. You cannot always tell.”
“We are not even supposed to know about the existence of such irregular relationships,” Violet said. “Sometimes I tire of having to pretend all the time.”
“Yes,” Monique murmured. With Captain Kinninmont she had not bothered to pretend greater ignorance or innocence than she possessed. You could not move in the first circles and remain completely unworldly. If you tried, you would be taken for a fool, and your acquaintances would mock your inevitable pratfalls. Yet the façade of maidenly ignorance and sensitivity had to be maintained at all times, no matter how transparent.
“How long have you known I was in England, on my way to you?”
“For nearly ten days now. Your parents wrote from Cherbourg.”
At least her parents could not yet know of her danger, being far out at sea by now. They would need all their attention for Etienne, if his accident had left him as debilitated as that letter by his physician had indicated. With luck she need never explain about the lack of privacy in those inns, the lies she had told to sundry persons, riding astride and on the same horse as a man… Only the Captain and she would share a host of memories that nobody else would understand.
Chapter 14
Duncan did not relish the experience of being imprisoned like a common felon. He had been stripped of his purse – light enough, after paying for Emperor’s stabling and fodder, and the various travel expenses. Had he not swallowed his pride and used Miss Towers’s funds they would have run completely aground.
For the first minutes his anger and shock had prevented him from analysing his situation calmly and rationally – not what was expected of a soldier.
By the time he was locked up in a small cell he had subdued his angry feelings and puzzlement grew in their stead. All along, the main target of pursuit had been Miss Towers. Yet this charge against him, of which he yet had to learn any particulars, did not appear to include her. It could not be a mere ploy to separate them either, for when that irritating serving girl had mentioned his companion, the constables had shown no interest at all.
The only attack on a coach in which he had been involved was on the Ellsworthy berline, but surely the coachman, the maid who had hurt her knee and even the postilion could not have named him as the culprit. He might have to answer for the man he had killed on that occasion, but to be accused of robbing a coach himself was ludicrous. Who could invent such a monstrous lie as that?
Yet was this charge any more absurd than
the rumours of his supposedly unnatural predilections that had swirled around Portsmouth over the last weeks? And who knew what other vile rumours there had been, that had not come to his ears… The hostile, contemptuous attitude of the two officers he’d met in Miss Towers’ company indicated that one way or the other, Duncan’s reputation was thoroughly ruined.
Could the same person or persons be responsible? Was it the same campaign? But why persist once he had decamped, left the army in disgust? Major Donforth, his former superior, might have a motive; but he was far away in Derbyshire, immobilised by that broken limb and quite possibly unaware of his own danger. Besides, once Duncan had delivered his report and all relevant papers and proofs to Colonel Mossley, there was no point in silencing him. It was all out of his hands.
The local constables who had imprisoned him presumably knew nothing. As long as he remained in this rural prison, he should be safe enough.
Safe – aye, he might be so for the moment, but what of Miss Towers? He had been forced to abandon her before her friends’ arrival, but with any luck, merely by a short margin. By now she should be secure as well. She was brave and tough, no matter how small and fragile she looked. He had to trust that she would make her way to Amberley without additional catastrophes.
Still, the uncertainty gnawed at him.
For several hours he was left to stew alone. He dozed a little, but could not sleep on the hard wooden plank, and though he made use of the bucket in the corner, its proximity was an irritant. At least the lack of a blanket somewhat lessened the likelihood of catching fleas or lice from former inmates.
Would his captors feed him? He had lunched with Miss Towers not too long ago, so he was not hungry yet. Thirst would arrive much sooner than hunger, but the constables could hardly let him perish.
If he was arraigned for trial, he’d need more money than he had at hand to mount any kind of decent defence. He’d have to write to his brother, ask for funds against his share in the business. What would Dennis think of the way his younger brother had ruined his life? Duncan, who had always been so proud, and tried to be perfect in every endeavour? Perhaps fate was dealing him this unpalatable lesson in humility. No matter how hard you tried, how much will and energy you invested, all could go to hell in a handbasket from one moment to the next, when bad luck struck.
Yet the agents of this particular fate were as human as he, and he ought to fight back and expose their malice. It might be common sense to retreat from a hopeless position, as he had done when he resigned his commission, but it was another thing to flee in the face of the enemy. Duncan would unmask and neutralize whoever had done this to him, or he would never again know a moment’s peace. As soon as Miss Towers was safe, and he had dealt with whoever was threatening the young lady.
But all such hopes and intentions might be futile. Imprisoned in this cell, what could he possibly achieve? Should he try to escape? That would be taken for a sign of guilt, of course, but it might be easier to fight back while on the run and in hiding, than from a prison. Once his innocence was established it would all be the same.
The sturdy iron bars on the small window, metal hinges of the door, and thick brick walls were not promising, but a chance might offer when someone came to take away that bucket, and perhaps to feed him.
Yet flight was an extremely risky course. The constables might shoot him in the back before he ever had the chance to face his enemies. He ought to wait a day or two before doing anything so drastic, and look as harmless and co-operative as he could in the meantime, lulling his guardians into complacency.
Had Miss Towers reached her friends? At least his current separation from her should decrease the danger to her reputation. There would be questions enough, but he was confident she would deal with them in her steady, common-sense manner. As long as she was safe, the rest hardly mattered.
Towards evening one of the constables grudgingly served him bread and cheese, as well as a jug of ale. He drank thirstily. “Who is the local justice of the peace? This is a misunderstanding, I want to know who accuses me,” he told the man, who only shrugged indifferently, uninterested in the rights or wrongs of his situation. “You cannot mean to keep me locked up here long. What about Habeas Corpus?”
Now the constable frowned. “You aren’t a lawyer, are you?”
“No, but I plan to employ one once I’ve heard what fraudulent charges have been laid against me, and by whom.”
“I don’t know anything about that,” the fellow said with a shrug, and spat on the floor. But Duncan must have made some impression, for he added, “Not often we have a gentleman locked up here. What’s your lay?”
“I served as an officer in Her Majesty’s Army for the last seven years.”
The constable scratched his head. “Then why would you rob a coach?”
“I never did. That’s why I want to talk to your magistrate.”
“Sir Claud Russell is not a lenient magistrate,” the constable warned him. “He can be downright vindictive.”
“I am not looking for leniency, but justice. I have not committed any crime.”
“They all say that,” the constable muttered.
Why am I wasting my time on this ignorant fellow? Duncan wondered. But there was nothing else to do, and he might as well try to obtain any scrap of useful information the man was willing to divulge. “Who is the best solicitor in this place?”
“Even if you are an officer, you aren’t likely able to afford him.”
“Don’t worry your head about that, Constable. I am not quite without means.” Those means were so far away at the moment that his statement sounded more like bravado than anything else.
“Didn’t have much silver on you,” the Constable said sceptically. “I’m to return the purse to you, in case you want to send out for more victuals, but by my reckoning it’s not going to stretch to any kind of legal help.”
Duncan shrugged in his turn. “Not your problem, Constable.”
“I’ll see if Sir Claude is willing to see you tomorrow, afore you’re sent off,” the Constable said. “But don’t get your hopes up. I would not want to depend on Sir Claud’s goodwill, no, I certainly wouldn’t. Might as well hang yerself first, before he shows any mercy to a body.”
Left alone again after this gloomy assessment, Duncan wondered if he should try to make a run for it after all, before he was ‘sent off’, presumably to the place where his supposed crime had taken place. There still were trials and judges and witnesses, after all. But whoever laid that charge against him was already forsworn. Could he count on their shying away from repeating the same lies under oath? Duncan would have died rather than break a solemn oath, but there were men who would not lose any sleep over doing so.
And who could he summon as witness on his behalf? Certainly not Miss Towers, whose reputation and good name must on no account be sacrificed to his needs. He would not even mention her existence, her name.
In all likelihood he would never see her sweet face again, and if he were wise, he would not wish for it. Duncan was becoming dangerously attached to the girl, and had begun to think of her as Monica, rather than Miss Towers. That way lay only humiliation and heart-ache. He already had to cope with wrongful imprisonment and false accusations, on top of his lack of employment and prospects. His father had expected Duncan to be a successful businessman, richer than any of his forebears. With his talents he could have achieved it by now – yet here he was nearly penniless, imprisoned, alone and friendless. If he were a less stubborn man, and did not have accounts to settle with his unknown accusers, he might fashion a noose out of his belt and end it all here and now.
Should the constables have left him the belt and the laces on his boots? They probably did not care what he did. A pauper’s grave, and the problem would be solved from their point of view.
But suicide had never appealed to Duncan as a solution. Whatever happened, even if he were wrongly condemned to the gallows, he would not give the bastards the satisfaction.
He’d fight, and try to escape, or die with his head high, rather than slink out of this world because he could not withstand whatever fate threw at him.
Chapter 15
At Amberley the young ladies hustled Monique straight from the carriage into a two-room suite.
“It is a great stroke of fortune that everyone was out of sight when we arrived just now,” Verena said in satisfaction. “We need not announce your presence until you are properly gowned, and we have all agreed on a suitable tale to account for your companion’s temporary absence. Violet and I had better go and mingle with the guests before anyone misses us. I’ll send Amy to bring you tea and food, and keep you company.”
“Thank you.” A chance to freshen up was not unwelcome, but Monique could not possibly rest until she had done something to help Captain Kinninmont. “I have to rescue the young officer I told you of, and time may be of the essence. Please tell Uncle James that I need to see him as soon as he returns, on a matter of great importance.”
“Everyone in the family will want to hear what you have to say,” Violet told her. “As soon as we can get rid of our guests, prepare to face the assembled clan. Whatever we can do to help, you know will be done.”
“Thank you.” Monique had known that this would be the attitude of her friends, that she was considered an honorary member of the Ellsworthy family, but it was still good to have it confirmed. “There still might be danger. Who knows that I am here?”
“Only the senior servants, and we, so far,” Verena told her. “Mother and Aunt Charlotte, of course. They will be all agog to know more, and the men too when they return from their hunting expedition. I shall station footmen outside your windows, and in the corridor, and if you lock the door we’ll understand, after your recent ordeal. But really, you can relax. Nobody can threaten you now.”
As promised, all remained quiet and peaceful until Lady Amy, Verena’s younger sister, arrived with a footman carrying a large tray.
