Wish for Love

by Barbara Cartland

  She was wearing a pair of breeches, which Jeremy had worn when he was thirteen and a coat that was actually a little large for her. But there was nothing smaller in the wardrobe where all his old clothes had been put away when he had no further use for them.

  She also wore a velvet hunting cap pulled low over her forehead and a well-tied cravat around her neck added to her disguise.

  When they were some way away from the house in the shelter of a small wood, Jeremy pulled a black mask from his pocket and held it out to her.

  “You must put this on,” he said. “I made them this morning and I am quite certain that once you wear it nobody will recognise you.”

  Jeremy certainly looked unrecognisable behind his mask.

  Yet Mariota thought that with his tall hat on the side of his head, his broad shoulders and the way he sat his horse, it would be easy, even with the mask, for anybody if not to recognise him, certainly to remember him.

  But she knew there was no point in saying so.

  They had argued most of the morning while Jeremy went on looking through his clothes for her to wear and she knew that anything she said now was just a waste of breath.

  When Jeremy made up his mind, she thought, it would take an earthquake to move him and only because she was desperately afraid he was right when he had said that doing this crazy thing alone was dangerous had she finally consented to go with him.

  Now she put on the mask, tied the narrow ribbon at the back of her head and hoped that in whatever lay ahead, her hat would stay firmly in place, otherwise her hair might come tumbling down and reveal that she was not the young man she pretended to be.

  “Now take your pistol,” Jeremy was saying, pulling it from the pocket of his coat. “It is primed and loaded, so be careful!”

  “I don’t have to – use it – do I?” Mariota asked in a low voice.

  “Not unless it is to save yourself from being captured, in which case if you don’t you will be hanged.” Jeremy replied. “But if you do need to use it, shoot at the arm or the leg, not the body or the head.”

  Mariota’s lips tightened, but she did not say anything.

  She was actually a good shot because, when they were much younger, her father had taught Jeremy to shoot first at a target before he attempted to shoot at live game and she had pleaded to learn too.

  “You are a girl. You will never have to use a pistol!” Jeremy had said scornfully.

  Their father had contradicted him by saying,

  “It’s always useful for a woman to know how to defend herself.”

  He had therefore taught Mariota to handle not only a shot gun but also a duelling pistol and, although she hoped now she would never have to use it, she felt that she was experienced enough not to kill a man by mistake.

  “Are you ready?” Jeremy asked. “At least, Mariota, you must admit this is more exciting than sitting in the house and counting the cobwebs!”

  Mariota did not reply because her heart was beating frantically and her lips felt dry.

  She was quite certain that Jeremy’s new idea would be disastrous and already she was thinking how terrifying it would be if they were captured and taken before the Magistrates.

  However, there was nothing she could say and she could only pray that her father would never know what they were doing

  He had luncheon with them, but he was in one of his most absent-minded moods and she knew that he was concentrating on some particular research he was doing into the family history.

  Because Jeremy too had been concentrating on a very different project, the meal was almost a silent one and, as there was not much to eat, it did not take them long.

  Only Jeremy exclaimed as Mariota brought in a dish from the kitchen,

  “Not rabbit again!”

  “I am sorry, dearest,” Mariota replied, “but there is really so very little else at this time of the year and it’s the only thing we don’t have to pay for.”

  Old Jacob, who ran the house with his wife, caught them in snares in the shrubberies and, because there were plenty of rabbits and very little else, it had become their staple, if very monotonous diet.

  There were ripe gooseberries to follow and the bushes, which were vastly overgrown, had scratched Mariota abominably when she picked the fruit from them.

  But while her father ate them like an automaton without appearing to taste what went into his mouth, Jeremy gobbled them up and said when he had finished the dish,

  “I am still hungry!”

  “I am afraid there is only a very little cheese left,” Mariota said, “but Mrs. Robinson has promised me some this evening.”

  It was Mariota who had arranged that the Home Farm, which had once been run to serve the big house, should be let to tenant farmers for an infinitesimal rent, so long as they provided them with eggs, milk, butter and when it was available, cheese.

  At first the Robinsons had been very pleased with the arrangement, but now with the end of the war and the difficulties of peace, many farmers had become bankrupt and the rest were afraid of the future.

  Because of this Mariota felt that the farmer and his wife grudged everything they had to give her.

  Because she felt apologetic and was also very sensitive to other people’s feelings, she hated going to the farm to ask for what they required and whenever possible sent Jacob instead.

  But he had so many other duties in the garden at this time of the year, it was essential that the vegetables they had planted should be weeded and there were also the pigeons to be prevented from eating every leaf before it came to the table, so that he could not always be spared.

  Jeremy ate the remains of the portion of cheese that had been put on the table with the last scrap of butter.

  Mariota felt he should have shared it with his father, but Lord Fordcombe was still far away in his thoughts and did not seem to notice that the meal was finished without his having what constituted, somewhat inadequately, the last course.

  He rose from the table saying,

  “I shall be very busy this afternoon, Mariota, and I do not wish to be disturbed.”

  “I am sure nobody will do so, Papa,” Mariota replied. “And I am glad your book is coming along so well.”

  “Not badly, not badly at all,” Lord Fordcombe replied.

  He left the dining room and they had heard his footsteps going down the passage.

  “Who does he think is likely to disturb him?” Jeremy asked. “If anybody paid us a visit, it would be a miracle!”

  Mariota did not answer and he said,

  “Well, at the moment that is a blessing in disguise. As soon as you have finished clearing the table, let’s go upstairs and finish choosing the clothes you will wear.”

  When Mariota was ready, Jeremy, having saddled the horses, brought them around to the side of the house where there was a shrubbery and where they could mount without Jacob or his wife Mrs. Brindle being able to see them.

  Not that they were likely to be looking, for Mrs. Brindle was growing old and, when she had washed up the luncheon plates, Mariota knew she would settle herself in one of the comfortable armchairs which she had arranged for the Brindles in the kitchen and doze off to sleep in front of the fire.

  The large servants’ hall, which in the old days had held twenty or more servants for every meal, was closed and so were the sculleries with their paved floors and huge sinks and the larders with the long marble slabs on which Mariota could remember there would be big open bowls from which the cream was lifted every morning.

  She recalled having it on her porridge and thinking how delicious it was, but cream was another luxury they seldom had these days.

  The milk they fetched from the farm was only just enough for breakfast and for tea.

  ‘Everything is a struggle,’ Mariota thought.

  And yet, however difficult it might seem, she knew that what Jeremy was planning now was wrong and very risky.

  Because she was so apprehensive, she started to pray that th
ere would be no coaches that afternoon on the road towards which Jeremy was leading the way.

  It was in fact quite likely that the only passers-by would be farmers in gigs, a Parson with a hearse or a wagon carrying goods from one farm to another.

  There was, however, no point in saying so and she rode a little way behind Jeremy thinking that if she had any money to spend it would be on a well-bred spirited horse on which she could hunt in the winter.

  Firefly was old and no one would call him spirited. In fact he usually plodded along at the pace that suited him best and Mariota was afraid if they had to escape in a hurry, she and Firefly would be very easily captured.

  Jeremy was riding the best horse they had, which was not saying much.

  Their father had managed to buy Rufus cheap from a local farmer and, while he had served them well, he was certainly not much to look at and no amount of training could make him jump a hedge that was more than two foot high.

  But at least he had four legs and they could ride him.

  Mariota tried to tell herself that she must count her blessings, for the day might come when she and Jeremy would have to walk.

  They reached the Worcester Road, which was a pretentious name for a dusty lane that ran through high hedgerows interspersed with small woods with trees growing right down to the roadside.

  Mariota knew it was in one of these that Jeremy intended to hide and wait for a carriage to appear.

  She wondered if they would have a long wait. One blessing was that the horses were quite prepared to stay quiet and were certainly not restless, as better-bred animals would have been in the same circumstances.

  “I wonder how long we shall have to wait,” Jeremy said and Mariota knew from the tone of his voice that he was excited.

  ‘This is wrong – very – wrong,’ she told herself, but there was no use in starting the argument all over again.

  There was nothing she could do but help him, as he wanted her to do, or else leave him to face the danger alone.

  Because she loved her brother, she knew that she could not bear to stay at the house waiting to hear if he was wounded, killed or imprisoned.

  At least whatever happened, they would be together and she wondered despairingly how her father and Lynne would manage without her.

  She knew her mother would have been deeply shocked at her taking part in such an escapade and because she was frightened Mariota prayed fervently that Jeremy would find the money he wanted and they could go home in safety.

  “There is somebody coming,” he said in a whisper.

  Mariota felt her heart leap as she looked up the road to where she could see something moving.

  The lane twisted and turned and nearly a minute passed before they were able to see more than just the roof of a vehicle above the hedges.

  Then, as they were aware that there was a single horse and carriage coming towards them, she held her breath, until as it drew nearer she heard Jeremy say disgustedly,

  “It is only that saddler from Evesham. I am surprised he is delivering as far as this.”

  “Perhaps he is taking something to The Grange,” Mariota answered. “Lynne did say the Squire had bought some new horses at a sale.”

  “He can afford them!” Jeremy said bitterly.

  As the saddler passed them, they could see his name inscribed on the side of his van.

  “One thing we do not have to buy,” Jeremy said, “is bridles, saddles and stirrups. We have room in the stables for forty horses and that is the number Grandpapa kept at one time.”

  Mariota thought that what they were left with now was too obvious to be spoken aloud and, because she did not wish her brother to brood over what had happened through no fault of his own, she looked up the road.

  Then she exclaimed,

  “There is something coming!”

  Jeremy turned his head sharply and after a moment he said,

  “You are right and I am sure there are two horses!”

  There was a breathless wait until, sure enough, at the end of the road two horses appeared moving at quite a good pace and with a sinking of her heart Mariota knew by the way the afternoon sun glinted on their bridles that their owner was probably a wealthy man.

  There was a coachman and beside him a footman on the box and, as they drew nearer, Mariota could see that their top hats were embellished with cockades and the coachman’s driving coat had several tiers over the shoulders.

  She was sure that the carriage was as impressive as the horses and, knowing this was what Jeremy had been hoping for, she felt her heart beating so violently that it was impossible to breathe.

  Then, as the carriage drew near and still nearer, Mariota knew that Jeremy was as tense as she was until when the horses were only a few yards from them he rode boldly into the centre of the road.

  He did not have to speak. The mask over his eyes and the pistol in his hand made the coachman draw in his horses sharply while the footman put up both his hands in a gesture of surrender.

  This, Mariota knew, was what Jeremy had told her was the dangerous moment.

  If the gentleman in the coach had a pistol with him, he could fire out of the window without being in any danger himself and she had therefore to go to the side of the coach with her pistol in her hand.

  Because she was already anticipating what she might see, she was relieved when she found that there was nobody in the carriage except for a lady.

  “Keep your hands up!” Jeremy ordered in a voice that he made deliberately authoritative and commanding.

  He came round to the side of the coach and said to Mariota,

  “Take over!”

  She pointed her pistol not at the window of the coach, but at the servants on the box as he leaned down and opened the door.

  Because she was so afraid and the pistol was trembling in her hand, Mariota did not take her eyes off the two men who seemed almost as if they were turned to stone.

  The footman in particular, who was quite young, was pale with fright.

  He held his arms higher and higher as if sure he would be shot at any moment.

  Mariota could hear the murmur of Jeremy’s voice and knew that he was ordering the occupant of the carriage to hand over her money and her jewels.

  Then he stepped back to say,

  “Thank you, madam.”

  As he spoke he closed the carriage door.

  “Drive on,” he commanded, “and don’t look back or it will be the worse for you!”

  The coachman needed no further bidding and, whipping up his horses, he moved away at a far quicker pace than he had approached them earlier.

  Mariota gave a sigh of relief and Jeremy said,

  “A splendid haul! We can go home now and count the spoils.”

  As he spoke, he put his left foot in the stirrup ready to leap into the saddle and, as he did so, Mariota saw with a feeling of horror a man on a horse appear through the trees on the other side of the road.

  Then, as she gasped and opened her lips to warn Jeremy, she saw the stranger draw a pistol from his pocket and level it at her brother’s back.

  Without really thinking, acting on instinct rather than thought, she screamed,

  “Look out!” and at the same time pulled the trigger of her pistol.

  She did not bother to aim it – she just shot in an effort to save him.

  The noise of the explosion made both Firefly and Rufus start and it prevented Jeremy from mounting.

  It also had a great effect on the stranger’s horse, which reared up violently and, because the action was so unexpected and he had only one hand holding the reins, the rider fell backwards onto the ground and the horse, bucking, galloped off down the road.

  The rider was lying motionless on the ground and Mariota now controlling Firefly with both hands, asked in a horrified whisper,

  “Have I – k-killed him?”

  “I don’t think you touched him, but we have to be sure.”

  Mariota dismounted and Firefly imm
ediately began to crop the grass by the side of the road and she knew that he would not wander away.

  She hurriedly followed Jeremy who was kneeling beside the fallen man.

  “Have I – wounded him?” she asked.

  “No, there is not a scratch on him,” Jeremy answered, “but he hit his head when he fell on a stone and is unconscious.”

  There was a large boulder against which the rider’s head was lying and the position in which he lay showed only too clearly that he had fallen against it.

  “What shall we do?” Mariota asked.

  “I suppose we could leave him here – ” Jeremy began.

  “No, no,” Mariota cried, “he might die and it would be all our fault.”

  While her brother had been speaking, to her astonishment he put his hand into the inside pocket of the man’s coat and pulled out a notecase.

  “What are you doing?” she asked in horror.

  “If he was about to fire at the highwaymen, they would obviously rob him when he fell off his horse.”

  “But you – cannot do – that!”

  “I can as a highwayman,” Jeremy replied. “But then as Good Samaritans we will come to his rescue, and take him up to the house where he can stay until he recovers his senses.”

  Mariota stared at him incredulously and then she understood that what he was saying was, in a twisted sort of way, common sense.

  Of course, a highwayman would not allow a rich man, which this gentleman appeared to be, to lie unconscious by the roadside without picking his pockets.

  It was also quite obviously the right thing to do to take somebody who was injured to the nearest house until he was well enough to continue his journey.

  Having taken the wallet out of the gentleman’s coat, Jeremy was now emptying the pockets of his breeches and he appeared to be carrying quite a considerable amount of money.

  Then he pulled off his mask and without him telling her to do so, Mariota did the same.

  “Now,” he said, “I found when I was taking my afternoon ride that a criminal attack had been made on a stranger riding through my land.”

  “I must still ask you how we can get him back to the house?”

  “It is not a question of ‘we’,” Jeremy said. “Nobody must see you dressed like that. Go home as quickly as you can, change and be ready to seem extremely surprised when I return with a fallen warrior on a gate.”