A Refuge for Rosanna

by Susan Karsten

  The innkeeper’s wife re-entered the room, with another tray. “All’s I gots is these scones. They’s from yesterday, but all tells that they’re mighty good.”

  The guards crowded around the woman, forgetting their duties in order to grab for the scones.

  Rosanna took this chance to slip out of the room, running for the front door only a few steps down the hall. She ran across the small innyard, peeked around the corner of the stable, glimpsed Halburt in his bright blue coat walking in her direction and dove into the nearest convenient haystack.

  She didn’t know what to do next, but at least she was out of his clutches. Rosanna, deathly afraid of being caught again, pulled hay over her head and shoved herself as far into the stack as she could. When Halburt passed her on his way back to the inn, his cuff brushed the tip of her nose. Good thing she wasn’t prone to sneezing.

  A coach appeared, coming from the opposite direction from that which she arrived. As the coach turned into the yard, a distant uproar from inside the inn met her ears—surely Halburt throwing a wild tantrum by now. Those sounds were soon surpassed by the jangling of the harness, the clip-clop of the newly arriving horses, and the shouting of the ostlers.

  “Egads, ye bumpkins, clear the way for a gentleman.”

  More sounds, steps being lowered, door creaking open, then the cultured voice of an older man greeting the innkeeper.

  “George Cabot, Esquire. Here to take morning tea. I’ve been on the south road for three hours, my good man, and must rest myself.”

  Uncle George! Here? Thank you, Lord. Rosanna stood , hay cascading from her dusty, bedraggled person. Brushing herself off, she ran over, peeked around the carriage, and perceived that it really was her uncle.

  “Hello, Uncle George. It’s me, your niece, come to join you on your journey, just as we planned.” She positioned herself facing him and fixed his eyes with hers. She raised an index finger and pressed it vertically across her lips, raised her eyebrows, then whispered, “Don’t say anything. Not my name. You must save me—I’ve been abducted.”

  She linked her arm through his, and he patted her hand. He reached inside his dove gray coat and left his hand in there as they entered the inn. “Drake, Handsworth, follow me.” Two burly outriders fell in behind, and before long, Rosanna was back in the dining room.

  “Lord Halburt, meet my uncle. He doesn’t look like it, but he’s an angel. God sent him to save me from the devil that is you. Tell your servants to leave the room.”

  “Now.” Uncle George’s voice held command, and Halburt’s henchmen, who looked puny next to Uncle’s men, scuttled out without a backward glance. “Drake, you and Handsworth stand outside this room and guard the door. Don’t let anyone in here.”

  Halburt took a stance in one of the corners, trying to appear composed.

  But Rosanna could tell he was shaking by the fob trembling on a chain suspended across his waistcoat.

  Uncle George cut to the chase. “Rosanna. What is the meaning of this?”

  “This cur is my neighbor, Lord Halburt, who stole me from my home woods. He intends to carry me off to Gretna Green, force marriage upon me, and has sorely mistreated me.” She held up an index finger, indicating one more point of important. “Also, he openly stated to me that he intends to ruin me.”

  “I think I understand.” Uncle George’s face blanched, but he forged ahead. “Has he harmed you?”

  “Other than pinioning my arm in a painful vise-like grip, dragging me through thick woods, casting me down on the floor of his carriage and locking me in? No, unless you count forcing me to sleep in a moving closed carriage all through the night. Not to mention unsavory threats, including his plans to force himself upon me this very day.”

  “Say no more, young lady.” The older man turned to face Rosanna’s tormenter. “I don’t give much veracity to your words, Halburt, but where were you taking my niece?”

  “We were on a journey to marry over the anvil. I expect to be there by nightfall tomorrow since we shall cross the River Esk tonight.”

  “That’s an odd plan, since you are nowhere near the River Esk. It’s much farther than a day’s drive from here.”

  “No matter. Perhaps we’d have a private ceremony today.”

  “Nothing of the kind. My beloved niece will be leaving here in my care. Now listen carefully. Here are my instructions. Leave this place, speaking to no one, take your minions with you and begone.”

  Sulking, Halburt sidled past Uncle George, cringing like a dog expecting to be struck. He had his hand on the door knob yet turned back to drip poison. “Be sure of this, she is lying. You might want to think twice about taking her away from me, since her reputation is now in tatters.”

  “You’ll say nothing. If one breath of scandal touches her, you’ll find yourself dragged through the mud and you’ll rue the day you tried this folly. I assure you of that. Now take your hand off the doorknob.”

  Halburt let his hand slip off and Rosanna saw his chin tremble. What would Uncle George do next?

  “Drake!” He called out. “Come in here.”

  One of the outriders entered. “Yes, sir?”

  “Escort this man to his coach. Make sure he keeps his mouth shut. If he tries to talk, you have my orders to muzzle him any way you think best.”

  Lord Halburt squawked as he was muscled out of the inn.

  Rosanna ran to the window in time to see him trundled into his coach and Uncle’s servant smack the rump of one of the horses to send it off at a spanking pace.

  She turned back to Uncle George. His face stern, she quaked, expecting to face a scolding, but then he opened his arms and she rushed into them, sobbing in relief.

  “There, there, Rosa.” He patted her back with his large hands, and then held her a little way from him. “Let’s wipe those tears.”

  His capacious linen hanky helped her to cease crying, and he sat on the fireside bench with her, waiting while she took some deep breaths.

  “Now, now. Don’t hang your head. You just rest it here on my shoulder. We’ll not tarry here. Do you have any luggage? For you are worse for wear, my dear girl.”

  “No. I have no luggage. He grabbed me in the woods on my own property.”

  “Fine. Calm down. Just ascertaining your needs. You’ve always been a good girl. There’s a much finer inn on the other side of this town. We shall go there, and you will rest and repair from your ordeal. My travel can wait since I was on my way home from dealing with a problem on one of my northern holdings.”

  “Oh, Uncle George, thank the Lord you were on this road at the exact time I needed you. Such mercy. I was sore pressed and had no idea what to do next. That haystack was so itchy and dirty, too.”

  “Now that’s easily dealt with. Just muster up the courage to walk out of here and we shall travel to the other inn.”

  58

  Soaking chin deep in a hip bath, which the inn servants had labored to fill from cans of hot water carried up a steep flight of stairs, Rosanna was only able to relax after glancing at the locked door numerous times. She closed her eyes and tried to pray. Heart’s cries were all that she could produce—words having for once escaped her.

  Traumatized nerves on edge, she forced her shoulders down, and reviewed her plight. She was here, far from home, with no extra clothing. And since her dress needed to be washed, dried and ironed by the inn’s maid, she’d need to sit wrapped in a blanket until the dress was returned. Not to mention the look of disappointment in Uncle George’s eyes—after the crisis was over, he’d quizzed her on how she happened to be so unsafe at Honor’s Point that a man could abduct her. More quizzing and disapproval to come from Uncle George.

  Uncle George would tackle her about the unwise choice of her living arrangements. He’d probably prodce a handy list of possible suitors, assuring her she’d be better off with one of them.

  Once she was home in her own domain, she’d be better able to withstand his arguments, if he persisted in them. But the peo
ple at home—surely agog with worry by now. She groaned and levered out of the tub, dripping. Making quick work of drying off, she wrapped up in the blanket. Lord, thank You, it’s a warm spring day. Extracting one arm from the blanket, she pulled a piece of paper from the writing desk. A fine inn, to provide a desk, paper and ink to guests. Another thing to thank Uncle George for—removing her to such a superior hostelry.

  The mail coach due in an hour, her letter would arrive at Woodvale and then to Honor’s Point by tomorrow. Well before she’d return.

  Dear Loved Ones,

  Alas, I was forcefully taken from the woods. But God provided a rescuer. Just as I was in the direst of straits, my Uncle George happened by (by God’s providential mercy alone) and he wrested me from the clutches of disaster. My person is intact, and I have no injuries other than an odd bruise or two. Try to reassure anyone who is worried. Please tell our dear neighbors, Lady Brook and Lord Winstead (but not Halburt) that I am fine, and not to worry—I’ll be home soon whence I shall explain all.

  Fond Regards, Rosanna Cabot

  She sanded the letter, folded it, and readied it for the mail.

  A tap came upon the door—it was the maid, with Rosanna’s freshly laundered dress. “Here tis, mum.”

  “Thank you, and can you stay to help me fasten it?”

  Rosanna went behind the convenient folding screen provided for dressing privacy and got her underthings and now faded muslin dress on. The inn’s soap was surely harsher than the fine soap used at Honor’s Point. Oh well, she’d never want to wear the dress again after this misadventure. All that was needed was assistance with fastenings.

  “There ye are, miss. Anything else?”

  “Tell my uncle, Mr. Cabot, that I can receive him now in the sitting alcove.” Rosanna waved her hand to indicate a corner with a sunny bow window. “Please have some tea brought in as well. Thank you.” She latched the door behind the servant and moved over to the window, and her mood lowered, not at all matching the bright late spring day. Her forehead pressed the glass, while her hands wrung against each other. How would this contretemps be played out? If only her uncle’s compassion ran as strong as his gallantry. She had enough to face at home, and didn’t relish a scolding. A knock came upon the door. She jumped, then asked “Who is it?”

  “It’s your Uncle George.”

  She unlatched the door and let him in.

  “Ah, there you are. Feeling more the thing?” He plunked down a parcel on an empty chair by the door.

  Uncle’s jaunty air bade well, and Rosanna managed a smile and responded. “There are few ills a hot bath can’t help.” She slid onto the window seat and sat silent as Uncle George pulled up one of the side chairs.

  He brushed down his gray sleeves in a nervous tic and then leaned his wrists on the edge of the table and clasped his hands. “Tea is on its way?”

  “Oh, yes—any minute now.” She leaned back, and her words came true. A tap on the door, a maid backed into the room and voila, a fully laden tea cart appeared. Rosanna indicated the letter on the desk. “Please take that letter and see that it gets on the mail coach. Thank you, that will be all.”

  Uncle George held up a staying hand. “Wait.” The maid obeyed, eyes intent for further instructions. “Tell the innkeeper I’ll need a horseman to ride with a message. The mail coach could take days. Come back for it when all is arranged.”

  The maid bobbed a curtsey and departed to do his bidding.

  “Thank you, Uncle George. A much better idea.” Rosanna poured tea for her uncle and for herself. She loaded a plate of cucumber sandwiches, cheeses, and tarts for him, and selected a scone for herself. After taking her first sip, she held her cup aloft and said, “Tea—another great curative.”

  “Indeed.” He partook heartily, and then pushed his plate away. “Can’t say when I’ve had an adventure on the road such as today’s. My life has grown staid. But, coming to your aid in timely fashion will be a long-remembered coup for me and shall go down in the annals of time.”

  “You do know how to turn a phrase, Uncle. I am so grateful….” Sniffles and teardrops embarrassed Rosanna, but she pressed her eyelids and soon overcame them. “I must get back to Honor’s Point. Can you escort me there?”

  “I can, but are you certain that’s the best?”

  “You doubt me again?”

  “Hear me out, Rosanna. I have several reasons for suggesting that you visit my home in London. We’ve missed you, dear. The girls would love to see their cousin. They do admire you. But most importantly, if we can quickly establish your presence there, and through mild subterfuge, indicate your visit started a week ago, no one will credit any such gossip about this escapade which might leak out into society’s ears.”

  “You think Halburt will dare?”

  “I do. He gives the impression of being a pompous fool. He’s certain to feel quite aggrieved. He will want to strike back at you.”

  “And he won’t resist the urge, because he is of weak character?”

  “Yes. His pride and arrogance will probably master him and open his mouth. I meant my threats, however, and will carry them out. He will be sorry when I get though with him, if he does what I predict.”

  “But is protecting my reputation that important, since I don’t plan to rejoin society? Or live in London again?”

  “Rosanna.” Uncle’s voice was larded with tried patience. “You don’t know the future. You may yet marry. You may have children. Those children may want to go to London to move in advantageous circles in which to acquire spouses, and so on.”

  “I suppose you have a point. I will take you up on that suggestion, however, not because I am cowed by the tabbies. I miss the girls, too, and I just don’t feel ready to return to the site of my near-doom. It’s too fresh.”

  “I own I am pleasantly surprised you agreed to my wishes so readily, but I will accept your assent without question and am happy with it. I shall say no more about your future…right now. For the journey, I purchased for you a cloak from the proprietor’s wife. It should fit you—she’s about your size.” He handed her a gray homespun bundle.

  “Thank you for your thoughtfulness. Now, I must add a line to my letter, explaining the change in our plans. ”

  “Excellent. I’ll have another one of those tarts, while you rewrite your note. And then, I’ll add one of my own.”

  ~*~

  The wood pile mounted by the hour next to Peter’s cottage. No matter how many logs he split with the maul and hammer, no matter how many swings of the axe, his leaden heart stayed heavy.

  Two frantic days and nights of searching the roads for any word of Rosanna, had not produced her. Putting the scant clues together, he surmised Dot had been taken out of commission by someone who met Rosanna in his place and abducted her. At a loss, the search party dragged home, misery their only find. The frustration and bitter sorrow was about killing him. Lord, please protect her. Please.

  “Sir! There’s been a letter!” Dot ran into the clearing, out of breath.

  “A letter?” Peter threw down the axe and ran to the frail maid. Grabbing her shoulders, he tried not to yell. “From Miss Cabot? Tell me, who?”

  “Yes, sir, from Miss Cabot. The ladies up at the manor are awaiting you.” She panted, then bent over with hands on her knees.

  He ran into his cottage, yanked his coat off a hook inside the door, slammed it shut, and splashed some water on his face from a bucket on the stoop. He shot past Dot, and plunged into the woods.

  Reaching Honor’s Point, he slowed his steps only at the massive door. Crashing the knocker against the heavy door, he gasped, breathing hard from the run. When Perkins opened the door, he brushed past. “Where is Miss Barton?”

  “Right in here, sir.” Perkins grabbed the doorknob to the drawing room and hastily ushered Peter inside.

  Within, Ellie and Miss Barton rose from their satin chairs, faces tight with anxiety.

  “The letter? May I see it?”

  “Of
course, please sit down first.” Miss Barton indicated the plush settee next to her. “Here it is.” She handed over the letter.

  His eyes raced through the words. Dear Loved Ones…Alas…forcefully taken…direst straits…Uncle George…wrested me from the clutches of disaster…intact…no injuries…Please tell…dear…Lord Winstead…but not Halburt…home soon…Rosanna P.S. I am going to London to visit Uncle George’s family for a week, first.

  “Praise God! She’s safe. What a trial. It sounds as though she’s come through fairly unscathed.” He dropped his head into his hands, dry sobbing.

  Perkins opened the door a crack and stuck his head through. “Ladies, Lord Winstead? Another letter has just arrived. This one by special messenger.” He entered, arm extended, holding the missive. He handed the envelope to Miss Barton, bowed and reversed his tracks, closing the door again with a thunk.

  Peter worked toward a semblance of composure, but he felt wrung out, like a rag twisted one too many times. Drained and silent, he waited while Miss Barton broke the seal, drew out the folded paper, then unfolded it.

  Head moving as she scanned line by line, and eyebrows rising, the letter crumpled as Barton’s hands fell to her lap. “I am so surprised.” She placed her fingertips across her lips and stared at the fire.

  “Please read the letter out loud, Miss Barton.” Ellie laid her small hand upon the companion’s wrist. “Or should I?”

  Wordless, Barton passed the crinkled page to Ellie.

  Relief and the aftermath of sick worry warred within Peter. He waited for another shoe to drop.

  Ellie touched the bottom of the page with her forefinger. “This letter is from George Cabot, Esquire. That is Rosanna’s uncle who lives in London. She’s mentioned him fondly to me and that he was instrumental in her moving here. He was her legal guardian since her parents died.”

  Peter interrupted, his voice weak with emotion. “Please read the letter, Miss Moore?”

  “Of course.”

  Dear Miss Barton,

  My niece Rosanna Cabot asked me to write. She has consented to go on to London with me for a family visit at this time, rather than coming directly home after the recent ‘contretemps’ you are surely aware of.