The Last Gamble

by Mary Nichols

  ‘My husband was not one of the rioters, you understand,’ Mrs Goodman put in quickly. ‘He was simply doing his duty as a militiaman.’

  ‘Oh, I see, one of the law enforcers,’ Duncan said with a note of irony in his voice which was not lost on Helen. The militia had been even more enthusiastic at putting down the insurgents than the army itself and there were those who firmly believed the whole episode had been created by agents provocateurs. Mr Goodman, perhaps, or people like Mr Hartley, with an axe to grind?

  ‘Yes,’ Mrs Goodman agreed. ‘The militia were ordered to charge the mob. There were thousands of them, carrying banners and sticks and suchlike and chanting insults against the troops who were sent to calm them.’

  ‘You were there?’ Helen queried. ‘You saw the massacre?’

  ‘I was not on the spot, but it could be heard from miles away. If I had been there, I might have prevented Francis being hurt. He was run through with his own sword, taken from him by one of the mob.’

  ‘Oh, I am so sorry,’ Helen murmured, realising her mistake. ‘I did not mean to distress you.’

  ‘A year he lived afterwards, a year and two months, lying there in his bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to move except the fingers of one hand, unable to speak properly. I nursed him night and day, but he never knew I was there. To me he died that day in August last year, not two weeks ago. It was only the burial of him that was delayed. And no one brought to book over it. They won’t be now, of course, he took too long in the dying.’

  Helen could hardly say she was sorry again, but what else was there to say? This coachride, besides being a journey into the unknown, was a journey of discovery; so many different people, so many harrowing stories, so much to learn. She was beginning to realise how easy her life had been up to now. She should be thankful for what she had had, the happy childhood, the loving parents, not spend her time blaming her father for deserting her, or being afraid of the future.

  ‘You think I am callous, don’t you?’ Mrs Goodman went on. ‘That I should be weeping behind my veil?’

  ‘I imagine you did all your weeping twelve months ago,’ Helen said.

  ‘I did that. It was fortunate Robert was at school most of the time and knew little of it. He is a good boy and very clever, like his father. He was an engineer, you know.’

  She went on in like manner for mile after mile, with an occasional comment from Helen and Mr Hartley, while the thin man with the wart on his nose sat in the corner with a small case on his lap and uttered not a word, and Duncan smiled wryly.

  Killearn. But where in Killearn? Did it matter? He could hardly go calling on his friends and acquaintances simply for the pleasure of seeing one of their employees, and his father and brother would think he had run mad. Arabella! If memory served him, James and Arabella had a child just the age to begin a little tuition at home. If she were going there…

  He stopped his thoughts running back to his hurt. He had been no more than a naïve youth and Arabella had been a childish dream. But when you are very young you do not have the wisdom to see such things in proper perspective; every emotion, high or low, every joy, every hurt is doubly felt, remembered with embarrassment.

  But he had put it behind him, made himself get on with a life that was full and interesting, except that he never quite trusted himself to fall in love again. He had almost forgotten that early hurt until he met Miss Helen Sadler. But why should meeting her bring it all back? She did not look like Arabella, did not sound like her, certainly did not behave like her.

  He glanced out of the window as they slowed over a particularly bad patch of road, so full of ruts they were bounced and bumped about like potatoes in a sack and all conversation ceased while they held on to their seats. Thankfully the rain had ceased, but the potholes were full of water and it was difficult for the coachman to see which holes, being the deepest, were best avoided.

  It was no surprise to Duncan when a sudden lurch sent them all sprawling in a heap on top of Mr Hartley and the thin little man in the corner seat. Duncan, who had managed to save himself from joining them, grabbed Helen round the waist and hung onto her until the rocking of the coach stopped and they came to rest.

  ‘God’s teeth!’ This from Mr Hartley as he scrambled off the little man. ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘No, I do not think so, though my hat is broken.’

  Duncan opened the door on the offside and helped Helen to alight. To Robert he said, ‘Come on, young shaver, out you come and let me help your mother.’ Robert emerged, followed by Mrs Goodman, complaining that she thought her last hour had come, then Mr Hartley and finally the little man and his battered hat. The coachman, the guard and the solitary outside passenger had all descended unhurt and were standing on the nearside verge looking at the back wheel, which was smashed beyond repair.

  ‘Oh, not again!’ Helen exclaimed, as she joined them. ‘How many more disasters are we to suffer?’

  ‘It’s not a disaster,’ Duncan said. ‘No one is hurt, not even the horses. It is simply a setback.’

  ‘And one I would rather do without,’ the coachman said. ‘We’ll never make Carlisle tonight now.’

  ‘Can it be repaired?’ Mrs Goodman asked.

  ‘I’ve got tools for minor repairs,’ the guard said. ‘But this ain’t minor, not nohow. This is major. A new wheel, no less.’ He bent down and examined the underside of the carriage. ‘And an axle-tree.’

  ‘And where are we to find those?’

  ‘In Preston. There will be a coachbuilder and wheelwright there.’

  ‘But that is miles away,’ Mr Hartley said. ‘I have important business to transact, I cannot waste my time, sitting in a broken-down coach counting the hairs in my beard. Something must be done and done at once.’

  ‘Of course something must be done,’ the coachman said somewhat irritably. ‘And the first thing is to get the vehicle off the road. If we leave it where it is, someone is bound to run into it and then it won’t be an axle-tree we’ll be needing, but a whole new carriage. And I could do with help, not hindrance.’

  The guard and all the passengers, except Helen and Mrs Goodman, heaved at the coach while the coachman, standing at their heads, urged the horses to pull, until it was half-hauled, half-manhandled to the verge and allowed to drop lopsidedly onto its broken axle. ‘They might have a spare coach at the next staging post,’ the coachman said, unharnessing one of the leaders. ‘I’ll ride on and see what I can find.’ Then to the guard, ‘Charlie, you look after our passengers and keep your eye on their belongings. And walk the horses. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

  There was nothing for it but to wait and try to keep warm until help arrived. The little man elected to settle down in the lea of the coach with his battered hat on his head and his chin in the turned-up collar of his coat, while the guard released the horses from the traces and began to walk them up and down the road. Robert ran back the way they had come and climbed onto a knoll which gave him a good view of any approaching traffic which might take some of them on.

  His mother paced up and down, avoiding the water-filled potholes, accompanied by the outside passenger and Mr Hartley, who found in her a willing listener. Helen, pulling her cloak closely round her, walked up the road a little way, to see what was beyond the group of trees which surrounded them. Duncan, unwilling to let her out of his sight, accompanied her, matching his stride to hers.

  The bitterly cold wind whirled her bonnet off and would have taken it away if it had not been securely tied under her chin. It hung down her back on its ribbons and she left it there. Her raven-black hair escaped from its pins and tendrils of it drifted across her face. Her eyes were bright and her cheeks glowing. He had never seen anyone so beautiful, so full of life.

  He walked beside her, watching her, watching the way she tipped her head back and lifted her face to the sky, the way she put up a gloved hand to push the hair back, the sudden smile and just as sudden frown, dainty feet picking her way over the rough ground
. Everything she did was a delight. And yet, in the back of his mind were doubts, doubts about her, doubts about his own feelings. She had lied, of that he was sure, but what he did not know was why. What was her secret? And did it matter?

  ‘I am truly sorry,’ she said, breaking in on his thoughts.

  ‘Sorry, Miss Sadler?’

  ‘Yes. You seem to have appointed yourself my escort and though I did not ask for it, I have been grateful for your kindness. I am sorry I was such a crosspatch this morning, ringing a peal over you because of a game of cards. It was very impertinent of me.’

  ‘It is of no consequence. Think no more of it.’

  ‘But for me you would have been safe home by now.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said, as they left the trees behind and emerged on a slight hill. The road, empty of traffic except for a farm cart in the distance, wound through moorland dotted with sheep and disappeared below the hill towards a distant hamlet; there was no sign of the returning coachman. ‘But just think of the adventures we have had. I would not have missed them for worlds.’

  ‘It is unkind of you to tease me.’

  ‘I am sorry,’ he said contritely. ‘But you make it so easy.’

  She ignored his comment and marched on. He really was insufferable. Why she had bothered to apologise she did not know. The wind was biting through her clothes and she could not stop herself shivering. ‘How long do you think the coachman will be?’

  ‘Not long, I hope.’ They turned to go back. ‘Let’s go this way, it is more sheltered.’ He took her arm and guided her off the road between the trees where a narrow path wound its way parallel to the highway. It was not quite so windy there, though they could hear it soughing in the tops of the branches. They walked side by side without speaking, their feet scuffling the fallen leaves.

  She could not understand him; the two sides to his nature were so at odds. He was a perfect escort, except for the fact that he was obviously acting against his will. He wanted to be riding on and rid of her, and yet he stayed glued to her side. He had spoken of duty, was that how he saw it? But why? Strangers on a coach, they had agreed on that. He had no duty towards her and she had no obligation to be grateful. It would be the same with the Earl of Strathrowan when she arrived in Killearn. When she arrived. If she arrived.

  Busy with her thoughts, she failed to see the tree root sticking up in her path and stumbled over it. She put out her hands to save herself but she was not allowed to fall; the Captain caught her in his arms almost before she knew it had happened. He stood there, his arms about her, feeling her body shaking, like a tiny bird trapped in a net. ‘Helen.’ His voice was hoarse.

  Hearing him say her name, she tipped her face up to his. The brittle look had gone from his eyes and the hard line of his jaw had softened; it was as if she saw him through a haze. For the first time she glimpsed the man beneath the shell. He bent his head and put his lips to hers, softly at first, then more urgently.

  Somewhere in the depths of her being something stirred, something new and exciting which filled her whole body with a tingling sensation which spread from her arms down to her stomach and thighs. It was both exhilarating and weakening, so that she could hardly support herself. She pressed herself closer, allowing the kiss to deepen, opening her mouth to his, tasting the essence of the man, clinging to him with her hands about his neck. The wind took their hair and intertwined it about their faces, her cloak blew across his thighs, making them a single being, alone among the leafless trees.

  How long she would have allowed it to go on, she would never know because a voice, loud and insistent, brought her suddenly to her senses. ‘Captain! Miss Sadler! Where are you?’

  She sprang away, scarlet with embarrassment. He did not move. She turned and ran, darting out of his sight among the trees, towards the sound of Robert’s voice.

  Duncan stood and watched her go, cursing himself. Just as he thought he was making headway, he had spoiled it all with that impulsive kiss. He would have to behave more circumspectly than that if he wanted to win her in the end. He pulled himself up short, wondering exactly what he meant by that. Did he mean to enjoy her charms as one would a mistress or make her his wife? He could not believe he had had either thought in his head.

  Lady’s maid or governess, she was hardly the sort of wife of whom his family would approve and she was far too young to make a satisfactory mistress. Had she known what she was doing to him? Was she the little innocent or a woman who knew exactly what she was about? ‘Damnation!’ he muttered, following more slowly.

  Helen stopped her headlong flight. She could not dash into the company like a frightened rabbit; they would know instantly that something had occurred. How could she have been so wanton as to allow it to happen? She had trusted him and where had that trust led her? Down into the depths.

  How could she have been so wrong about a man? She had thought he was dependable and kind, when all the time he was a philanderer and gambler. He had taken her for a simpleton the moment he she had asked for his help at the Blue Boar in London and ever since then had been playing with her as a cat plays with a mouse, waiting for his chance to catch her unawares. And, oh, how he had succeeded!

  ‘Miss Sadler.’ Robert appeared through the trees. ‘Mama sent me to find you. The coachman has returned. Did you not hear him?’

  ‘No.’ She managed a smile, settling her bonnet back on her head and pushing her hair up under it. ‘I expect the wind drowned the sound of the horse’s hooves.’

  ‘Where is Captain Blair?’

  ‘Captain Blair?’ She swallowed hard. ‘I have not seen him for some time.’

  ‘I’ll go and look for him, if you like.’

  ‘Yes, do. The sooner we are away, the sooner I shall be pleased.’ And if Captain Blair had managed to get himself lost and they left without him, she would be even more pleased. How was she going to endure the rest of the journey, sitting beside him, pretending nothing had happened, she did not know. Robert darted off, calling the Captain’s name and she made her way slowly back to the coach, trying desperately to compose herself and behave naturally.

  Beside the broken-down coach stood another, which hardly looked in better shape except that it had four wheels. It was very small and its paintwork was scuffed and old leather curtains hung in the windows instead of glass. There was no rail on the roof for the outside passengers. Two old horses stood in the traces. The guard was busy transferring their luggage, some of which had to be strapped onto the roof. Helen stood and stared at it.

  ‘It’s all I could find,’ the coachman said apologetically. ‘But it will carry us to the next village.’

  The little man rose from behind the broken coach and climbed inside without speaking, settling himself in the corner as if he had changed coaches at a normal stopping place. Mr Hartley, who had struck up a rapid rapport with Mrs Goodman, took her arm. ‘Come, my dear, let me help you up.’

  ‘Where is Robert?’ she asked, looking about her.

  ‘He has gone to look for Captain Blair,’ Helen said, surprised that her voice sounded perfectly normal. ‘They will be here directly.’

  Almost before she had finished speaking, Duncan and Robert appeared and Mrs Goodman climbed in, followed by Helen. It was cramped and there was no room for anyone else. Momentarily she wondered if the Captain might be left behind, which would have served him right, but quickly realised that was unlikely. She sat there, staring straight ahead, wishing they could be on their way and this dreadful journey over and done with.

  The whole thing was a nightmare, it must be. Soon she would wake to find herself in London, safe in her own bed with Daisy hovering over her with hot water, and the sun shining in the window and her father downstairs sitting over his breakfast without a care in the world. And later she would go shopping and buy a new gown, something light and frivolous, not this dreary black. Black was for mourning.

  She pinched herself hard and knew it was no dream; she really was sitting in a battered old coach su
rrounded by strange people, not least a man who thought it was perfectly permissible to grab hold of her and kiss her without so much as a by-your-leave.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Captain,’ the coachman said. ‘Will you ride one of the spare horses?’

  ‘It will be a pleasure.’ Duncan said, looking at Helen, who was busy rolling up the leather blind to let some light into the coach. A little smile played about his lips. The ghost of Arabella had been well and truly laid to rest, Miss Helen Sadler had seen to that. She noticed the smile and turned her head away. He was laughing at her, laughing at her naïvety, at the easy way he had conquered her. It increased her fury, not only with him, but with herself for her weakness.

  ‘If you would ride the leader, Captain, Charlie can ride one of the wheelers and lead the other.’ The coachman’s voice seemed loud in her ears, interrupting her jumbled thinking.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Duncan said, taking the bridle of one of the horses, while the guard mounted another and took up the reins of the third.

  ‘You sit on the box beside me, young shaver,’ the coachman said to Robert, much to the boy’s delight, and then to the solitary outside passenger. ‘If you sit close behind and hang onto the back of the box, you’ll be right as ninepence.’

  It was soon arranged to everyone’s satisfaction and they set off at a shambling gait which suited the two old horses, who were more used to pulling farm carts than coaches. At least, Helen thought, she did not have to sit beside Captain Blair.

  It was getting dusk as they drew into a yard where chickens flew up squawking at their approach and where a solitary coach lamp hung at the door. An old man hurried out towards them, a huge grin on his face. It was evident as soon as the passengers alighted that here was not a coaching inn. ‘What have you brought us to, coachman?’ Mrs Goodman demanded. ‘This is nothing but a hedge tavern. Can we not go on to something a little more agreeable?’

  ‘Sorry, ma’am, but this is where the coach and horses belong and they have to be returned.’