Michelle Styles

by An Impulsive Debutante

  ‘Good.’ Tristan lifted her chin so he looked her in the face. For an instant he drank in her luminous beauty. Then he hardened his heart. He wanted her beauty to be more than skin deep. He wanted her to want him for more than a title and his worldly goods. He had to carry out his experiment. He had to show her that there was more to life than social calls and pincushions. Life was to be lived, and not reflected in a Claude glass. ‘I want you to stay here while I procure us a room.’

  ‘Here? In this carriage? On my own?’ The words came out as a squeak. Her eyes widened and she clutched her reticule to her chest. ‘I have never been left in a coaching yard on my own before.’

  ‘You will be quite safe in the coaching yard…as long as you remain there. No one will harm you. Your dress is of a certain quality.’ Tristan forced himself to walk away from her, not to take her by the arm and lead her to another inn. He had to do it, for the sake of their future.

  Chapter Five

  Lottie watched Tristan walk away from her. She half-raised a hand to beg him to stay or at least to take her with him, but he never glanced back. She gazed about the coaching yard where several drovers discussed cattle in heavy Scots accents. The smell of manure and sweat seeped into the carriage. Lottie put her handkerchief over her nose and hoped the inn would be better than its yard. ‘This is a fine mess you have landed yourself in, Lottie Charlton. What happens to you now? Why did you let him go like that?’

  ‘You will have to get out, miss.’ The large coachman with the broken nose opened the carriage door. ‘Orders is orders. It ain’t my business to contradict Lord Thorngrafton. He says to me, leave when you get to Gretna Green.’

  Lottie blinked. ‘Excuse me? Why? Mr Dyvelston is getting a room. Surely you may wait a few moments. I wish to stay in the carriage, away from the gaze of ordinary bystanders. It wouldn’t be proper for me to wait in the yard on my own.’

  ‘I am only a coachman. I know nothing about the ways of gentlefolk.’

  ‘Your master will understand if you wait. You must wait.’ Lottie tried to give her words all the imperiousness of her mother, but she heard the undercurrent of desperation.

  ‘I need to leave.’ The coachman’s countenance took on a mulish expression. ‘My…master said that I needed to be in London with all speed once I had brought you to Gretna Green. He didn’t say nothing about waiting until that there gentleman procured a room. He told me, go once you get to Gretna Green.’

  ‘Can’t you wait until Mr Dyvelston returns? Please? For my sake?’ Lottie pressed her handkerchief more firmly to her mouth and willed Tristan to return. Her whole body tensed as she peered out of the carriage door into the crowded yard: drovers, farmhands and the odd woman, but no broad shoulders encased in a fine frock coat. Her insides shook at being cast amongst those people. ‘I beg you to reconsider.’

  The big man shook his head. ‘It wouldn’t be proper, like. I have me orders. I like my job, miss. I won’t jeopardise it for no one.’

  ‘Why not? Mr Dyvelston charged you to look after me. I am sure he did. You cannot intend to leave me here with those ruffians.’ Lottie bit her lip, aware that the words had come out more harshly than she had intended. But he had to understand that she had been cosseted and looked after. She was of gentle birth.

  ‘No, he didn’t, like.’ The coachman lifted a bag from the back and set it down on the muddy cobblestones. ‘This is all there is, miss. I am sure he will return in a few moments. If you please, miss. I am on my way to London to wait for Lord Thorngrafton’s instructions. It is a week’s journey in good weather and I’d like to get on my way.’

  ‘But you have been driving through the night. Surely you will need time to rest. Mr Dyvelston will return in a few moments.’ Lottie clasped her hands together. ‘I beg you. Have mercy.’

  ‘That is true and you should be safe in that time. I want to be well into England afore I do that. If you please, miss….’

  Lottie looked at the single bag. Her mother had said that she would send her things on. It appeared that Tristan had not bothered to pack a trunk or even a bag. She reached down and picked the satchel up. The yard blurred for a moment, but she stiffened her back. Regained her composure. She would be fine. Tristan would return before she knew it. She held out her hand and the coachman helped her from the carriage. ‘Thank you. It is very kind of you.’

  She reached into her reticule and drew out a halfpenny. ‘This is for you.’

  ‘It’s all right, miss, Lord Thorngrafton pays me well, so he does. Best of luck.’ The coachman twisted his hat. ‘Begging your pardon, but this here is from Lord Thorngrafton…in case you change your mind. In case…’

  Lottie regarded the bank note with a sinking heart. Lord Thorngrafton must believe that Tristan was planning to abandon her. ‘Don’t you trust Mr Dyvelston?’

  ‘I trust him all right, but…just the same. Best to be prepared, miss.’

  ‘I couldn’t, really.’ Lottie turned her face into her handkerchief.

  ‘Take it, miss, for my sake. Lord Thorngrafton has a right temper if his will is crossed.’

  Her throat closed. She had wronged Lord Thorngrafton last November. He had thought about her comfort and had not been sure of his cousin. He had sought to protect her. She fingered the note and placed it in her reticule. ‘You must thank Lord Thorngrafton for me. I will thank him myself when I can.’

  ‘As you wish, miss. God speed.’ The coachman touched his hat and went back to his place.

  He snapped the reins and the carriage started to move. It made its way through the jumble of carts and horses, rolling away from her. A single tear ran down her cheek, but she pushed it away with impatient fingers.

  Lottie stood there, her head held high and her fingers clutching her satchel and reticule in the centre of the yard, aware that people were looking at her and her much creased clothes. Aware that she had rapidly become an object of interest and curiosity. Lottie tightened her grip. She refused to stand there, being gaped at like some spectacle in a diorama or other cheap entertainment. She had to act.

  She walked towards the inn and peeked into the public room, hoping to discover the familiar shape of Tristan’s shoulders or his top hat floating above the crowd. The entire room appeared full of farmers, day labourers and drovers. High-pitched female laughter came from a dimly lit corner where Lottie could just make out a flurry of petticoats and entangled limbs. She stared for a heartbeat at the brazenness of it. The stench was worse than the yard. Lottie gave a soft cry and buried her face more firmly in the handkerchief.

  ‘Is there something you want, dearie?’ an old crone asked, leering at her with a one-toothed smile. ‘Sell your ear bobs, or your pretty hair? I pay top price for golden curls like yours.’

  ‘Not my hair. Not my ear bobs.’ Lottie blanched and rapidly made her way back into the coaching yard. She heard the crone’s laughter chasing her as she went.

  Lottie paused by the stable entrance and tried to get her breath as she scanned the yard for any sign of Tristan. But it remained stubbornly free of her future husband. She closed her eyes and wished. Opened them. Nothing. The sun beat down on her bonnet and her shift stuck to her back. Maybe Lord Thorngrafton’s surmise was correct and Tristan did not intend to come back for her. He had only taken her here to abandon her to her fate. He would then claim she had run away and he’d be free to live his dissolute life.

  Abandoned at the altar to a life of sin.

  Cousin Frances had taken great pleasure in describing several Minerva Press novels where this was a main feature. The villain lures the heroine with blandishments, only to abandon her after he has had his wicked way with her, forcing her into a Life of Degradation…if it were not for the hero.

  Lottie gave a tremulous smile. She had to think logically. Tristan had not had his wicked way with her, beyond the kiss they had shared on the terrace. If he had been planning to abandon her, he would have done so then, instead of taking her here. She had to be logical, and not give way to pani
c.

  A sob built in her throat and she muffled it with the handkerchief. She refused to give way to wailing here despite the longing in her breast. She scrubbed her eyes with the now-crumpled handkerchief, replaced it in her reticule and took a fresh one as she made a slow circuit of the yard. When she returned to the stables, there was still no sign of Tristan. It was as if he had vanished.

  Had something happened? Had some evil befallen him? An ice-cold hand went around her heart.

  She counted to thirty and then thirty once more. Looked again hard at the door Tristan had disappeared through. Tristan failed to appear.

  She bit her lips and attempted to think clearly as a pain pounded against her eyeballs. Something had happened to Tristan. She had to find where he had gone and determine if he did intend to marry her. She would search for him, all day and night if she had to, and, if he remained lost, she would return to Newcastle, much chastened, hoping for charity. She would use Lord Thorngrafton’s money to purchase her train fare back to Newcastle. The first thing she would do when she did arrive home would be to raid her savings and send the money back to Lord Thorngrafton. It would be the polite thing to do, and she would not mention the scoundrel-like behaviour of his cousin.

  Henry and her mother might not be pleased to see her, but they would not turn her from their door. She was certain of that. She was part of their family, in spite of everything.

  She cringed, thinking of the words Henry would use, and how Mama would cry and how Lucy would look and sigh. Behind her skirts, everyone would whisper that she had deserved it, that pride came before a fall.

  Emma Stanton had had it lucky, looking after her mother. Lottie caught her lip between her teeth. She wished she had never made fun of her last Christmas. Social success was such a transitory thing. Maybe Emma would be kind and send a list of books for her to read in her exile.

  But somewhere deep inside her, a little voice told her that Tristan would look after her. She had to trust him. He had no reason to abandon her like this.

  ‘Where is the market?’ she asked an elderly lady with a well-lived-in face. ‘I wish to find a constable. I have lost someone. He needs to be returned to me.’

  The lady appeared surprised to be addressed. ‘Lost someone? A man? Mother Hetts is good at finding men for pretty doves.’

  ‘Yes, my fiancé appears to have gone missing.’ Lottie was unable to prevent the slight catch in her throat. She swallowed hard before she continued in a steadier voice, ‘It is imperative I find him. I am worried that something might have happened to him. It is unlike him to leave me for so long and in a place like this.’

  ‘Men are like that, pet. They come. They go. You will find another soon.’ The woman’s eyes roamed over Lottie’s dress. ‘Particularly in them there togs.’

  ‘I don’t want another. I want to find my fiancé, Tristan Dyvelston. I thought the parish constable might be able to help.’

  ‘His box is that way. But you won’t be catching him in his box today, mind. Market day, me pet.’ The old woman’s eyes grew crafty. ‘Of course, I could be wrong. It might be best to check. Make sure you take the third turn on your right. It will take you straight there. Otherwise it is a long ways around and there are bad folks about.’

  ‘Thank you, thank you.’ Lottie pressed the woman’s hand. ‘I really appreciate your kindness. I am sure I will find him now.’

  ‘I hope you do, pet. There are them that don’t.’ The woman smiled, a cruel smile. ‘You can always come back and finds me. I will offer you a good home. You come back here and tell that there landlord Mother Hetts will give you a place to rest your pretty golden head.’

  Lottie stepped over a pile of muck and turned her back on the woman and crowded yard, hurrying away from that evil place as quickly as she could. She would not think about ‘them that don’t’ and ‘a good home’. She could do this. She was capable. It would be no worse than going for a walk in Haydon Bridge. She would find the constable and explain. He could discover Tristan’s whereabouts while she waited. She would be safe.

  The market-day crowd jostled her, but she kept on walking, relieved to be taking action instead of standing there panicking. She released her breath and tried to ignore the stares, acutely aware that her paisley dress was more fit for carriages than walking. Several women wrapped in woollen shawls and carrying baskets stared at her and put their heads together, whispering and pointing.

  A carriage with a young girl and her mother in it swept past, splashing mud on the hem of her gown. Lottie gave a small cry and jumped back. Then she stooped and tried to wipe it off as men stopped and stared. A man said something unintelligble, but Lottie shook her head. She glanced back over her shoulder towards the inn, but it had been swallowed up by the crowd. She couldn’t go back and she had no guarantee that Tristan would even be looking for her. Once she found a constable, things could be put right. All this unpleasantness would be a bad dream.

  Several of the market goers jostled her. Lottie continued on, holding her reticule close, trying not to think about the beggars and thieves. She saw the opening, more of an alleyway than a street. She hesitated, then chided herself for being a ninny. The elderly woman had been quite specific with her directions. She plunged into the narrow street. It was imperative that she find the constable as quickly as possible.

  ‘Going my way, my pretty dove?’ a gin-soaked voice asked. ‘See here, Fred, a fresh dolly bird has flown into our nest.’

  ‘Ain’t never been paid to do this before.’ The innkeeper looked skeptical, but he pocketed the coins that Tristan pushed forwards on the bar.

  ‘As long as it is done tomorrow morning, I don’t mind.’ Tristan pressed his hands against the bar and leant forward so that he was close to the unshaven jowls of the innkeeper. ‘I always pay my debts, keep my promises and never forget a favour or an injury.’

  ‘You had that look about you.’ Sweat broke out on the innkeeper’s face. ‘I will do what you ask. And your lady friend, she is your wife, isn’t she? I run a decent establishment.’

  Tristan glanced around at the bar where a motley group of farm labourers, card sharps and ladies of the night were arranged. Blue smoke hung in the air. In one corner, a woman warbled a forlorn song. ‘Your opinion and mine may differ as to decent.’

  ‘Are you saying that I cheat my customers?’ The man wiped his hand across his forehead. ‘I ought to have you thrown out of here.’

  ‘But you won’t. I paid in advance and far more than that room is worth.’

  The innkeeper licked his lips. ‘That you did, that you did, and I don’t say nothing to a paying customer.’

  ‘It is how I want it.’

  A moment of unease about the deception he was playing on Lottie passed over Tristan, but he pushed it away. He was doing what was right. One short sharp shock for Lottie Charlton and their married life would be far happier. It was easier if she learnt lessons now, before it was too late.

  Tristan went back to the yard, filled his lungs with clean air and swore. Loud and long. No blonde in a paisley silk afternoon dress, straw bonnet with a satchel by her side. No woman of quality waited there.

  Tristan pressed his lips together. He had expected her to be there—spitting fury with her eyes perhaps to be left in the yard on her own, but to be there. He tried to think clearly. Robinson would have obeyed him. He would not have taken her with him. Tristan swore again, wishing he had told Robinson to stop and explain once he had left the yard. A mistake, but one he could not undo.

  He had been gone longer than he anticipated, but not that long. She had gone. He had been mistaken.

  A hard tight knot came into his throat. He had counted on her being different. He did not think she would have abandoned him so easily, not after the stand she had made at the hotel. He gave one more sweeping glance of the yard. Next time he would remember about the perfidy of women.

  ‘Lost something, pet?’ an elderly woman crooned to him. ‘A trinket? A pretty little dove? I know wher
e you can find another. Mother Hetts knows everything about little doves, she does.’

  ‘There was a woman here. A blonde woman, well dressed. Do you have any idea where she might have gone?’

  ‘Can’t remembering having seen anyone of that description.’ The woman gave a shrug of her thin shoulder and her watery eyes turned crafty. ‘Then my memory ain’t what it used to be. Lots of folks searching for things today. Always asking Mother Hetts if she’s seen this or that. Can’t be expected to remember. It’s market day.’

  The old woman gave a cackle, reminding him of a demented hen. The crackle went straight through him. He swung back and advanced towards the woman, whose crackling abruptly ceased.

  ‘You know something. Where did she go?’ Tristan advanced towards, his hands flexing at his sides, longing for something to hit. ‘Would a coin help to recover that memory of yours?’

  ‘May do? May not?’ The old woman rocked back and forth. ‘It is amazing what silver coin can do for my memory.’

  Tristan reached into his pocket and fished out a shilling, holding it beyond the reach of the woman. ‘The truth. Quickly.’

  ‘I sent her to the parish constable…if she can find him. Mother Hetts looks after the little doves, she does,’ the woman said, holding her basket in front of her face. ‘She was looking for someone who was missing. Right concerned she was. Nearly in tears. Poor little dove. Are you lost?’

  Tristan tossed her the coin. She caught it with expert claws, tested it as Tristan’s insides twisted. He had not considered the possibility that Lottie might wonder about his whereabouts and worry. He had to find her and quickly. There was no telling what trouble she might encounter.

  ‘Bless and keep you, sir. You are a real gentleman. If you don’t find her, I can always get you another pretty dove.’