by M C Beaton
Harriet looked at him strangely. “Why did you shoot the hens, Bertram?”
“The—? Oh, the hens. They were pecking away and I wanted to try out my new gun.”
“And to whom does this house belong?”
“One of the villagers. I rented it for an hour. I had to explain things to you.”
“And so you have,” said Harriet. “So let us leave.”
“You are being silly and stubborn,” said Bertram passionately. “You will marry me.” He looked at her in fury. That such a slip of a girl should stand up to him.
“No, Bertram,” said Harriet. She made for the door.
Beside himself with fury, Bertram swung her around and slapped her resoundingly across the face.
“There!” he said triumphantly. “And I will hurt you worse if you do not do as you are told.”
Harriet stood for a moment, her head bowed, her hand to her flaming cheek.
Then she drove her fist with all her force into Bertram’s stomach. Young ladies of the ton usually did not boast any muscles to speak of, but Harriet had been carrying heavy weights and chopping wood for years.
“I am s-sorry, Bertram,” she said, appalled at her own violence.
He staggered toward her, and with a little scream she picked up one of the still-full tankards and banged it down on his head, then ran from the room.
She ran out through the small garden and stood, irresolute, on the road. Unless she hid, and quickly, Bertram would summon his servants.
She turned and ran as hard as she could in the opposite direction, not stopping until she was clear of the village and out in the countryside.
She walked behind a tall hedge and sat down on a hummock of grass, feeling shaken and sick. She had left her bonnet, but her reticule was still attached to her wrist.
She had only a few shillings, not enough to hire a carriage. She would need to wait until Bertram had left and then set out for London on foot. Somehow, she must get back and tell Lord Arden how she had been tricked. But she did not think he would believe her. He had told her not to go out with Bertram, yet she had gone. A large tear rolled down Harriet’s cheek. He would never forgive her.
Chapter Eight
The Marquess of Arden had eaten a leisurely breakfast that morning. There was little to interest him in the newspapers.
He looked impatiently at the clock. He was eager to see Harriet again, to tell her he loved her. He had bought her a pretty necklace, and as he put aside the newspaper, he dreamily imagined how it would look against the whiteness of her neck.
He was sure Harriet kept early hours. Better to see her before Cordelia got out of bed.
He dressed with more care than usual, slipped the necklace into his pocket, and walked to Hill Street.
Despite the early hour—it was eleven in the morning—he found to his surprise that Cordelia was awaiting him, dressed in her finest.
“I am delighted to see you, Lady Bentley,” he said, kissing the air a few inches above her hand, “but I am anxious to see Miss Harriet.”
“Alas, poor Arden.” Cordelia sighed. “To be cuckolded by your own cousin.”
He went very still. His face looked older, harder. “Again, my lady,” he said softly. “What did you
say?”
“It is terrible,” wailed Cordelia, wringing her hands. “Harriet is gone with Bertram. One hopes they will marry. She left a note saying she loved him.”
The marquess closed his eyes briefly and then demanded in a flat voice, “The note, madam. Where is the note?”
“Why, I have not got it! I was so disgusted that she should do such a thing, I threw it on the fire.”
“She would not do such a thing,” said the marquess. “No matter what it cost her, she would face up to me and tell me she wanted to marry Bertram. Where is Miss Clifton?”
“Asleep, poor old thing,” said Cordelia. “The shock was too much for her. I had to administer laudanum and put her back to bed.”
“Why did you encourage your sister to go about London unchaperoned in Bertram’s company?”
“But I did not! As far as I knew, they only went for drives in the park, which, as you know, is quite convenable, provided the carriage is an open one.”
“And you knew nothing of this … did not know what was in the wind?”
Cordelia looked at him steadily and put her hand on her heart. “By my word,” she said, “it came as much of a surprise to me as it did to you.”
All at once, he had to get away from her. She, the whole house, the whole situation, disgusted him.
He hated Harriet, and he could not wait until he found her to tell her so.
“Where are you going?” asked Cordelia. “Pray stay with me a little and take some refreshment.” She smiled at him seductively.
He looked at her in surprise. “I am going after them.”
“Oh, no, you must not,” said Cordelia, appalled. What if that fool Harriet repeated the stories she had been told about him? “Only think of the humiliation … the blow to your pride.”
He looked down at her curiously. “Do you hate your sister?” he asked.
“I?” Cordelia gasped. “Have I not given her a home? Did I not marry old Lord Bentley to alleviate her hardship? Did I not sacrifice myself?”
But the marquess was not Bertram Hudson. “When I called by chance at Pringle House, your sister and aunt were living in abysmal poverty,” he said. “One of your gowns, the price of one of your dresses, would have gone a long way to alleviate their hardship. I will never forgive your sister for what she has done, but Bertram is in my charge and must be rescued from his folly.”
He turned on his heel and walked from the room. Cordelia stood, biting her lip. Everything was going wrong. Agnes has fled. Cordelia longed to take her to court but knew she would be the laughingstock of the ton if she did so. Why was everyone so ungrateful? Hadn’t she bought Agnes new gowns and let her entertain that fool Prenderbury as if she were the mistress of the house?
She hoped Arden would be too late to find Bertram before his marriage. Harriet would tell such lies. That girl had always had a sly, lying streak. And after I saved her from death! thought Cordelia. And so she worked on the lies until they had practically become reality. Poor Harriet and Bertram, so young. They would not have a feather to fly with. If she, Cordelia, could not bring Arden up to the mark, then she would just need to sacrifice herself again by marrying Lord Struthers.
When the Marquess of Arden heard Mr. Prenderbury was waiting to see him, he told his butler to send the man away.
Prenderbury had no doubt called to discuss arrangements for the wedding, and the heavy-hearted marquess felt he could not bear to waste valuable time in painful explanations.
He went straight around to the mews to see to the harnessing of his matched bays. After ordering his traveling carriage to be brought around as quickly as possible, he returned to his house.
To his amazement, Mr. Prenderbury was struggling on the steps of the marquess’s town house with the butler and one of the first footmen.
“What is the meaning of this?” demanded the marquess.
“I must see you,” said Mr. Prenderbury, gasping. “These persons would not let me await your return.”
“Come inside for a moment,” said the marquess brusquely. “You must speak quickly. I am leaving for the north.”
He shouted to his valet to pack a trunk as soon as they were indoors and then led Mr. Prenderbury into the library.
“I thought you had called to discuss arrangements for my wedding, which is why I could not find time to see you,” said the marquess. “There will be no wedding.”
“I left it too late!” exclaimed Mr. Prenderbury. “Miss Harriet’s mind has already been poisoned against you.”
“Speak!” said the marquess harshly. Mr. Prenderbury retreated cautiously behind a chair.
“I am to wed Miss Agnes Hurlingham, Lady Bentley’s companion—Lady Bentley’s former companion.”
“Good hea
vens, man, get to the point.”
“Lady Bentley had forbidden Agnes to see me. She said that unless Agnes did what she wanted, then not only would she be treated like a slave, but she would never see me again. She told her to poison Miss Harriet’s mind against you.”
“The deuce! And what did she say that could possibly turn Miss Harriet against me? There are no skeletons in my closet, Prenderbury.”
“She told Miss Harriet the names of five of your mistresses.”
“So? I am sure even an innocent like Harriet cannot expect a man of my age to have lived like a monk.”
“It was what you did to these mistresses.” The marquess listened in growing horror as Mr. Prenderbury primly recited a catalogue of beatings and rapes. “Don’t you see how wicked and cunning it all was?” cried Mr. Prenderbury. “Miss Harriet would never have believed Lady Bentley, but, alas, she trusted Agnes.”
The marquess’s butler appeared in the doorway. “Your carriage awaits, my lord.”
“Good-bye, Prenderbury,” he said. “God willing, you may dance at my wedding yet.”
Harriet decided to walk to the next village on the road back to London before finding any refreshment. She hoped her few shillings would be enough. Food was very expensive due to the long war with Napoleon’s troops.
The next place she came to was very small, consisting of only a few houses, but it had a very grand posting house with a daunting number of outdoor and indoor servants.
Harriet contented herself with a small meat pie from the bakery and a handful of water from the village pump.
There had been no sign of Bertram, and although she dreaded the weary miles ahead, a long, long walk was preferable to having to endure the sight of him. Harriet now had plenty of leisure time to turn over the perfidy of Cordelia in her mind. She, Harriet, should never have left Pringle House. God was punishing her for sponging off a sister who did not even like her. Harriet tried very hard not to think of the Marquess of Arden because every time she did she experienced a feeling of shame combined with a sinking sensation of loss.
For a time, the walking was pleasant enough. A warm wind had risen and the sun had come out. Her hair was blown about her face, making her look like a gypsy. Her clothes became dusty and the road dried, so the people in passing carriages did not pause to wonder who she was, taking her for some local village girl with her wild hair and her once-modish clothes begrimed with dust.
At a crossroads, the bodies of three felons danced and swayed on a gibbet, and Harriet hurried by, holding her handkerchief to her nose.
But the sight of the bodies reminded her of footpads and the terrors of the night ahead. Once the sun went down, she might become sport for any ruffian finding a solitary woman walking on a lonely road.
She trudged wearily through a flat landscape, ribbons of fields running away of either side. The sun began to sink lower in the sky, and there was a shivering chill in the air. A line of tall poplars beside the road threw long bars of shadow across her path.
Harriet was tired, thirsty, and very much alone. She regretted that she had treated Aunt Rebecca in an offhand manner. How silly to blame that good-hearted woman of selfishness. Was it not natural that a woman as old as Aunt Rebecca should dread another long, cold winter at Pringle House? Then all at once she thought of the strength of the marquess’s arms and the warmth of his lips, and tears made tracks down her dusty cheeks.
She blinked her tears away as she turned at a bend in the road and then shrank into the shelter of the hedgerow. For standing in the middle of the road was Bertram’s carriage. She stood where she was, shivering with fear, until it dawned on her that the carriage had neither occupants nor horses.
She walked forward slowly and cautiously.
The carriage was standing at a crossroads. As she approached, she saw the windows had been smashed and one of the doors had been wrenched off its hinges.
She moved around to the front of the carriage. The traces had been cut and were lying in the dust. She looked around wildly, expecting to see Bertram’s body in the ditch, but there was no sign of him.
Poor Bertram, thought Harriet with a shudder. He has been set upon by footpads. Pray God he escaped unharmed.
All of her rage and fear about Bertram and his behavior fled, leaving her worried about the carefree boy who had taken her for drives in the park and who had made her laugh.
The Marquess of Arden drove like a man possessed. His coachman sat beside his master on the box with his eyes shut, sure that they would overturn and land in the ditch. The coachman could never understand now his lordship could get his cattle to go at such a breakneck pace. They had changed horses twice, and each time the marquess had stroked the restless animals on the nose and had talked to them. And when he had set out, the horses had reached a fifteen-mile-an-hour pace, which everyone knew could bring on apoplexy. It was an unnatural speed, grumbled the coachman to himself, and resolved to say a few harsh words to one of the young grooms hanging on to the back who had started to sing at the top of his voice, carried away with the excitement of the chase.
Toll keepers felt the lash of the marquess’s voice if they were tardy at running out to open their gates.
Some village women crossed themselves in terror as the carriage with its satanic-looking driver sped past, and many said ever afterward that they could smell brimstone.
The coachman never knew quite what happened, but one minute they were racing at breakneck speed along a road toward a crossroads, and the next the marquess had slewed coach, horses, and all right across the road.
He jumped down lightly, holding his whip, and the coachman, who had closed his eyes again in fear, opened them and saw that another carriage had plunged to a halt in front of them, the horses rearing and snorting.
The marquess went up to the other carriage and quieted the horses. Then, ignoring the coachman, he strode around the side and called, “Out! Out of there immediately, Bertram.”
There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of water gurgling in the ditch and the clear song of a lark high in the sky above.
“Bertram!” called the marquess again. He went and looked in the window of the coach. There was no sign of Harriet. Only Bertram crouching, white-faced, on the floor.
With a great oath, the marquess swung the butt end of his whip against the carriage windows again and again until all of the glass was splintered. Then he seized the door and wrenched it off its hinges.
“Out!” he said grimly.
“Don’t hit me,” squeaked Bertram. “I’ll tell my mother.”
“Where is she, damn you?” raged the marquess. Bertram sat down on the carriage step and began to cry.
“Stop blubbering,” said the marquess, beside himself with fear and rage.
Bertram scrubbed his cuff across his eyes like a schoolboy. “I thought I was doing the r-right thing.” He hiccupped. “She seemed to be afraid of you, and Cordelia told me it was my duty to rescue her. It is all Cordelia’s fault! It’s not my fault. I was the soul of courtesy and kindness, and she punched me in the stomach and hit me on the head … and then she ran away.”
“Where was this? Which way did she run?”
“A village, several miles back … That way,” said Bertram, pointing down the wrong road. He did not want his cousin to find Harriet until he, Bertram, was well out of reach. He shuddered to think what the marquess would do to him after Harriet told him he had struck her.
“So you simply went off and left her to walk back to London?” said the marquess softly. “Well, a little of your own medicine will do you the power of good.”
He called to Bertram’s servants. “Get down.”
Then he took a knife from his pocket and slashed the traces. “Mount!” he said to the servants. “And ride to London as hard as you can. It may be that I shall be close behind you. If I catch you dallying in the hope of aiding your master, I will make life very unpleasant for you.”
Despite Bertram’s loud pleas, threat
s, and lamentations, his servants quickly mounted and rode off without once looking back.
Bertram thanked his stars he had had the foresight to bring a great deal of money with him. Certainly it had been meant to pay for the costs of an elopement, but now it would do to pay for a comfortable sojourn at a pleasant inn and then for the hire of a chaise to take him back to town.
To his horror, the marquess seized him by the cravat and jerked him upright. His nimble fingers searched in the tails of Bertram’s coat and brought out a heavy bag of gold.
“You will not be needing this, coz,” he said. “You may call on me later this week and pick it up. Good day to you.”
While Bertram stood, dumbfounded, the Marquess of Arden climbed nimbly into his carriage and picked up the reins. Soon he had vanished down the wrong road in a cloud of dust.
Bertram shook his fist at the retreating carriage. “You bully,” he raged. “My mother will have something to say on this matter—see if she don’t!”
The light was fading fast from the sky. Harriet walked on wearily and slowly. She was hungry and thirsty and tired. She was also very frightened. If poor Bertram could be attacked in broad daylight, then what horrible perils the darkness of night must hold. She had originally planned to sleep for a little behind a hedgerow, but she was too cold, and a thick dew lay glistening on the grass.
Faint yellow candlelight suddenly appeared on her right.
Harriet decided to go to whatever lodging it proved to be and beg shelter for the night. The building was situated on a small side road leading off the main London road.
As Harriet approached, she saw that it was an inn—more of a hedge tavern. She stood for a moment, searching in her reticule. All she had was one half-crown. But that would surely pay for some food and drink. The inn seemed too poor and small to boast any bedchamber other than that of the landlord, but they might allow her to sleep on a settle in the tap.
She pushed open the door and went in, blinking in the candlelight. Four evil faces leered at her. One belonged to the landlord and the other three to his guests.
They are not evil at all, thought Harriet firmly. Their faces are marred by a lifetime of grog and bad feeding.
