by Mary Nichols
She dropped her sword, all the fight gone out of her. The crowd turned away, a few of them muttering with disappointment that the youth had given in when none of his blood had been spilled, but most praising him for the show he had put on. It had been a fair fight between skilled opponents and most had no complaints. Louise turned to Jonathan, who was dabbing at the cut on his arm. ‘Are you hurt, Mr Linton?’
‘A scratch, nothing more. You fight well, Mr Smith.’ Did she imagine it or did he put unusual emphasis on her name?
‘Thank you, Mr Linton. So do you.’
They walked side by side, the tall muscular man and the slight, effeminate youth, to where their seconds held their coats. Betty had joined Joe and was watching them approach, her eyes alive with excitement. As Jonathan reached out to take his coat from Joe, his arm accidentally knocked against Louise who was reaching out for her own garment. Already more than a little shaken by her ordeal, it took her off balance and she would have gone down if he had not reached out and grabbed her.
The contact of his hands on her shoulders was only momentary, but it was enough for him to feel the soft feminine flesh beneath his hands and for her to shudder at the sensation his touch caused. She felt so weak with the shock of it, she was afraid her knees would give way. This man was so strong, so masculine, so…so physical. The feeling was different from anything she had experienced before. Her brothers often grabbed hold of her, especially when she was younger and joining in their rough and tumble; her father sometimes took her shoulders in his hands to emphasise some point to her, but it had not felt like this. This made her tremble all over.
Pulling herself together, she stepped away from him. ‘Thank you, sir.’
‘My pleasure.’ Her masculine attire was off-putting and alluring at the same time and made him feel ill at ease. He could not smile at her as a man would smile at a woman, he could not take her hand, certainly he could not kiss her, which he had been very tempted to do as they stood so close, facing each other.
Betty came forwards to help her on with her coat. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ she whispered. ‘You shouldn’t hev took your coat off. The binding’s slipped.’
‘I could not have fought in a coat, could I?’ Resisting the temptation to put her hand to her breasts, she hurriedly did up the buttons, picked up her sword and strolled off arm in arm with Betty, as casually as she could manage.
Jonathan watched them go. Here was the missing Miss Louise Vail, he was sure of it, though why she was not miles ahead he had no idea. She had not been abducted and as far as he could see, no crime had been committed. She was simply a spoiled young lady looking for adventure. It annoyed him to think he had been sent on a wild goose chase. The Piccadilly Gentleman’s Club was never founded to investigate such a paltry affair. He would return to Barnet and make his report to her parents and then wash his hands of her. But could he leave her where she was, prey to whoever decided to have some sport with her? Besides, the memory of those lustrous eyes, appealing to him not to tear her shirt off, could not be cast aside. And had not Mrs Vail entreated him to see no harm came to her? And had he not promised to do his best to return her to the bosom of her family?
‘Do you think anyone else noticed the slipped bindings?’ Louise asked when they were out of earshot and making their way back to the George.
‘Don’ know. I reckon Mr Linton did. He was closest.’
Too close, she realised. ‘We will stay in our room until the coach is ready to leave. Perhaps we will not see him again.’ It was said more in regret than hope, she realised. But now was not the time to be mooning over a handsome man; she was on a mission, a most important mission, one that would probably dictate how the rest of her life would evolve. It was certainly not the time to get involved with cards and duels and handsome young men, whose touch excited her. She must hold herself aloof.
‘Much hope of that,’ Betty said. ‘He’s bin with us all the way so far, so I don’ reckon he’ll stop now.’
The coach was in the yard, the horses harnessed and the driver and guard inspecting the vehicle, tackle and horses, making sure all was well before taking his passengers on board. A woman with a young child, a young man escorting a schoolboy, and a man in a black coat, green with age, were waiting to board it. Louise and Betty just had time to go to their room, rebind her breasts, collect their bags and pay their bill before hurrying out to take their seats.
They were about to set off when Jonathan opened the door again and handed Louise a purse. ‘Your winnings, Mr Smith. It would be a pity to leave it behind when you fought so hard to keep it.’ And before she could utter a word, he had shut the door and was gone.
Louise sank back in her seat, utterly exhausted. The journey that she had expected to be boring and uneventful was certainly not that. It had been one of terrible tension, made worse by her own inability to turn her back on a challenge. She supposed that was why she had come in the first place, to answer the challenge to find her mother, the one who had given her birth, not the one left behind in Barnet. If she had known how difficult it would be, would she have come? Could she have gone on living at the vicarage knowing that out in the wider world was a mother who might have regretted giving her away? And even if she had no regrets, Louise wanted to know. There was in her a deep need to understand. It cancelled out the bouts of homesickness and guilt that crept up on her when things went wrong. They still had a long way to go and she must take more care. She could not expect Mr Linton to go on extricating her from the pits into which she kept falling.
He had done that when they had been duelling. Any other man would have had no compunction about ripping off her shirt. Only Jonathan Linton would have let his blade hover and ask in an undertone if she was ready to give in, knowing she could not go on much longer. He had not wanted to hurt her. And then to hand over the purse. As the winning duellist, he would have been justified in keeping it, but how grateful she was for it. She must stop thinking about him. She shut her eyes, trying to sleep, but it was not easy. Even if she could have slept through the jolting of the coach and Betty’s constant chatter with Mrs Slater who had the child on her lap, she could not shake off the vision of a broad expanse of chest and two strong arms holding her upright. And now she could hear rain drumming on the roof.
‘Why don’t the fool pass us?’ the man in the shiny old coat complained. He had introduced himself as Greg Turner when they first set out. He had a ruddy complex ion as if he spent long hours out of doors. ‘He’s been on our tail for miles.’
Louise opened her eyes and twisted round to look behind, knowing perfectly well what she would see through the sheets of rain, which were turning the dusty road to claggy mud.
‘’Tis only Mr Linton,’ Betty said. ‘He’s always behind us.’
‘Why?’ The man seemed decidedly nervous and kept putting his finger in his cravat to loosen it. He had, Louise noticed, lost the forefinger and the top joint of his thumb from his right hand.
‘He’s watchin’ over us,’ Betty giggled. ‘Our guardian angel.’
They had been late setting off on account of the coachman and guard being intent on watching the duel. Louise had been glad of that or they might have been left behind. They stopped at the Angel in Grantham for a meal, but were not allowed to dawdle over it because the coachman wanted to make up for lost time. Louise, sitting near the window trying to spoon scalding hot soup into her mouth, saw Jonathan’s carriage go past, rain water spraying out from under its wheels, and would not admit, even to herself, that seeing him go without so much as looking her way had sent her spirits into her boots. Was that the last she would see of him? Had he gone from her life for good?
‘Some guardian angel,’ she murmured to Betty. ‘He’s gone straight past.’
‘We’ll pass him again, I’ll stake my oath. An’ if we don’t, he’ll be wherever we stop for the night.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Joe said he had business with the coach.’
‘Wi
th us?’ she asked in alarm. ‘What business could he possibly have with us?’
‘He didn’t say with us. Only the coach.’
‘Do you think he might be a highwayman? We’ve nothing worth taking except my purse. And the others look even poorer than we are.’
‘I asked Joe that and he were right crabby. He said his master was on the side of the law.’
‘Oh.’ She was thoughtful, thinking of Betty’s guess that he was a thieftaker, a man who earned his living tracking down criminals. They had had a bad reputation in years gone by when Jonathan Wilde was the most notorious of them. He would tell thieves where there were good pickings and then arrange to return the stolen goods to their owners for a fee, which he shared with the thieves. It had been a very lucrative racket until he had been brought to book and hanged like the criminal he was. Since Henry Fielding had formed the Bow Street Runners nine years before, now under the direction of his brother, Sir John, one did not hear so much about them. Could Jonathan Linton be one of those? Although they operated in London they had been known to pursue criminals into the country. ‘Is it against the law to impersonate a man?’ she queried.
‘I dunno, do I? But you did steal the clothes and the sword and pistol.’
‘I didn’t steal them.’
‘You sure as eggs didn’t get give ’em.’
‘You are overreaching yourself, Betty,’ she said angrily, though the girl’s words had hit home and made her feel guilty. ‘I only borrowed them and my father would never set the law on me. Now let us go back to the coach and remember who you are supposed to be.’
‘Your timid little wife,’ Betty said, following her. ‘I’m tired of that. I like Joe…’
Louise sighed heavily. She had enough to contend with, without Betty becoming mutinous. ‘Have patience, Betty. One more night and a day and we will be in York and then we can drop the pretence.’ She said it confidently, but she did not feel confident. Perhaps when they reached York, her troubles would not be over, they might only just be beginning. Catherine Fellowes might not be all that easy to find. She might have died.
The rain had made them reduce their speed until Louise felt they could have walked faster. Mr Linton would be miles and miles ahead by now. Why did she keep thinking of him? Why could she not put him from her mind? Had he really guessed that she was not the man she pretended to be? If he had, it obviously amused him to keep up the pretence. Perhaps she was not the object of his interest after all, perhaps it was Mr Turner. The man was obviously afraid of something and his agitation had certainly been heightened when he saw Mr Linton’s coach following them. He was sitting opposite her now, looking morosely out on to the rain-sodden landscape and cursing the delay.
The fields either side of the road were a grey expanse of water, with little mounds of turf sticking up here and there. Turnpikes had not yet reached this part of the country and water spilled on to the unsurfaced road from the overflowing ditches and made a quagmire of it. The coachman, in an effort to take the higher ground, had the two inside wheels on the verge and the outside wheels on the hump that ran down the middle of the road, a difficult feat at the best of times. Occasionally they slipped off it and one wheel sank into the mud and they all fell against each other. They went slower and slower and the passengers, Louise included, feared they would come to a standstill at any moment. They were supposed to reach Doncaster by nightfall, but at the rate they were going they would never make it.
‘I wish I’d gone by boat,’ Greg Turner said, irritably. ‘It could not be any slower than this. And it’s more reliable.’
‘Is that possible?’ Louise asked, remembering to lower the timbre of her voice.
‘Yes, there’s barges goin’ up and down the rivers all the time. It’s how everyone travelled in the old days, afore the turnpikes, not that turnpikes seem to have done any good hereabouts.’
A bigger-than-usual lurch told them they were in trouble, and though the coachman struggled, he could not hold the coach upright. A wheel sank deep into mud and stuck, leaving the coach tipped at an alarming angle. Everyone gripped their seats as the coach hovered halfway over, then went over, slowly at first and then, with a crunching sound, toppled on its side, depositing them all in a heap on the floor, only it was not the floor but the near side. The horses were neighing in distress, still trying to drag the stricken coach along.
They could hear the coachman shouting to them. They were pulled along in this fashion for some yards before they stopped. Louise just managed to prevent herself from crying out like the woman she was. The schoolboy was lying on top of his escort, with his hat over his eyes and his legs in the air; Betty was moaning and Greg Turner uttering oaths. The little boy was screaming, but his mother was so dazed, she did not seem to know where she was. Her presence of mind had undoubtedly saved him from injury at the expense of a nasty bang on her own head. Louise scrambled to a sitting position and took the child from her and hugged him, making soothing noises. Greg Turner stood up, not caring who he was treading on, and pushed at the offside door, now above their heads. It was opened from outside and the guard’s head appeared in the opening. Rain dripped off the brim of his hat. ‘Anyone hurt?’
‘I’ve broke me wrist,’ Betty moaned.
Louise, though shaken, was unhurt, for which she was thankful; having to be treated for injuries would almost certainly have exposed her for the woman she was. For the same reason she could not indulge in panic. Taking a firm hold of herself, she handed the child up to the guard. The schoolboy, who had managed to get to his feet, hauled himself out without any help, leaving his escort to help Mrs Slater. Louise turned to assist Betty. She pushed her from behind while the guard leaned in and took hold of her arms to pull her out, making her shriek with pain. Left alone in the stricken coach, Louise made a determined effort to haul herself out before anyone could lay hands on her to help her.
Incongruously and unjustifiably, she felt angry. Not at the coachman, not at the horses, nor her fellow passengers, but at Jonathan Linton. He had dogged them all the way and now, just when she needed him most, he chose to absent himself. It was irrational she knew, but she could not help wondering where he was.
It seemed to Jonathan he had been sitting in this lane for hours. It was nothing but a cart track with hedges on each side and trees screening it from the road, which was why he had chosen it. But already the water was rising over the rim of the coach wheels and if he did not move soon, that would be stuck fast. ‘Something must have happened to them,’ he said to Joe who had joined him in the coach, where at least it was dry. ‘They should have passed us long ago. You don’t think we’ve missed them, do you?’
‘Shouldn’t think so, my lord. But if I’d stayed on the box, I could have seen anyone on the road…’
‘And have you catch your death? ‘Even inside the coach, Jonathan was becoming chilled to the marrow. Joe, who had been driving through the rain hunched in a greatcoat with the collar turned up about his ears, must be feeling ten times worse. ‘Fine summer this is turning out to be.’
Joe put his head out of the door and looked at the ground. ‘The track looks more like a river,’ he said. ‘If we don’t get moving, my lord, we’ll be stuck here ’til doomsday.’ He glanced up at the four horses; he had thrown a blanket over the back of each, but they looked thoroughly miserable, snorting and throwing their heads to shake off the rain.
‘You are right. Off we go.’
‘Which way, my lord?’
‘Good question. Back, I think. I am sure they have not come past.’
Joe jumped down, splashed through the mud, removed the blankets, folded them and put them in the boot, then he went to the leader’s head and took hold of the bridle. ‘Come on, me beauties, give a good pull for old Joe and we shall soon be on the road again.’ It grieved him to be turning away from the comfort of a room at the inn somewhere not so many miles ahead of them, and warm stables for the horses, but he could hardly blame his master for being worried about th
e girls. Oh, he knew they were both girls; his lordship would not be chasing all over the countryside, worrying himself over a young shaver. Besides, Betty had hinted as much.
As soon as the carriage was on the road again, he climbed back on the box. ‘Call it a road,’ he muttered. ‘I ha’ seen better farm tracks in Barnet.’
Jonathan heard him and smiled. He was a good lad, but he liked to grumble and, not having been brought up to be subservient, did not think it necessary to endure in silence.
They found the over turned coach less than twenty minutes later. The passengers were all out on the road, the horses had been freed and everyone was standing surveying the vehicle as if looking at it would mi raculously make it right itself.
Jonathan jumped down and went quickly to Louise who was standing beside Betty. The girl was holding her left hand against herself with her right. ‘Anyone hurt?’
It was on the tip of Louise’s tongue to say, ‘Where have you been all this time?’, but stopped herself in time. ‘Betty seems to have hurt her wrist. Mrs Slater was knocked out for a time but she is conscious now. She has a nasty bump on her head. The baby was frightened, which is hardly surprising, but he is not hurt. Everyone else seems to have sustained only bruises and a scratch or two.’
‘And you?’ he asked.
‘Right as ninepence.’
He smiled. Did nothing disturb that young woman? Cool as a cucumber, she was. He called to Joe to come and help the ladies and children into his carriage, then turned to inspect the coach. The axles seemed unbroken, but he could not see the nearside wheels, which were deep in the mud. ‘Let us see if we can lift it,’ he said. ‘If we all heave together, we might be able to get a branch or a rock under it to prop it up. If we can get it upright on its wheels, it might not be too much damaged and be possible for it to be driven to the next village.’ He stripped off his coat and turned to put it into his carriage. Louise was standing watching him. He smiled. ‘Why not get into my carriage out of the rain?’