‘To Gretna, the dear child! The most romantic thing. You are absolutely the first to know, and I rely on your discretion as an old friend of the family. She’s been quite in a decline since Christmas. The Duke and I have been afraid for her. She only came alive when Giles Comfrey called. I really think she must have loved him always. Sir Walter advised marriage as the only cure for her mopes, but of course to tie the knot here in London would have been quite ineligible. With poor Tremadoc not dead six months! And, poor child, exposed to scandal as she has been!’
‘And you think a second runaway match to Gretna will not cause scandal?’
‘Oh, a nine days’ wonder of course! But marriage at the end of it, and the Duke’s support. We shall brush through well enough. Comfrey’s a clever man. He has good friends in the newspaper world. They’ll stand by him.’
‘If you believe that, you will believe anything!’ He did not know when he had been so angry. ‘It was a hint in the Chronicle brought me to town. No names, of course, but it fitted, and I did not like the tone of it.’
‘So soon?’ He had surprised her.
‘When did they leave?’
She hesitated, then, ‘Yesterday,’ she said. ‘They will be well on their way now. Giles Comfrey meant to lose no time.’
There had been a little pause after the Giles as if she had almost omitted the surname. ‘You’re very thick, you and Comfrey.’
‘My future son-in-law? Why, yes. A coming man. I’m happy for Caroline. He’ll put an end to her dismals.’
‘Dismals?’
‘I never saw anything like it!’ Impatient, she sounded genuine for the first time. ‘Peaking and pining over that Tremadoc! Well, a sad end, but from what I hear no great loss. But, Caroline! It was like having a ghost in the house! More than the poor Duke could bear, I can tell you, missing the dear Duchess as he does.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Formally. ‘I should have condoled with you.’
‘Or I with you.’ A very knowing look. ‘As for the Duke, he is inconsolable. It is sad for him to lose his daughter, too, at this moment, but to tell truth, and between old friends, her mopes were becoming more than he could bear. I really thought it best to encourage Giles Comfrey in carrying her off, though of course I miss her sadly.’
False again, he thought. What had been going on here? If only he was not too angry to think clearly. Caroline gone off with Comfrey. Carried off? He had been so sure of her. Too sure? Don’t think about that now; not with this acute woman watching.
‘I suppose I should congratulate you. Frankly, I think Mrs Tremadoc would have done better to wait out her mourning, but that is her affair.’
‘And Comfrey’s. They had our permission after all. The Duke’s and mine. I hope you will stand their friend, Mr Mattingley. You’ve always been good to my poor little Caroline. You’ll not let this rash start of hers count against her?’
‘Of hers? Or of Comfrey’s?’
‘It takes two to make a marriage, Mr Mattingley.’
Did it? If he stayed any longer with this devious woman he would lose his temper and say something he would regret. Lose his temper? It was lost long since.
‘Mr Mattingley!’ He had come striding furiously down the balustraded stair from the family apartments, now paused, dark brows drawn together, in the lobby.
‘Yes?’ It was a footman who had made bold to stop him.
‘Sir! Might I speak to you?’
‘You seem to be.’
‘You was a friend of her ladyship.’
‘The Duchess? Yes.’ Reminded of their relationship, he sounded angrier than ever.
‘She loved Miss Caroline,’ said the man, surprising him. He was sweating with fright, big drops forming under his wig. ‘So do we.’
‘So?’
‘Sir! She thought she was going to Llanfryn.’
‘What?’
‘She told her maid. Going home, she said.’ His face suddenly became wooden, and Mattingley, turning, saw the groom of the chambers looming behind him.
‘Come to my house.’ He gave the man a guinea, smiled formidably at the groom of the chambers, and left.
Driving too fast across the Park, Mattingley raged inwardly at Frances Winterton, at Caroline, at himself. He had been so sure of her. So sure that he had spoken too soon and got the set-down he deserved for it. But, surely, she must have known that he would come again just as soon as was decent? That he had gone to the country because he could not bear this waiting time? Well, not only that. The Duchess had died. His mother had been ill. He had had to go, but it had suited him well enough. He had been busy redecorating his house to suit his bride, planning a garden that he thought would surprise and please her.
And she had gone off with Comfrey. Possible? Impossible? He pulled his horses to a sweating halt outside his house and strode indoors to the glum, dust-sheeted rooms.
‘A man will be coming from Chevenham House,’ he told a footman. ‘I’ll see him at once.’
How long? He rang and ordered his bags repacked and his curricle kept ready, with fresh horses. Could he really mean to go after Caroline? Crazy. She and Comfrey had two days’ start on him. But — something false, one of Frances Winterton’s many false notes, when she told him that Giles Comfrey would travel fast? Caroline had told her maid she was going home to Llanfryn. She must have believed it. He had learned one thing about her when he had been her friend, as John Gerard. She could not tell a lie. It was the real reason why he had not told her who he was. He had known she would be unable to keep his secret. He regretted it now. But she had been a married woman. It had been better to remain her good friend, John Gerard.
What story could Giles Comfrey have told to persuade her to go to Llanfryn with him? Did he really believe this was what had happened? He rang again and had a messenger sent to Comfrey’s Bloomsbury house. Normally an easy master, he noticed with savage amusement that his servants were beginning to look frightened. I’m frightened myself, he thought. More frightened than angry now. He was beginning to believe it possible that Giles Comfrey and Frances Winterton between them had deceived Caroline. Lured her into starting on a journey that must end in marriage. A second disastrous trip to Gretna Green.
I’ll kill him, he thought. I will have to kill him. He was cold, now, with fear for Caroline.
‘Yes?’ He almost shouted it at the man who had scratched at the door.
‘It’s the man from Chevenham House, sir.’
‘Good.’ He looked the man up and down. ‘You took long enough.’
‘I had to hand in my livery, sir.’
‘Sacked?’
‘Yes.’
‘I suppose so.’ No time for that now. ‘Tell me about Miss Caroline.’ Why had he called her that?
‘Yes, sir. She’s been ill, see. Not herself at all. Moping. Writing away at all hours till her candle burned out. And crying, sir. Well, deep mourning. Only, we got thinking in the servants’ hall it was funny, see.’
‘Funny?’
‘You wouldn’t know, sir. How could you? But we…we see a lot in the servants’ hall. Well, there was Tench.’
‘Tench?’
‘Her maid, from way back. Went to Oldchurch with her when she was married. Come back to the House last winter, with a new husband, asking for work. The Duchess give it them, of course.’
‘And?’
‘Sacked when the Duchess took ill, sir. The pair of them. And then, Mrs Jones.’
‘Who’s she?’
‘Housekeeper at the Tremadoc House, sir, until Mr Comfrey put it up for sale. From what Miss Caroline’s maid heard, he didn’t even ask her first. Just put it up for sale and got rid of the servants. So she couldn’t go back there, Miss Caroline. And her not well, sir. Couldn’t make up her mind what to put on in the morning, her maid said. Funny, that. Writing away, and crying, and couldn’t make up her mind.’
‘And she thought she was going to Llanfryn?’
‘That’s what she told Prue, sir. Her maid. Going ho
me, she said.’
And would have learned her mistake too late. Where was she now? What would she do? What could she do? He turned to greet the man he had sent to Comfrey’s house. ‘What did you find out?’
‘Not much, sir. He’s gone north, that they know. Hired carriage; two horses; none of his own servants. They don’t love him much. His man showed me a letter he’d found in one of his pockets. From a Mrs Drummond, saying she’d be glad to see him and his young lady.’
Drummond. He had met them, years ago, at Chevenham House and thought them fit friends for Frances Winterton. They had lived somewhere north of London. Colney Heath, was it? If Comfrey had taken Caroline there, he was very far from travelling with the speed Frances Winterton had suggested. Well, after all, why should he hurry? He must feel sure enough of Caroline. Where could she turn, poor child? No time to lose. He rang and gave his orders.
‘Let me come too, sir?’ said the man from Chevenham House.
‘You’d like to?’
‘Please?’
‘Very well.’
His curricle. Four horses. A man sent ahead on horseback to arrange for post horses all the way to the border. A quick note to his mother to tell her he was detained on urgent business. The man from Chevenham House riding a spare horse. Surely, he would catch Comfrey before he reached Gretna Green. He was comforting himself with vain hope, and knew it. Two days’ start was a formidable advantage. But he must try, or go mad. If he has laid a finger on her, he promised himself, I will kill him. But what comfort would that be?
Waking, Caroline could not think, for a moment, where she was. Then, staring up at the smoke-blackened ceiling so close above her hard bed, she remembered yesterday’s long nightmare. At first, it had been enough to have escaped from Giles. She had hurried along the little path, listening for sounds of pursuit, hearing none, breathing again, and then, gradually, becoming aware of her other problems. Of hunger and cold, of bruised feet in soft, unsuitable half boots, and, gradually, of creeping exhaustion, and of fear.
She saw nobody, which was just as well, since she must present an odd enough spectacle in her muslin dress and the soft pelisse that would slip off her shoulders. Her reticule was surprisingly heavy and combined with the pelisse to make her walk awkwardly. Trying to push its strings further up her arm, she missed her footing and fell heavily in mud. For a moment, she just lay there, giving way to the old despair. She had not come far. If she stayed here, sooner or later, Giles would find her.
Giles. She pulled herself to her feet, shook out mud-stained skirts and started steadily forward again. How very strange that now, thinking about Giles, she was suddenly certain that it was he who had got hold of the Duchess’ letters to Mattingley, and was blackmailing the Duke. Blackmailing the father of the woman he meant to marry. There had been something in his tone when he told her about it that had struck her at the time. An element of gloating?
He should not gloat over her. And he would, she thought, if they married. Man and wife are one flesh. He would dictate not only her life but her writing. The thought kept her walking steadily forward for an hour or so through the quiet woods. She began to wish she would meet someone. Suppose she had been walking, all this time, in the wrong direction? When the path forked, she had taken, always, what she thought was the major branch, but could easily have chosen wrong.
A trailing bramble caught her hair under the bonnet and she let out a little, involuntary cry of pain. Don’t. She made herself stand still and coolly disentangle her hair. If I start to cry, she thought, I am lost. Lost? She was lost already. But at least she should be safe from Giles.
And on the thought, turned a corner and saw that her path joined a country lane. No signpost, of course. And no one in sight. Which way? Or should she cross the lane and continue along the path? Suppose Giles had discovered that she had not gone off with the bailiff? He might well be scouring the lanes in his carriage, looking for her. She gave a little sigh and crossed the road quickly to plunge back into sheltering woods on the other side.
Now the path was less well used and she had to pick her way with care. The woods stretched around her, high and lonely and oddly quiet. The hush before a storm. The sky had darkened and rain began to fall in heavy, single drops, then finer and faster until she was wet through, her soaking skirts draggling round her ankles.
Her boots had not been meant for real walking and had rubbed sore places on both her feet. How long before they fell to pieces and she was reduced to going barefoot. And would that be much worse than her present misery? I must find a house, she thought. I must find help.
What was she going to say? How explain herself? A carriage accident? I’m tired, she thought. Too tired to think. Too tired to plan. If I sat down here, in the rain, would I ever get up again? I am not going to. She straightened her back and shifted the awkward reticule to the other arm. I am going to get myself out of this. Presently, I will be by a fire, eating hot soup. I could eat a horse.
When had she last been hungry? When had she last been tired like this? She pulled the sodden remnants of her bonnet off her head and threw them into the bushes. She was cold, and wet, and hungry, and her feet hurt and yet suddenly she was filled with a surge of the old, unreasoning happiness. I’m free, she thought. I’m myself, and free. One day, I will put all this into a poem. Somehow. Some way. I’ll use it.
Another lane, and this time the path did not continue across it. Right or left? The rain had slackened, but there was a hint of dusk in the air. I must find shelter. She turned to the right. Would Giles have remembered about Hallam House? Did he know that Mattingley lived there? Suppose she found it, and found Giles waiting for her at the gates? Happiness ebbed…drained away.
Don’t think like that. Think of a fire, and food. Think of the bend in the road ahead. Around it, there might be a snug village, a rectory, with a friendly parson’s wife. Her feet hurt too much. She sat down on a stone and took off her sodden boots. Both heels were bleeding. It felt better, barefoot in the muddy lane. She got to the bend, turned it, and saw another bend.
Her back ached. She felt it more, now that her bare feet hurt less. If she started to cry, there would be no stopping. Cry? Why should she cry? I am here because I mean to be. How strange to remember those lifeless, listless days at Chevenham House. I am alive. I have escaped.
Another corner. A little, humpbacked, thatched cottage huddled by the road. No lights, but a plume of smoke from the central chimney. And the sound of a carriage, driven fast, somewhere behind her. Cross the road. Knock on the door. An old brown face, peering out, frightened.
‘Let me in, please. Please let me in?’ Had she actually pushed past the old woman, made her pull the door to behind them? They had stood together, in the darkness of the little room, listening to the approaching carriage.
Had it been Giles? She would never know. After that, it had all been a blur. Questions, exclamations from the old woman, hard to understand, but kind. Bread and dry cheese and all she could say was, ‘tired,’ and ‘Hallam House’, and ‘in the morning’.
And here she was, waking in the old woman’s bed, aware of movement, of the wrinkled face peering anxiously down at her.
‘Much better.’ She smiled up at her rescuer. ‘Thank you.’ And then, her thoughts beginning to make sense. ‘Hallam House?’ she asked.
The old face creased into a toothless smile. ‘I’ve sent,’ said the old woman. ‘My boy went at first light.’
She did not remember a boy. Did not remember mentioning Hallam House for the matter of that, but must have done so. She was lying in her shift on a straw pallet. ‘My clothes?’
‘So fine!’ The old woman moved over to where they were drying by the fire. ‘So beautiful!’
They did not look it to Caroline, torn and mud-stained as they were, but they were dry and she put them on, surprised to find the old woman neatly buttoning her up the back. A lady’s maid once? What kind of message would she have sent to Hallam House? Combing her hair, she was gl
ad she had not thrown away her reticule in the course of yesterday’s nightmare walk. Would Mattingley be at home? Would he come for her? What would she say if he did?
Dry bread and a little thin ale for breakfast, and it did her good. The old woman sat across the table from her, smiling and saying nothing. She must have lived alone a great deal, Caroline thought, and lost the habit of talk. It was restful not to be questioned, but she still could not think what she was going to say to Mattingley. If he came.
The old woman had washed and dried her bloodstained stockings, but the half boots were beyond service and she was glad to accept a pair of shabby wooden clogs. I look a fright, she thought, but I am alive. And safe?
When they heard a carriage, they both hurried to the cottage’s one window to peer out. Had the old woman caught Caroline’s fear? She smiled reassuringly.
‘Hallam’s,’ she said, and opened to the groom who was knocking on the door.
‘Well, now, Granny Biggs, what’s this about a young lady?’ He saw Caroline. ‘Beg pardon, ma’am.’ His features were wooden, the mask of a well-trained servant. ‘The mistress sent me for you. Master’s from home, and she’s not well. She begs you will come to the house and let her know how she can serve you.’
‘Thank you.’ Mattingley married? Was that what had kept him so long in the country? She thanked her kind hostess mechanically and got into the carriage.
Why should she be surprised to learn that Mattingley was married? She had known, when he had asked her to marry him, that it had been out of pity, Mattingley, the unmarrying man. Mattingley, whose magic touch could make any woman his slave. He would have married a brilliant figure, a younger version of the Duchess, a society hostess who would shine at his side.
I shall never marry, she thought. I shall grow old, and silent, and strange like Granny Biggs. But I shall live my own life. And, at least, she told herself, Mattingley married would be an easier friend. He would find her a lawyer Giles could not bend around his thumb as he had Mr James. With the proceeds of the sale of the Tremadoc house, and what she was owed for The Downfall of Bonaparte, she should be able to find herself a country cottage. To live in a tiny, quiet way, and write. She would need another publisher too. But first she must find her own voice as a poet. The Downfall of Bonaparte had been her tribute to Tremadoc. What should she write for herself?
The Lost Garden (The Purchas Family Series Book 5) Page 35