The Resolute Runaway

by Charlotte Louise Dolan

  “You are welcome to share our meal,” she announced, looking as solemn as a little barn owl. “There is enough for all of us, and Mary Kate will not mind, I am sure.”

  “Thank you for your hospitality,” he replied with the same formality, not sure how he should broach the subject of escorting her back to England.

  “Will you be staying in Brussels long?”

  Seizing the opportunity she had given him, he said more bluntly than he had intended, “I am on my way home to England, so I have come to escort you back to your relatives.”

  She blanched, as if he had struck her, and he silently cursed his heavy-handedness. Would he never learn to be tactful? To consider his words before he spoke? “I promised your brother.”

  “My brother commended me into your care?” she asked, her voice so soft he could hardly make out her words.

  “Not exactly that. But I did make him a promise, which I can no longer redeem, so I feel an obligation to see you safely returned to your Uncle Nehemiah.”

  Her eyes opened even wider, and he realized with a jolt that they were now glazed with fear. He bit back a curse. What had happened to her in the last few weeks to make her afraid of him when she was accustomed to treating him like a brother? Who had so mistreated her that she was now backing into a corner, as if trying to put as much distance between them as possible?

  He resolved to question the Irishwoman when she returned, but for now he would do all he could to act as if he had noticed nothing amiss and hope that he could avoid frightening the child further with some thoughtless remark.

  “Can you ride?”

  She looked at him blankly, clearly confused by his question.

  “At the moment, all I have with me are two riding horses,” he explained. “It will be more convenient if we can manage without a carriage until we are across the Channel. I can purchase a vehicle in Harwich for the rest of our journey, but I need to know if you can ride a horse.”

  She shook her head. “When I was very little, I had a pony, but he was sold after my father died. Since then I have not had any opportunity to ride.”

  “Would you have any objections to riding pillion?” Watching her face closely, he was resolved to drop the plan if she showed the slightest sign of fear or distress, but she actually looked relieved.

  “Whatever is the least trouble for you,” she replied. “I do not wish to be a bother.”

  He smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner, and the corners of her mouth turned up slightly. It was a rather tentative smile and obviously cost her a great deal of effort, but at least it was better than the frightened look she had worn earlier.

  While sharing the stew, which tasted as good as it smelled, Nicholas mentally cursed the entire French nation—all those patriotic citizens who had been so quick to support their emperor’s grandiose plans.

  The price the rest of the world had been forced to pay for Napoleon’s ambitions had been too high, and his final defeat had been bought not only with men’s lives but also with the lives of women like Miss Pettigrew. Compared to what her future would have been had her brother lived, her prospects were now quite bleak, and Nicholas could only regret that he was not married so that he might be able to offer her a comfortable position as companion to his wife. In his own household he would also be able to ensure that she was looked after properly.

  But at least she had relatives who would take her in. Some of the women whose husbands and brothers and fathers had been killed did not have even that much.

  * * * *

  Nicholas lay in his bunk and moaned. To Joanna he looked as pale as death—and more than once on this long journey across the Channel he had said he would sooner stick his spoon in the wall than endure another hour of being tossed about in such a manner. Since he had not yet even cast up his accounts, as so many of the other passengers were doing, she thought there was very little real possibility of that happening. But such opinions she kept to herself.

  “One of the sailors mentioned that a cup of hot tea might make your stomach feel better,” she said tentatively.

  Nicholas responded to her suggestion by ordering her out of the cabin with such force that she was quite reassured as to his ultimate recovery. He might feel as if he were dying, but he was in no real danger of becoming food for the fishes.

  Leaving him to suffer in private, which he obviously preferred, she made her way along the swaying corridor to the stairs leading up to the main level. Reaching the deck, she paused for a few minutes and surveyed the scene. Really, Nicholas did not know what he was missing by remaining below.

  To be sure, the breeze was a bit brisk, and the sea was rather choppy, which was causing the horizon to rise and fall, and was making the deck beneath her feet not only roll but also pitch. But still, the sky was such an intense blue, and the sea gulls were fascinating to watch as they wheeled overhead in constantly changing patterns. She took a deep breath, and the very air itself was so clean, so fresh, it seemed as if no one had ever used it before.

  Putting the constant motion of the ship out of her mind was easier than ignoring the nagging voice of her conscience, however. Her enjoyment of the voyage was marred by the fact that she was willfully deceiving Nicholas. Even though they had been together for several days now, she had never found a good opportunity to confess ... or at least that was the excuse she had been giving herself.

  But there was no real excuse, because the proper time for her to have told him she had run away from her uncle’s house was before they left Brussels—before they had taken even the first step on their journey.

  She pulled her cloak more tightly about her, but even its warmth could not improve her spirits. If anything, it only made her feel more guilty. Nicholas had bought it for her before they left Brussels, and it was the first brand-new item of clothing she could remember ever owning. Made of a beautiful lime-green wool, it was so fine and soft, at first she had been almost afraid to touch it. Would Nicholas have given it to her if he had known she was deceiving him?

  It was not even as if she could gain any advantage by lying. As much as she might wish it, she could not keep the truth from him forever.

  How angry would Nicholas be when they arrived at her uncle’s house and he discovered she was not welcome there? Very angry, more than likely, and he would also have nothing but contempt for her when he learned that her uncle had actually forbidden her to go to Brussels and that she had deliberately defied his rightful authority.

  Yet as much as she dreaded Nicholas’s scorn, it was nothing compared to the fear she had felt ever since he had mentioned her uncle’s name. She had scarcely given Uncle Nehemiah and Aunt Zerelda a thought since she had left England with the Dillons. They had traveled in luxury and she had enjoyed herself first on the journey and later in Brussels, with no thought of the ultimate price she would be forced someday to pay.

  But as soon as Nicholas had told her he was returning her to her family, the folly of her actions had become clear to her. She almost wished her uncle would make good his threat and refuse to take her back. But Uncle Nehemiah was too miserly to pass up the chance to use her again as an unpaid servant.

  He would take her back into his household ... but only after meting out suitable punishment. How many strokes of his cane would she feel before his wrath cooled? Before his sense of injustice was appeased? How many times would he drive her to her knees before he would magnanimously forgive her for rejecting his charity?

  Gathering her cloak around her, Joanna made her way along the deck past coils of rope and kegs lashed together, until she reached the prow of the ship. Somewhere out ahead, beyond the hazy horizon, lay England. And with each and every surge of the ship through the waves she was being carried closer to her uncle ... and to her punishment.

  Nor would it end with a beating. Uncle Nehemiah was quite experienced at carrying grudges. Years from now, he would still be using this flagrant disobedience on her part as an excuse to deprive her of the slightest pleasure.<
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  Yet despite the price Uncle Nehemiah would demand, if she had it to do over again, she would make the same decisions she had made. In the empty years to come, she would at least have her memories of Brussels to comfort her—not only the memories of Mark, but also the memories of Nicholas.

  In the few days they had been traveling together, she had discovered he was not quite as godlike as he had seemed at first. Although usually even-tempered, he did have a tendency to snap at anyone who spoke to him for the first hour or so after he woke up in the morning. And also, of course, he was not at all a good sailor.

  Unfortunately for her heart, the disillusionment had come too late. Riding pillion behind him all the way from Brussels to Antwerp—her arm holding his waist tightly and her face pressed against his back—she had become far too intimately acquainted with his body. There had been no way to refrain from noticing the play of his muscles as he guided the horse, no way to avoid becoming accustomed to his masculine scent, no way to shut her ears to the sound of his heartbeat, no way to keep her own heart from speeding up when he spoke to her.

  No longer could she find ample satisfaction in worshiping him from afar. The Nicholas she now yearned for was not a godlike being; he was definitely a man made of flesh and blood.

  Even now—even when he was green with seasickness—she wanted nothing more than to be kneeling at his side, soothing his brow, bringing him comfort.

  No, if she were to be honest—and she must practice being more truthful, even with herself—what she actually wanted was to be lying on that narrow bunk beside Nicholas, to feel his arms holding her as tightly as she had held him. She wanted once more to hear his heart beating strongly beneath her ear....

  She shook her head to clear it of such foolish thoughts. She could never actually behave in such a wanton manner, of course, and her wishes to the contrary, she would have to accept that there would be no more opportunities to be close to him again—no more waltzes with his hand on her waist, no more riding pillion with her arm around his waist.

  And all too soon, she thought wistfully, she would not even be able to look at his face except in her mind’s eye. Heartsick at their inevitable parting, which was coming nearer and nearer with every dip and rise of the ship, she stared straight ahead ... and gradually realized that the haze on the horizon had resolved itself into land.

  That would certainly cheer Nicholas up more than the offer of a cup of tea. Returning a short time later to his cabin, she found him sitting up on the side of his bunk, holding his head in his hands. He did not bid her welcome, and she had to wait until he had cursed the sea and the boat and the weather and the English Channel and the French people who were responsible for his being where he was, before she could tell him her news.

  “You mean this torture has an end?” he asked, disbelief in his voice.

  “Well, we are not on a trip to China, after all. The captain predicted it would be a fast crossing, and so it is turning out to be. I asked one of the sailors, and he said we should be in the harbor in less than an hour.”

  “You are an angel to bring me such wonderful news; I could kiss you for that,” he said absently.

  Just for a moment she thought he meant it, and her heart rejoiced. But then she realized it was only an expression, and she had to turn away, lest he see the disappointment she could not keep completely concealed.

  * * * *

  Joanna moved very carefully around the room, knowing that the slightest sound would wake Nicholas, who was sleeping in the adjoining room. The walls were paper thin, and if he discovered what she was up to, he would not only forbid her to do such a thing but also more than likely do it in such a loud voice that he would wake all the other guests staying at the inn.

  It was not as if there was anything seriously wrong with her plan, either, but like most men, he would doubtless disapprove of it on principle. Rather than risking an argument, which she knew he could win by sheer volume of voice, she had decided to take the coward’s way out and simply leave him a note telling him what she had done. Then he could return to his own home with an easy conscience, relieved of his obligation to her brother.

  Really, it was a good plan, and she could not think why it had not occurred to her earlier. They were only ten miles from her uncle’s house and only twelve from Riverside, where the Dillons would be. And unlike Uncle Nehemiah, Belinda was not prone to holding a grudge.

  Joanna had only to explain why she had stayed away that entire night in Brussels after they had specifically told her their departure was imminent, and she was sure the Dillons would forgive her for any delay and inconvenience she might have caused them and accept her back into their household.

  To be sure, it would be little more than a temporary reprieve from Uncle Nehemiah. She could not, after all, expect to live off the Dillons’ charity forever. But there was a possibility, however slight, that if she made herself useful enough, the Dillons might keep her on as an unpaid companion to Mrs. Dillon even after Belinda married, which she was sure to do, so beautiful and charming was she.

  And even if her stay with them turned out to be only a matter of weeks or months, every day Joanna could avoid returning to Uncle Nehemiah’s household was a blessing not to be cast aside lightly.

  It was so obviously the best thing to do under the circumstances that she felt somewhat guilty for not explaining to Nicholas in person. But then she would have to tell him everything, including the fact that she had run away from her uncle’s house, and that she could not do. No, she would avoid all arguments and unpleasantness by leaving a note, telling him she had decided to finish the last few miles of the journey to her uncle’s house alone.

  Luckily, she’d had the foresight the night before to borrow a quill and ink from one of the maids, who had also been able to arrange for Joanna to ride most of the way to Riverside with a neighboring farmer who was taking a cartload of produce to market.

  Still feeling very much the coward despite all her rationalizations she seated herself at a little table and began to write.

  * * * *

  Nicholas was not in a good humor when he turned into the driveway of the Alderthorpe residence. If pressed, he would have to admit that he was never at his best when he first awoke. In general, however, his temper was even, but not on a day when he was served up an impertinent note with his breakfast.

  Thank you for your help, but I no longer need your assistance, was the essence of the message Joanna had left for him. Apparently she expected him to accept her assurance that nothing untoward would happen to her if she wandered unprotected around the English countryside.

  His imagination, however, had been working feverishly during the last ten miles, and the pictures it had shown him had done nothing to sweeten his disposition. Descending from his carriage, he hitched the hired horses to a post beside the drive, then pounded on the door of her uncle’s house.

  After a lengthy interval the butler opened the door and requested he state his business.

  “I wish to speak with Miss Pettigrew,” Nicholas replied, his tone barely civil.

  “I shall inquire,” the man said before shutting the door in Nicholas’s face.

  On top of everything else, this rude reception was too much, and it was all Nicholas could do to refrain from again pounding on the door—or kicking it in.

  Taking his own sweet time, the butler eventually reappeared and wordlessly ushered Nicholas into the house. Leading him through a dark, musty corridor, the servant finally opened a door and stood aside to let Nicholas enter an overheated sitting room.

  A quick glance revealed that the only occupant of the room was a stout middle-aged man with a florid complexion. “State your business,” the man said with no preamble.

  “I have no business with you,” Nicholas replied in the same blunt tone. “My business is with your niece, Miss Pettigrew.”

  “I have no niece,” the man replied, his expression now openly hostile.

  “When I inquired after the Alde
rthorpe residence, I was directed to this house,” Nicholas said, refusing to be put off so easily.

  “I am Nehemiah Alderthorpe,” the man finally admitted, his voice cold and emotionless. “But I no longer have a niece. The girl was fully aware of the consequences of her actions when she went running off to Brussels to see that worthless brother of hers.”

  At these callous words, a red haze filled Nicholas’s vision. “Her brother was a brave and loyal officer in His Majesty’s service, and he was fatally wounded at Quatre Bras defending his country’s flag.”

  The fat man shrugged. “A not unexpected occurrence, I believe, when someone chooses to be a soldier.”

  “This is your nephew we are talking about,” Nicholas said angrily. “Have you no respect for the dead?”

  “My nephew chose not to take my advice, just as his sister chose to flout my authority. Consequently neither of them is my responsibility.”

  Unable to control his temper any longer, Nicholas moved forward with intent to cause bodily harm. Mr. Alderthorpe’s haughty expression wavered slightly, and he took a step backward. “Now, see here,” he blustered, apparently realizing he had gone too far.

  Before the man could finish whatever feeble excuse he was about to make, the door opened behind Nicholas and a woman spoke in a coy voice.

  “Hagers told me we had company. Pray introduce our visitor, my love.”

  Looking relieved at the interruption, Mr. Alderthorpe carefully skirted Nicholas and joined his wife by the door. She was even fatter than her husband, who now carefully positioned himself behind his wife’s skirts.

  “This man, whoever he is,” Mr. Alderthorpe explained, “has barged in here demanding to see Joanna.”

  “My name is Goldsborough, Nicholas Goldsborough. I served in the same regiment as your nephew, who died of wounds received during the battle at Quatre Bras.”