Sprig Muslin

by Джорджетт Хейер

  She nodded. “Yes, indeed! Oh, dear, if I’d had only an inkling how it was—! The idea of a lovely young thing like she is, wandering about by herself, and nothing but them two bandboxes to call her own! But where she can have got to I know no more than you sir. She didn’t hide herself in the village, that’s certain, for there’s not a soul has seen her, and I don’t see how she could have walked down the street without someone must have caught sight of her. We did wonder if she got taken up in someone’s carriage, but I disremember that we had so much as a gig pull up here while she was in the house. And as for the stage, Mrs. Bude, which keeps the chandler’s shop, put a parcel on to it when it came through Bythorne at noon, and she’s certain sure there was no young lady got into it.”

  Sir Gareth spread open his map, and laid it on the table. “I doubt very much whether she would have tried to escape by way of the post-road. She must have known she would be pursued, and the first thing she would do would be to get as far away from it as possible. Could she have slipped out of this house by a back way?”

  “She could,”Mrs. Sheet replied doubtfully. “There’s a door leading into the yard, but there was the coachman, and a lad, that brought some chickens and potatoes, and I should have thought they’d have been bound to see her.”

  “The coachman come into the tap, soon as he’d stabled the horses,” interposed Mr. Sheet.

  “Yes, but Joe didn’t!” she objected.

  “Happen Joe did see her. He wouldn’t think anything of it, not Joe! Likely he wouldn’t hardly have noticed her.”

  “I daresay she may have waited until his back was turned,” said Sir Gareth. “Can the lane that crosses the post-road be reached by way of the fields behind this house?”

  “Well, you could get to it that way, sir, but it’s rough walking, and how would the young lady have known there was a lane?”

  “She might not, but if she was on the look-out for a way of escape she would have seen that lane, just before the carriage reached Bythorne. As I remember, there is a signpost, pointing to Catworth and Kimbolton.” He laid his finger on the map. “Catworth, I take it, is no more than a small village. Has it an inn?—No, too near the post-road: she wouldn’t try to establish herself there. Kimbolton, then. Yes, I think that must be my first goal.” He folded up the map again, and straightened himself. He saw that Mrs. Sheet was regarding him wonderingly, and smiled. “I can only go by guess, you know, and this seems to me the likeliest chance.”

  “But it’s all of seven miles to Kimbolton, sir!” expostulated Mrs. Sheet. “Surely she wouldn’t trudge all that way, carrying them bandboxes?”

  He thrust the map into his pocket, and picked up his hat. “Very likely not. From my knowledge of her, I should imagine that if she saw any kind of vehicle on the road she coaxed its driver into taking her up. And I hope to God she fell into honest hands!”

  He moved towards the door, but before he reached it the aperture was filled by a burly figure, in gaiters and a frieze coat, at sight of whom Mrs. Sheet uttered a pleased exclamation. “Ned! The very person I was wishful to see! Do you wait a moment, sir, if you please! Come you in, Ned, and answer me this! When he got home, did Joe say anything to you, or Jane, about a young lady which we’ve got a notion he maybe saw in our yard when he was unloading the potatoes from the cart?”

  The burly individual, rather bashfully pulling his forelock to Sir Gareth, replied, in a deep, slow voice: “Ay, he did that. Leastways, in a manner of speaking, he did. Which is what brings me here, because Jane ain’t by no means easy in her mind, and what she says is, if anyone knows the rights of it, it’ll be Mary.”

  “Sir Gareth, sir, this is Ned Ninfield, which is Joe’s father, Joe being the lad I told you about,” said Mrs. Sheet, performing a rapid introduction. “And this gentleman, Ned, is the young lady’s guardian, and he’s looking for her all over, she having run away from school.”

  Mr. Ninfield’s ruminative gaze travelled to Sir Gareth’s face, and became fixed there, while he apparently revolved a thought in his mind.

  “Did your son see the way she went?” asked Sir Gareth.

  This question seemed to strike Mr. Ninfield as being exquisitely humorous. A grin spread over his face, and he gave a chuckle. “Ay! In a manner of speaking, he did. She never said nothing about any school, though.”

  “Lor’, Ned!” cried Mrs. Sheet, in sharp suspicion. “You’re never going to tell me you’ve seen her too? Where is she?”

  Her jerked his thumb over his shoulder, saying laconically: “Whitethorn.”

  “Whitethorn?”she gasped. “However did she come to get there?”

  He began to chuckle again. “In my cart! Joe brought her. Proper moonstruck, he was.”

  “Ned Ninfield!” she exploded. “You mean to tell me Joe didn’t know no better than to offer a young lady like she is a ride in that dirty cart of yours?”

  “Seems it was her as was set on it, not him. Told him to pick her up, and pop her into the cart where no one wouldn’t see her. Which he done. And I don’t know as I blame him,” added Mr. Ninfield thoughtfully. “Not altogether, I don’t.”

  “I don’t believe it!” Mrs. Sheet declared.

  “Oh, yes!” Sir Gareth interposed, a good deal amused. “Nothing, in fact, is more likely! Not so long ago, she hid herself in a carrier’s cart. I expect she enjoyed the ride.”

  “She did that, your honour,” corroborated Mr. Ninfield. “She and my Joe ate up the better part of a jar of pickled cherries between ‘em, what’s more. Sticky! Lor’, you ought to have seen ‘em!”

  “The cherries I sent Jane special!” ejaculated Mrs. Sheet.

  Sir Gareth laughed. “I offer you my apologies, ma’am: I told you she was a little monkey!” He turned, stretching out his hand to the farmer. “Mr. Ninfield, I’m very much in your debt—and more thankful than I can describe to you that my ward had the good fortune to fall in with your son. By the way, I do hope to God you didn’t tell her you were coming here to make enquiries about her? If you did, she will certainly have fled from the house before I can reach it.”

  “No, sir, she don’t know nothing about it,” Mr. Ninfield replied, rather coyly wiping his hand on his breeches before grasping Sir Gareth’s. “But the thing is—well, it’s like this, sir! I’m sure I’m not wishful to give offence, but—you wouldn’t be the gentleman as is father to the young lady as had Miss Amanda to wait on her, would you?”

  “I would not!” said Sir Gareth, recognizing Amanda’s favourite story. “I collect you mean the gentleman who made such improper advances to her that his sister—most unjustly, one feels—turned her out of the house without a moment’s warning. I haven’t a daughter, and I am not even married, much less a widower. Nor has Miss Amanda ever been a waiting-woman. She got the notion out of an old novel.”

  “Well, I’m bound to say you didn’t look to me like you could be him,” said Mr. Ninfield. “Downright wicked, that’s what I thought, but my good lady, she wouldn’t have it. She says to me private that she’d go bail Miss was telling us a lot of faradiddles, because nothing wouldn’t make her credit that Miss was an abigail, nor ever had been. So it was a school she run away from, was it, sir? Well, that won’t surprise the wife, though she did think it was p’raps her home she run away from: likely, because someone had crossed her. Powerful hot at hand, I’d say-meaning no disrespect!”

  “You’re very right!” Sir Gareth said. “Under what disguise does she hope to remain in your house, by the way? Has she offered herself to your wife as a chambermaid?”

  “No, sir,” grinned Mr. Ninfield. “When last I see her, she was making my Joe teach her how to milk the cows, and just about as happy as a grig.”

  “Ah, going to be a dairymaid, is she?” said Sir Gareth cheerfully. An idea that had peeped into his mind now began to take hopeful possession of it. He looked at Mr. Ninfield consideringly, and said, after a moment: “Is she a troublesome charge? Do you think Mrs. Ninfield would be prepared to keep her as a
boarder for a few days?”

  “Keep her, sir?” repeated Mr. Ninfield, staring at him.

  “The case, you see, is this,” said Sir Gareth. “Either I must take her back to school, or I must make some other arrangements for her. Well, I have been most earnestly requested not to take her back to the school, which puts me in something of a fix, for I can’t hire a governess for her at a moment’s notice. I must convey her to my sister’s house in town, and, frankly, I am very sure she won’t want to go with me there. Nor, I must add, am I anxious to saddle my sister with such a charge. It occurs to me that if she is happy in your wife’s care it would perhaps be as well to leave her there until I am able to provide for her suitably. I daresay, if she did not know that I was aware of her direction, she would be glad to stay with you, and would no doubt enjoy herself very much, milking cows, and collecting eggs, and in general fancying herself to be very useful.”

  “I’ll be bound she would, the pretty dear!” said Mrs. Sheet approvingly. “A very good notion, I call it, and just what will put dancing-masters and such out of her head.”

  But Mr. Ninfield dashed Sir Gareth’s hopes. “Well, sir,” he said apologetically, “I’m sure I’d be pleased to have her, and it goes against the shins with me to act disobliging, but it’s Joe, you see. She’s got him so as he don’t know whether he’s on his head or his heels. He don’t take his eyes off her, and when he told his ma that Miss was like a princess out of one of them fairy stories, Mrs. Ninfield she said to me, private, that we must find out quick where she comes from before Joe gets ideas into his head which is above his station. Because it wouldn’t do, sir.”

  “No, it wouldn’t do,” agreed Sir Gareth, relinquishing his scheme with a pang. “If that is how the land lies, of course I must take her away immediately. Where is your farm?”

  “It’s a matter of three miles from here, sir, but it ain’t a very good road. You go up the post-road, about half a mile, and there’s a lane turns off to your left. You follow that past Keyston, until you see a rough track, left again. You go down that for a mile and a half, maybe a bit more, like as if you was heading for Catworth, and just afore you come to a sharp bend you’ll see Whitethorn. You can’t miss it.”

  “Good gracious, Ned, where have your wits gone begging?” interrupted Mrs. Sheet impatiently. “Just you get back into your gig, and lead the gentleman!”

  “Thank you, I wish you will!” Sir Gareth said. “In the direction of Catworth, is it? Tell me, can I, without too much difficulty, reach Kimbolton from Whitethorn?”

  “Yes, sir, easy, you can. All you’ve to do is to go on down the lane till you come to the post-road—the one as runs south of this one, between Wellingborough and Cambridge. Then you swing left-handed into it, and Kimbolton’s about five miles on.”

  “Excellent! I’ll rack up there for the night, and carry the child off to London by post-chaise tomorrow—if she doesn’t contrive to give me the slip from the posting-house there! But before we set out you must join me in a glass. Ma’am, what may I have the pleasure of desiring your husband to serve you with?”

  “Well, I’m sure, sir!” said Mrs. Sheet, slightly overcome. “Well, I don’t hardly like to!”

  However, succumbing to persuasion, she consented to drink a small glass of port. The landlord then drew three pots of his own home-brewed; and Sir Gareth, basely plotting Amanda’s undoing, said thoughtfully: “Now, I wonder what trick that abominable child will play on me next? She’ll put up a spirited fight, that’s certain! The last time she was in mischief she told a complete stranger that I was abducting her. I only wish I may not be in her black books for months for having disclosed that she’s still a schoolgirl. Nothing enrages her more!”

  Mrs. Sheet said wisely that girls of her age were always wishing to be thought quite grown-up; and Mr. Ninfield, hugely tickled by the thought of Sir Gareth’s figuring as an abductor, confessed that he and his good lady had suspected from the start that Miss was cutting a sham.

  “Ah, well, of course she didn’t ought to tell such faradiddles,” said Mrs. Sheet, “but it’s only play-acting, like children do, when they start in to be Dick Turpin, or Robin Hood.”

  “Exactly so,” nodded Sir Gareth. “But it is really time she grew out of it. Unfortunately, she is still at the stage when she pines for adventure. As far as I can discover, she thinks it a dead bore to be a schoolgirl, and so is for ever pretending that she is someone else. I could wish that some of her stories were less outrageous.”

  Everyone agreed that it was very embarrassing for him, and the symposium presently ended on a note of great cordiality. Sir Gareth had acquired three firm friends and supporters who were as one in thinking him the finest gentleman of their acquaintance, not high in the instep, but, as Mr. Sheet later expressed it, a real-top-of-the-trees, slap up to the echo.

  Trotton, upon hearing that the end of the hunt was in sight, was extremely thankful. It had appeared to him that his besotted master was prepared to continue driving throughout the night, and he, for one, had had enough of it. Moreover, he had been even more reluctant than Sir Gareth to leave the bays in a strange stable, having taken a dislike to the head ostler, an unfortunate circumstance which led to his becoming more and more convinced that those peerless horses would be subjected to the worst of bad treatment. He now learned that it would be his task to drive them back to London by easy stages, and grew instantly more cheerful.

  “You will have to come with me to Kimbolton,” Sir Gareth said, drawing on his gloves. “I shall be escorting the young lady to my sister’s house tomorrow, and shall hire a chaise for the purpose. You may then drive the curricle back to Thrapston, settle my account there for the hire of these tits, and bring the bays up to London after me. I shan’t look for you to arrive for at least two days, so take care you don’t press ‘em!”

  “No, sir,” said Trotton, in a carefully expressionless voice. “I wouldn’t be wishful to do so—not in this hot weather!”

  “Because,” said Sir Gareth, as though he had not heard, but with the glimmer of an appreciative smile in his eyes, “I have already worked ‘em far harder than I ought.”

  “Just so, sir!” said his henchman, grinning at him.

  It did not take long to accomplish the journey to Whitethorn Farm. Leaving Trotton with the curricle, Sir Gareth was ushered by Mr. Ninfield into the rambling old house. Dusk was beginning by this time to shadow the landscape, and in the large, flagged kitchen the lamp had been kindled. Its mellow light fell on Amanda, on the floor, and playing with a litter of kittens. Seated in a window chair, with his hands clasped between his knees, was a stalwart youth, watching her with a rapt and slightly idiotic expression on his sunburnt countenance; and keeping a wary eye on both, while she vigorously ironed one of her husband’s shirts, was a matron of formidable aspect.

  Amanda glanced up casually, as the door opened, but when she saw who had entered the kitchen she stiffened, and exclaimed: “You! No! No!”

  Young Mr. Ninfield, although not quick-witted, took only a very few seconds to realise that here in the person of this bang-up nonesuch, was Amanda’s persecutor. He got up, clenching his fists, and glaring at Sir Gareth.

  He was perfectly ready, and even anxious, to do battle, but Sir Gareth took the wind out of his sails, by first nodding at Amanda, and saying amiably: “Good-evening, Amanda!” and then coming towards him, with his hand held out. “You must be Joe Ninfield,” he said. “I have to thank you for taking such excellent care of my ward. You are a very good fellow!”

  “It’s the young lady’s guardian, Jane,” Mr. Ninfield informed his wife, in a penetrating aside.

  “It is not!”Amanda declared passionately. “He is trying to abduct me!”

  Joe, who had numbly allowed Sir Gareth to grasp his hand, turned his bemused gaze upon her, seeking guidance. “Throw him out!” ordered Amanda, a sandy kitten clasped to her breast in a very touching way.

  “You’ll do no such thing, Joe!” said his mother sharpl
y. “Now, sir! P’raps you’ll be so good as to explain what this means!”

  “All’s right, Jane,” Mr. Ninfield said, chuckling. “It’s like you thought, only that it was school Miss ran off from.”

  “I didn’t!” cried Amanda, her face scarlet with rage. “And he’s not my guardian! I don’t even know him! He is an abominable person!”

  “Of course I am!” said Sir Gareth soothingly. “Though how you know that, when you are not even acquainted with me, I can’t imagine!” He smiled at Mrs. Ninfield, and said in his charming way: “I do hope, ma’am, that she has not been troublesome to you? I can’t thank you enough for your kindness to her!”

  Under Amanda’s baffled and infuriated gaze, Mrs. Ninfield dropped a curtsy, stammering: “No, no! Oh, no, indeed sir!

  Sir Gareth glanced down at Amanda. “Come, my child, get up from the floor!” he said, in a voice of kindly authority. “Where is your hat? I never abduct ladies without their hats, so put it on, and your cloak too!”

  Amanda obeyed the first of these commands, largely because she found herself at a disadvantage when sitting at his feet. She could see that the tone he had chosen to adopt had had its inevitable effect, even upon her moonstruck admirer, but she made a desperate bid for freedom. Staring up into his amused eyes, she said: “Very well! If you are my guardian, who am I?”

  “An orphan, cast upon the world without a penny,” he replied promptly. “You have lately been employed by a young lady, whose widowed father—a most reprehensible person, I fear—made such improper advances to you, that—”

  “Oh, how I much hate you!” she cried, flushing with mortification, and stamping her foot. “How dare you stand there telling such lies?”

  “Well, but, missie, it’s what you told us yourself!” said Mr. Ninfield, hugely entertained.

  “Yes, but that was because—well, that was just make-believe He knows it isn’t true! And it isn’t true that he is my guardian, or that I ran away from school, or anything!”

  Mrs. Ninfield drew a long breath. “Sir, are you her guardian, or are you not?” she demanded.