The Luckless Elopement

by Dorothy Mack

  “Bed for you, my girl, right this minute, and when you wake up I want you out in the fresh air for at least an hour. Take a brisk walk or just stroll in the village, but take yourself out of this place for a time.”

  “Oh, but I cannot leave my cousin just yet; he won’t sleep for very long, and —”

  He cut into her protests with ruthless candour. “Unless you wish to be my next patient, someone else can sit with him from now on. If I don’t see some colour in your cheeks when I come back this evening, I’ll dose you with the foulest-tasting tonic in my dispensary.”

  Miss Seymour’s lips curved in faint response to the rare twinkle in those piercing blue eyes. “I believe you would enjoy that,” she retorted pertly, rising with effort from the chair. “Very well, doctor, your command is my command. I feel as though I could sleep for a week.”

  After a final glance at Mr. Massingham that reassured her that he was at last enjoying a natural sleep, his devoted nurse crossed the hall and lost no time in obeying the first part of the doctor’s prescription.

  CHAPTER 6

  Late afternoon found Miss Seymour striding along the tree-bordered road leading out of the village. She had slept for five undisturbed hours and awakened refreshed and ravenous to consume a late luncheon with more enjoyment than the quality of the food warranted. Though eager to be off on her walk, she had peeked in on her patient before collecting her pelisse and bonnet from the room she shared with Drucilla and Lily. Both girls were in attendance on Mr. Massingham, who was sleeping once again after having eaten solid food for the first time since the accident. Drucilla’s face had sparkled with elation as she reported that Drew had not only recognised her but also allowed her to feed him, even going so far as to compliment her on the quality of the chicken broth she had prepared, before he dozed off again.

  For a time Vicky banished all problems from her mind while she walked toward and through the tiny village, observing a few children at play and two women visiting in front of what appeared to be the only shop amongst the sprawl of cottages that made up the hamlet of Little Menda. She could not but be aware that her progress was observed with unconcealed interest by those inhabitants of the village in evidence at present, and she nodded pleasantly in response to the women’s shyly bobbed curtsies as she passed them, and smiled at a child who chased an errant hoop across her path. All too soon, the last cottage with its neat garden was behind her and she was walking along the road with nothing in particular to catch her eye or divert her mind. The crisp air felt marvellous on her cheeks and she inhaled gratefully of the woodland scents, but within minutes she was back to pondering the immediate situation of their small party. It was a wonderful relief to know the crisis was past, but it was time to give some thought to the next step. Every scrap of her resolution and all her mental energies up to now had been devoted to willing Mr. Massingham to survive the fever that had racked him. If one could believe Dr. Jamison, the injured man’s convalescence would now proceed normally, but although the debilitating fever had run its course, it would be idle to pretend that a day or two would see him on his feet again.

  Nor was the Green Feather an ideal spot for a convalescence. Miss Seymour’s heart swelled with gratitude when she dwelt on the kindness and helpfulness of Mr. Tolliver and Sukey during the late emergency, but it was beyond question that they could not continue to impose on the innkeeper’s good nature indefinitely, even though adequate financial compensation had not been a problem once Cavanaugh had arrived.

  Obviously the next step was to decide on a place in which Mr. Massingham could complete his recovery, and, when the doctor gave his approval, to convey him to this location, wherever it might be. Plainly stated, this did not sound an insuperable problem, but no immediate solution presented itself to her intelligence.

  Miss Seymour’s furrowed brow and inward concentration at that moment would have warned an observer that she was paying insufficient attention to her surroundings, particularly to the road under her feet, but there was no one in sight to give warning as she stepped on a good-sized pebble and gave her ankle a turn.

  “Ouch! Idiot!”

  The pain that gave rise to this exasperated exclamation brought her to a sense of her surroundings once more. The scenery hadn’t altered much. The road still wended its way between stands of tall trees that occasionally thinned out enough to allow glimpses of meadowland off to either side. She had been ascending a gentle incline and continued on her way, hoping to find a more extensive prospect at the top of the hill. So far there had been no traffic, either wheeled or pedestrian, on the road. For the moment she was all alone in her small corner of the universe, which, on reflection, was a most agreeable sensation. For the past few tension-packed days and nights, personal privacy had been an unknown quality. Immediately her thoughts returned to the reason for this situation, and the little line reappeared between her finely arched brows.

  Were Mr. Massingham indeed her cousin, the obvious course would be to remove him to the Oaks as soon as it was medically feasible. Unfortunately, as she was a single woman without even Aunt Honoria’s presence to lend her countenance, this solution was not to be considered, except, of course, that circumstances forced her to consider it. She had no precise knowledge of Mr. Massingham’s circumstances, not even his address in London. Drucilla, when asked if there was someone who should be notified of her ex-fiancé’s condition, had replied vaguely that he had a married sister whose name she could not immediately recall. Nor was she any more knowledgeable concerning his residence. She believed he had lodgings in St. James’s Street, but naturally a young woman would not have dreamed of so much as driving down that exclusively masculine haunt. Further questioning had elicited the fact that Drew had a devoted groom whom he had left behind in London, but nothing of any use in the pressing consideration as to where it would be best for him to recuperate. In any case, London was a full day’s journey away, and this was inadvisable, surely, in his weakened state.

  Miss Seymour thoughtfully gnawed at her bottom lip as she considered the pros and cons of removing Mr. Massingham to a cottage on her own estate with her old nurse in attendance. This solution avoided the disadvantages attendant on a lengthy journey as well as satisfying Drucilla that Drew was being well looked after. On the other hand, the last thing in the world Miss Seymour would elect would be to have the ex-soldier within easy access of his former fiancée. Nothing she had yet learned of his circumstances or his character tended to negate her first impression that he was a fortune hunter bent on hurrying into marriage an heiress too young and innocent to know her own mind. Not that it would do to try to inform Drucilla of this. The girl was naively convinced that her soldier burned with love for her, and she would resent any suggestion to the contrary. It was a deucedly awkward fix, whichever way one looked it, but perhaps now that he was rational again Mr. Massingham would himself have some plan in mind for the period of his convalescence that would remove him from Drucilla’s vicinity. On this hopeful thought, Miss Seymour attained the summit of the low gradient and paused to gaze about her in pleasure.

  The prospect, though not vast, was sufficiently pleasing to make the climb worthwhile. Low hills, mostly tree-covered, rippled to the horizon on one side of the road. On the other side, flattish meadowlands gave way to a real forest. Here and there thick hedges separated the fields, but nowhere was there a sign of habitation, if one excepted a faint plume of pale grey mist that might have indicated a chimney beyond the next curve in the road. Looking at the watch pinned to her dress, Miss Seymour was surprised to discover that she had been walking for nearly an hour. A glance upward revealed that the sun was far advanced in its downward curve, and the breeze seemed to have freshened somewhat also. If she wished to arrive back at the Green Feather before anyone became concerned with her lateness, she had best forgo the view around the next curve and set a brisk pace back the way she had come.

  Unfortunately, in carrying out this sensible plan, Miss Seymour reckoned without the condi
tion of the road becoming a consideration. She hadn’t gone a hundred yards when she stepped once again on a large stone, and this time the wrenching she gave her foot had more serious consequences. The pain in her ankle was only momentary, but she stared down in dismayed disbelief at her kid half-boots and groaned aloud when her eyes confirmed the bad news. Lying in the road totally disassociated from its sole was the heel to her right shoe. She picked it up and turned it over in her hands, hoping to discover some magical way to re-establish contact, but to no avail. The road before and behind her was still empty, as it had been for the past hour. There was nothing to be done but to continue onward. This she did at a limping pace that became more and more uncomfortable as the minutes passed. She was toying with the idea of trying to break off the heel on the other shoe to even off her gait when the unmistakable sounds of a vehicle behind her caused her to pull up short at the side of the road and turn around hopefully.

  Even a farm cart would have been a welcome sight, but it seemed her luck was in, for a smart curricle drawn by a pair of matched greys was already slowing down. Its driver brought it to a smooth halt that barely raised the dust on the road. As Miss Seymour’s hopeful gaze met a pair of curious hazel eyes, the slight sense of caution that had held her rigid vanished. Even seated, the owner of the curricle was seen to be of an imposing size, tall and massively built, but the mild expression of his pleasant regular features was most reassuring.

  “May I be of some assistance to you, ma’am?” he inquired, raising his hat politely.

  “Yes, if you would be so good, sir. I am heading for the Green Feather Inn farther along this road and have had the misfortune to lose the heel of my boot. If it would not inconvenience you, I would be most grateful if you could convey me to the inn.”

  “Of course, ma’am, with the utmost pleasure.” As he spoke, the driver had signed to his groom sitting beside him to get down, and the latter proceeded to assist Miss Seymour into the curricle. In another few seconds the man had gotten up behind, and the driver had given his horses the office to start.

  Miss Seymour sat back with an exclamation of relief. “I am more thankful than I can say, sir, for the chance that brought you to this spot at this moment. Do you know, I have been walking on this road for over an hour and yours is the first vehicle to pass? I do trust it will not inconvenience you to deliver me to the Green Feather?”

  The driver of the curricle looked into slightly anxious brown eyes and smiled reassuringly. “Far from it, ma’am. I am myself headed for the Green Feather.”

  “Oh, good.”

  The dazzling smile with which Miss Seymour favoured her rescuer caused that gentleman to draw in his breath audibly. He stared into her glowing face for some seconds, as though mesmerised, then blinked and returned his attention to his driving. After a moment, he said in a voice of creditable calm, “If you will permit me to introduce myself, ma’am, I am Sir Hugh Lanscomb of Meadowlands.”

  “How do you do? My name is Victoria Seymour.”

  Sir Hugh turned to his passenger, a touch of curiosity in his eyes. “I am slightly acquainted with a Mr. Richard Seymour.”

  “That was my father,” she said quickly in response to the hint of a question in his tones.

  “Was?”

  “Yes, he died two years ago.”

  “Miss Seymour, I beg you will forgive my maladroit tongue. Please allow me to offer my belated condolences.” Real contrition showed in the countenance he presented to her. As she made a gesture of acceptance, he continued, “My only excuse is that my acquaintance with your parent was of the slightest, and I have been away from the area for an extended period. In fact, I have only recently returned to my home after military service in America.” He hesitated briefly before going on in a diffident fashion. “I must confess that my prospective visit to the Green Feather is not just coincidence. I had cause to summon Dr. Jamison to my home yesterday. In the course of our conversation, he happened to mention that he was treating a patient by the name of Andrew Massingham at the Green Feather. It is not a particularly common surname, and it occurred to me that this might possibly be the same man I served with in the Peninsula. Consequently, I am on my way to the inn to discover if I may assist in some way if the patient should turn out to be my old comrade in arms.”

  At the beginning of this speech, Vicky had turned eagerly to face the driver. Now she broke in to assert that Mr. Massingham had indeed served in the Peninsula under Wellington.

  “And you would be the cousin who has been nursing him so devotedly?”

  “Why … yes.”

  If Sir Hugh noticed the reluctance with which this assent was produced, he made no comment, but went on to say, “Then you will be able to tell me if this is the same man. My friend was from Sussex.”

  When she didn’t reply immediately, he removed his attention once more from his horses and looked inquiringly at the woman sitting in embarrassed silence beside him. In her turn, Vicky subjected the face of her companion to a protracted scrutiny. What she saw must have reassured her, for she said with only a trace of constraint, “Mr. Massingham is not really my cousin. I only put that story about to placate Mrs. Tolliver, who was looking for a reason to refuse us assistance. The truth is that Mr. Massingham’s intervention saved me from being abducted by a highwayman who held up my coach a few nights ago. I said what was expedient to ease our path in the emergency.”

  “I … see. Then Mr. Massingham was unknown to you before this incident?”

  Again Vicky hesitated, but she drew confidence from the non-judgmental expression on Sir Hugh Lanscomb’s fine-featured countenance. He appeared every inch the gentleman, and she yielded to an uncharacteristic impulse to confide in someone. She lifted troubled eyes to his and confessed the whole story.

  Vicky was uncomfortably aware, as she lapsed into silence, that Sir Hugh’s groom had probably heard every word she had uttered, and could only trust that his was a reticent nature. Normally she wouldn’t have spoken before a servant, but there had been no time to consider. When she failed to identify the patient’s home, Sir Hugh would have known that she had lied about her relationship to Mr. Massingham. In the circumstances, she had made a lightning decision to acquaint him with all the facts. As the silence between them stretched out, she began to wonder if she had made the right choice. Perhaps the smoky situation had given him such a disgust of the affair that all inclination to be of service had fled his mind. They were approaching the village street now, and she flicked a covert glance at his unrevealing profile as he checked the speed of his horses. The inn was no more than a half-mile distant now.

  “It is rather an awkward situation, to be sure,” he said finally with quiet understatement, “but it strikes me that our first consideration must be Major Massingham’s recovery. In that respect, perhaps I can prove helpful. I came prepared to offer the hospitality of my home to him during his convalescence. Nothing you have told me would mitigate against this course. I am aware from Dr. Jamison that you have been in constant attendance on Major Massingham, ma’am, under trying conditions. You must be longing to return to your home.”

  Vicky permitted herself a small nod of agreement in response to Sir Hugh’s questioning look, and he became businesslike, requesting a report on his comrade’s progress. By the time they entered the inn, with Miss Seymour in her broken boot leaning on her escort’s arm, they had arrived at an understanding.

  Vicky ran upstairs to see if Mr. Massingham was able to receive his caller, stopping only long enough to put off her bonnet and pelisse and change to soft house shoes. Within a minute or two, she presented herself at the door to the sickroom and was admitted by George, one of the footmen from the Oaks, dispatched by Cavanaugh to shave the invalid now that his fever had abated. In response to her murmured question, he revealed that Mr. Massingham had been awake for over half an hour and seemed much stronger than in the morning.

  Vicky dismissed the footman to his dinner and stood for an instant just inside the door, una
ccountably reluctant to approach the man watching her in silence from the bed.

  “Do come in, Miss Seymour,” he invited with smooth civility. “Granted, we have not been formally introduced, but I am told that in all probability I owe my life to your nursing talents. It would seem that circumstance should constitute a sufficient introduction even in the highest circles.”

  Which circles I’ll go bail you don’t grace, thought Vicky, misliking his tone and instantly on the defensive. At least his lightly coated sarcasm sufficed to release her from that temporary paralysis.

  “You need not regard that circumstance, however, Mr. Massingham,” she replied with suspicious sweetness. “Since in all probability your timely intervention saved me from a fate worse than death at the hands of that brutish highwayman, I would say the honours are even.”

  She had been gliding forward as she spoke, and now paused at the foot of his bed, looking, did she but know it, particularly lovely with sparkling eyes and colour deliciously heightened by her time outdoors. If Mr. Massingham was aware of this circumstance, he concealed it admirably, reacting by no more than a slight narrowing of dark eyes as she came closer. There was no trace in his lean countenance of the admiration that had been so evident in Sir Hugh’s just moments earlier. Nor was the formal speech of gratitude for her stint of nursing which he next uttered delivered with a degree of warmth that would lend credence to his sincerity. Miss Seymour accepted it with a small bow and an equally meaningless polite disclaimer, after which she remained silent, waiting for his next move.

  He certainly looked a different man today, and it was not entirely due to the removal of a four days’ growth of beard. His eyes had lost that feverish glint and were normally alert, which meant about half again as active as the average person’s. Even from a sickbed, he seemed to radiate controlled energy. Only the laboured quality of his voice betrayed his debilitated condition. Miss Seymour continued to stand quietly at the foot of the bed, her natural stock of sympathy for an invalid rapidly dwindling in the face of Mr. Massingham’s ill-concealed hostility.