by Amanda Scott
III
A MOMENT LATER, SARAH stood in the corridor outside her room. A glow from the stairwell reminded her that it was still early, that the household had not yet retired. Perhaps it would be better to wait. But no, she could not be certain of getting out of the house once it was locked up for the night. She remembered heavy bolts at the tops of the French doors in the library and assumed that similar bolts would be used on the front door. They would no doubt be too stiff for her to move easily even if she could contrive a means of reaching them. The windows, too, in this neighborhood, would no doubt have their own strong bolts. Far better to escape before such devices were in place for the night. Accordingly, she slipped down the stairs, appalled to discover that her knees were quaking. What if the library door were open?
But it was not. The hall was reassuringly empty, and repressing that weak-kneed feeling that seemed to have traveled all the way to her midsection, she tiptoed quickly to the front door. Repressing an instinct to fling it wide and run into the darkness beyond, she forced herself to work slowly and as silently as possible. Nonetheless, the door gave a squeak upon opening that seemed dreadfully loud. There was no response to it, however, and Sarah soon found herself upon the broad steps leading down to the drive. Moving quickly then, she hurried around the side of the house and into the shelter of the thick woods. Only then did she stop to consider what she had done.
She realized immediately that her action had been impulsive and foolhardy, a mere rebellion against going passively to her fate like a lamb to the slaughter. Nevertheless, she dared not attempt to flee to London on foot across Finchley Common. She would most likely get lost or be captured by highwaymen, footpads, or others of their ilk, if she did not die of exposure first. Moving further into the thick growth of trees and shrubbery until she was quite certain she could not be seen from the house, Sarah paused to give rational thought to her predicament. At the very least, she needed a horse, but she could not hope to take one until the household had gone to sleep for the night. Therefore, she decided to hide in the woods until the coast was clear.
It was chilly, but she had remembered to bring her spencer with her, and she should be warm enough for an hour or two. On this semicomforting note, she settled herself upon the springy moss, leaned back against a tree, and waited, closing her eyes, forcing herself to relax. Thus, she rested undisturbed, half dozing, until she was startled by a cold, wet nose pressed without warning into her hand.
“Erebus!” The big, shaggy dog, his black fur outlined silver in the moonlight, wagged his tail, his tongue lolling out of one side of his mouth, his eyes sparkling with delight at having found her. He woofed gently, inviting her to play. “No, Erebus. Oh, hush!” She reached out to pull him near in an attempt to stifle his exuberance, but he only danced back, woofing again, teasing her. The next moment, with a rustle of shrubbery, Beck loomed over her.
“His lordship requests your immediate presence in the library, Miss Lennox-Matthews,” he said formally, but with an odd note of triumph nonetheless. “Will you be good enough to accompany me there at once?”
Sarah, raging silently at herself, surrendered with outward meekness, and it seemed less than no time before she was back in her bedchamber, the door locked, the key in Darcy’s possession. He had noticed its absence and thus her own when he had passed her chamber on his way to bed, and had immediately sent Beck in search of her, but despite any inconvenience, Darcy had not been particularly angry. He had merely shaken his head at her foolishness and observed, to Beck that they must be more careful in future.
She stood for a moment, staring at the locked door, but her thoughts seemed only to become dismal and disjointed, so she finally roused herself and made her way to the great bed. Tomorrow was another day. Perhaps something would occur to her then. She pulled down the coverlet and tested the sheets. Matty had aired them. There would be no dampness to complain of, and though she would have liked a warming pan or at least a hot brick, she would certainly not attempt to ring for one now.
She slipped off her dress, thinking it would look sorry enough without being slept in. Then, clad only in her shift and shivering a little in the crisp air from the open window, she climbed between the sheets under the heavy patchwork quilt where, more exhausted than she knew by the events of the day, she was barely conscious of feeling warm again before she fell asleep.
She awoke the following morning conscious of a deep sense of disorientation. Then memory returned. She sat up in bed, pushing her hair out of her eyes and feeling rather small and helpless and lonely. Drat Darcy anyway, she thought to herself. But then, she sighed aloud as honesty again compelled her to accept the fact that she had not come to her present position through Darcy’s efforts alone. Drat Sir Nicholas Ashton! Drat vanity. Drat….
But then she told herself firmly that such mental gyrations were silly, that there was no use repining the past or trying to diagnose the causes of her predicament. The thing now was to deal with the present. That thought, however, was not a bit more comforting than its predecessors had been, since her present situation was scarcely a cheering one. If she returned to London unmarried, she would be Ruined. Compromised beyond redemption. The fact that her virtue was still intact would mean little or nothing, for what was virtue without reputation? And her reputation, thanks to a single night passed unchaperoned under a gentleman’s roof, was in shreds.
Though she had drifted into sleep the previous night clinging to a hope that some small miracle might yet occur, with the clarity of morning light, she could see the impossibility of recouping her losses. Under the strict code of behavior practiced by the Beau Monde, losing her reputation meant that she would be ostracized, that those persons hitherto counted as friends would look away when she passed by, that hostesses would delete her name from their entertainment lists. There would be no more gilt-edged invitations, no more delightful routs, no more gay meetings in Rotten Row. Darcy would be shunned too, of course, but only briefly. He was a man and would therefore be quickly forgiven. There would be a dinner party eventually where the numbers were uneven, and his name—an earl, after all—would come to mind.
Sarah gave herself a shake. This would not do! She was allowing herself to sink into a morass of self-pity. The thought of facing her Aunt Aurelia or anyone else in London would cast anyone into the dismals, yet it was not even something that must be faced immediately. Her present circumstance was another matter entirely. That must be faced, since the present was by its very definition a matter of undeniable priority. Besides, wallowing in her own discomfiture was not Sarah’s way. If she was ruined, it was a fact already accomplished. The thing now was not to dwell upon it but to look to the future, to decide upon an acceptable course of action.
The dress she had draped over the chair the previous night caught her eye. It would be a good deal easier, she considered, to adopt an attitude of resolution if one were fully clothed. A thin chemise, after all, added little to one’s sense of consequence. Accordingly, she scurried out of bed and across the threadbare carpet and splintery floor, ignoring her corset and snatching up the dress to fling it over her head, grateful for its protection against the chilly morning air. Once decently clad, she stepped to view herself in the dressing table glass.
“Dear me,” she sighed aloud, pushing stray curls away from her forehead again. She looked the veriest urchin! “Like something he swept up at a crossing,” she muttered, pinching up her sleeves and dragging her comb through her hair, coercing it into a semblance of order by combing the stubborn tresses severely away from her face and tying them back with her ribbon. Of course, no sooner had the bow been tied than various curls began to wisp about her brow and ears most charmingly, but there was nothing she could do about that, so she left well enough alone.
Gratified and likewise amazed to discover water in the cracked porcelain ewer on the washstand, she poured some into the basin and scrubbed her hands and face to a becomingly rosy glow. Then, much refreshed, she plumped down upon the
French seat in the window embrasure to await events. Leaning back against comfortable cushions, she watched as noisy birds chased one another, flitting from limb to limb, from tree to tree, diving into the darker reaches of the encroaching woodland. Occasionally, a gray squirrel would dart across the drive or sit amidst the weeds nibbling at a delicacy held between its dainty forepaws. Amusing at first, but the entertainment was limited and soon began to pall. Her thoughts turned inward again.
There were clearly at least two possible stands she might take. First, she might do all in her power to make Darcy sorry he had ever conceived the notion to marry her. Such a course might become a trifle wearing, however, and would certainly cut up everyone’s peace, including her own. On the other hand, she might simply resign herself to the inevitable and make the best of things. Sarah sighed again. Such tame submission would no doubt be confoundedly boring, not to mention unromantic and banal. Also sensible, no doubt. That settled it. Surely, there must be a middle path, some way by which she might defy him just enough to keep him well aware of her feelings without making things entirely uncomfortable for everyone concerned—if only she could think how to manage it.
Sarah perceived that she had already resigned herself to the marriage, little though she desired it. Had her escape attempt succeeded, things would be different, but being something of a fatalist, she quite realized that, having spent the night in Darcy’s house, there was nothing left now but to marry him. Besides, things might have been much worse. As a husband, he wouldn’t be too bad. He was amiable and handsome enough, and she ought to be able to manage him without too much difficulty. Of course, she did not love him, and she never would. She doubted she would ever even scrape up much respect for him. He was simply not that sort of person. She thought him weak, self-centered, occasionally stubborn, even—as now—obstinate. But worse than that, he was the sort of man other people used to serve their own interests. Had she not tried to do that very thing herself?
It was not that he was particularly gullible, she mused now. It was more that he generally seemed to take the line of least resistance. Perhaps it was laziness, perhaps merely a desire on his part to avoid unpleasant confrontations with others. But whatever his particular guiding star was, something had certainly stirred him enough to accomplish her abduction. He must need money very badly indeed, she decided, staring vaguely at the gray clouds settling in above the treeline.
At this point, her rambling thoughts were interrupted by approaching footsteps. A moment later, there was a shuffling noise in the hallway, then the sound of a key in the lock. The door swung open, and Darcy entered. He was dressed in a well-fitting bottle-green coat and tan stockinette pantaloons neatly tucked into glossy, gold-tasseled Hessians, and he carried a tray. Appreciatively, Sarah noted a chubby little crockery pot and a linen-covered plate before he spoke.
“Good morning, m’dear. I’ve brought your chocolate and some toast. You seemed to show a slight aversion to Beck yesterday, so I decided I’d just bring it myself this morning.” He set the tray down on the dressing table.
“Thank you, my lord.” She had decided to be polite, but she would maintain a certain cool reserve toward him as well.
“Trust you spent a restful night.”
“Yes, my lord.” She rose from the French seat and moved to pour out a cup of chocolate. There were two cups. “May I pour you some, my lord?”
“Yes, of course, m’dear. Must say, you seem to be in a more tractable mood this morning.” Not a word about her attempted escape, but a triumphant little smile twitched at his lips. “Hope it means you’ve decided to be cooperative.”
Sarah set the chocolate pot back on the tray and passed him his cup before she replied. “As to that, sir, I quite see that an expeditious marriage has become a necessity.”
“Indeed.” He took his seat on the dressing chair, idly smoothing a wrinkle across his thigh as he watched her return to the window seat with her own cup and a piece of buttered toast. “Glad you’ve decided to be sensible, dear girl. Of course, your reputation has been thoroughly compromised by now, so neither you nor Lord Hartley has much choice in the matter. Beck will bring the materials for your letter.”
“One moment, my lord,” she interposed quickly as he drank off his chocolate and moved to rise. “I see no reason to deceive my uncle. His opinion of me must suffer enough as a result of my behavior in meeting you clandestinely. But to allow him to believe that I connived with you in an elopement is more than I can agree to do.”
Darcy gave a thoughtful nod. “Quite understand your reluctance, m’dear. Nonetheless, you must realize there are certain rather unpalatable laws regarding the abduction of an heiress. Not certain you’d be so regarded under your peculiar circumstances, of course. Or that your uncle would take steps, being a gentleman so averse to scandal as he is. Still and all, no reason to take the chance. I’d look dashed silly decorating a gallows, so it’s got to look as though you’ve acted voluntarily.”
“And if I refuse?”
“In that case,” he replied apologetically, “’fraid I should have to cut my losses.”
“Cut your losses!” A spark of hope leaped within her. “Do you mean that you would return me to Berkeley Square?”
“Well, yes. ’Fraid I should have to, you know. You noted yourself the absurdity of any attempt to force you to the border, and no self-respecting clergyman would marry us against your will, even if I could extort a waiver from your uncle. Most unfortunately, I don’t claim acquaintance with any disreputable men of the cloth.”
“Then, I think you must resign yourself to taking me home, sir,” Sarah replied with dignity, “for I shall not write that letter.”
“Dash it, Sarah. Thought you had a sense of pride.”
“I do!”
Darcy shook his head. “Can’t have considered the matter properly, then. Only think of the scandal if you return to your uncle’s house after a night spent here.”
“But if you say nothing about the matter and I say nothing about it, who is to know? Surely, we can still wrap things in white linen if we but put our minds to it!”
“Ah, but there’s the rub, you see,” he responded promptly. “Might be more than we could manage. You see, Beck’s got a rather long tongue, and I shouldn’t like to deny any allegations he might make about your behavior, though it would be dashed foolish to admit I took you by force. Not that people would believe that anyway if I return you to the bosom of your family with your virtue still intact.” He frowned down at his thumbnail. “It would be a rather simple matter, actually, to let the world believe you had thrown yourself at my head, and that, after teaching you a small lesson, I’d decided against proceeding with an elopement. Might be thought a devilish harsh fellow, but that would be nothing to what the world would think of you, my darling Sarah.”
“I am not your darling, nor am I your dear, nor anything else, sir,” she muttered between clenched teeth, “and I do wish you would cease littering the place with your false endearments.”
“As you like. Is that your final word on the subject?”
Sarah glared at him, but she was conscious at the same time of a heavy sinking feeling. He must know she would capitulate, for there was certainly no way she knew of by which she might counter the actions he threatened. His credibility under such circumstances as he had outlined would be far greater than hers. She was beaten, and she knew it. No longer was there any point in refusing to write her uncle, for she quite understood that marriage was the only way by which any shred of her reputation might be spared her. Nor, she realized now, had the outcome ever been in much doubt. Even had he agreed to take her back and keep mum about it, they would have been taking an enormous risk, one she was not perfectly certain even now that she would have been willing to take. She sighed deeply.
“I shall write whatever you wish, my lord.”
“Good girl. Rather thought you would.” He got to his feet. “Like to get to Town with time to accomplish the business today, s
o be quick, m’dear. I shall send Beck with paper and ink.” He stepped to the door, then paused and looked back. “It won’t be so had, you know, Sarah. The money is what matters, but I shall treat you decently enough, I daresay.”
She made no reply, and he went out, leaving her briefly with her own thoughts again. She finished her toast and chocolate. This was not the way she had planned courtship and marriage. Not by a long chalk! She had hoped for something more in line with the romances of her favorite heroines. Of course, she had known that she might not have a chance at such a thing, that her aunt and uncle might simply have auctioned her off to the highest bidder. Who knew what sort of brute she might have ended up with? At least, Darcy had promised not to inflict any of the more intimate marital relations upon her, she reminded herself. However, since she had rather looked forward to exploring such relations with a properly adored and adoring husband, the reminder did not serve to raise her spirits much.
Fleetingly, she indulged herself in the delicious and hitherto forbidden notion that once she was married she might participate in as many affairs of the heart as she liked. Everyone did. One married for advantage but loved wherever one found a mutual interest. It was, according to most of her friends, the accepted mode. Unfortunately, the only man she could conceive of having an affair with was Sir Nicholas.