by Carola Dunn
Within half an hour, Oliver was on the road again. Relief and worry warred within him. On the one hand, Ruth was safe from her brother at last, and whatever Walter Vane’s part in today’s events, it seemed she had no intention of marrying him, or she would not be hurrying back to London. On the other hand, she had been through an extremely distressing experience. Why had she gone to the castle without him? Why was she so anxious to return to her uncle that she would not spend another night at Trevelyan House? Above all, why was she going without him, without even a word to him?
He drove in a brown study, avoiding the occasional vehicles he met without really seeing them. He was more than half way to Launceston when one of them forced itself on his attention.
“Hi!” called its lone occupant. “Are you Pardoe?”
“Yes,” he answered, jerked back to the present. “Who are... are you Walter Vane?”
“Correct, sir. Might I crave the indulgence of a few moments of your time? I am in possession of information that may conceivably be of assistance to you and that I must consider it my duty to impart.”
“Thank you, Mr Vane. I expect you know better than I whether I need hurry.”
The curate pulled out his watch.
“There is no urgency,” he assured Oliver. “The Exeter stage departs from the Duke of Cornwall on the stroke of seven o’clock. Lady Ruth has reserved a seat upon it.”
“My dear fellow, it is good of you to tell me.”
“Think nothing of it, Mr Pardoe, I beg of you. Ruth needs someone to take care of her. I had hoped... but it was not to be. My affection for her is sufficiently disinterested to allow me to wish you every success. I trust I am not mistaken in my assumptions?”
“Not where my intentions are concerned, sir. For Ruth I cannot speak. Do you know why she suddenly decided to go to London without notice?”
“You are aware of Lord Penderric’s demise, and his attempt to take his sister with him? It is my opinion that before he did away with himself, he told Ruth something that upset her very deeply. She was not herself when they left the castle, and then I saw them in conversation for quite five minutes at the top of the hill, before he whipped up his horse toward the cliff. They both raised their voices, though I did not catch their words, and then Ruth sat in the gig as though stunned. I venture to congratulate myself that it was my cry which induced her to jump from the vehicle before it was too late.”
“Mr Vane, I am deeply indebted to you, I can see. What happened when you returned to Penderric? She did not tell you what her brother had said?”
“No. We found a servant about to abscond with what he described as the last of the Penderric fortune. Some three hundred sovereigns in all. Then... then... I am sure I may trust in your discretion, Mr Pardoe. Lady Ruth rejected my offer as though she had put all thought of marriage behind her. I do not rate my merits excessively high when I say that it seemed to me that she felt that some obstacle stood in the way of her entrance upon the holy state of matrimony with whatsoever person.”
“It was not the loss of her dowry?”
“I intimated in plain words that I did not see that as a barrier between us.”
“Mr Vane, there are circumstances beyond your knowledge, and which I am not free to divulge, which make your supposition quite possible. If it is so, I am convinced that I can persuade Ruth that her scruples are over-nice and that she is free to accept or reject any man as she will. Sir, I am greatly obliged to you for your openness.”
“Not at all, sir, not at all. My sole concern is for Ruth’s happiness.”
“And mine, sir. And mine. I must be on my way. Good day, Mr Vane.”
The two rivals parted, with more good feeling on both sides than either would have guessed to be possible.
The sun was low in the sky when Oliver pulled up before the Duke of Cornwall. Its last, long rays lit on a small figure slumped on a bench against the inn’s façade.
With a tender, secret smile, he drove on into the yard. It took him no more than five minutes to order two bedchambers, a private parlour, dinner in an hour, and his chaise ready for the morrow. Another three minutes sufficed to ascertain that the landlady knew of a very respectable girl who would be glad of a free ride to London and who could be able to attend her ladyship in no more than two hours time.
“Her ladyship?” queried the bewildered innkeeper as his large customer strode impatiently out of the door.
“Keep a still tongue, Frederick,” advised his spouse. “Did ye not reckernise the little brown creetur as booked on the stage?”
“No,” he admitted, “and no more did you, Betsy, confess.”
Oliver sat down beside his beloved and looked at her long and lovingly. She was untidy, there was a rent in the hem of her dress, and her face was drawn with fatigue. Even in her sleep it shone with the innocent trust and indomitable spirit that had first drawn him to her. He bent over her and kissed her gently.
Ruth’s eyes opened.
“Oliver!” she murmured. Her arms went around his neck and she raised her lips to his.
Gradually it dawned on her that this was not a part of her dream. She moved away from him a little.
“I thought you had flown away in the balloon,” she accused.
“Did I not tell you I would not? See, I am here. Come, let us go in. You will catch cold, Ruth.”
Fully awake now she stood up, and stumbled.
“My foot has gone to sleep!” she exclaimed.
Grinning, he picked her up in spite of her protests, and carried her into the inn.
Epilogue
The private parlour was small but cosy. A pair of comfortable chairs faced the glowing fire, for the March evenings were chilly.
Oliver set Ruth in one of the chairs and pulled the other closer.
“My uncle and Walter would both be vastly disapproving if they knew I was alone here with you,” said Ruth with a smile.
“I am glad you are not of their mind, for I am sure you would not wish me to propose to you in the coffee room.”
“Oliver, pray do not. You must not!”
“Dearest, I have your uncle’s permission, and the earl will trouble us no longer.” He took her hand, but she pulled it away in agitation.
“How can I marry you, or anyone? My brother and... my father... were both lunatics and suicides! I beg you, Oliver, do not make it harder for me!”
“I have known for a long time now that they were both insane. It has made not a whit of difference in my desire to make you my wife.”
“I cannot...”
“There is something else, isn’t there? Godfrey told you something?”
She looked up at him in mute appeal. He took her hand again in a comforting clasp and would not let her withdraw it.
“When I asked your uncle’s permission to pay my addresses, he saw fit to reveal certain facts to me,” said Oliver gravely. “My poor sweetheart, you cannot suppose that an engineer would be in the least interested in a scandal a quarter of a century old!”
“It is true then. I was not certain. But whichever way it goes, there is bad blood.”
“I do not know what Penderric told you. Your mother was an innocent, trusting girl who was deceived. As for your father, his conduct toward her was inexcusable, but there is nothing to suggest that he was not otherwise an upstanding citizen and a fine officer. Would she have loved him else? And if there is any stigma attached to the Penderrics, why that is not your burden.”
“You are very reassuring, Oliver.” She looked at him searchingly.
“And persuasive, I hope. Ruth, you must know that I adore you. Will you marry me?”
“If you are quite sure... yes, I know you are. I love you, too, Oliver, and nothing in the world could make me happier than to be your wife.”
Somehow she found herself sitting on his knee, leaning against his broad chest, his arms enfolding her. After a long kiss, they both gazed silently into the fire, contemplating sweet memories and happy dreams.
“Sweetheart,” said Oliver with a grin, “Pray do not think me impertinent, but your stomach is rumbling quite excessively.”
“Wretch!” she cried. “I hope they bring dinner soon. I am exceedingly hungry!”
Copyright © 1984 by Carola Dunn
Originally published by Walker
Electronically published in 2005 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.