by M C Beaton
She lunged upwards and struck the side of the chimney-pot with her fist with all her strength. To her amazement, her relief, the old chimney-pot, loosened by centuries of weather, slowly toppled over and fell. She could hear it slithering down the thatch, and then there was a solid thump as it hit the grass in the garden. Sweet fresh air flowed down onto her sooty face. She grasped the edging of the thatch and heaved herself up. She gave a frightened cry as she began to slip back. She thought of Harry Devers, soon to return, and impelled herself up and out with such impetus that she rolled onto the thatch, slid down the roof, with the reeds of the thatch tearing at her gown and at her clutching hands. Her feet struck the lead gutter, which creaked and bent and finally gave. Abigail fell straight down into the garden, and, fortunately for her, onto a pile of soft earth. She stumbled to her feet. Her hands were bleeding, having been cut by the thatch, and she was black with soot from head to foot. She ran to the garden gate. But her horse had gone. Of course Harry would have taken it away. How on earth was she to get to the church?
And then she heard the sound of carriage wheels coming along the road and crouched down behind the hedge, fearful that Harry had returned.
It was supposed to be a small wedding in the church of St Edmund, King and Martyr in Lombard Street in the City of London. But gossipy society were determined to get a view of this outrageous bride and crowded outside the church, craning their necks, giggling and gossiping. There was an air of holiday, almost like a public hanging. The gingerbread sellers were plying their wares, along with the ballad singers, and there were even street dancers and acrobats to entertain the crowd.
Inside the church, the wedding guests fidgeted and waited. At the altar stood Lord Burfield with an old army friend, Colonel Withers, as his brideman. At the door of the church waited Robert Sommerville with the Beverley sisters.
The Earl of Drezby muttered to his wife, ‘By Jove, I do believe the bride is not going to come. What a scandal! But our boy has had a lucky escape.’
Mrs Brochard gave a little smile of satisfaction. Rupert had not spoken to her since he told her to leave his house. But now he was seeing for himself what type of family he had been about to ally his name with.
Miss Trumble was worried to death. She hoped that Abigail was simply behaving disgracefully and had run away from her own wedding. For the alternative, that someone had tricked her, that she could be in danger, was almost past bearing. Lady Beverley was very white and for once Miss Trumble felt sorry for her.
The service was supposed to commence at three o’clock. By ten past three, there was a rustling and muttering starting from the guests, which rose louder and louder as everyone began to speculate what had happened to Abigail. Barry, the odd man, seated at the very back of the church, wondered what would happen should it transpire that Abigail had once more shamed a man on his wedding day. The Beverleys would never rise above this scandal. Where, oh where, was Abigail?
Mr Tommy Cartwright was not a very happy young man. He was driving his racing curricle slowly along Bark Lane in Kensington and musing sadly on the bitter fact that he had failed to cut a dash in London.
He was nineteen years of age and had come up to Town from the country for his first Season armed with all the requisites necessary to become a dandy. He had a good income, a wardrobe of the first stare, prime horses, membership of White’s, got his vouchers of Almack’s, and yet he felt friendless and ignored. He had fondly imagined that by the end of the Season he would be dubbed Beau Cartwright, and that the other dandies would be begging him to show them how to tie a cravat. But the men did not crave his company and the beauties of the Season looked at him with indifferent eyes. If only he could have achieved some social success to make them sit up and stare. Everyone was desperate for an invitation to that Beverley girl’s wedding. If only he could have secured an invitation! If only . . .
His horse shied and reared and plunged as a black figure darted out in the middle of the road in front of them, waving its arms.
‘Whoa!’ cried Tommy, reining the horses in. ‘What the devil . . . ?’
‘Oh, please, sir,’ cried an anguished female voice. ‘I must get to my wedding.’
Thoroughly bewildered, Tommy stared down into a soot-stained face turned up to his.
‘I am Abigail Beverley. Please, please, I must get to the church. Harry Devers locked me up in that cottage so I could not go to my own wedding. Oh, please take me to the City.’
Tommy had never been famed for quickness of thought, but he was to remember that as the one moment when his brain worked like lightning. He did not stop to question whether this awful sooty creature was really the Abigail Beverley.
‘Hop up,’ he said, ‘and hang on tight. I’m going to spring ’em. Lombard Street it is.’
The noise inside and outside the church was rising to an uproar. Guests had left their pews and were strolling about. The general consensus of opinion was that the disgraceful Abigail Beverley had done it again – she had ruined another wedding. Lizzie, with her other sisters, was crying quietly in the church porch, saying she was sure Abigail would never do such a thing, that something awful had happened to her.
Rachel looked up into Lord Burfield’s face with wide, frightened blue eyes as he walked down the aisle to join the little group at the church entrance.
‘I think we should all leave here,’ he said stiffly. ‘The crowd outside are turning this into a circus and I cannot bear any more.’
‘You cannot bear any more!’ cried Rachel furiously. ‘What about Abigail?’
Animated by worry and anger, she looked heart-breakingly, in that moment, like her twin. Lord Burfield hesitated, but then shook his head. ‘There is no point in waiting here any longer to provide any more amusement for the gossips. I will make an announcement.’
Miss Trumble had joined them. She suddenly heard loud cheers and laughter from outside, followed by cries of ‘Make way! Let them through!’
‘Wait!’ she shouted. ‘Something has happened.’
Lord Burfield strode out of the church.
To loud huzzas, Tommy Cartwright was edging his carriage through the press and beside him sat a sootstained little figure whom Lord Burfield recognized with a lurch of his heart as Abigail.
He went forward as the carriage pulled up outside the church and held out his arms. Abigail fell down into them, crying, ‘Harry Devers tricked me. Oh, Rupert, he locked me up in a cottage. Oh, Rupert!’
Lord Burfield drew her into the church. Abigail told her story inside and Tommy, relishing his moment of glory, told his story outside.
‘How could you be so easily tricked?’ Lord Burfield exclaimed, when Abigail had finished.
‘I was jealous,’ said Abigail, beginning to cry weakly. ‘You would not explain about Lady Tarrant.’
He gathered her in his arms again. ‘Oh, my darling, how stupid we both have been and how stubborn. We will get you home and arrange the wedding for another day.’
‘No!’ Abigail brushed away the tears, leaving white streaks across her sooty face. ‘I do not want to wait. Cannot we be married now?’
He gave a sudden laugh. ‘London will talk about this for days. Yes, my love. We will be married.’
‘And can someone ask my nice young rescuer to the wedding?’
‘I will,’ said Miss Trumble.
It was the moment of glory that Tommy had always dreamt of. In front of the crowd, he was formally invited to the wedding by Miss Trumble, who also thanked him warmly for being ‘such a hero.’
And so Lord Burfield, with his white satin wedding clothes stained with soot from hugging Abigail, was married to his extremely dirty bride, while two of the male guests went off to fetch the Runners. The hunt was up for Harry Devers.
But Harry had been among the crowd, savouring his ‘triumph’ when, to his horror, he had seen Abigail being driven up to the church. He took to his heels, sweating with fear. He would need to escape before the law caught up with him.
&n
bsp; Almost mad with fright when he reached his town house, he shouted to the servants to pack his things and make his travelling-carriage ready. But before the preparations were half done, he heard the roar of an approaching crowd in the street and knew what had happened. The gossip outside the church had spread like wildfire to the mob and the mob were out for his blood.
He ran down to the basement to try to make his way out through the back door, but he retreated quickly as he heard the thud of feet as members of the mob, anticipating that he might try to escape that way, vaulted over the back wall.
Harry scampered back up the stairs, past his terrified servants. Up he went to the attics, into one, climbed on a chair and pushed open the skylight. With luck, he could scramble over the roof and leap to the roof of the adjoining building which, unlike his own, was the start of a terrace, and so across the other roofs to safety. Someone down below saw him and yelled. There was a deep-throated baying from the crowd. Shots came from the end of the street. The militia had arrived.
But Harry was not going to risk waiting for their rescue, for they would arrest him and drag him off in chains to Newgate.
Teetering on the tiles, he ran to the edge of the roof and looked across at the adjoining building. It looked farther away than he had thought.
The splintering of his front door downstairs as the mob burst into his house made up his mind for him. He went back several paces, took a breath, and ran and leaped out into space. But he fell short of the building opposite by a whole foot and plunged downwards towards the stone path which ran between the two houses. He hit the ground with a sickening thud. For a moment, all was blackness, and then the blackness cleared and he was walking into the splendid hall at Mannerling, feeling the house welcoming him back, smelling the Mannerling smell of pot-pourri, beeswax, and wood-smoke. He died with a smile on his lips, the innocent smile of a child.
The gossips had been calling on the Makepeaces all day. First they learned of how Abigail had arrived at the church covered in soot, with her dress torn and her hands bleeding and yet had insisted on getting married there and then.
Prudence commented in a subdued little voice that no doubt Abigail Beverley was worried her groom would escape her, but no, replied the gossips, they were so much in love. Everyone could see that when they left the church together.
Then Prudence learned that Harry had lied to her, that Abigail knew the identity of her captor and that Harry Devers was to be arrested. She turned quite pale. Had Harry told Abigail about her? She began to feel quite faint. But then an excited servant burst in with the news that Harry Devers, in an attempt to escape from the mob, had leaped from the roof of his house to his death. Prudence slowly began to feel better. Had Harry talked to Abigail, then the Runners would have called for her by now. She had nothing to fear. But there were more callers, and this time more detailed information. The letter sent to Lord Burfield’s home to say that Abigail planned to arrive at the church by herself had been written in a feminine hand, so Harry Devers must have had an accomplice. Prudence became aware of her parents’ horrified eyes resting on her. When the last callers had left, Mr Makepeace said, ‘You were behind this, Prudence. That is why you were meeting Devers secretly. There is no time now to tell you exactly what I think of you. Speed is of the essence. You must be got out of the country before anyone comes looking for you. No,’ he added in a fury as Prudence would have spoken, ‘not another word. We are leaving this night for Naples, leaving like the fugitives we are, but ‘fore God, the way I feel at the moment, I would gladly turn you over to the Runners. So make haste and lie me no more lies, or I might change my mind!’
Abigail, in her wedding gown at last, with her train looped over her arm, was waltzing in the arms of her husband. She had resisted all suggestions that she lie down and rest after her ordeal. Abigail felt as if she were floating on air.
Tommy Cartwright was dancing with Rachel, well aware he was the hero of the day. He was saving up every moment to put in a letter home that very night. Two reporters had taken down his story. It would all be in the newspapers on the following morning. The only thing that he regretted was that there were so few guests. He only wished it had been a huge fashionable wedding so that he could have performed on a larger stage. But a large number of society had been outside the church and had witnessed his dramatic arrival. He dreamily ran that magnificent moment of glory through his brain again and trod on Rachel’s toes, apologized, and tried to concentrate on his steps.
Lady Evans was there, sitting with Miss Trumble, watching the dancers. ‘You may have your say, Letitia,’ said Lady Evans. ‘But mark my words: money lasts, love don’t.’
‘You still do not think Burfield would have been better off with Prudence Makepeace?’
‘Why not? Whatever you may say, that Abigail is a wild one. Can you imagine a real lady climbing up a cottage chimney and then insisting on getting wed in all her filth?’
‘No,’ said the governess drily, ‘a real lady would have waited patiently for Harry Devers to come back and rape her. Furthermore, to my way of thinking, little Miss Prudence was involved in this in some way.’
‘Pooh, how could she be?’ demanded Lady Evans. ‘She doesn’t even know Devers, and her family would not have let him near her.’
Barry came into the saloon in Lord Burfield’s house, where the dancing was being held, and made his way round the room until he reached Miss Trumble.
‘Oh, miss,’ he said, ‘the most shocking thing. Several people have come forward to say as how they saw that Miss Prudence Makepeace talking to Mr Harry Devers in the street on several occasions, and only this morning two guards officers saw them in St James’s Park.’
Miss Trumble swung round and said to Lady Evans, ‘So what do you think of your precious Prudence now?’
‘I cannot believe it,’ cried old Lady Evans, her lips trembling. ‘But if she is guilty, she will be arrested. What a scandal! Scandal upon scandal!’
‘Let us not spoil the festivities with any more dramas,’ said Miss Trumble. ‘Come, Barry, we will go to the Makepeaces and see what we can find out.’
They took a hack to the Makepeaces’ town house. A butler answered the door and said stonily that the family were not at home. Miss Trumble fished in her capacious reticule and extracted a guinea and held it up. ‘Really not at home?’ she asked sweetly. ‘I am a friend of Lady Evans.’
The butler leaned forward and looked up and down the street and then said with a little jerk of his head, ‘Step inside.’
She and Barry walked into the hall. The butler held out one plump white hand. Miss Tremble put the guinea into it, which the butler first bit to see if it was real, and then slipped it into his pocket.
‘They’ve gone to Italy. All in a rush, like. Usually it takes the quality weeks to prepare for such a journey to foreign parts.’ Miss Tremble felt quite weak with relief. She had realized that if Prudence Makepeace had been arrested, the scandal would have quite destroyed her old friend, Lady Evans. What a tale of revenge and jealousy it had all been!
SEVEN
To marry is to domesticate the Recording Angel. Once you are married, there is nothing left for you, not even suicide, but to be good.
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
Lord Burfield began to think that his bride meant to dance the whole of the night away. And because Abigail continued to dance, so the guests continued as well. Lady Beverley had recovered from all the shocks and alarms and finally woken to the fact – prompted, of course, by Miss Trumble – that she now had three daughters who had all married well.
Miss Trumble, who had returned to report to Lady Evans about the flight of the Makepeaces, watched anxiously as the festivities continued. There were violet shadows under Abigail’s eyes. The girl was obviously tired after all the strain of her imprisonment and escape.
Miss Trumble gave a little click of impatience. Unless Abigail made a move to ‘behave like a proper wife’ – as Miss Trumble delicately put it to herself �
� this marriage might end its first day with a monumental row. Abigail was dancing with Mr Cartwright, so Miss Trumble rose and approached Lord Burfield, who was helping himself to another glass of champagne.
‘To put it bluntly, my lord,’ said Miss Trumble, ‘is it not time you retired?’
A flicker of amusement shone in his blue eyes. ‘It is indeed. But alas, my young bride appears to be enjoying the company of others too much.’
‘Bride nerves,’ said the governess. ‘And unless you make a move, they are going to get worse.’
He gave a reluctant laugh. ‘My Abigail has been through so much, I do not want anything more to trouble her this day.’
‘Some things have to be resolved on the spot.’
The dance was finished. Abigail was curtsying to Tommy. Lord Burfield crossed to her side.
‘It is time we retired, my sweeting.’ He saw fear dart through her eyes and fought down a surge of impatience. Was she stupid enough to think him another Harry Devers? And then it dawned on him that to take her upstairs for their first night as man and wife under the same roof as the guests, where some of the men were drunkenly beginning to make lewd remarks, would not help. ‘Go to your room,’ he said, ‘and put on your carriage gown.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘I’ll think of somewhere. Now, go!’
Abigail went up to her room, where she was soon joined by her sisters. ‘Where are you going?’ asked Lizzie. ‘I thought you were staying here!’
‘Lord Burfield, I mean Rupert, has suddenly decided to take me somewhere, I don’t know where,’ said Abigail, her voice muffled as Betty lifted the wedding gown over her head.
‘I think it is all very romantic,’ sighed Rachel. She stroked the folds of the wedding gown. ‘How beautiful this is. I wonder if I shall ever wear a wedding gown.’
‘You are bound to.’ Lizzie peered in the mirror and tugged at a strand of her red hair. ‘Why was I ever cursed with red hair? How can one ever be classed as a beauty with red hair? Do you know, it is said the Duke of Wellington shaved his son’s eyebrows because they were red?’
