This, according to Seelye, inspired such growling and profanity from the baron, that he feared the man’s impulses would land him up on charges for murder when they caught Wilder.
“Was it a duel? Or did Clun ride him down and run him through?”
“He nearly drowned Wilder, but I’m not there yet, Percy,” Seelye huffed. “You’ll ruin the whole tale, if you make me jump ahead.”
Percy waited, drumming his fingers on the club chair’s arm.
Seelye resumed his narration. Now, Clun rode like a Horseman of the Apocalypse in truth. His greatcoat flew like the Grim Reaper’s own cape, his face a death mask. He terrified everyone in his way.
Percy yawned and made an elaborate show of resting his chin in his hand.
Offended, Seelye cut to the chase.
Not two leagues farther on the north road, they came upon the Hon. Henry Wilder in a pathetic state, cooling his muddy heels at a modest inn. His beaver hat was battered, and he sat covered nose to rump in road dust. Most noteworthy, Wilder sported a shiny, purplish bruise around his swollen eye and a clotted bloody nose. When questioned, he complained bitterly ‘that Damogan she-devil’ blackened the former and broke the latter in the process of stranding him by the side of the road on their way to Scotland. He also objected strenuously to being forced to walk, thus injured, to the nearest shelter serving decent ale, which on bloody Christmas was no mean feat. The shocking assault on his person made Wilder heedless of what he said and to whom he said it.
“You know it’s dashed difficult to make out Clun’s mood in the best of circumstances,” Seelye said. “Well, at that moment, it was impossible to know what Clun would do, what with Wilder’s attempted abduction and his bacon-brained complaints.” Seelye shook his head and took a sip of port, leaving Percy perched on the edge of his chair.
“Damn it, Seelye, what in blazes happened next?”
“Oh. Right. Clun was so amused, he forgot all about killing him. Ordered a tankard of ale instead.”
“No,” said his dumbstruck friend.
“God’s truth, I swear!” Seelye said.
But that was not the end of it. Seelye went on to explain that Wilder wailed about how Lady Elizabeth punched him in the face and chucked him from the carriage he had hired. Then, feeling the full force of his abuse afresh, Wilder whined even louder that she’d used her foot on him. Kicked him right out the blasted coach door. And threw his kit at him with such energy, she broke his nose. Then, she forced the coachman at gunpoint to drive off without him.
“That’s when Clun nearly drowned Wilder in ale. Spat in his face, he laughed so hard. Didn’t mean to, Wilder caught him off guard, mid-swallow.”
“So, he survived.”
“Even that was not the end of it,” said Seelye. “Being a gentleman, Clun gave Wilder his linen pocket square and told him he was lucky to be alive. To which the stupid prattlebox blurted out, ‘So she said herself! A dead shot, said she. Ask Clun, said she, waving a loaded pistol under my nose all the while. You are welcome to that nasty, headstrong handful, Clun, but you’d be a fool to take her at any price.’”
“And?”
“Clun took exception to that last bit and punched Wilder’s good eye,” Seelye concluded. “And took back his pocket square to wipe his fist dry.”
Percy cried laughing now, “By Jove, I’d give anything to have seen that.”
Seelye briefly recounted how he kept Clun from finishing the fool off with his bare hands by reminding him of the season, goodwill toward men and what not. In that spirit, he even prevailed upon the baron to front the blunt needed for the saphead’s coach fare back to London, but only after Wilder pledged his silence on pain of death.
At Clun’s request, Seelye returned to Town to see if Elizabeth turned up at home. And Clun set out from there, intending to track the wayward coach himself, in case she thought of fleeing to some out-of-the-way corner and hiding.
“Heard from Clun since?” Percy asked.
“Not a word. The lady’s not in London either.”
“If Clun’s found her, she’ll be fine,” Percy said. “Probably escorted her to the earl’s place in Devonshire.”
“If he didn’t strangle her,” Seelye observed.
“She had a gun, didn’t she?” Percy inquired.
“Mmm.”
“That should help.”
Chapter 34
In which our heroine thinks twice for once in her life.
Elizabeth and her maid left Mr. Wilder’s hired coach in Banbury, paying the driver an extortionate amount to return to London and forget everything he’d heard, seen and done. Though it was Christmas, the town bustled. At the inn where mail coaches stopped, the lady and her maid learned they’d only have to wait two hours for the next coach going to Worcester then on to Shropshire. Elizabeth bought two inside tickets to Ludlow.
In the meantime, Washburn remonstrated with her mistress, “Why on earth do we go to Ludlow, my lady?”
“I was invited to a house party in Shropshire at the last minute and since we’re here I thought to go on.”
“But I haven’t packed for a house party,” Washburn said in a panic. “We must go to Devonshire first—”
“Washburn, I don’t want to be late. We won’t stay long.”
The outbound mail coach trundled into town a few hours later and they were off. Traveling by mail coach spared them the price of a room overnight and even with candied ginger, Elizabeth had no appetite so she also saved half the cost of meals, too.
In Ludlow the following afternoon, Elizabeth remained vague about their destination, saying only they were going to The Graces. Sensing trouble, Washburn argued that they ought to send a note by messenger to have a carriage come collect them.
“No need for that, Washburn,” Elizabeth said, spying Mr. Madog the dairyman driving his dray slowly down Ludlow’s main thoroughfare.
Washburn goggled as her mistress called out and waved him to a halt. Elizabeth wished him a belated happy Christmas and learned he was returning to Clun village. She offered him the last of her money to carry them to The Graces’ southern boundary. This he refused, taking them up for company instead. Washburn’s shock continued unabated as her mistress chatted merrily about cheese with the man for the entire trip.
During a lull in the conversation, Washburn pleaded in a whisper that they must stay in the village. Overhearing this, Mr. Madog offered to take them to the Colunwy Inn on the town square. Elizabeth insisted he let them off by the roadside near The Sundew, because she wished to walk in the fresh air. (This reconfirmed Mr. Madog’s opinion that she was a thoroughly pixilated young lady.)
Thus it was late the day after Christmas that Elizabeth and her grumbling lady’s maid trudged to the little thatched woodsman’s cottage.
Washburn refused to consider it, declaring, “Lord Morefield would have my head on a spike if I let you stay a single night in such a place. You’ll catch your death. And who are these friends who won’t come fetch you by carriage? No, I’ll see you back to the village, my lady, to a proper inn.” With that, the maid plunked herself down on the bench outside the door and refused to budge.
Winter days were short. And the sun hung low in the sky as Elizabeth debated where to stay the night. On the one hand, coming to Shropshire was a brilliant strategy for cornering Clun where he least expected it. Though staying in the village and sending word ahead would eliminate the element of surprise. On the other hand, she wasn’t certain of their welcome if she and her maid showed up at his door like orphans in a storm.
Perhaps it would be best to stay at the thatched cottage despite Washburn’s objections. Once night fell, her maid would come inside, mice or no.
Elizabeth slipped into the dark cottage. A fresh coat of lime brightened the walls and covered the soot marks from the smoky hearth. Her improvised straw pallet was gone and in its place stood a comfortable bedstead with enough room for two, if they were willing to sleep close. Next to it was a simple stand and
on it, a candlestick holder and a pyramid of beeswax candles ready for use. The bed’s bare mattress looked new. The rough table stood in its same place. New stoneware plates, mugs and utensils lay stacked on it.
Someone lived there now. She walked out and carefully latched the door behind her.
“Let me consider our options for a moment,” she said to the empty bench.
“My lady!” cried Washburn, kneeling by the stacked firewood.
Elizabeth approached. “What is it? Is your arm stuck?”
“I saw something gold flash in there. A half guinea, mayhap. It’d help pay for our room in the village and meals.”
“Let me try.”
“No, my lady. You’ll get yourself filthy.”
“But my arm is longer than yours, Washburn.” She handed her fur muff and bonnet to her maid, who reluctantly made way.
Elizabeth spotted the glint, crouched low and leaned fully against the woodpile without regard for her pelisse or dress. She stretched her long arm toward the flicker in the last light. She felt nothing. Her glove dulled her sense of touch. Impatiently, she leaned back and snatched it off before trying again. With her bare hand, she felt through the cold, oozy, fungal mulch, and with one last straining reach, she touched the cool surface of something metal. With her cheek pressed hard against the rough wood, she scrabbled for it in the muck even as she felt a sharp cramp twinge in her neck. She hooked her fingers around it and clutched it tight before drawing out her fist. Under no circumstances would she grope around for it a second time. When she opened her hand, she found a dirty, heavy gold signet ring. Norman gold.
Elizabeth wiped the ring carefully with her linen handkerchief and handed it to her maid to hold while she slipped off her locket necklace. She strung the ring on its chain, slipped the necklace back over her head and let it fall inside the high neckline of her wool gown. The cold ring hung heavy on the chain and warmed, safely tucked between her breasts.
“It’s a sign, Washburn,” she said. “We go to The Graces.”
“Oh, my lady, no,” Washburn pleaded. “You cannot. You must not. Best we go to an inn and send word.”
Elizabeth straightened to her full height. “Washburn, I have not been entirely candid with you. I am going uninvited to the house of an unmarried man. He is my betrothed but, as you and I both know, it is highly irregular for me to do so. Perhaps it was wrong of me to bring you along and put you in this position.”
Washburn interrupted, “No, my lady, it was only right and proper I come with you.”
“But I am going,” Elizabeth asserted, “and if you cannot in good conscience and in good cheer come with me, I understand. From now on, I will tolerate no more reproaches. You may have what money is left. I will see you to the village inn from whence you may return to London. I promise you an excellent character, so you may find more suitable employment. I’ve appreciated your loyalty, good sense and years of service, Washburn, but I am going to The Graces with or without you. I must, and no one will gainsay me over stupid proprieties. Is that clear? I may come to regret this decision, but I have made it.”
Washburn’s eyes grew wide as saucers throughout Elizabeth’s ultimatum.
“I have shocked you,” Elizabeth said.
“You have, my lady. Just now, it was as if I was hearing Mrs. Abeel herself,” she said, a ghost of a smile on her lips. “She’d be so proud.” The maid looked around. “Well, off we go, then. Time’s a-wasting.” She took up their portmanteaus and squared her shoulders. “How far is it?”
Elizabeth led Washburn up the footpath through the meadow, over the rise and onward to the stately house. After trudging through the last rays of sunset, they finally passed silently through the Triumphal Entry and found the main hall empty, its windows darker than the twilit sky. No one answered when Elizabeth let the brass knocker fall. The sound echoed in the empty hall within.
Clun must be at the castle. It would make sense he’d celebrate the New Year at his principal seat. Yet, the Graces wouldn’t be left completely empty. Elizabeth felt a bubble of panic rise in her empty stomach. Where were the servants?
The evening sky was a dark cobalt blue, the air biting cold. They trudged through the south archway.
Please, she closed her eyes, prayed and walked out of the passage. Elizabeth cracked one eye and exhaled a wispy cloud of breath. Windows blazed bright on the ground floor at the back of the main hall.
Ted intercepted them. “Evening, my lady.” The surprised lad made a jerky bow.
“Hello, Ted, where is everyone?”
“Most everybody’s away at the castle for the baron. Only Cook, Papa and a few maids stayed behind.”
“Lord Clun is at the castle?”
“No, ma’am,” the baffled boy said. “His lordship’s in London. May I?” Ted took up their bags from Washburn and struggled with them to the vestibule door. Peering through a window, Elizabeth saw Cook slicing dried fruit for the King Cake. With a few taps of his small boot, Ted brought a maid bustling over to let them in.
Cook took one look at the weary, debris-dusted lady and hugged Elizabeth. The maid led Washburn off to help her settle in.
Folded into Cook’s arms, Elizabeth accepted the older woman’s welcome with gusts of silent sobs. Cook held her a moment longer before peeling off her soiled gloves and chaffing her cold hands between her warm, callused ones. Ted stood beside Tyler Rodwell, who sat at the big central table. Both watched without a word, but they didn’t escape Cook’s notice. She shooed them away to “go somewhere and make yourselves useful.”
Cook’s instincts were excellent. Elizabeth needed a good, long cry without any onlookers who reminded her of the absent lord. After their departure, everything spilled from her eyes as Cook patted her back and held her close. Elizabeth calmed after the worst passed and sat down at the empty table.
“There’s one thing for it, my lady,” Cook said and leaned closer to whisper, “Marry the man.”
“You’re not the first to say so but he won’t have me. I’ve been stupid and naïve. He tried to tell me. I wouldn’t listen. Now, I’ve ruined everything by expecting too much.”
Cook poured milk into a copper pan and stirred the coals in the stove to warm it.
“That may be. Or it may be that’s what he needs,” Cook told her. “It’s like to break my heart thinking on his early years.” Cook looked over her shoulder at Elizabeth and shook her head. “Poor Master William. I say ladle love over him thick as gravy whether he wants it or not. Believe you me, he’ll pretend he doesn’t want it. T’is rubbish. Everyone needs love. Especially him.”
“He’s told me he doesn’t.”
“Says he,” Cook scoffed. “That’s because he never expects love for himself or even thinks to ask for it. How’s he supposed to know what to do when it’s offered to him?”
“It can’t be as simple as that,” Elizabeth whispered.
“And why not?”
Later, Roddy insisted Elizabeth stay in the Gold bedchamber though she argued for sleeping in a guest room because it would be less bother. He only prevailed by insisting no one expected the baron any time soon and observing it would cause less talk below stairs. So with Washburn’s help, she settled into the Gold bedchamber.
“Your baron’s not here, my lady, and he’s not expected. What now?” Her lady’s maid asked.
“Honestly, Washburn, I’m not sure. In the meantime, I’m determined that we not impose on Clun’s staff. I plan to pitch in. Will you help?”
“Wouldn’t mind at all. Another unplanned holiday, you might say,” Washburn said slyly.
“That’s the spirit.”
The next day, Washburn didn’t make a peep when Elizabeth made her own bed (badly), fetched her own water for the basin (adequately) and threw herself into preparations for the New Year’s frumenty supper (joyously). By doing so, she earned everyone’s gratitude and affection. Unlike snobbish London servants who grew sniffy about encroachments on their sphere and the Quality forge
tting themselves, Clun’s staff appreciated Elizabeth’s good-humored flexibility under unusual circumstances.
Elizabeth settled into the homey routine of the big kitchen. She was happy to help. In fact, she was happy, plain and simple. Cook regaled her with hilarious and sometimes heartbreaking stories about her ‘wee Master William.’ And the chatter-filled bustle in that big room reminded Elizabeth of growing up, watching Mrs. Abeel take command of the kitchen in her imperious way to make scones or oversee the Christmas plum pudding preparation, all the while regaling Elizabeth with tales of high seas adventure.
All was comfort and joy until his lordship turned up unexpectedly that evening.
Chapter 35
In which our hero tracks his betrothed to the last place on earth he expected to find her.
The baron learned that Elizabeth and her maid travelled from Banbury by mail coach to Worcester. He, however, was forced to rest Algernon overnight because he preferred to ride a horse he trusted rather than hire hacks with unknown stamina. His Long Meg was easy enough to trace northwestward even though he fell a day behind.
Two days after Christmas, the weather was decidedly wintry and sleeting intermittently when he reached Ludlow, where the fugitives had been sighted the previous afternoon. Clun’s spirits rose even as the temperature fell. He told himself it was nothing more than the sight of doors and windows festooned with the season’s greenery.
But it wasn’t just.
To end their argument at Mr. Soane’s townhouse, he’d told Elizabeth he was going to Shropshire. Surely, The Graces was not her destination Yet, she’d bypassed Devonshire, sped through Worcester and Ludlow and might as well be headed there as anywhere.
The Baron’s Betrothal: An On-Again, Off-Again, On-Again Regency Romance (The Horsemen of the Apocalypse Series) Page 28