She flung him a contemptuous glance. “I said once before that I don’t like your notions. They certainly don’t tally with mine on this subject.”
“One could scarcely expect it,” he said, with a sneer. “You’ve been reared to the pattern of all genteel females — most likely you nurse romantic yearnings for a chivalrous lover who will spend all his life at your feet. It’s not the nature of the beast, my child; and, after a few years of marriage, no one will be more thankful for that fact than you are yourself. You’ll see.”
“I don’t wish to discuss my marriage with you, sir, so kindly hold your tongue on that subject!”
He considered her in an amused way for several moments.
“What a pity,” he said, at last. “And it is a subject which concerns me so nearly. Yes, I think I may say that.”
From that moment she began to feel uneasy.
Would Oliver really have expected her to come all this way to meet him, without having first given her some very good reason? It was unlike him; and yet he had appeared so moved at their last interview, that almost anything seemed possible. He had spoken as if he intended to see Louisa himself, though. What part could this headlong flight in the direction of London possibly play in a scheme of that kind? A sudden idea came to her.
“Has Oliver gone to my home to see my parents?” she asked, coming out of a reverie that had lasted longer than she realized. “Does he need me to be there for some reason, and so we are to follow him. Is that it?”
She looked expectantly at the Captain, but he had closed his eyes again.
“Oh, pray do answer me!” she cried, stamping her feet in vexation that was not unmixed with anxiety.
She felt the coach slowing. Crendon opened his eyes, muttered an oath, and stuck his head out through the window, impatiently demanding why the driver was stopping.
“Thought as I ’eard ye knock, yer honour,” shouted back the coachman.
Catherine, too, stood up and leaned out of the window at her side. In one hand, she loosely held the gloves which she had drawn off some time ago. As the Captain gave the order to start again and the vehicle moved forward with a jerk, the gloves dropped from her hand into the road.
She gave an exclamation of dismay.
“What’s amiss?” demanded Crendon.
She told him, and asked him to stop so that she might retrieve her property.
“Oh, pooh! I’ll buy you some more,” he said, easily. Then in a sharper tone — “You didn’t have your initials embroidered on them, by any chance?”
“No,” replied Catherine, wondering why he should ask.
He laughed. “Then, they’re readily enough replaced, my dear.”
She did not like his tone, which was more familiar than anything he had previously used to her. Then, too, her mind would persist in dwelling on his question about the gloves. He had been relieved — yes, it was not too strong a word — to learn that her initials were not embroidered on them. But why? Because they would be easier to replace? That seemed absurd.
It was odd that at this precise moment she should recall her first meeting with Pamyngton, and how she had confided to him — among countless more indiscreet items — that her grandmother considered that she, Katie, had her head screwed on the right way, in spite of her nonsense. Perhaps the protective aura of that old lady, who, though difficult at times, could always be relied upon to pull her grandchildren out of scrapes, reached out to Catherine now. However it was, she suddenly knew without a doubt why Crendon had asked about the gloves. A great many females could, and most probably did, accidentally drop their gloves out of vehicles passing along the road. If found, they would offer no particular clue to their owner. But a glove embroidered with the initials ‘C.D.’ might seem very significant to anyone searching for a young lady with those initials.
A tremor ran through her. Who was there to search for her? Who could possibly know she was missing until she failed to return at dinner time? Inquiries would be made then, and perhaps the footman might mention that he had taken a note from her to Captain Crendon’s lodging. If this information should be pieced together with what Nell knew, or thought she knew, of her sister’s relations with the Captain, the family might possibly deduce that she had eloped with him.
Of course, thinking this, they would be anxious to stop it. Any elopement was considered to be in bad taste, let alone one with a penniless man. But who was there to send after her? John Hailsham was away from home; Catherine’s father was likewise inaccessible. Not for the first time, she longed for some brothers — officious, interfering brothers who made quite sure that their sisters did not become entangled with the wrong kind of men. Someone like Oliver, who had told her severely that she ought not to be driving around alone with a man whom she knew as slightly as Crendon.
Oliver — of course, they were not going to see him at all. They never had been. It was all a trick. She was not eloping with Captain Crendon, whatever her family might think; but he was eloping with her. Not because he loved her to distraction, either, she thought wryly; but because he wanted her fortune. She herself had told him that it was legally bound to go with her when she married, that her parents could do nothing to stop this.
Suddenly she felt very frightened. Even if her family guessed what had happened to her and tried to send someone to fetch her back, how would they know which way she had gone? She did not know herself where she was going. And she had left no message that could convey any clue — stay, what had she done with the note from Captain Crendon? Was it in her reticule?
She picked the reticule up from the seat beside her and rummaged inside. Her fingers closed on a piece of paper, and she had hard work not to let her expression betray the disappointment she felt.
All was lost. She had brought the note with her.
She glanced covertly at Crendon, but he was not attending to her at that moment, so she cautiously drew the paper out a little way so that she could see the writing on it.
A wave of relief swept over her: it was Mama’s writing, not Captain Crendon’s. That meant she had left Crendon’s note lying about somewhere at home; she only wished she could recall exactly where. Was it likely that anyone might find it, and having found it, read it? Of course they would read anything that might offer a clue to her whereabouts once they knew she was missing. If only she could be sure that they would find it! She was quite certain, at all events, that she had not disposed of it tidily as Louisa would have done, for instance. She reflected wryly on the many hours that had been wasted by various governesses in vain attempts to make her tidy and methodical. What a blessing that they had failed! It might be the saving of her now.
The elation did not last long. She remembered that although Crendon’s note had spoken of meeting Oliver at Pyecombe, it had made no mention of going any farther. She remembered that she herself did not know what their ultimate destination might be. At that moment, the vehicle came to a crossroads, and swung right.
Despair gripped her once more. Now they were off the main road, what hope was there that anyone following could find her? She thought of the gloves she had dropped, and an idea came to her.
The window was still open. She leaned towards it, her reticule gripped in her left hand and shielded from Crendon’s view.
“What are you doing?” he asked, sharply.
“I–I feel faint…”
She rose, gripping the window sill with her right hand, and quickly dropped the reticule out of the carriage.
“For God’s sake!”
He sprang forward, seizing her, and for a moment she feared that he had seen what she had done. He pressed her back into the seat.
“You little fool, you’ll get hurt if you stand up when we’re travelling at this pace. Sit still, and it will pass off.”
He scrutinized her with just a shade of anxiety. The last thing he wanted was a swooning female on his hands, and she certainly looked pale enough. Catherine was quick to sense her advantage. It was small enough,
to be sure, but it might serve as a delaying tactic; and what else was a defenceless female to do?
In another few minutes, she had fainted gracefully away.
Chapter Twenty
PURSUIT
“I blame myself,” said Oliver, with a troubled look, “I blame myself entirely. How could I have permitted her to run into such hazards to serve my own selfish ends? I feel utterly contemptible!”
“No doubt,” replied Pamyngton, as with set lips he sent his racing curricle hurtling along the London road. “But that doesn’t help us now, I fear. Pyecombe? Where in Pyecombe, I wonder? We’ll try the inn, for a start.”
They had lost no time in setting out in pursuit.
When Oliver had appeared at the Hailshams’ house, both Louisa and Pamyngton had thought at first that he had brought Catherine home. The discovery that he knew nothing of her whereabouts and had certainly not entrusted Crendon with any message for her, soon led to a correct understanding of events. Without further ado, Pamyngton had announced his intention of going to her rescue. Louisa, half demented with anxiety, had been in no state of mind to argue about the proprieties of this. With both her father and her brother-in-law too far away to help, she was only too thankful to be able to enlist the aid of a gentleman whose family was bound to hers by strong ties of friendship, and in whom, moreover, she personally placed a great deal of trust.
Oliver had been equally insistent that he should accompany Pamyngton, saying that as the whole thing was his fault, he must do something. Pamyngton would have preferred to go alone as he could cover the ground more quickly travelling light; but his kind disposition could not refuse the other man some alleviation in action of his evident remorse, so he agreed.
They were rather more than an hour behind Catherine and Crendon in setting out, but they reached Pyecombe in record time, thus catching up on some of it. Inquiries at the inn were fruitful, as it was not a busy place, and the closed carriage had been remembered. Yes, they had seen a gentleman — dark, brisk, seemed in a hurry — and he had changed horses. They had not seen a lady at all, though what with the drawn blinds, there most likely would have been one. But as to where the carriage had gone next, this they could not say for certain, though it had made off in the direction of London.
“D’you think he’s really making for London?” demanded Pamyngton, as he took up the reins again. “This is the most damnable part of the whole business — we’ve no notion where the devil to look! I’ve heard he’s got some property somewhere to the north of Cuckfield, but no one seems clear exactly where. They said it didn’t signify, because in any case it was sure to be mortgaged up to the hilt.”
“But he might take her there, all the same, don’t you think? I suppose his plan is to marry her, as things are so desperate with him
It had seemed as though the vehicle was already making all possible speed, but now it shot forward at an increased rate.
“By God!” muttered Pamyngton, between his teeth. “I shall kill him!”
This bloodthirsty statement called forth no reproof from Oliver, who found it most reassuring. It shed light on some points in Pamyngton’s past conduct which had previously seemed regrettably obscure to his companion.
“There’s nothing to do but to follow this road and ask for them at every inn and turnpike gate we pass,” said Oliver, after a minute or two. “I wonder what story he concocted to keep Katie content to go on with him beyond Pyecombe, where she was expecting to meet me?”
Pamyngton did not answer for a time. Then he said, in a strained voice, “I cannot altogether dismiss the thought that he needed no story — that she may have gone with him willingly.”
Oliver Seaton shook his head emphatically. “Louisa was not of that opinion. You heard yourself what she said — that Catherine had declared only this morning that she was not in love with Captain Crendon and never would be.”
“How much trust,” asked Pamyngton, with a trace of bitterness in his tone, “can one ever place in what any female says on such a subject?”
“Then you think we may be rescuing her from herself, as well as from Crendon?”
“Damned if I know. It’s a possibility that has to be faced.”
“Our duty is clear, in any event. She can’t be allowed to elope with this man, whether she wishes to do so or not. No one who has her interests at heart could think it a suitable match, even if it were to be contracted with traditional propriety, instead of in this hole and corner style.”
Pamyngton made no reply to this, but urged the horses on with unremitting zeal. A few miles farther on, he pulled up beside an inn, where Oliver alighted to enquire if anything had been seen of their quarry.
He was back almost at once, and nodded briefly as he swung into his seat. Pamyngton started the horses without further delay.
“Any news? Any hint as to their destination?”
“Nothing. Only that the carriage passed here something less than an hour since. The good woman there says she caught a glimpse of a young lady sitting on the near side of the vehicle and wearing a lilac bonnet. She couldn’t say who else was in the carriage, as it went by without stopping, but she was quite definite about the lilac bonnet — trust a female!”
“Yes. Although I saw Miss Catherine stepping into that carriage in Brighton, I certainly couldn’t have sworn to the colour of her bonnet. It’s as well that Miss Denham took the trouble to tell us what her sister was wearing. Well, for the first time we’ve had confirmation that she is still travelling with Crendon — not that I supposed otherwise. We must simply press on and hope to catch them. I wish to God we knew exactly what his destination is!”
He was to repeat this after another four miles or so had been covered without their finding anyone who had noticed Crendon’s carriage passing that way. They pulled up at the crossroads which they reached soon afterwards. Pamyngton stared hard down the road on their right, which ran to Cuckfield, but could see nothing moving along it.
“Which road to take — on for Handcross, or turn off here?” he asked, despairingly. “Do you realize, Seaton, we’re within a few miles now of the Denhams’ home?”
“Yes of course I realize it. You most likely don’t know, my lord, that I live in the same village.”
“I did know, but I’d forgotten for the moment. But do call me Pamyngton, my dear fellow. We’ll press on, then? At least there’ll be news of them at Handcross, for he’ll need to change horses there if he means to go much farther.” Once more the curricle sped forward, until they reached another junction a few miles farther along. As before, Pamyngton pulled up briefly to scan the side turning. This time, there was some sign of life; a ploughboy plodding towards them down the dusty road, no doubt returning to his cottage after the day’s work.
Pamyngton beckoned the man over to the curricle, and began to question him. After a few moments he broke off, pointing with his whip to something which the labourer was clutching in one hand.
“What have you there?” he asked, sharply.
“Don’t rightly know, y’r honour. I found it in the road, just there along.” He pointed back the way he had come. “Here, let me look.”
Pamyngton reached down and took the object, which was covered in dust.
“It’s a lady’s reticule, b’God!” he exclaimed, passing it to Oliver. “You don’t recognize it, by any chance?”
Oliver turned it over, and shook his head. “No, but we can at least see if it contains anything to show who owns it.” He looked at his companion, who nodded; then he drew back the strings of the reticule.
“There’s a letter here,” he continued, pulling it out. “Possibly — ah!”
“Come on, man! What is it? Is it her property?”
“Undoubtedly. It’s a letter from Lady Denham.”
“Then they turned off here,” said Pamyngton, decisively. He turned to the labourer. “We are acquainted with the owner of this, my good man, and we’ll return it. But here’s for finding it.”
He pre
ssed a coin into the labourer’s hand, then turned the curricle expertly and went bowling along the side road.
“I wonder if she dropped that accidentally or on purpose?” he said, thoughtfully.
“On purpose, I would say. It is too much of a coincidence that it should have been dropped just where the road forks.”
Pamyngton was silent for a time.
“If that is so,” he said, at last, “then she hopes to be followed, and is attempting to guide us. But where to? If only we had any means of finding out!”
“We can’t go wrong if we follow this road for the present,” replied Oliver. “The problem will be what to do when we reach a turning.”
This happened after they had covered about a mile. They pulled up, and Pamyngton jumped down to examine the ground in the hope that Crendon’s carriage might have left some tracks. He shook his head as he climbed up again.
“For the life of me, I can’t say. Perhaps we had best keep to the main road until we come to some village where we can ask for them. The road runs in the direction of Cuckfield, so it does look as though he’s making for this property of his.”
Before long, they came to a turnpike gate. As the gatekeeper let them through, Pamyngton asked his question, and was rewarded with the information that a carriage had gone through not half an hour since.
“Do you by any chance know of any property hereabouts owned by a family named Crendon?”
“Oh, ay, that’ll be Northlands,” replied the gatekeeper. “The old squire died three years agone, and they do say as young ’un games all ’is fortune away.”
“How do we reach the house?”
The gatekeeper pointed down the road. “Take first turning left, then after about a mile turn right by Pilbrook Farm. Ye’ll see the house nearby, along the lane. But ’tis all shut up — I don’t know when young squire was last there. Bain’t no manner o’ use goin’.”
They drove off, and following these directions, reached a small farm standing at the junction of the road with a narrow lane which had grass growing between two deep ruts on each side. Not far along the lane they could see a house of moderate size standing over to the left, in its own grounds.
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