by Dorothy Mack
The room was crowded with diners, many of whom were in the process of finishing their meals. She stepped aside to allow a clear path to a young couple with a recalcitrant child who was indicating in no uncertain terms his displeasure at having to quit the table. Her understanding smile for the mother’s embarrassment deepened to a chuckle as the harassed father’s patience deserted him. Swooping suddenly, he scooped up his reluctant son and carried him past the newcomers, who found it necessary to dodge the youngster’s flailing arms. Amusement still sparkling in her eyes, Vicky turned once more toward the corner and was pinned like a butterfly by a bold black-eyed stare. The contact lasted no more than a second before she removed her gaze, but in that brief span she was subjected to a comprehensive masculine survey that missed nothing, summed her up and dismissed her. Not a muscle moved in her face, but she continued toward the table being indicated by the patient landlord, palpitatingly aware that she had undergone a novel experience.
Vicky would have been stupid indeed not to know that her person was universally admired. Unhampered by any false modesty, she appreciated that her looks were more than passable, though her own taste ran to a more exotic style. In her opinion, yellow hair and pale skin could never compete with the attraction of lustrous black tresses, rich olive colouring, and dark brown eyes. The flattering attention excited by her own unusual combination of golden brown eyes with burnished hair, while gratifying, didn’t alter her views, which were apparently shared by the rude man occupying the only other small table in the room. Before averting her gaze, she had noted that his own ravishingly pretty companion was just in this dark style, as was the man himself. Brother and sister perhaps? As the landlord seated her with a flourish and summoned a waiter to the table, she speculated idly on the couple’s relationship, then dismissed the pair in favour of restoring the strength depleted by a day of travelling.
They dined more than adequately on the inn’s ordinary bill of fare, choosing from roast mutton and a roasted veal leg, a perfectly browned game pie, and dishes piled with vegetables. Such additional niceties as butter sauce for the potatoes and little dishes of pickled onions and walnuts had Lily’s round eyes opening even wider. In the days that followed, Vicky was to recall with longing the food left untouched on the Candle and Unicorn’s groaning table. At the time, though, both ladies felt they were more than doing justice to their host’s hospitality. Lily could not be said to have dined as fully as her mistress, however, because her attention was continually being diverted to something or other in the large dining room. More than once a morsel of food would be raised to her lips, only to sit there poised on the fork while her head rotated to study one of the patrons or exclaim over the deftness of the constantly moving waiters. If the food didn’t fall harmlessly back onto the plate before her mouth came into range again, there was always the danger that she would poke herself in the eye with the sharp implement. At one point, Miss Seymour gasped out a warning whose sole effect was to cause herself to choke on a French bean. Lily, narrowly averting contact between eye and fork, dropped the latter to ring against the pewter plate as she jumped up to thump her mistress on the back in an overly enthusiastic manner that went beyond being helpful and caused every eye in the place to turn their way. Miss Seymour, her cheeks aflame, opened her lips to scold the unconscious Lily, then closed them again with a sigh after a glimpse at the little maid’s concerned face. Lily always meant well. Why spoil what was undoubtedly the most exciting adventure of her cloistered young life? She mumbled a brief thank-you for the first aid and resolutely returned her attention to her own dinner, refusing to permit her eyes to focus anew on that wavering fork.
Her eyes drifted instead to the handsome couple sitting alone at a small table against the wall not ten feet away. Part of her concentration had been on them since she had looked up while coughing and being pounded on the back to meet the amused mockery directed at her by that dark brute. And he was a brute, despite the fashionable garments and civilised exterior, she decided now as she covertly studied the pair from beneath lowered lashes — the personification of Byron’s Corsair, with that laughing sneer of his.
“Doesn’t he look like a pirate?” whispered Lily, unexpectedly proving herself on the same mental track as her mistress when she intercepted the latter’s gaze.
“He does indeed.” Vicky laughed.
Encouraged by this response, Lily expanded her interest. “Do you think the lady is his wife? She looks awful young to be married, but he doesn’t treat her like a sister.”
Vicky was silent for a second, trying to readjust her thoughts to include this new possibility. “How does a man treat a sister?” she inquired in some amusement.
“Well,” responded Lily in all seriousness, tilting her head like an inquisitive bird, “brothers mostly ignore their sisters, I think, or order them about.”
Involuntarily, Vicky’s glance returned to the dark couple in a more assessing fashion. The man could not be said to be ignoring his companion, his attention was almost exclusively on her, but it did appear that he might be attempting to impose his will on her despite the element of importuning in his manner also. While she was thus occupied in speculation, the dark man seized his companion’s hand and brought it to his lips in a lingering gesture. Definitely not a sister, then, but a wife, that pretty child? Lily was quite astute in assessing her age as rather young for marriage. Seventeen? Eighteen? No more, surely. From here it was impossible to tell whether or not the girl wore a wedding ring, but it was apparent that she was becoming somewhat agitated. She pulled her hand away and glanced down at the table, biting her bottom lip. To the man’s earnest representations — from here it looked as if he were barely controlling a rising impatience — she made no response, even refusing to look up.
Glancing up herself, Vicky noticed an engraving on the wall over the young girl’s head, depicting a rustic couple under a tree. The youth in the picture had one arm about the maiden’s shoulder and was obviously pressing his suit for all he was worth, in the face of a coy denial. Surveying the downcast eyes and trembling lip of the pretty girl under the frame, it was obvious to Vicky that her suitor, if he was her suitor, would have more trouble persuading his lady than the youth in the engraving.
“I’ll bet they are an eloping couple.” At her side Lily once again demonstrated that she was in accord with her mistress’ observations.
“You may be right,” admitted Vicky, returning her attention to her plate while she polished off the last of the succulent game pie.
“Don’t you think that’s the most romantic thing ever?”
“No, I do not,” retorted Vicky, eyeing her companion sternly. “That girl is a mere child, too young to be married at all, let alone to that big bully. He is well over thirty, and a man of the town, unless I miss my guess. I should be astonished to learn that she is as much as eighteen, and it is clear as crystal that she is afraid of him.”
“Ohhh!” Lily looked quite abashed at this tirade, and her mistress added in propitiating tones, “It is none of our affair, however, so let us enjoy this delicious cheese and fruit the waiter has just brought, unless you would care for a pudding or jelly?”
“Th-thank you.” The subdued maid indicated that she would like some of the pudding being offered, and silence settled over the table while they proceeded to eat. In a few minutes, Lily had recovered enough to resume her interested scanning of the rapidly emptying room, and Miss Seymour relaxed, glad she hadn’t permanently squelched the girl. If the truth were known, her sharpness with Lily just now had concealed a concern that she did not wish to acknowledge for the frightened child at the other table. After all, even assuming their speculations were correct, what earthly help could she, a perfect stranger, be to the chit? And she could easily be grossly mistaken. Despite her air of innocence, the dark-haired girl might be more than capable of taking care of herself. Perhaps she loved the man to distraction. Glancing over to their table again, however, she saw nothing to confirm this suppositi
on. The man was still speaking in low tones, but the girl’s passive resistance seemed to have driven out the hint of pleading she had noticed earlier in his manner. Now he was clearly issuing commands, and at last the girl looked fully at him, nodding reluctantly when he paused, her dark eyes huge in an unusually pale face beneath a charming red velvet bonnet with a high poke. She looked away almost immediately, resigned but unreassured by the man’s gleaming smile.
At the other table, Miss Seymour felt her fingers curling into fists at the blatant triumph in that smile. Unashamedly she watched it disappear as the man made a tentative motion toward his companion with a hand that hovered in the air between them for an instant before being withdrawn. He shrugged impatiently, murmured something to her, then thrust back his chair and headed for the door to speak with an ostler who had stuck his head in, obviously searching for someone. The girl stared after him uncertainly for a moment. She half-rose, looking around somewhat desperately, then sank back into her chair, eyes downcast once more.
Some half-understood impulse animated Miss Seymour at that moment. Gesturing to the surprised Lily to remain seated, she rose from her chair in one fluid motion and approached the solitary figure, saying in a low voice, “I beg your pardon, but you seem to be suffering some agitation of spirits. Is there any way I may assist you?”
The eyes raised to hers had the wary look of a woodland creature startled by the intrusion of man into its habitat. Sensing the girl’s instinctive withdrawal, Vicky smiled at her encouragingly and was rewarded by a flickering response before she said through trembling lips, “You are very k-kind, ma’am, but no one can help me — that is to say, I am in need of no assistance.”
“May I sit down?” asked Vicky, indicating the other chair.
After an instant’s hesitation, the brunette said, “Of course, ma’am.” She looked down again, unable to sustain the steady regard of the other.
“My dear child,” Vicky began in persuasive accents, “believe me, nothing is irrevocable at this point. You need not marry him at all if you fear you might not suit, and in any case there is no need to continue with an ill-advised elopement tonight.”
“Oh, but I must! It is impossible to return to London before dark, and if I don’t return tonight, I will lose my reputation, so I must go through with it!”
This dramatic statement of the case confirmed Miss Seymour’s guess that here was a gently bred innocent about to take what could be a disastrous step. The fact that she showed no surprise to be thus addressed by a complete stranger proclaimed her youth and inexperience. Obviously she still saw all adults as omnipotent and was no more ready for marriage than a babe.
Miss Seymour’s opinion of her would-be husband descended even lower.
“Fustian!” she declared cheerfully, smiling into the anxious dark eyes that were surely looking at her with a desperate hope in their depths. “There is no danger that you will lose your reputation, because I am a very dull respectable person —” this pronouncement was uttered without a blink — “and we shall put it about that you have come north to visit me. I suppose you left a letter for your parents detailing your intention?”
“Well, yes, I left a note for my aunt and uncle. My parents are dead. I live with my mother’s sister and her husband, and I hate it! They are Methodists, you see, and they don’t believe in dancing or going to parties or anything!”
“I see,” said Miss Seymour, seeing very well indeed. “So you thought it would be more amusing to be married?”
“Yes, and also to get control of my fortune, which is in the hands of trustees until I wed. My uncle gives me only a beggarly allowance. Extravagance is another thing he doesn’t believe in!”
Miss Seymour stepped in before her young friend could get fairly launched on what appeared to be an old grievance. “Well, if we are agreed that you are to pay me a visit for a while until you decide what you wish to do, we had best set about leaving, for we have almost twenty miles to go.” A brilliant smile lighted golden-brown eyes. “Perhaps we should exchange identities so that you may tell your young man that I am an old family friend who has convinced you to pause before doing something so rash as eloping. My name is Victoria Seymour and my home is called the Oaks, a few miles ahead in Leicestershire.”
At the beginning of this speech the young girl’s ingenuous countenance was alive with eagerness, but the mere mention of her swain was tantamount to extinguishing a candle. Animation left her face, her cheeks blanched, and she actually recoiled. “I … I c-can’t tell Drew that I won’t marry him! He’ll never let me go!” she wailed.
“Nonsense!” said her prospective hostess briskly. “He has no control over you. If you decide not to go ahead with an elopement, he has nothing to do but accept your decision.”
The girl shuddered. “You do not know Drew. When I am with him, I always finish by doing as he wishes.”
“The masterful type,” sniffed Miss Seymour, who had an ill opinion of this species. “Are you afraid of him, for heaven’s sake?”
“Not afraid, precisely,” replied the girl with a touching attempt at dignity, “but I hate it when he gets angry… Oh, I cannot explain, but he gets all cold and grim and says cutting things that make me feel I am the stupidest creature alive.”
“How could you ever contemplate marriage with such a one?” demanded Miss Seymour in honest amazement.
“I am putting it very badly, I fear, because he can be wonderful also; he knows just how to act everywhere, and I feel so safe with him.” Her voice tailed off and she stared helplessly at the older girl.
“Let me get this straight,” pursued Miss Seymour, beginning to grasp that her rescue operation would not be the straightforward proposition she had outlined a moment before. “You would like to visit me while you think further about this prospective marriage, but you don’t feel you can explain this to your … er, Drew?”
“That’s it exactly!” Relief flashed across the girl’s countenance, and she relaxed her tense posture in the Windsor chair.
“Then what is to be done?”
Silence followed the gentle question while the reluctant bride wrestled with its implications. Obviously decision making on such a scale did not appeal, but at last she raised her chin and ventured timidly, “Could we not just … leave?”
“Without telling your … er, Drew? He’ll think you’ve run away or been kidnapped. He’ll be running to the nearest magistrate with your description, or even to Bow Street.”
“Oh, no!”
This new aspect of the situation threw the young girl into a quake of terror. She glanced nervously around the room like a hunted animal and jumped visibly at the sound of a dish striking a table rather loudly, then seemed to gird her forces for action. “Well, then,” she said with more decision than she had yet demonstrated, “we must write him a note so that he will not cause a hue and cry in the neighbourhood. Only it must be done at once, before he returns from the stables.” She searched in a capacious reticule reclining with a velvet muff on the carpet at her feet and emerged with a notebook from which she proceeded to tear out a leaf. Beckoning a waiter to the table with an imperious finger, she requested a pen and some ink and waited impatiently while he went to fetch the items.
Miss Seymour observed the changes in her protégée with some amusement. She took advantage of the interval to acquaint Lily with the bare outline of the situation and settle their reckoning with the landlord. Amos, she knew, would be waiting for them in the inn yard, anxious to begin the last stage of the journey. She kept an eye on the main door to the dining room, preparing herself half-expectantly for a scene with the thwarted lover — there were a few home truths she would enjoy delivering to him — but he did not appear during the moment or two that his erstwhile fiancée took to pen her note. When Miss Seymour next glanced over at the other small table, it was to see the girl donning her cherry-red pelisse with an economy of movement that spoke of her determination to escape. She twisted the paper into a screw and tossed
it back onto the table as she joined the other two women without a backward glance. Miss Seymour raised an eyebrow at such coolness, but a penetrating look at the pale face under the dashing bonnet revealed that the girl’s poise was a brittle facade hastily erected to cover extreme perturbation. It was well to depart quickly before she gave way to the hysterics that were threatening, her protectress decided, gathering her flock about her and shepherding them through the door being held open by an interested waiter. It would also be to their advantage to avoid another meeting with the landlord, she realised simultaneously, and she breathed a sigh of relief as they attained the inn yard without meeting anyone who might delay them.
Amos was waiting as expected. A heavy frown settled on his brow as his mistress blithely explained the existence of another passenger as a chance meeting with an old friend that had resulted in an impulsive invitation to visit the Oaks.
“What mischief be you up to, Miss Vicky?” he demanded with the freedom of an old retainer as Vicky ushered her guest into the travelling chaise. “Taking up with a young person without so much as a bandbox to her name! And don’t trouble to spin any farradiddles to me about chance meetings and old friends, neither, for I’m not so green as to swallow ’em.” His voice was a low growl, and he planted his substantial person firmly in front of her, ready to block her ascension into the chaise until he received an answer that satisfied him.
Knowing him of old to be entirely capable of refusing to budge until the explanation was forthcoming, and strongly desirous now of avoiding a confrontation with the prospective bridegroom in case Amos threw his weight on the latter’s side, Miss Seymour abandoned any idea of telling him a harmless Banbury story (assuming she could invent one on the spur of the moment). She clutched his arm in her earnestness.
“Listen, Amos, you can see the child is perfectly respectable, but she is completely friendless at the moment, and it is up to us to save her from making a mistake that will ruin her life.”