An Unsuitable Bride

by Jane Feather

  She soaked a cloth in the now tepid water in the ewer and wiped away one face before starting on another. A smudge of charcoal on her upper lip gave the impression of a youthful moustache, and a shadow under the cheekbones made her cheeks seem thinner, slightly sunken. She examined her reflection with a critical frown. She didn’t want to overdo it, and the shadows were lengthening outside; she would not be in harsh light when she was doing business at the livery stables. It would pass muster, she decided, and began to remove the drab-lady garments.

  The breeches and jerkin were wonderfully liberating. She pinned her hair securely on top of her head and adjusted the wool cap, pulling the brim low to leave her face in shadow. A kerchief around her neck was the final touch, and for a few moments, she practiced walking up and down the chamber until she felt comfortable with the unladylike stride.

  She let herself out of the chamber, closing the door softly behind her. Where was Peregrine? Still in the parlor, perhaps, or perhaps he’d retired to his chamber. She remembered that his chamber was at the front of the inn looking over the High Street. He might be looking out of the window as she emerged from the inn. She didn’t think he would see anything untoward even if he did notice her on the street, but as she knew to her cost, Peregrine saw all too much. To be on the safe side, she would slip from the inn through the kitchen door into the yard and reach the street through the arched side entrance to the yard.

  She found the backstairs at the end of the side corridor and hurried down them. The thronged kitchen was a melee of cooks and servants rushing from the pantry to stir the huge cauldrons steaming on the range. Clouds of flour rose from the massive pine table in the center of the stone-flagged, low-beamed room, where three kitchen maids were rolling out pastry. A red-faced woman wielding a ladle was yelling at the pot boy, who was turning legs of mutton over three spits in the massive fireplace. No one took any notice of the youth flitting across the kitchen to the back door that stood open to let out the steaming heat.

  Alex breathed a sigh of relief in the fresh air, wondering how anyone could work in such frenzied heat. But despite that, they could certainly produce an excellent dinner, she reflected, threading her way across the yard. A carriage had just entered through the archway, and the ostlers and grooms were occupied with the team, so again she slipped unnoticed under the arch and out into the High Street. It was almost six o’clock, but there were still plenty of folk on the street as she made her way to the livery stable situated at the bottom of the street before it descended in steep cobbles to the quay.

  In her time at St. Catherine’s, Lymington had been the closest town of any size, and its weekly market was a focal point for the surrounding hamlets, so Alex was very familiar with the town’s businesses. On occasion, she had stabled her own horse, or St. Catherine’s pony and trap, in the livery stables while she and Helene had done whatever business they had to undertake in the market, but she was confident that the owner of the livery stable would not see in this workmanlike youth the lively young woman who had accompanied Mistress Simmons from the young ladies’ seminary so many months earlier.

  The owner of the livery stable was sitting on an upturned water butt in the yard, smoking a corncob pipe. He regarded his visitor with only mild interest as the youth came over the cobbles to talk to him.

  “I need to hire a pony until tomorrow afternoon,” Alex said without preamble.

  He nodded, looking her over with an assessing eye. “Reckon Sally’ll do ye. Ye’re not carryin’ much weight, lad.” He heaved himself off the barrel. “Where’re you takin’ ’er?”

  “Not far. Just to Barton. I’m looking for work there. I’ll bring her back tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Oh, aye.” He nodded. “Let’s see yer coin, then?”

  Alex drew a gold sovereign from her coin purse. Stephen paid her a pound a week for her toils in the library and her money-making efforts with his financial investments. Much of her original fifty pounds had gone to creating the charade itself, but she spent very little at Combe Abbey and managed to keep her coin purse relatively plump. She hated wasting funds, but she could certainly afford to hire a pony for a day and a half.

  The man took it, bit it, and nodded again. “Aye, reckon that’ll do it.” He started walking to the stables behind him. “I’ll see ’er back ’ere before sundown tomorrow.”

  “Of course.” Alex followed him into the low building. It was almost dark inside and smelled of straw and the rich scent of horseflesh.

  “So, who’s lookin’ fer hired help in Barton, then?” he inquired pleasantly. “ ’Tis a small place. We know most of the folk hereabouts.” He led a piebald pony from a stall.

  “Oh, I don’t know the name,” she said hastily. “But I met someone in town who told me there might be work at the dairy farm there. Said they’d give me a bed in the barn. So I thought I’d go and see.”

  “That’ll be Edgar. He has the biggest dairy farm in these parts,” the liveryman said. “He’ll give you a bed overnight, even if there’s no work for you. Got a good ’eart, has our Edgar.” He led the pony out into the yard. “Saddle’s in the tack room. You’ll have to do it yerself, all my lads ’ave gone ’ome fer the night.”

  “Yes, of course.” She let herself into the tack room and selected a saddle and bridle that looked suitable for the pony’s size. The liveryman returned to his water barrel and watched her sleepily as she saddled the little mare. For a hired hack from a livery stable, the pony was quite lively, well shod and groomed, and Alex could detect no saddle sores or swollen fetlocks. Her mouth was soft as she took the bit, and she whinnied when Alex stroked her neck before putting her foot in the stirrup and hauling herself up with the pommel.

  She raised a hand in farewell and walked the mare out onto the High Street.

  Chapter Nine

  Peregrine stood in the doorway of a milliner’s opposite the entrance to the livery stable and watched the piebald pony and its rider take the left turn at the bottom of the High Street. When they were out of sight, he crossed the street and entered the yard of the livery stable.

  After Alexandra had ostensibly retired early from the dinner table, he had strolled out into the town, too full of his own thoughts to settle quietly in his own chamber. It was a pretty little town, with a lively quayside, and if he had known why he was there in the first place, he might have enjoyed it more than he did. After half an hour, he returned to the High Street and went into a tavern opposite the Angel. It was a pleasant evening, and he had decided to take his ale to the ale bench outside, where a crowd of locals were already gathered.

  At first, he had barely registered the youth who emerged from the archway at the side of the Angel, and then something had brought him up sharply. He walked forward, watching the figure striding briskly down the hilly street. There was something familiar in the way the young man walked, the swing from his hips, the bounce in his step. And there was something very familiar about the physique. The jerkin and breeches were a close fit, and his gaze was riveted to the shape they revealed.

  What in the name of the devil is she doing now?

  He had known instinctively that it was Alexandra, known it in the marrow of his bones, just as he had known the sprite dancing on the beach at Lulworth Cove. He set his tankard on the bench behind him and set off down the street, keeping just behind her on the opposite side. She had turned aside into a livery stable, and he had stepped back into the doorway of the milliner’s and waited until she and the pony had turned the corner at the bottom of the street.

  A man was sitting on an upturned water butt in the yard of the livery stable as Perry entered the yard. He got off his perch as the visitor approached. “What can I do ye fer, good sir? We’re about closed up for the day.”

  “No need to disturb yourself,” Perry said with an easy smile. “The young man who just hired a horse from you, did he say where he was going?”

  The liveryman looked a little suspiciously at his visitor. “Why? Is he wanted fer summ
at?”

  Perry shook his head. “No . . . not that I know of. But he reminds me of a stable boy who worked for me some months ago. I think he came from these parts.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “Said he was lookin’ fer work, sir. He’s gone to try Edgar’s dairy farm out Barton way. Said he’d be bringin’ the ’orse back tomorrow afore sundown.”

  “I see. Thank you. It can’t have been the same youth. I don’t think the one who worked for me knew one end of a cow from the other.”

  The liveryman chuckled and spat a stream of tobacco juice onto the cobbles at his feet. “Long as he knew one end of a ’orse from t’other, right?”

  “Right.” Perry gave the man a civil nod and left the yard. Now what? It was clear that this new incarnation of Mistress Alexandra had everything to do with why they were in this sleepy market town in the heart of Hampshire. Barton. What was the significance of that?

  Well, he wasn’t going to discover it while pondering the mystery on Lymington High Street. On impulse, he turned back to the livery stable. The owner was preparing to leave his perch when Peregrine came back.

  “How far away is this Barton?”

  The man frowned. “Five miles, mebbe.”

  Less than an hour on a fresh horse. “D’you have a horse I could hire for the evening? My own mount has been well ridden today.”

  “You goin’ to Barton, too, then, sir?” The man looked very curious.

  “ ’Tis as good a destination as any,” Perry said easily. “I’ve a mind to take a look at the countryside, but I’ll return this evening. I’m staying at the Angel. I’ll stable the horse there overnight, and you may collect it in the morning.”

  The man looked up at the setting sun. “ ’Tis late to ride five miles there and five miles back, sir, though there’ll be a good moonlight, ’tis almost full. But the lanes are rough goin’. O’ course, there’s always ’cross the fields. ’Tis quicker, if ye knows it.”

  Which he didn’t. But Alexandra surely would. She’d hardly have made such an elaborate scheme to engineer this detour if she didn’t know what she was doing.

  “How large is this village of Barton?”

  The liveryman shrugged. “ ’Tis little more than a ’amlet, really, just a few cottages, a farm or two . . . St. Catherine’s Seminary for Young Ladies is the largest building thereabouts. ’Tis half a mile outside the village.”

  A seminary where a young lady might just gain a wider education than most. Peregrine smiled. Could she be going there?

  “If you’ve a mount, I’ll take my chance.”

  The man gave him the same assessing look he’d given Alexandra. “Reckon Dusty’ll suit. I’ll fetch ’im.” A few minutes later, he emerged from the stable leading a broad-backed brown gelding. “I’ll saddle ’im up fer you, sir. Stable lads’ve all gone ’ome.”

  Perry gave him an impatient nod. It was harebrained to go charging off on a strange horse in strange territory in the twilight, but what else was he to do if he was to solve this mystery? And he could already taste the satisfaction of solving the mystery of Mistress Alexandra.

  Five minutes later, he was on his way, the liveryman’s directions etched in his memory. Left at the bottom of High Street, right at the top of the hill, and straight for about three miles onto the gorse-covered heath that constituted large tracts of the New Forest. At the gibbet at the crossroads, he was to go right, and the lane would take him into the village of Barton.

  Alex left the road and took the pony across the heath, urging her into a gallop under the rising full moon. She was close now, the last mile seemed interminable, but she finally crested a small hill on the heath and looked down on the cluster of cottages that made up the village of Barton.

  “Come on, Sally. Almost home.” She nudged the pony’s flanks, and Sally trotted down the hill onto the lane that ran between the cottages and their candlelit windows. At the end of the village, a cottage slightly larger than the rest occupied a larger piece of land. Smoke curled from the chimney, and the two windows on either side of the front door were lamplit.

  Alex heaved a sigh of relief. She had been half afraid that Sylvia and Matty would have already retired for the night, although it was barely seven. They tended to keep the same country hours as other folk in the village, following the sun’s path. She rode around to the back of the cottage and tethered Sally in a lean-to at the bottom of the kitchen garden. She stroked the pony’s nose. “I’ll bed you down in a little while, Sally.” Then she set off up the path.

  The kitchen door was unlocked, as it always was. No one feared intruders in this out-of-the-way spot. She pushed it open and stepped into the kitchen, listening, torn between the desire to surprise her sister and the fear that such a surprise might startle Sylvia too much.

  She called softly, “Anyone at home?”

  The door to the front hall flew open. “Lord-a-mercy, Mistress Alex.” Matty threw up her hands, her plump face wreathed in smiles. “Oh, dearie me, what are you doing in those clothes? What do you look like? Your poor mother would have an attack of the vapors.”

  “No she wouldn’t, Matty. Mama has never had an attack of the vapors in her life,” Alex declared, flinging her arms around her erstwhile nurse.

  “Alex, dearest, ’tis really you. Oh, I’ve missed you so much.” Sylvia flew across the kitchen, arms outstretched, and hugged her sister tightly. Then she stood back, gazing at Alex’s costume with a worried frown. It had been agreed between them that Alex would only wear the boy’s costume if she had to run from an untenable situation. “What has happened, Alex? Why are you wearing the escape disguise?”

  “Because I needed to escape from my escort,” Alex told her. “Now, don’t look so alarmed, Sylvia. ’Tis nothing serious, but I needed to give him the slip. He’s taken on the role of jailer, for some reason.”

  “Jailer?” Sylvia shook her head. “Come, you must tell me everything.” She seized Alex’s hand and dragged her into the sitting room next door. “Who is this man? Why didn’t you give me his name in your letter? D’you know how frustrating it is for me, just sitting on the sidelines trying to read between the lines of your letters?”

  “Oh, don’t scold, darling. I will tell everything I can up to this moment.” Alex sat down beside her sister on the broad seat in the lighted front window, their arms intertwined, and began her tale.

  Peregrine’s livery hack was fresh and trotted along without complaint as the evening shadows drew in. He had hoped that perhaps he would catch up with Alexandra, but he saw no sign of her on the lanes and guessed that she had indeed headed cross-country. The wide, open heath studded with gorse bushes and lush ferns stretched on either side as he reached the gibbet crossroads. The gibbet hung still and empty as the moon rose, casting a bright light across the heath. A hunting owl swooped low over the ground and dived suddenly, rising again with a small rabbit in its talons.

  There was no sign at all of human habitation, and Peregrine began to regret his impulse until the lane took him at last into a small hamlet, cottages on either side of the lane.

  The cottages all had small, well-cultivated gardens, giving the hamlet a prosperous air. The buildings, most with thatched roofs, seemed in good repair.

  He rode the length of the village, looking for some sign of Alexandra’s arrival. What he expected to find he didn’t know, until he reached the last cottage, almost on the outskirts of the village and slightly larger than the others. Two figures were outlined in one of the front windows, heads bent, arms encircling each other. One of them was Alexandra. She no longer wore the woolen cap, and the rich, glowing chestnut of her hair pinned in a topknot was unmistakable in the lamplight. He drew back out of sight of the window. Now was not the moment to announce his presence.

  He took a lane that led him around the back of the cottage, where he found the piebald pony she had hired from the livery stable, tethered beneath a lean-to at the rear of a small kitchen garden.

  Peregrine nodded to himself and contin
ued along the lane that would lead him back to the beginning of the village and the road back to Lymington. He would return in the morning.

  Sylvia listened to her sister’s tale in a mixture of outrage and disbelief. “This Sullivan man has really taken it upon himself to force himself upon you? How dare he? What possible justification does he have for it?”

  “Simple curiosity, I suspect,” Alex said with a wry headshake. She couldn’t bring herself to confess, even to Sylvia, the powerful but mortifying muddle of feelings she had for Peregrine or the fact that they were clearly reciprocated. “The man has an inquiring mind, and he doesn’t care for puzzles. Unfortunately, I showed him one, and he can’t let it go unsolved.”

  Sylvia frowned. “That’s no excuse.”

  Alex sighed. “Maybe not, but the fault is mine in the first place. I can’t think why I would jeopardize everything so stupidly.”

  “Alex, you cannot blame yourself. The strain of keeping up the charade day after day must be unendurable. I don’t blame you in the least. And it was the middle of the night, after all.”

  “Mmm,” she agreed, but without much conviction.

  “Now, girls, I’ve made you both a nice hot posset, with plenty of nutmeg, as I know you like.” Matty interrupted their tête-à-tête, setting two fragrantly steaming pewter tankards down on the hearth. “ ’Tis time you were in bed. I’ve bedded down that pony, given ’er a good feed of hay. You look dead on your feet, Mistress Alex, and what you’re doin’ in those dreadful clothes I can’t imagine. You’ll put on your own good dress in the morning. Your clothes are all in the linen press, and I fetched a nice muslin down to the kitchen fire to air. I’ll bring it up to you in the morning.”

  “Thank you, Matty. I own it will be good to look like myself, even if ’tis only for a few hours.” Alex slid off the window seat and curled up on the rag rug in front of the fire, taking up her tankard of brandy-spiced milk. “It smells good, Matty. Have the Gentlemen made a delivery recently?”