by Amanda Scott
Sarah did not like the direction her train of thought was taking, but she could be honest enough with herself when the occasion warranted. And if ever an occasion warranted, this one did. She had used Darcy. It was rather despicable, put that way, but there was really no other way to put it. She knew now that she would have paid him utterly no heed whatsoever had some kind soul not pointed out the pertinent relationship. She had been friendly to everyone, of course, but there had been a difference in the way she behaved with Darcy. Enough of a difference that he had been encouraged to offer for her hand in marriage. How foolish she had been!
She sighed, sipping at her drink and glancing uneasily at her companion. She did not wonder that her uncle had not mentioned the proposal. It would not have occurred to him to do so. She knew Lord Hartley received at least an offer a week, probably more than that, but he rarely mentioned them. And, having already warned Sarah to avoid Darcy’s company, he would not have encouraged her attraction to the fellow by informing her of the offer. For Uncle Barnabas would assume that any offer was flattering enough to attract an impressionable young girl’s notice to the gentleman making it.
The whole business would be very romantic, of course, if Sir Nicholas were to come thundering to her rescue in the tradition of all the best romances. She indulged herself in a brief vision of Sir Nicholas—tall, dashing, and handsome enough to suit anyone’s notion of a hero—mounted on a white charger and swooping down upon them, sword in hand. But her imagination balked when she tried to envision him sweeping her into his arms and declaring his undying love in the manner of a proper hero. Instead, she was visited by an unsettling memory of his less appealing, though no less heroic, characteristics.
Sir Nicholas would be far more likely to assume that the whole wretched affair was her fault from beginning to end and to read her the devil of a scold into the bargain. Not that she would mind it much if only he could save her. But she had no notion where he was, and he certainly had no way of knowing where she was! Nor did anyone else. She was on her own. She would simply have to cope.
Sarah was not one to run from her problems. She preferred to attack them head on. But at the moment, and so long as Darcy persisted in his stubbornness and refused to discuss things rationally, there seemed to be nothing to attack. If she ranted at him, he would no doubt simply get up and leave or, worse, order that dreadful Beck to remove her until after he had enjoyed his dinner. Much better to remain calm. Her mind seemed to be spinning very little in the way of substantive ideas, however, so perhaps it would be best to wait patiently until after they had eaten.
Dinner came at last, but it was a mediocre affair. Matty clearly had no great turn for the culinary arts. The pigeon pie lacked salt, the rabbit stew was greasy, and the cherry fool (at least, Sarah supposed it was meant to be a fool) was watery. She assuaged the worst of her hunger pangs with bread and cheese, taking only token bites of everything else and finding the whole business rather depressing.
Tom appeared at the door soon after they began to eat and called the great dog to his dinner, but though Darcy maintained a flow of trivial small talk while they ate, it seemed a long while afterward before Beck finally came to clear the dishes and to set a decanter of port at his master’s elbow. He inquired if anything else would be needed.
“Nothing. I’ll ring if I want you.”
Beck glanced at Sarah. “Aye, sir.” She repressed a shudder and turned firmly to Darcy, as soon as the door closed behind the valet.
“I do not care for your servants, sir.”
He shifted in his seat and poured himself a glass of port. “Sorry. Make any changes you like, of course, once we are married. Except Beck, that is. ’Fraid I shouldn’t know how to go on without him. I know he’s not very nice in his—”
“My lord, please!” she interrupted. “I do not wish to marry you, and I wish you will put such a nonsensical-notion straight out of your head once and for all.”
“But I wish to marry you, Sarah,” he returned simply.
“What has that to say to anything? A gentleman does not make such an important decision off his own bat, sir.”
“Well, I have. Didn’t realize you’d object, you know, but that don’t alter the necessity for the action.”
“I collect that your intention in all of this is purposely to compromise my reputation,” she accused more calmly than she felt. “How can you claim to care for me on the one hand and treat me so shabbily on the other?”
He shifted again with a rueful grimace. “Well, actually … never claimed to care for you, you know. Only said I thought you cared for me. Don’t want to hurt your feelings, of course, but did say I’m not much in the petticoat line. Must put Ash Park back to rights, however, and marrying an heiress seems a better way than most. Marrying you makes things even better, of course, since the money comes direct to me. Needn’t feel I’m living on m’ wife’s charity. Shabby thing for a fellow, that.”
Sarah stared at him, torn between exasperation and the need to choke back the sudden gurgle of laughter that threatened at his absurd reasoning. But then she realized he was perfectly serious. Though he hadn’t balked at an abduction, he would think less of himself if he were thought to be living at his wife’s expense!
Darcy drank off his port and refilled his glass, looking down at it as he continued. “You are perfectly safe, Sarah. Said it before, but I want to be certain you take my meaning. Won’t force unwanted attentions upon you either now or afterward. Can’t deny that something might have to be done later to secure the succession, but that will be only if you agree to it. Right now, I want only to insure that it shall be impossible for your uncle to marry you off to anyone but me.”
“I should never have thought you capable of this, my lord.” He shrugged, and Sarah bit her lip. “I wish it had been otherwise. You make me feel a fool for trusting you. How long do you mean to keep me here?”
“Overnight would do the trick,” he answered, “but I daresay you’ll not want to go back to London for a while. That must depend upon your uncle, of course. I had planned for you to write him an affecting little letter filled with your love for me and your despair at his refusal to countenance our marriage.”
“I shall certainly do no such thing!”
“Well, I can see that you would be loathe to do so, of course,” he agreed reasonably, “but do you know, I believe it is still the best course. Far easier to explain that he can avoid the scandal of a Gretna Green marriage if he will but be sensible, than to describe the sordid details of an abduction, don’t you know.”
“You would never succeed in forcing me all the way to Scotland,” she grated, torn between fury and exasperation.
“Of course not. No wish to try. My plan will answer the purpose much better. Can’t want to be barred from Society after all. Not that we would be barred for long,” he added comfortably, “not with all the money I shall have. Won’t be let into Almack’s, of course, but I shan’t repine. Never liked the place, anyway. Too stuffy by half. Nevertheless … your uncle … you’ll inform him that we desire to be married quietly in the country by special license. He may then make up whatever tale he likes to stifle the rumormongers.”
Sarah was silent. His plan would work. It was brilliant. Her uncle cared little for her and less for her money (since he had no personal claim upon it), but he cared a great deal for his reputation. By agreeing to a scheme in which he would believe Sarah voluntarily involved, Lord Hartley would avoid a dreadful scandal. It took years, a lifetime, for a family to live down a Gretna Green marriage, but Darcy’s way, any rumor arising should be little more than a nine-day wonder. That Lord and Lady Hartley would be furious with her didn’t seem to weigh much with him if, indeed, he had even considered it. They would probably wash their hands of her anyway after today, but they would be certain to do so if she were to write the letter he outlined.
“I am sorry to disappoint you, my lord,” she said at last with great dignity, “but I cannot write that letter.�
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Elbows on the table, Darcy laced his fingers together and gazed at her as earnestly as a child might. “Up to you, of course, Sarah, but I think that by morning, you know, you will have changed your mind.”
She would have liked to debate the matter, but she could see nothing to be gained by such a course at the present moment. Instead, she decided to try another tack. “It was only my fortune that interested you, was it not? Perhaps it could be arranged for my uncle to pay a ransom for my release. He is quite well off himself, you know, and I am sure he would come down handsomely, sir.”
“Nonsense, my dear,” he said indignantly. “I am not such a low person as that! I shall do right by you, of course. I cannot deny that your grandfather’s fortune is the primary factor, but that need not concern us now. You are a perfectly presentable young woman and will make quite a good little countess.”
“I never liked Grandpapa very much,” Sarah muttered, “but I never thought I should have cause to hate him.”
“Sensible man, to my way of thinking. Tell me about him.”
Sarah shrugged. There was no reason not to do so. “He despised women,” she said bitterly. “That was the key to his character.” She went on to explain that when she herself had been born it had not surprised Sir Malcolm that her mother had done nothing more remarkable than to produce another female to trouble the world: “Aunt Aurelia said that Grandpapa excused the error on the grounds that it was only Mama’s first attempt. It took Grandmama three such, you see, before she produced my father, so he could be patient.”
However, ten years later, Mrs. Lennox-Matthews still had not achieved an heir, and thus it was that Sir Malcolm greeted the news of the carriage accident which claimed the life of Sarah’s parents with a shade more grief than anyone might otherwise have expected. His daughters had produced no children whatsoever and certainly seemed unlikely to do so at that late date. Although that made it a simple matter for the younger one, Aurelia, now Lady Hartley, to take charge of Sarah, it meant also that Sir Malcolm had no proper male heir.
“Grandpapa wanted to keep the money in trust until a male heir of his own flesh and blood had been produced.”
“Dashed silly notion!” Darcy exclaimed, sincerely affronted. “How was it avoided?”
“It was through Mr. Smithers, Grandpapa’s man of affairs,” Sarah explained. “He simply pointed out that it would not be impossible for such an heir to wait a century or longer before putting in his appearance, by which time the fortune would be so enmeshed in legal quagmires as to be quite inextricable, assuming that any of it remained at all after the necessary trustees and lawyers had taken their various fees over such a period of time.” She went on to explain that Sir Malcolm, with his own strong belief in the contrary nature of females in general and those of his own family in particular, had therefore decided that it was well nigh inevitable that a proper male heir would be a long time coming.
Darcy frowned. “Surprised he didn’t simply leave the money with a trustee or two to look out for things until you married. Would have been a much more normal course. Husband would control the fortune anyway.”
“That would not do for Grandpapa,” Sarah replied with bitterness. “Controlling a fortune, according to him, was not the same thing as possessing one. My aunt once told me that Mr. Smithers suggested just that very thing, but Grandpapa said that if he followed such advice, I should in all likelihood leave the money to my daughters when I died, trusting my husband to provide for our sons. Whereas, if my husband possessed the fortune from the outset, it would be—as, indeed, he said it should be—left to his sons. He also noted the possibility that I might not marry, in which case I would probably outlive my trustees.” And what, Sir Malcolm had demanded to know, would stop a court of law, in that case, from putting control of her fortune into her own incapable hands? Such a thing would never do. Certainly not if Sir Malcolm could prevent it.
“Must have expected fortune-hunters,” Darcy observed without a trace of irony.
“Of course, but I doubt it weighed much upon his conscience.” He had also expected her aunt and uncle to keep them at bay. And Sarah realized now that they had done very well until her own foolishness had encouraged this outrageous start. She sighed, then looked up at Darcy again. “Is there no way by which I can convince you to change your mind, sir? You must realize that I shall not be a very conformable wife for you if I am not happy in the marriage.”
He adjusted his cravat. “You’ll’ be happy enough, Sarah. I shall make no demands, and women are always happy to make a home. You will have whatever money you need, too. Never ungenerous. Assure you. Ask anyone.”
“Fine words, sir, since I am the source of the money! But I promise you I shall not be happy here. I grant there is work aplenty, since this house is a disgrace and your servants are disgusting, but that is not sufficient. I require a great deal more to satisfy me!”
“This discussion is pointless!” he flared suddenly. “Nothing you say will alter my decision. It’s simply impossible to take you back! Now, I’ve things to attend to. You’ll wish to retire.”
She stood indignantly, smoothing her skirt. “As you wish, my lord. There is clearly nothing to be gained by shouting at each other.”
In stubborn silence, he escorted her up the wide stone stairway and along the gallery to a second, wooden staircase that led them to the second floor. They emerged upon a dim corridor. Darcy opened the door into a bedchamber that had been swept and aired, but that was the most one might have said for it. Faded green curtains at the windows spoke of an earlier period of grandeur, but the once highly polished floor was dull and water-stained. Whatever hangings the huge bed might once have boasted were gone, and the dark wood of the posts and high frame was also dull. A gay red, yellow, and blue patchwork coverlet on the bed provided the only real splash of color in the room. A small, patterned latch-hook rug of browns and gold near the bed was the only floor covering. Other furniture consisted of a French wardrobe, a wash stand, a dressing chair and table, and a French seat near a window overlooking the front drive. A candle stand stood at the head on the near side of the high bed. Darcy indicated the bell rope hanging behind it.
“If you want anything, ring. Can’t promise the response will be immediate, but someone will come eventually.” With these unencouraging words he bowed and was gone.
Sarah heard the key turn in the lock and sighed, trying to resign herself to her plight. She went to the window and looked out. At least, she thought, there were no bars. The latch moved easily, and she swung it open. It was quite easily twenty-five or thirty feet to the ground, and no tree branch grew near enough to be of service. Clearly, Darcy had not feared she might escape that way. She left the window open and sat down on the French seat, curling her legs under her since there was no one near enough to reprimand her for it, then leaning back to stare out at the deepening twilight. The sun made a crimson splash on the undersides of the few scurrying clouds above, and the trees, though still showing green in the foreground, deepened their color to black farther from the house. The thick growth of trees approaching so near to the house gave one the illusion of living deep in a forest.
She watched the shadows gather, watched the brilliant colors of the fleeting clouds fade to gray and then turn silver much later with the rising moon. Once or twice she thought she heard Erebus or some other dog barking in the distance. At first, she tried to focus her thoughts on the scenery in order not to dwell upon what was happening to her, but there was really nothing to be gained by avoiding unpleasant reflection. Her greatest worry was the future, facing her aunt and uncle, facing her friends, facing those who for reasons of jealousy or whatever, would be pleased to see her in the briars. And worst of all, facing Sir Nicholas Ashton. It would be dreadful!
But what was she thinking of? She was made of sterner stuff than to sit and wait miserably for her fate when, with a little resolution she might avoid it altogether. Though the window was clearly ineligible as a means of esca
pe, there was still the locked door, and had there not been a similar situation in one of those forbidden books that she and Penny had enjoyed so much? She could not remember which, but that was of no matter if she could remember how the heroine’s escape had been accomplished. Slowly, she got to her feet and moved back to the door, her brain working rapidly. The key! If only Darcy had left the key in the lock! She peered anxiously through the keyhole. It was comfortingly dark, so perhaps one might assume that the key was there. Now for something to probe with.
A knitting needle would be perfect, she thought wryly. Unfortunately, she did not possess one. She pondered for a moment. Then it came to her. Her stays! Sending a silent thank-you to her Aunt Aurelia, who had greeted the returning fashion with strong approval and insisted that her niece, who had no need of one, wear at least a light corset with her day dresses, Sarah quickly began to unfasten her bodice. A moment’s probing produced a long, slender strip of whalebone. Sarah stared at it in triumph, remembering with a chuckle that Aunt Aurelia’s approval had stopped short of another fashionable trend. Pantalettes, no matter how many ruffles they possessed, were still pants, according to that formidable dame, and therefore unsuitable for feminine attire. Sarah had actually purchased a lovely pair made of fine Brussels lace, but her aunt, shocked at such wanton behavior, had straightaway consigned them to the dustbin.
Recalling herself to the job at hand, Sarah began to insert the strip of whalebone into the keyhole before she remembered that another bit of preparation would be necessary. A quick search of the dressing table showed that the drawers had long-ago been lined with brown paper, but no piece remained that was large enough for her purpose. The drawer of the night stand produced similar results, and she stood for a moment in frustration before her eye lit upon the heavy French wardrobe. A moment later, she hurried back to the door with a longish sheet of the same brown paper that had once lined the drawers, taken from the shelf at the top of the wardrobe. Carefully, she slid the paper under the door so that it would lie directly under the keyhole. Then, probing with her strip of whalebone, it was but a few seconds’ work to dislodge the key, which fell with a heart-stopping clunk upon the piece of shelf paper. Nonetheless, even more carefully than she had pushed it out did Sarah pull the paper back into the bedchamber. Then, resting back upon her heels, her eyes sparkling with excitement, she lifted the key to her lips and kissed it.
