by Carola Dunn
She had thought that he might offer for Lizzie. However, there had been nothing to stop him and since he had not yet done so it seemed unlikely now. On the other hand, Bertram might be ready to come up to scratch, having waited for his parents’ arrival. Why else should Lady Tatenhill have invited the two of them to dinner? Claire wondered whether Lizzie would have him. She had turned down a number of unexceptionable offers but she might prefer life with Bertram, despite the inevitable discord, to retiring with her sister to Bumble's Green.
It was even possible that she was nursing a secret tendre for him. She had asked so earnestly whether Claire liked him, and with her lively temperament she did not dread argument. Claire could not imagine quarreling with the man she loved.
“You are quiet today,” he had said as he helped her down from the curricle.
“So are you,” she had retorted.
Their eyes had met and held for an endless moment, then she had turned and hurried into the house.
As she packed a pair of bandboxes, she tried again to decipher the secret message she had read in that long look. Nothing but her imagination, she decided sadly.
“Miss Claire, Miss Claire!” Alfie panted up the stairs, his red hair standing on end in its usual disarray. “All the gigs is hired out today acos o’ the Crownation. There's only a chaise left an’ they says it's old as Paul's steeple. Who's Paul?"
“They mean St. Paul's Cathedral, I collect,” Claire explained absently, “the old one before the Great Fire, for the new one has a dome. I shall have to take it. Carry these down, if you please, and then run back to the stables for the chaise."
She was following him down when a knock sounded at the front door and Enid popped up from the kitchen to answer it.
It was Horace Harrison. He saw her on the stair and it was too late to retreat.
“Miss Sutton,” he said, with an elaborate bow that put his eyes in danger from his shirt points. “My cousin is safely ensconced in Westminster Abbey, so I am come to assure you I have no intention of trifling with your affections. I beg you will listen to my suit."
“Pray do not, sir!” Claire was acutely conscious that Enid and Alfie were listening avidly. “I am on the point of departing for the country."
“Then you must allow me to drive you. You will be more comfortable in Mama's barouche than in any hired vehicle. I do not pretend to be a top sawyer like Bertram, but I am generally accounted a fair whip and will engage not to overturn you."
Claire was tempted. Horace was bound to make another offer, but that seemed easier to cope with than an endless journey in an ancient chaise. He would be seated on the box with Alfie, driving, not inside the vehicle with her, so he must wait until they arrived to propose. In fact, she owed it to him to depress his pretensions thoroughly, for Bertram's interruptions had never allowed her to complete her rejection in no uncertain terms. Alfie's presence would ensure that he did not go beyond the bounds of propriety.
“Thank you, Mr Harrison,” she said tiredly, suppressing her misgivings. “That is very kind of you. I am ready to leave at any moment."
If Horace had exaggerated in describing himself as a fair whip, at least he had a realistic view of his own abilities. He never raised his team's gait above a trot, slowing to a walk around corners. The barouche, though old-fashioned, was indeed comfortable, and Claire managed to doze, rousing now and then to nod and smile when her driver pointed out what he considered interesting landmarks. There was little traffic, a holiday having been declared in honour of the Coronation. The peaceful greenness of the countryside was soothing to her tattered nerves.
It was nearly six already when they reached Bumble's Green. The new rose garden glowed in the golden light and a light breeze wafted the fragrance to Claire as the carriage drew up before the house. She knew she had been right to come. Here in the quiet of her own home she could sort out her feelings and regain her composure.
“Will you come in for some refreshment before you leave, Mr Harrison?” she invited unwillingly. She had no hope that he would decline. “It must be in the kitchen, I fear, for the other rooms are not yet furnished. Alfie, take the carriage round to the stables if you please, then bring my things in."
The lad hurried to obey. He seemed oddly excited, pink-cheeked and muttering to himself, casting puzzled glances at Horace and shaking his head. Claire watched him with a frown and resolved to ask what was troubling him as soon as she had disposed of her unwanted suitor.
She led the way into the house and down the passage to the kitchen. They passed the door of the Copples’ bedchamber, where she would be sleeping, and she smiled as she noticed the key in the big brass lock. No doubt Mrs Copple had intended to leave her valuables safely shut up and then had forgotten to remove the key.
Horace Harrison, in his celestial blue coat, orange waistcoat and huge topaz pin, looked thoroughly out of place in the kitchen. He sat stiffly on the edge of a chair at the scrubbed white-wood table, watching in astonishment as Claire lit the new Rumford stove and set a kettle to boil.
“My dear Miss Sutton,” he protested, “when we are married you will have servants to do such tasks."
“I have not said I will marry you,” she pointed out, “and I have servants of my own. They just happen to be absent.” In truth she was rather proud of her new housewifely skills and annoyed with him for not appreciating them.
Horace rose, took a large handkerchief from his pocket, and spread it on the spotless flagstone floor. The moment for his proposal had arrived. Fortunately, so had Alfie. He walked jauntily into the kitchen, looking smug and jingling something in his pocket.
“Been't you tired, Miss Claire?” he enquired with a strange grimace contorting his flat features.
“Yes, I am, Alfie. I shall just prepare something for Mr Harrison to eat before he leaves and then I believe I shall lie down."
Horace picked up his handkerchief with a sulky air and sat down again. Claire went to the larder, where Mrs Copple had left bread and cheese and fruit for her. She prepared a simple repast and made a pot of tea.
Alfie was sitting in a corner, whistling tunelessly. His blank face encouraged Horace to try again, though he did not go so far as to kneel. When Claire joined him at the table with a mug of tea he pushed aside his plate, already half empty, and reached for her hand.
“Mr Harrison, pray watch what you are about!” she exclaimed.
It was too late. The tea spilled down her gown and she jumped up with a cry of vexation.
“Humbly beg your pardon, ma'am.” He drew out his handkerchief again and made futile motions at her skirt.
She backed away from him. “You must excuse me, sir, while I change. And I beg you will not expect me to entertain you further this evening, for I am exhausted. I am grateful for your kind assistance in bringing me here, but I must insist that you believe I have no intention of accepting your hand in marriage, now or ever. I wish you a good journey back to London."
That covered everything, thought Claire as she hurried out of the kitchen, and she hoped he had the grace to take no for an answer. She had been a fool to let him come here.
The door to the bedchamber was open. She went in and closed it firmly behind her, then looked for her bandboxes. They were nowhere to be seen. She had never really inspected the room before. It must once have been a store room, judging by the small, high windows beneath which stood a huge oaken wardrobe. The bed was also huge, and it looked excessively lumpy. The bandboxes were not in the wardrobe, which was empty, the Copples having apparently taken all their clothes with them. Nor were they under the bed, and there was no other furniture.
She went back to the door and opened it, meaning to call Alfie to bring her luggage. Horace was just outside, raising his hand to knock. She stepped back in alarm and he followed her in.
“Miss Sutton, you cannot mean it. You are angry with me, but I shall prove my love. And besides, you will be ruined if you do not marry me,” he ended on a more practical note as he clutched
her in his arms and aimed a kiss at her lips.
“Release me at once!” Claire struggled to avoid his wet mouth, which landed on her temple. He was stronger than he looked and he was bearing her back towards the bed. “Alfie, help!” She kicked at his shins.
He let her go with a howl, just as Alfie dashed in. Her bodice had caught in his brooch. It ripped as he pushed her away, and for a moment she was too busy pulling the torn cloth together to realise that Alfie had put his boxing lessons from George to good effect.
Horace lay stretched on the floor on his back, motionless.
“Alfie, you are wonderful!” she gasped, kneeling beside the victim to see how much damage he had sustained.
The boy bolted through the door and slammed it behind him. Claire heard the key turn in the lock.
“Alfie, what are you about?” she called, jumping to her feet and running to the door. “Unlock it at once and bring me my bandboxes."
“Can't, Miss Claire!” wailed the unhappy lad. “Miss Lizzie said lock you in wi’ the gemmun an’ don't listen."
His footsteps died away down the passage.
Feeling faint, Claire sank down on the edge of the bed. He had misunderstood something Lizzie had said, but once he had got it into his head he would not budge an inch. She contemplated a night spent fending off Horace's advances and shuddered.
Chapter IXX—Bertram
Bertram considered George IV's Coronation ostentatious in the extreme. It discouraged him that the First Gentleman of the Realm, who had spent several fortunes promoting the arts, should display such a vulgar want of taste. He had only attended because the Earl of Tatenhill insisted it was the duty of his heir to be present.
He watched his frail father droop in his heavy velvet and ermine robes, glad that he and his mother had at least persuaded him not to attend the banquet following the six-hour ceremony.
His mind wandered to the proposal of marriage he would make to Claire tomorrow. The prospect disturbed him. He told himself he was being ridiculous, that she would suit him in every way, and she must be grateful to receive so flattering an offer. There would be advantages to having a grateful wife who would not scold or tease, not that Claire was given to scolding or teasing, unlike her sister. All the same, if it were not for his father's command he would not be making that offer.
His eyes returned to the earl, who was limping up to the throne to kiss the monarch's left cheek. The business was nearly over.
At last the tail end of the procession left the Abbey. It was well after four. Judging by the crush of spectators fighting their way to the exits and the roar of the crowds outside, he would be lucky to reach home by six. He must change before he went off for a quiet evening at White's with his cronies, the last he would enjoy for some time now that he was about to become betrothed.
He waited until the worst of the crowds had gone, then strolled back to his lodging in the Albany. Pinkerton gasped with dismay at the sight of his master's creased coat and limp cravat.
“I've laid your evening clothes out, my lord. Your lordship's bath will be ready in ten minutes. Oh, here's a note came for your lordship some hours past. Miss Sutton's lad brought it, said it was urgent. Allow me to relieve your lordship of his coat."
Bertram glanced at the note, recognising Lizzie's hand. He set it on his dresser and submitted to Pinkerton's aid in easing out of his coat. What ailed the chit now, he wondered.
“Don't say they are crying off from dinner with the Earl,” he muttered.
“My lord?"
“Nothing. My bath, if you please.” He reached for the note with one hand as he pulled off his neckcloth with the other. Scanning it rapidly, he paled. “Hell and the devil confound it! Pinkerton!” he roared. “My riding clothes, quickly. I shall have to do without the bath. No, I'd best drive. Tell Abel to put the chestnuts to the curricle, and send word to Mr Ferguson at White's that I shan't be able to join him. Hurry, man!"
Twenty minutes later, Bertram took the reins from Abel and stepped up into the curricle.
“You want me along, m'lord?” enquired the groom.
“No. Yes. No. Can you keep your mouth shut?"
“Mum's the word, m'lord."
“Jump up, then."
Abel scrambled to his perch as the carriage dashed off down Piccadilly.
“The Bath road, m'lord?” he ventured to ask as they left behind them the noisily celebrating crowds in Hyde Park.
“The Bath road. How many inns are there in Colnbrook?"
“Least half a dozen, m'lord. ’Tis a long stage but lots o’ folks stop there."
“Damnation, that's what I thought. Why the devil did the ninnyhammer not give me its name?"
“Miss Lizzie in a bumblebath again,” opined Abel.
“How did you guess? No, don't tell me. I'll be damned if I know why she expects me to rush to the rescue."
If Abel had an answer for that rhetorical question, he kept it to himself. Though his lordship drove at a furious pace, the groom was not worried, for this time his master wanted to arrive in one piece.
The extraordinary sight of a London hackney carriage, with a very tired horse, standing in the yard of the first posting house in Colnbrook advertised to Bertram that his quarry was here. The sun was setting, he noted worriedly. Even if they set out immediately he could not return Lizzie home before dark.
“Take care of ’em,” he ordered, tossing the reins to Abel. “I'll hire a pair to go back and you can bring the chestnuts tomorrow.” He strode into the Cross Keys.
The sound of raised voices led him through the door on his left, into the coffee room. Lizzie stood in the middle of the room, her bonnet dangling from her fingers, the cynosure of all the fortunately few customers. She was engaged in a spirited argument with a stout couple who must be the landlord and his wife, and a small, grubby man he had no hesitation in identifying as the hackney driver.
“I swear you will be paid,” she said passionately, then caught sight of Bertram. Her mouth fell open.
It was extraordinary, he mused, how pretty she was even when she was gaping. It suddenly dawned on him to wonder how she had managed to send Alfie back to London with the message.
“Bertram!” she squealed. “What on earth are you doing here?"
The trio assailing her turned as one, their expressions changing as they took in the immaculate Corinthian with his eyebrows raised in supercilious enquiry.
“How much?” he drawled, ignoring Lizzie.
The driver scuttled forward. “Two guinea the flash mort promised me, guv,” he whined, “but I orter get four, all this way outa town."
“The young miss wants a private parlour,” explained the landlady in a conciliatory tone.
“An excellent idea. See to it.” He tossed a couple of coins to the driver. “Come, Elizabeth."
Moving in a dazed way, she took his offered arm and they followed the innkeeper to a private parlour. Bertram nodded approval, though the room was sadly beneath his usual standards.
“Tea and biscuits for the young lady,” he ordered, “and a heavy wet for me. I'll want your best pair put to my curricle shortly."
“No!” said Lizzie, recovering her voice. “I'm not going anywhere with you. How in heaven's name did you find me?"
Bertram shut the door in the fascinated landlord's face.
“You wrote to me,” he reminded her, leaning against the table and enjoying her flashing eyes and pink cheeks.
“I did not! At least, not telling you to come here. Oh no, Alfie must have made a mistake and delivered George's note to you!"
“I hope you are not suggesting that I read a letter addressed to Winterborne. I have it here.” He passed it to her and watched the dawning realisation on her face. “Come now, Lizzie, tell me what this is all about,” he said gently.
“You will be excessively angry with me,” she said in a muffled voice, turning her back on him but not before he noticed the agitated clasping and un-clasping of her hands.
“
To my extreme astonishment, I find I am not angry at all, only curious."
“You are supposed to be at Bumble's Green, locked in with Claire for the night so that you will have to marry her,” she confessed, her voice unsteady. “George was meant to come here and compromise me so that he would have to marry me."
Bertram's hands tightened on the table's edge until his knuckles showed white. “Are you so very much in love with George?” he managed to ask past the strangling sensation in his throat.
“No, but you were to marry Claire and I knew you would not want me to live with you. I had to marry someone. Oh, everything has gone wrong!” she wailed, and burst into tears.
Lizzie crying—bright, cheerful Lizzie crying; he could not bear it. In two strides he had her in his arms, and once she was there it seemed only proper to shower her face with kisses.
At first she strained away. Aghast at his own actions he was about to let her go when he felt her arms creep up about his neck. His heart jumped as he saw the wonder in her tear-drenched blue eyes.
“Bertram?” she said hesitantly.
His answer was to crush her lips beneath his own.
“Ahem!” said the innkeeper appearing behind her. “Tea, my lord. Your lordship's groom has picked out a team for your return to town.” He set a tray on the table.
Bertram found himself standing by the window smoothing his hair with a nervous hand, while Lizzie hid her scarlet cheeks at the other end of the room.
“Thank you,” he said, clearing his throat. “I shall call if we need anything else."
“Certainly, my lord.” The landlord bowed his way out.
“Will you have some tea, Lizzie?” Bertram asked, his voice unnaturally calm, ingrained good manners coming to the fore.
“Yes. No. I don't know. I don't care. Oh Bertram, I am sorry I tried to compromise you, even if you were supposed to be George, and it is kind in you to pretend you ... you like me a little but I know that I am forever driving you into the boughs. You need not marry me. Claire will not mind, she need never know what happened."