by Vanessa Gray
Miss had said Gretna Green, and Budge, while she may have guessed that the coachman, with whom she had a word or two as they left the Crescent, had no intention of leaving the Bath Road to London, she nursed an inner superiority at her privy knowledge. If miss said Gretna Green, then Gretna Green it was! Wherever that might be!
Sir Alexander, riding his hack ahead of the coach, ignored an ill-favored inn at a village whose name he did not know. He was intent on traveling as far along the road from Bath as he could. He, too, had time to think as he rode through the brilliant fall sunshine. He had greeted the adventure with expectations and a feeling that he was up to snuff, rescuing a maiden in distress, and ready, armed to the teeth, to do battle with all comers.
But the long ride gave second thoughts a chance to work powerfully in him, and as the day wore on, the force of logic pointed out his errors. There could be no real reason, he believed, for Miss Penryck to fly to Lady Thane’s arms in London. If he had refused to take her, as reflection told him he should have done, he now thought she would not have gone alone, regardless of her threat.
He covered a few more miles, thinking slowly, but to the purpose, and a good bit beyond Woolhampton he came to a decision. He turned back to the coach. At a sign from him, coachman drew the carriage to the side of the road and waited.
Clare thrust her head out of the window. “Oh, what is the matter? Why have we stopped?”
“I do not wish to speak in front of your maid,” said Sir Alexander in a manner she could only consider as ominous. “But I think it would be advisable were we to return to Bath.”
“Return!” shrieked Clare. “Oh, no, you could not be so cruel as to think that. You would not turn around, would you? To take me back to ...” She stopped short. She had ' not informed Sir Alexander of the nature of Benedict’s threat. She bit her lip. She was positive that Sir Alexander would make no bones about taking her back if he knew that she was fleeing from Choate.
“Well, I do not think it a good idea to continue on to London. There is no chance that we will be able to arrive before nightfall, and what Choate will say when he finds out we have had to stop at an inn overnight, even with your maid, I dare not think of.”
“Choate will not know of it,” she said with vigor.
He had developed a mutinous streak of which she had previously been unaware. She was sorely in a cleft stick.
She was determined not to go back. Nor did she truly want to go to Gretna Green. Her head ached, and she had a lurking suspicion that she was behaving in such a ramshackle way that her grandmother, could she see her, would have been horrified.
She could not quarrel with Sir Alexander. She had not thought clearly ahead, and if she needed more proof that she was too inexperienced to face the world alone, she now had it. If only Benedict were not already arranging for her marriage with a stranger!
She did not give up. “Perhaps we could stop for a bit and talk about this?”
“It’s no use,” said Sir Alexander. “But I confess I would be glad of a bit of mutton. Always think better when I’ve got a full stomach.”
They moved on at a slower pace toward the next town, where there would be a respectable inn, so Sir Alexander said. He had been on the verge of telling his charge that her guardian by now was apprised of her flight Perhaps he would do so at the inn. He had been beguiled, he saw now, by the appealing look in her wide eyes, and he had been led astray by his wish to appear in the light of a knight-errant in her regard. Folly! All folly! he thought, and did not quite see his way out of it all.
In truth, Sir Alexander would have been far more worried had he been able to look with far-seeing vision down the road from Bath, on which they had traveled.
A good way back, delayed by the need to argue forcefully with a reluctant Bath liveryman, who at length was overborne in the matter of hiring out a gig and a single horse to a man whose cut he did not at all like, drove Harry Rowse. He was putting the horse to it, fearing that he would come upon the Ferguson coach too late for his purposes.
If Clare was eloping with Sir Alexander, thought Harry, by this time she would be heartily sick of him, and would welcome a bit of gallantry. He had no clear idea of what he was about—it would depend upon what he found when he came upon them.
If Clare was tired of Sir Alexander, it would take little to turn her in his direction, willingly. Or if she had already given in to Sir Alexander’s importunities, then there was no reason why Harry Rowse should not also enjoy Clare’s wantonness. So he thought. He was much of an opportunist, and he would wait upon events to instruct him. But in any case, he drove in great satisfaction at his own enterprise. For whatever happened, he would be able to serve the high-and-mighty Choate a bad turn. He began to whistle as he laid the whip upon his horse.
In the meantime, Benedict, having the night to think over his interview with his young ward, was, this Friday morning, having second thoughts. He recalled unpleasantly her stricken face when he told her that he had sent for Mrs. Duff. It was not his intention to be cruel, and the realization that she considered him wicked and unfeeling moved him more than he liked.
His entire intention was simply to see her settled. His own life was in pawn to a woman he had little feeling for, but he was determined that his ward would not be doomed to such a life as his own.
Unfortunately, he was expected to lunch with Marianna and her mother. He had been unpleasantly surprised when he learned that they had come to Bath in his wake. He had more than a suspicion that his betrothed was pursuing him out of curiosity and a possessiveness that he did not like. But there was no way out of it, and he sighed, dressing with his usual meticulous care for a luncheon that he looked forward to as one does to a visit to a tooth-drawer.
He formed the intention of cutting short his luncheon with the Mortons and making his way to Laura Place to see Clare Penryck, to reassure her about Mrs. Duff, to whom he would privately give instructions to treat the girl with kindness.
So he hardly listened as Marianna set herself to beguile his interest, thinking ahead with surprising pleasure to the afternoon meeting with Clare.
“You must know that although we have been here only since yesterday, already there is more going on in Bath than in a week in London!” cried Marianna gaily. “Lady Courtenay is here, and can hardly walk, so they say. But the baths are doing her such good. And the Duchess of Argyle. I haven’t seen her since I can’t remember when. Do you remember, Mama?”
Mrs. Morton, thus appealed to, said she didn’t remember either. She had been watching Benedict with a speculative eye since his arrival. Her visit to Clare yesterday had given her much to think on, and she was struck by Benedict’s attitude. It did not seem more than usually aloof, but, instructed by Clare’s emotional reaction, she could see that he must appear nearly godlike to a girl of Clare’s limited experience. She was quite sure of Clare’s feelings, but she could not detect how Benedict felt.
If Benedict had a tendre for Clare, it was not visible even to Mrs. Morton. But she made a resolve to speak firmly to Marianna about curbing her great propensity for gossip, lest it turn Benedict away from her in disgust, for she thought she detected an absentmindedness in him that must not be allowed to continue.
When she attended once more to the conversation—or rather to Marianna’s monologue, for Benedict responded only in monosyllables—Marianna had reached Harry Rowse. “Under the hatches, you know, since Lady Lancer turned him down. I fancy that was quite a blow. At any rate he is here in Bath. I confess I should worry about your Miss Penryck, except that she is totally out of society now. I did hear that they had been seen together.”
“Miss Penryck will be returning to Dorset shortly,” said Benedict. “I am convinced that the rumor you speak of was no more than that. She has been with Lady Courtenay, or Lady Thane, most of the time she has been here.”
“Of course,” said Marianna, withdrawing to a safer position. “When we are married, you will have no further worries about her. I can
say with all sincerity that I will be most happy to take her charge upon myself. I fancy I shall be able to instruct her, and surely when she returns to London...” She stopped short. Benedict had quite clearly forgotten her, for he stared across the table at a figurine on the side table with great concentration.
His mind’s eye filled his thoughts, however, with a clear picture of a girl with coin-gold ringlets and clear blue eyes brimming with tears that she was gallantly determined not to shed.
“I’m sorry,” said Benedict. “I have quite forgotten an engagement that I made before I knew you were in Bath. I must beg to be excused.”
He stood up and bowed to Mrs. Morton. “Do not trouble to see me out. I fear I am almost too late, as it is. Do forgive me.”
He left without apparent haste, but Marianna, looking from the window, remarked, “He’s almost out of sight already. Where do you think he is going?”
“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Morton astringently. “But you will be well-advised not to ask when you see him next. In the meantime, my dear, I should like to speak to you about what I fear may become a grave fault in you.”
Mrs. Morton drew her chair close to her daughter’s and began to speak in great earnestness.
If she had known where Benedict was heading, she would have been even more dismayed. For Benedict was hurrying on his way to apologize to his ward.
26.
Benedict arrived at Lady Thane’s rented house, and was admitted by Mrs. Bishop. He inquired for his ward, and received a shock.
“Miss isn’t here, my lord,” said Mrs. Bishop in a stern, disapproving voice. She knew what was proper and what wasn’t, and the way affairs were managed around here did not measure up to her rigid standards.
Benedict was conscious of a letdown. He had made up his mind to apologize, and the delay was offsetting. “Then I shall wait,” he said, unbuttoning his coat.
“Not much use, I think,” Mrs. Bishop informed him. “For miss and her maid will be long-delayed.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“I mean that miss went out, with her maid, and her bandbox, and I surely know a gentleman’s traveling coach when I see it.”
“And you did see it?” said Benedict smoothly.
“No thanks to miss, I can tell you,” said Mrs. Bishop darkly. She was not responsible to anyone but the owner of the house, and miss could go or stay and it would make no never-mind to Mrs. Bishop. But right was right. “She slipped out of the front door as quiet as you please, and if I hadn’t just happened to be looking out of the upstairs window, I wouldn’t have seen the coach stop right down at the corner and miss get in.”
Benedict, seething, put a few more questions to the housekeeper, received a description of the coach, and left the house. There was no doubt in his mind that the vehicle belonged to Sir Alexander Ferguson. And while Choate could not at once decide what had driven Ferguson mad enough to take off with a schoolgirl in a traveling coach, he could wait for an explanation until he caught up with them. And catch up with them he would.
The first stop was at Ferguson’s lodgings. Here his fears were confirmed. Sir Alexander had left Bath. According to the page, “His lordship’s gone and taken all with him. Left in such a hurry,” said the page, “that he didn’t have time to give me the sovereign he promised me to deliver a note to some swell over on the Parade.”
Benedict regarded the ill-favored urchin with such severity as to make him cringe. “A note? Could it have been addressed to me, by any chance? Lord Choate?”
“I dunno. Can’t read. But he didn’t give me the sovereign.” The boy was cowed but not conquered. If he could succeed in getting his sovereign, he would be possessed of the largess that dreams are made of.
“Let me see the note, if you will,” said Benedict, tossing a small coin in the air. The lad saw that it was clearly not a sovereign, and philosophically lowered his sights.
“He said,” said the urchin without conviction, “that he would give me a sovereign, sir.”
“I wish I may see the day that Sir Alexander Ferguson hands out sovereigns as tips,” said Benedict pleasantly. “But I warn you that my patience is not inexhaustible.” He pocketed the coin.
In moments, the elusive note had been produced and the coin had changed hands. The page scuttled away. Even a shilling was better than nuffin, he thought, rightly.
The note from Sir Alexander did nothing to allay Choate’s fears. “The little wretch!” he said, clenching his fists. “Wait till I get hold of her, suborning Ferguson like this. She knows full well Lady Thane is not in London! I wonder what her game is this time?”
He did not stand still. Even as he promised himself the utmost of revenge on the girl to whom he had been longing to apologize less than an hour before, he returned to his own rooms, ordered his curricle and the grays, and took time only to tell Grinstead that he did not know when he would be back.
He curbed his pair sufficiently until he reached the eastern outskirts of the city, and then he put them right along. The fine-bred horses ate up the miles, and Benedict began to entertain hopes of catching up with the runaways within the hour. Ferguson’s coach couldn’t begin to make the speed that the light curricle could, and Benedict turned his mind to formulating well-turned phrases that would serve to dissuade his ward from ever trying anything like this again.
By the time another hour had passed, and there was still no sight of his quarry, Benedict was in a towering rage. Of all the ramshackle, idiotic things to do—to cajole Sir Alexander Ferguson into such folly as taking her to London. For the first time he began to wonder whether Sir Alexander was quite the stuffy gentleman he had thought him. Surely it was not the act of an innocent man to lend himself to such an escapade!
Benedict was too well aware of the havoc his ward left in her wake to blame Ferguson for the runaway, but his rage did not diminish as far as Clare was concerned.
Unbidden, Lady Fenton’s remark, as passed along by her son Ned, occurred to him. “Too much fire for the cause. There’s more to it than on the surface.”
Benedict refused to consider anything other than his need to get the girl back. There was a revelation for him just beyond the brink of his thoughts, but he did not want to explore it. He had a dark feeling that he did not want to know more than he already did.
His mood was thus dangerous when he became aware of an obstacle in the road ahead. A closer view told him that it was a gig drawn by a horse that appeared to be lame on the off hind foot. It could not be Ferguson, and Benedict had no interest in anyone else. He drew to the right, ready to pass, but the gig did not give him room. Instead, incredibly, the driver turned his vehicle into the center of the road and dropped to the ground to face Benedict.
For a moment Benedict wished he had taken time to allow Vilas to accompany him. Two armed men would not always be enough to assure safety on the road. But Benedict had not wanted to admit a groom to his confidence, and indeed he had every reason to believe that he could manage one armed man.
For he saw, with some disbelief, that the driver of the disabled rig stood now with a pistol in each hand. Benedict, a notable shot, reined in with prudence. If the fellow lost his poise because of unnecessary defiance, he might by accident hit his mark.
The desperate character in the road took a step toward Benedict’s slowing curricle, and Benedict recognized him. “Rowse! I had heard that you were in desperate straits, but I had not expected to see you turning highwayman.”
“Nor have I,” retorted Rowse. “This job horse has played me false, and I was about to inspect the damage.”
He put a pistol away, and made as though to holster the other, but with a casual air that did not deceive Benedict, he still held it. “Looks too lame to me to go on.”
Watching Rowse bend over his horse’s front leg, Benedict toyed with the idea of offering assistance, but the purpose of his journey did not allow for any delay. He could catch up with the Ferguson coach before Reading, if he were not delaye
d. At that point, roads led to Gretna Green, to London, toward Andover—though what Clare and Ferguson might be doing in Andover escaped him.
After a few moments, while Rowse dealt with his horse, had grown into a lengthier time, Benedict suggested mildly, “Could you not draw your gig over to the side, Rowse?”
Rowse straightened and came to stand only a few feet from the curricle. “I could, Choate. But I don’t think I will. I should imagine that you too are in pursuit of your ward.”
‘Too?”
“And it does not suit me to allow you to interfere again. For you know, don’t you, that Miss Penryck has taken to the road? In all likelihood, she is on her way to Gretna Green. I should imagine you would not like that above half, would you?”
Gretna Green! Choate had read Ferguson’s note carefully, and there was no mention of Gretna Green, or of an elopement. In fact, that ponderous Scot had said, in surprisingly few words, for him, that they were on their way to London, to Lady Thane’s.
But Benedict also knew that Lady Thane was not in London. Had that wily minx cozened Ferguson into an elopement? Choate would not put it past her. He reflected on these points in a moment, but Rowse grew impatient.
“That beguiling child got away from me once before,” said Rowse, somewhat irritated, “but she will not do so again. I promise you that. She won’t end up at Gretna Green, I can tell you.”
“What makes you think she intends to go to Gretna Green?” asked Benedict The situation was murkier than he had expected to begin with. At first it was a simple pursuit, but now, with this idiot Rowse in the way, with a loaded gun in his hand, Benedict trod warily.
“Well,” said Rowse with an air of reason, “where else would she go? Ferguson ain’t one to play false. And I would already be talking to him, instead of you, if this horse hadn’t gone lame.”
