Mrs. Baker was listening attentively as Indira continued,
“Now that my plans have changed, I must somehow get to London and you can understand I would not wish to spoil their stay here at Ardsley Hall or to disrupt his Lordship’s arrangements for dinner.”
“I do see it’s a problem, my Lady.”
“What I am going to suggest, if you could possibly arrange it, is to have a carriage take me to the nearest Posting inn, where, after a short night’s rest, I can hire some horses to take me on to London first thing tomorrow morning.”
Mrs. Baker held up her hands in horror.
“Oh, my Lady, you couldn’t do that and certainly not travel alone!”
“It seems too much to ask,” Indira said, “but could one of the maids – accompany me?”
“Of course that can be arranged,” Mrs. Baker agreed.
“It will leave me short-handed when the house’s so full, but death, my Lady, is something none of us can anticipate or arrange to happen at our convenience.”
“That is true,” Indira murmured.
“What’s more,” Mrs. Baker went on, her voice warming as she thought out what was required, “I’m sure his Lordship would not wish you to travel in the type of carriage and behind the inferior horses that are all you’ll be able to hire at a Posting inn.”
She paused before she said,
“I’ll take it upon myself to see that a carriage takes you to where your Ladyship’ll be staying in London and, of course, his Lordship’s own horses are stabled along the route so you’ll be there very much quicker than you would in a hired carriage.”
“Of course you are right,” Indira agreed.
“We all have to put our best foot forward, my Lady, in an emergency.”
“I am very very grateful and please, will you make quite sure that nobody realises I have left until tomorrow, when I shall be already on my way to London? I will write a note to his Lordship and to Lord Frodham. I know that they will understand the circumstances that make me wish to leave at once.”
“I think that’s very considerate of you, my Lady,” Mrs. Baker said. “There’re far too many of those who don’t think of other people and are only too ready to inflict their own sufferings upon them.”
Without saying any more Mrs. Baker left the room and a few minutes later Emily and another housemaid came in to start packing Indira’s clothes into the three trunks she had brought with her.
She was sitting at the secretaire that stood in a corner of her bedroom and it took her a little time to write two notes, as she had to be very careful what she said.
She was determined to save both Charles and Jimmy from any repercussions arising from their plot to bring her to Ardsley Hall, for she knew, now that she had seen him, that the Marquis was not a man who would tolerate being made a fool of or deceived.
It struck her that it had been very stupid of Charles and Jimmy to have attempted such a venture in the first place, seeing how much they enjoyed taking part in his steeplechase.
Then with a little smile, she thought that if they were really her brothers, they were behaving exactly as she would have expected, being young enough to think their plot was fun without really counting the consequences.
She thought very carefully what she would say and once again had the idea that her father was guiding her hand as she wrote,
“My Lord,
It is difficult for me to tell you how much I have enjoyed your hospitality and what a joy and delight it has been to ride Meteor.
I am only ashamed that I deceived Lord Frodham and Sir James, when, after they so valiantly rescued me, I informed them that my name was Lady Mary Combe.
This is not true and my only excuse is that, when they suggested, because there seemed to be no alternative, bringing me to Ardsley Hall, I expected to feel overawed by your Lordship and the company in which I would find myself. I therefore was presumptuous enough not to wish to be seen at a disadvantage. I hope you will understand and forgive me.
I learnt after the race was over that somebody very close and dear to me has died and thus I have to leave for London immediately.
I have no wish to disrupt and perhaps cast a gloom over the celebrations your Lordship has planned with such care and which I know everybody will enjoy.
It may seem exceedingly impertinent to borrow your carriage, your horses and one of your housemaids, but there really was no other alternative and once again I can only beg your forgiveness and thank you from the bottom of my heart.
I shall never forget the days I have spent at Ardsley Hall and seeing your T’ang horse, who will, I know, be often in my dreams.
Thank you, thank you, my Lord, and please forgive me.
I remain, yours gratefully and penitently,
Indira Rowlandson.”
As she finished the letter, Indira read it through and decided that, although there were things she might have added or subtracted, there was really no time to write any more.
Quickly she wrote another letter,
“Dear Charles and Jimmy,
I enclose a letter for the Marquis, which I think will explain the whole position without involving either of you.
I can never thank you both enough for being so kind, helpful and protective towards me. I cannot bear to think of what might have happened to me if you had not brought me here. Now you must not be involved any more in my affairs and I know that I can manage them myself. Once I am in London I will find people who knew Papa to help me
Please don’t try to find me and, if Mr. Jacobson approaches you, deny all knowledge of where I have gone, but merely say that you don’t expect ever to see me again. I think in those circumstances that his writs, if that is what they are, will be useless and if what he really wants is money he will be unable to obtain it if he cannot find me.
Thank you both for being so kind and protective when I needed it most and I shall think about you with gratitude for the rest of my life.
I remain forever in your debt,
Indira.”
Indira folded the letter she had written to the Marquis, left it unsealed and, having written his name on it, placed it with the one for Charles and Jimmy in an envelope large enough to hold them both.
She then addressed it to Charles and left it on the secretaire and hurriedly changed into her travelling gown and cloak. By this time the sun had sunk, but she knew there would still be enough light for her to drive some miles from Ardsley Hall before it was dark.
She was just tying the ribbons of her bonnet under her chin when Mrs. Baker came hurrying back into the room.
“Everything’s arranged, my Lady,” she said. “I’ve sent a message to his Lordship to say you’re tired after the race and won’t be joining his guests at dinner and the carriage is waiting at the side door.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Baker, you are so very kind,” Indira said.
“I’ve arranged for Johnson to go with you, my Lady. She’s one of our oldest housemaids and is used to travelling. She’s waiting downstairs, my Lady, and there are two footmen outside ready to take down your Ladyship’s luggage.”
At Mrs. Baker’s command the two men came into the bedroom, picked up the trunks which the housemaids had just finished strapping down and carried them away.
Indira gave the two maids such a large tip that they were almost incoherent with gratitude, curtseying to her several times, before escorted by Mrs. Baker she went along the corridors of the house and down a staircase that led to the side door.
Here waiting for her was an elderly maid correctly dressed in a black bonnet and shawl.
“This is Johnson, my Lady,” Mrs. Baker said. “She’ll look after you for as long as you want her, then she’ll return here with the carriage.”
Indira put out her hand to thank Mrs. Baker, who added,
“You are too young and too pretty, my Lady, to suffer and I’ll be thinking of you and praying that all will go well for you in the future.”
The way she s
poke Indira found very moving and she answered,
“Thank you, Mrs. Baker, and it is not only his Lordship who has made me very welcome since I came to Ardsley Hall, but all of you who have looked after me and been so kind.”
She then went through the door and out to where the carriage was waiting.
It was a closed barouche drawn by two horses and there were a coachman and a footman on the box. As she waved goodbye to Mrs. Baker, she thought how lucky she was to be travelling in such comfort rather than in the inferior type of vehicle she would have to hire at a Posting inn.
As they went down the drive and she turned to look back at the house, she felt as if a chapter in her life was closing, and she was leaving something which strangely meant a great deal to her, to set out once again into the unknown.
The lights in the windows of the great house glowed golden in the fading light and involuntarily her thoughts went to the T’ang horse in the library.
The horse, she thought, had changed her whole attitude towards life and she felt a sharp pang of regret and an even deeper emotion that she must leave in such a furtive manner.
Then she knew almost as if somebody was telling her, so that it was not only the horse she minded leaving, but its owner, the Marquis.
He had been her guide, her guru, and had directed her back to the right path, which she should never have left in the first place.
There was so much more she wanted to learn from him, so much she felt that he could tell her and yet because Charles and James must not be hurt by Mr. Jacobson, she had to leave him without even saying goodbye.
The horses had passed under the oak trees that bordered the drive and now the house was gradually being obscured by their branches.
Ahead were the massive gold-tipped gates with their attendant lodges and she knew that in a few seconds more the house would be lost to her sight forever.
Then, without her conscious volition, her heart cried out,
‘Goodbye, my guide, my Master and my love!’
Incredibly, she was aware that she was speaking to the Marquis.
*
Indira arrived in London on Tuesday morning about noon.
It had been a long journey but a comfortable one, because the Marquis’s coachman did not hurry his horses, but drove them smoothly and with great care.
Indira stayed three nights at the best Posting inns on the way and, as she was travelling with the Marquis’s servants, she was received with great respect and was automatically given a bedroom with a room next door for her maid and a private parlour.
Because she had no wish to be alone, Johnson had supper with her and proved to be a most interesting source of information about Ardsley Hall and the distinguished guests who were entertained there.
“Forty five years I’ve been at The Hall, my Lady,” Johnson said in her prim voice, “and I’ve seen many changes and not all of them for the better. But I can honestly say that it’s a happy house and we’re very proud of it.”
Because Indira was genuinely interested in what the maid had to say, she drew her out and thought when she went up to bed that she had not really missed being at the Marquis’s dinner party.
On Sunday night it was difficult to concentrate on what Johnson was saying, because she kept wondering what Charles and Jimmy had thought when they learnt that she had disappeared and whether the Marquis himself was glad to be rid of her.
She knew it was really her fault that Lady Sinclair had lost her temper and raged at him and she felt too that he would be annoyed to learn that she had deceived him by giving a false name and pretending to be a titled lady.
‘It is the sort of behaviour he despises utterly!’ she told herself.
She hoped that Charles and Jimmy would not be so foolish as to reveal that they were aware of her true identity.
If they did so, it would completely destroy her plan to save them not only from Mr. Jacobson but also from offending the Marquis.
‘I am sure, Papa,’ she said to her father in the darkness, ‘that I have done the only sporting thing I can do and that you approve. At the same time I would like to have stayed at Ardsley Hall a little longer and had another talk with the Marquis.’
It was not really until Sunday night that she admitted to herself that what she felt for him was very different from anything she had ever felt for any other man.
She had often talked to her father about falling in love and he had said to her,
“You must not be in a hurry, my darling. As you are very beautiful as well as rich, there will be dozens, if not hundreds, of men who will lay their hearts at your feet, but I am determined to make quite sure that the man you marry is somebody who loves you for yourself – the real you, whom I know and adore.”
Thinking back, Indira understood exactly what her father had meant, for until now she had never been alone with a man and there had been no question of flirtations or of anyone even touching her.
Because they were travelling about so much, this was understandable and also, since the parties they had attended were always given for her father, Indira was usually the youngest person present.
She had known that one of his reasons for coming to England was that he wanted her to lead a more social life than they had managed to do in the East and to meet what he sometimes called ‘the right type of men’.
“What do you mean by that, Papa?” she had asked once.
“You will know what I mean when you meet one,” he replied.
She knew now that he would have approved of the Marquis, who was a gentleman in every sense of the word.
He was also a magnificent rider and sportsman and, unexpectedly – yet of course it must be attributed to fate – he was somebody who had understood what the T’ang horse had meant to her and the Chinese verses that had been written centuries ago.
‘I found him, Papa,’ she said in her heart, ‘but I have – lost him – again. And now I understand what you were talking about.’
But to understand did not alleviate the strange pain that she felt in her heart when she thought about the Marquis and an irrepressible longing to go to him with her troubles and beg for his help.
She knew he would have understood the problems of arriving alone in England without her father, and that he would have dealt very effectively with the traitor Jacobson. At the same time she was also sure that the Marquis would have found her relatives.
‘It cannot be so difficult if I think about it,’ she told herself.
When she awoke early on Tuesday morning, she had the feeling that once again her father was directing her in doing what was right.
Having breakfasted, she and Johnson went into the yard of the Posting inn, where the carriage was waiting for them.
The footman, as he handed Indira into it, asked,
“Where would you wish me to take you, my Lady, when we reach London?”
As if her father prompted her, Indira gave him the answer.
*
Early on Monday morning the Marquis had said goodbye to the last of his guests and, as they drove away in phaetons, travelling chariots and chaises, he walked swiftly across the hall towards his study.
He entered it to find Charles and Jimmy waiting for him, both of them looking slightly apprehensive.
“I asked you to wait,” the Marquis said without preamble, “until my other guests had departed, so that I could talk to you about Lady Mary or shall we call her Indira Rowlandson?”
The way he spoke without innuendo in his voice brought a feeling of relief to the young men listening to him.
The Marquis walked to stand with his back to the mantelpiece as he proposed,
“Suppose you sit down and tell me where she has gone?”
“I am afraid we have no idea,” Charles replied.
‘There was a frown between the Marquis’s eyes as he demanded,
“Are you telling me that she did not give you an address?”
“No.”
“But surely you must
have some idea which relative has died and caused her to leave in that precipitate manner?”
“I am afraid the answer is again ‘no’,” Jimmy said before Charles could speak. “In fact, when we saw her after the race, she did not mention that she was thinking of leaving. She said that we could talk the next day and decide where she should go when we took her to London.”
“So that was what you intended to do?” the Marquis asked.
Charles said quickly,
“She had talked of going to some people who live not far away in the country, but I gathered that since she has been here she changed her mind.”
It sounded a little lame, but the Marquis merely said,
“Well, perhaps my coachman will be able to enlighten us further, but if for the moment you are as ignorant about her arrangements as I am, then there is nothing further to discuss.”
“No, nothing,” Charles agreed firmly, “but as Jimmy and I are going to London, we will certainly see if we can find her.”
The Marquis did not reply and, rising to his feet, Charles said a little diffidently,
“I am sorry, my Lord, that you should have been deceived in any way.”
“I suppose you have never heard of Miss Rowlandson’s father?”
“Rowlandson is quite a common name,” Charles replied. “I don’t expect that he is any relation of the cartoonist.”
As Jimmy thought that any further probing on the part of the Marquis might be dangerous, he interposed to say,
“I think we should be starting for London, my Lord, and, if we do hear anything about Indira’s whereabouts, we will of course, if you are interested, let you know.”
“You can leave a message for me at White’s,” the Marquis said sharply.
They said goodbye and thanked him for the steeplechase and for entertaining them so well, but they both thought as they spoke that the Marquis was not really attending to what they were saying, but seemed to be preoccupied by his own thoughts.
Only when they were driving off in Charles’s phaeton did Jimmy say,
“Indira certainly got us out of that difficulty very cleverly, but what are we going to do about Jacobson?”
“Nothing,” Charles said. “She is right and I have the feeling that he will not make a scene at Ardsley Hall, although he may try to get in touch with us in London.”
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