The Marriage Rescue

by Joanna Johnson

  No. There was no way they could leave now.

  ‘I mean it, Grandmother.’

  With a supreme effort Selina once again attempted to banish Edward from her mind. He had no place in her world; their chance encounter could so easily have ended in disaster.

  ‘You know nothing in this world is more important to me than the safety of our people.’

  Zillah seemed about to reply when the silent night was shattered by a terrible scream.

  * * *

  Edward couldn’t sleep.

  That damned letter from Father certainly hadn’t helped, he reflected drily. How unfortunate that even now the Squire’s missives brought so little happiness to their recipients.

  Edward’s mouth set in a grim line as he recalled the weight that had settled in his stomach when he’d heard the news of his father’s passing. Their relationship had been strained in life. Each had been as stubborn as the other, and Ambrose’s unsuccessful attempts to control his son had damaged their already shaky bond.

  Edward remembered the many times his father had pushed him to the limits of his patience with his demands. His move to London, ostensibly to take care of their business in the capital, had allowed Edward to put a distance between them, and that was the only reason their relationship had managed to survive at all. They had disagreed on so many things, and their heated arguments had been the cause of more than one servant running for cover.

  But Ambrose was the only father Edward would ever have, and in his own way he had begun to mourn the man who had caused him so much frustration; or at least he had, until anger had seeped in to mingle with his complicated grief.

  He threw back the red coverlet and left his bed. The cold night air raised goosebumps on his skin and he shrugged his way into his best brocade dressing gown. The fire in the grate had burned down to ash, and he toyed momentarily with the idea of calling for a maid to bring it back to life before dismissing the thought in irritation. When had he become the kind of man to consider dragging a girl from her warm bed in the middle of the freezing night solely to pander to his own needs?

  He’d been in London too long; it was as well he’d returned to Warwickshire when he had. The capital, with all its diversions and frivolous pursuits, had threatened to turn him into a ‘perfect’ gentleman—selfish, hedonistic and mainly decorative. Now he was back where he belonged he could feel the countryside and its ways seeping back into his bones, gently erasing the hardness city living had threatened to instil in him.

  Edward struck a match and lit the candle standing on his desk. The light illuminated the Squire’s final letter, lying on the green leather top, and Edward picked it up. He’d read it a dozen times already, and it did not improve with further scrutiny.

  His father’s solicitor had seemed almost apologetic when he’d handed it over, having taken it from his ancient safe at the reading of Ambrose’s will. It was written in a bold and flowing hand, and Edward ran his eye over the last communication he would ever receive from the man to whom he had been so deeply vexing.

  As my only son and heir, you have repeatedly disappointed me in your duty to continue the line of our great and noble family. Nothing in your life could be more important, and your persistent failure to marry has provoked me to act.

  I have instructed Mr Lucas to amend the terms of my will and add a condition on your inheritance. If you have not taken a wife within two months of my death the entirety of your inheritance will revert to my brother, your Uncle Charles, in his position as next in line.

  He dropped the letter back onto the desk and extinguished the candle. He’d half expected it. His reluctance to marry had been like a red rag to a bull for Ambrose, for whom the continuation of the family name had been almost an obsession. Pretty heiress after pretty heiress had been paraded under Edward’s nose, but of course the damage had been done long before then.

  His mother had been the first to crush his faith in gentry women, but the Right Honourable Letitia James had driven the lesson home with brutal clarity. With her blonde ringlets and china-blue eyes Letitia had the face of an angel but not the morals to match, and her thoughtless betrayal of Edward with a richer suitor had opened the wounds he had hoped she would help him to heal. She was the only woman he had ever entertained marrying, and her actions had only proved to Edward his reticence had been justified.

  Edward felt a hot pulse of anger course through him as he wrenched his mind away from past pains and recalled the full contents of the letter. Unable to dictate terms while alive, Ambrose had in death finally managed to find a way to bend Edward to his will, and recognition of the fact that he had no choice but to obey caused Edward’s hands to curl into fists. He wasn’t a simpleton; he knew he would have to wed eventually. It was the notion of being ordered, instructed like a child, that turned Edward’s blood to fire.

  In fairness, I suppose my bride might not be entirely like Mother or Letitia, he mused grimly as he dropped into his favourite armchair by the cold hearth. You never know. Her pretty ringlets might be dark instead of blonde, for instance.

  The thought of dark hair stirred something in the back of his mind.

  The girl from the woods. Selina. Now, that’s the sort of woman a man might be persuaded to marry, were such a feat ever to be managed.

  What had she meant, he owed her twice? The words had puzzled him ever since their chance meeting. Surely they had never met before. Edward knew he would never have forgotten one such as her. It must have been simple mischief on her part, doubtless for her own amusement, and he had resolved to put her from his mind.

  Unfortunately the Romani girl had persisted in working her way into his thoughts with vexing regularity since their encounter three days before. The memory had troubled him to begin with—what was he doing, allowing a woman so much space in his mind?—until he had reassured himself that it meant nothing.

  It was simple human nature to admire a pretty face, and that was surely all his idle thoughts amounted to. Couldn’t a man enjoy the mental picture of a handsome woman without it meaning anything more? He was in little danger of ever seeing her again—and besides, his disinclination for spending too long in the company of young ladies ran deep.

  Thoughts as to her suitability as a wife were as laughable as they were entirely hypothetical. Still... She wouldn’t be self-centred and idle like the women of his class, he was sure of it. She certainly wouldn’t spend too much money on dresses and amusements—in a stark contrast to the wasteful extravagance of the gentry. Of course it helped that she was beautiful, but a beautiful wife was often more trouble than she was worth—and besides, it wasn’t as though he had any intention of loving a woman. He doubted he was even capable anymore, his heart having twice been battered by thoughtless rejection.

  The only female with any sort of claim to his affections was little Ophelia, and he resolved there and then never to allow her to be moulded into an upper-class Miss. If she were to be subjected to endless lessons in etiquette and how to be a true lady he feared his sister would one day become conditioned to be more concerned with herself than other people. Just like his mother.

  Edward grimaced. Now you’re getting maudlin, he chided himself. Ophelia was nothing like the first mistress of Blackwell Hall and thank goodness for it. His sister would never be so cruel as to abandon her own child and run away with another man, leaving without so much as a goodbye for the boy she’d left behind, who had spent months waiting in vain for her return and defending her reputation with his fists.

  At least she’d done him one favour—even if accidentally. From her harsh teaching he had learned a valuable lesson: he knew never to fall in love with a woman lest she leave and shatter his heart all over again. That was his mother’s legacy.

  Letitia had been the only one to break through, and Edward had dared to believe she might be a better woman than the one who had given him life. But instead she had proved hers
elf almost a copy of his mother, and after her duplicity he had rebuilt his defences with even higher walls.

  Edward drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair as thoughts of Letitia flitted through his mind. The notion that he had once thought she could be his bride seemed so ridiculous now he might almost have seen the humour in it if she hadn’t ripped open the emotional scars he’d borne since childhood.

  She knew how Mother’s leaving had affected me, and yet she betrayed me in exactly the same way Mother betrayed Father.

  If what he’d felt for Letitia had been love he could do without it. For when the loved one left—as apparently was inevitable—the pain was almost too much to bear.

  The gilt clock on the mantelpiece struck two, but Edward was only half listening to the feeble chimes. The idea of another fashionable young lady parading around his countryside sanctuary appalled him. This was where he came to escape the cloying falseness of high society—the notion of inviting it into this last outpost of peace was unthinkable.

  He sighed and rubbed his aching forehead with one hand. ‘Think, Ned,’ he said aloud. ‘Put that Cambridge education to use for once in your life.’

  Inspiration wouldn’t come.

  Edward got to his feet and paced the floor, boards creaking as he moved. ‘Think! This is your future. Do you really want to be bound to such a creature for the rest of your life?’

  Anger at his father’s last actions churned within him once again, and he felt his chest tighten with the now familiar mixture of grief and rage. The Squire had been dead almost one month already; only a few weeks remained for Edward to find a suitable match or risk forfeiting his inheritance forever.

  He could barely even remember Uncle Charles, the man to whom all his future could be lost. The only communication they had shared in the twelve years since Charles had left for the Continent was the occasional letter, never concerning anything warmer than news of business affairs. The injustice of his situation made Edward curse out loud.

  He crossed to the window and drew aside one heavy curtain. There was no sign of dawn. Darkness would cover the estate for hours yet—until the sun sulked into view and its pale autumn rays signalled the start of a new day.

  His rooms were at the front of the Hall, positioned to make the most of the natural light, and from the window Edward could just make out the line of manicured trees that stood to attention on either side of the long drive leading up to the Hall’s imposing front door. He gazed out at the night, watching the trees stir gently in the moonlight.

  A movement further down the drive caught his eye. He frowned. Even from a distance he could tell that whatever was out there was approaching the house at some speed, and getting ever closer. Edward squinted, straining his eyes against the gloom. Was it an animal of some kind?

  Yes, he could just see it now: a great horse, bleached bone-white by the moon, galloping towards the Hall as though fleeing the fires of hell. Its rider was swathed in a cloak, with only her hair uncovered, flying out behind her like streamers in a storm—

  ‘Selina?’

  A thrill of something unknown flared in Edward’s chest. It was definitely her—the closer she drew, the more Edward’s certainty grew that the figure flying towards him was the girl from the woods. Now she was in range he could even recognise her horse: a huge grey beast, flecked with scars and knotted with hard muscle, speeding down the gravelled drive with a gracefulness that belied its size.

  Momentarily frozen in surprise, all Edward could do was watch her approach, his confusion growing with every moment. He hadn’t expected to see her again, and yet here she was. A less sensible man might have called it fate, and the unwanted suggestion was enough to galvanise him into action.

  His heart pounded in his ears as he wrenched on his breeches, a rapid succession of thoughts chasing each other through his mind. Why was she here? At this hour? And why had she approached so swiftly? Something must be gravely wrong. She had given the impression that she distrusted his offer of friendship. What events could the intervening few days have wrought to bring about such a change?

  A disloyal corner of his consciousness registered the thought that he was, despite his rational mind, pleased she had sought him out. Whatever it was she wanted, it was to him that she was turning. He dismissed the thought as soon as it arose—ridiculous notion!—but the echo of it stubbornly remained.

  A thunderous sound at the front door drove him onwards in even greater haste. She’ll break it in two if she’s not careful, he thought in wry amusement as he thrust his feet into long leather boots.

  The creak of an inner door being hurriedly flung open signalled the emergence of Blackwell’s aged butler, Evans, and Edward couldn’t restrain a grin at the prospect of the faithful retainer confronted with Selina.

  Poor Evans. He smiled. He won’t know what’s hit him.

  She was trying to pull away from the butler’s firm grip when Edward reached the top of the grand sweeping staircase that led down into the entrance hall, all the while waving something in Evans’s heated face—something white. Or at least it might have been white originally, but now it was streaked with mud and perhaps...dried blood?

  ‘Mr Fulbrooke!’ Selina spotted him and her attempts at escape doubled. Her hair was windswept and tangled from riding and her eyes were wild. ‘Mr Fulbrooke! Please, sir, I must speak with you—let me go!’

  Evans was trying manfully to restrain her, but the woman appeared to be as strong as an ox. The older man’s face was puce with effort, and one of his slippers had come clean off in the fracas.

  ‘You can’t just push in here, waking the whole house—’

  Selina paid him about as much attention as Edward would have paid a gnat. ‘I brought this with me. We met in the woods—do you remember? You gave me this—this handkerchief!’

  ‘Of course, Miss Agres.’ Edward reached the bottom step and gently laid a hand on the butler’s heaving shoulder. ‘Thank you, Evans, you’ve done very well, but Miss Agres is a friend of mine. Please let go of her.’

  The other man’s face was a picture of surprise, and he opened his mouth as if to argue. Edward watched as the butler took a good look at Selina, taking in her disordered hair and unusual dress, but years of unfailing service prevailed and he hesitated for only a moment before sweeping into a low bow and stepping away.

  ‘Please forgive me, miss. I should never have laid hands on you had I realised you were known to the master.’

  Edward turned back to her, a smile forming on his lips. But it flickered and died when he saw the expression on her face, and he registered for the first time how her entire body trembled as though she suffered from an ague. Her slim form, so perturbingly attractive to him upon his first sight of her, now seemed to radiate a vulnerability unlike the defiance of their previous meeting. Was it for that reason he felt a glimmer of protective concern?

  ‘Miss Agres? What’s the matter?’ She was very pale, he saw with alarm—could she be ill? The pallor served to highlight the rich darkness of her eyes, a fact that did not escape him. ‘You seem unwell. Won’t you please sit down and I—?’

  ‘There’s no time!’ Selina burst out.

  She was wringing her hands, and Edward had to fight the unwelcome urge to take them in his own and hold them still.

  ‘Please, Mr Fulbrooke, come with me at once! You said you’d be a friend to me, and that your word was your law—I need you to prove it!’

  Edward gazed down at her. He had been right; something truly terrible had occurred. There could be no other explanation for her coming to him, and in such a state of obvious distress.

  ‘You must try to calm yourself.’ He spoke with such firmness that Selina’s agitation seemed to check a little. ‘I will, of course, do anything within my power to help you, but first you must explain to me the particulars.’

  Selina took a deep breath and clenched her hands
into fists. Behind her, Edward caught sight of the below-stairs maids peeping from the servants’ corridor, their eyes wide with curiosity.

  ‘Evans. Would you please ensure the maids return to their beds and tell Greene to saddle my horse immediately? I have a feeling I’ll be going out, and I’m not sure when I shall return.’

  Chapter Three

  Selina glanced across at Edward, riding next to her on his sleek thoroughbred mare. Even in the silvery moonlight she could see his sharp jaw was tightly clenched as he bent low over his horse’s neck, urging her on at full speed. She swallowed. Even at this pace they might still be too late.

  At that first cry Selina had vaulted from her bunk and thrown on her clothes. Something within her had known what was happening even before the woman had stumbled up the steps of her caravan and hammered on the door, shouting out what she had seen and moaning in fear.

  ‘They’re coming! They’re coming for us! What will we do? How can we defend ourselves?’

  ‘We can’t.’ Zillah had stumped the short length of the cabin, unbolted the split door of the vardo and taken the wailing woman outside firmly by the shoulders. ‘The only hope we have of surviving this is to lock ourselves in and pray for a miracle.’

  ‘Is that all?’ The woman had stared at Zillah, and Selina had seen the horror in her eyes. ‘Is that all we can do?’

  ‘Yes. With the men away we have no protectors. We don’t even have any tools with which to arm ourselves—curse our foolishness! We should have planned for this.’

  In the dim light Zillah had looked haggard with fear, and for the first time in her life Selina realised her grandmother was afraid. The knowledge had shaken her to the core. If weathered, unflappable Zillah was frightened, their situation must be every bit as bad as Selina feared.

  ‘We bolt our doors and we pray.’

  ‘And if they break down our doors? What then?’