by Sandra Heath
“You wished to see me, my lady?”
“Lady Jillian has gone. Have you any idea at all when?”
The butler looked completely dumbfounded. “Gone, my lady? But we all thought she was still in her bed.” His glance moved to the bolster.
“Go to the coach house—and quickly!”
He ran from the room again, and for the next five minutes Alabeth paced anxiously up and down, turning hopefully as he returned, but he shook his head. “No one knows anything, my lady. She didn’t take a carriage.”
“When was she last seen?”
“Her maid went to her room late last night, to close one of the windows because of the storm.” He turned, beckoning to the white-faced maid, who stepped slowly forward.
Alabeth looked at her. “At what time was this?”
“Just before midnight, my lady.”
“And you looked in the bed?”
“I saw only that she was huddled beneath the coverlets, my lady.” The girl’s lips were trembling and her eyes were huge.
Then Alabeth thought of something. “The wardrobe doors, were they open?”
“Oh, no, my lady. I’d have noticed if they were and I’d have closed them immediately.”
So, Jillian had still been in her room at about midnight, but she could have crept from the house at any time since then. Where could she have gone? And what was worse, who was she with?
The servants watched her, obviously waiting for her commands, but she didn’t know what to do, her mind was a complete blank. She couldn’t think of what the right thing was; she didn’t even know whom to turn to—except, perhaps, Octavia. “Sanderson, will you send a footman to Seaham House directly. I will write a note which must be landed to the Duchess.”
At that moment there was a loud hammering at the front door, and hope surged into Alabeth’s heart as she gathered her skirts, hurrying along the passageway and down the staircase, Jillian’s name on her lips; but as the footman opened the door, it was a white-faced, anxious Charles Allister who stepped inside.
“Charles?”
He looked up swiftly, handing his dripping top hat and cloak to the footman. “Is Jillian here, Alabeth?”
“No.”
“Then it’s true—” He seemed suddenly quite overcome.
Alabeth was thoroughly alarmed, running down the last few steps to him. “Charles? What is it? What do you know?”
“She’s run away with the Count; it’s all over Town.”
She stared at him. “Oh, no.” Jillian was ruined forever, her character destroyed beyond redemption by this one rash, thoughtless act.
“I prayed it wasn’t true,” he went on, “for I did not think she could possibly be so blind.”
“How is it all over Town?”
“The damned blackguard left a note pinned to the wall at Brooks’s, callously informing the world that Lady Jillian Carstairs was running away with him and would become his mistress. There was no honorable mention of marriage, no thought at all of her, just the plain fact that she was going with him. What chance does she have with such a base creature? No gentleman would pen such a note, no gentleman would dream of even persuading a young lady into such an act, unless he had marriage in mind.”
Alabeth could say nothing. The signs had all been there; she had seen them, but she had failed to act swiftly enough upon them. She had dithered, wanted to believe fibs; she had even allowed Jillian into the Count’s company when she knew he was treacherous! As a guardian she had been an utter disaster; she had failed her father, failed Jillian, and she had failed herself! That she, the widow of Lord Manvers, could have been so utterly unguarded was beyond belief, for Jillian had followed the path she herself had taken all those years before—only for Jillian there was to be no haven of marriage, there was to be only ignominy.
Charles went to the fireplace at the side of the vestibule, resting one arm along the mantelpiece and staring down at the tapestry screen before it. “He isn’t acting out of any love for her; he’s obviously doing this simply and solely to strike back at me.”
“At you?”
“Because I bruised his precious honor and mocked at his pride. He promised to have his revenge, and this is his way of doing it. How better to hurt me than by ruining the woman he knows I love? I wish to God I’d ignored Piers Castleton’s interventions and had gone ahead with calling that Polish rat out.”
Instinctively she went to him, slipping her hand into his. “The fault is equally mine, for I too bruised his pride when I spurned him. I even went to the length of striking his face when he became too importunate. He swore vengeance on me too. With one fell swoop he has hit back at both of us, but it is Jillian who will really suffer.” Her voice shook a little. “Oh, Charles, what can we do?”
“There’s nothing we can do, except sit tight and wait.”
“But we can’t do that.”
“We have no choice, for we don’t know where they’ve gone, do we? We will have to wait and pray that she returns safely.”
“She’s ruined forever, Charles.” Tears filled Alabeth’s eyes and she rested her head against his shoulder.
“Octavia says—”
“You’ve spoken to her?” Alabeth looked up immediately.
“Yes, she was on the point of leaving Town in some taste, as Seaham’s mother has been taken very ill. I managed to tell her what had happened and she advised us to remain silent and just wait. She says that if Jillian returns and we don’t appear to have acted with any real alarm, then we’ll probably be able to brazen it all out and pretend it was a hoax. She says it’s a slender chance; she realizes that, but she really doesn’t think we have any other option.”
Alabeth swallowed, for suddenly it seemed more hopeless than ever if Octavia was not close by to turn to. But Octavia’s advice was common sense; it was their only hope, for if they could put a face on it, then maybe Jillian would not be completely ruined after all. Maybe.
Silence descended over the vestibule, broken only by the steady ticking of the long-case clock and the sound of the storm outside. A draft of chill air sucked down the chimney, making the bowl of flowers on the table tremble a little. Where was Jillian? What was happening to her at this very moment?
Alabeth was vaguely aware of the sound of a carriage halting outside and the coachman calling reassuringly to the restless, impatient team. She turned, and through the narrow glass beside the door she saw Piers Castleton’s olive-green drag. Piers was alighting, the wind fluttering his cravat and the rain clearly visible on his light-gray coat. Just seeing him like that put a little courage into her, and she hurried to the door and out into the rain. “Piers?”
He turned toward her, smiling a little, and it was all too much for her. She ran to him, her eyes filled with tears, and he caught her close for a moment, his cheek resting against her hair. “I’ll do all I can, I promise you,” he said gently. “I came as soon as I received your note—”
Slowly she drew back. “My note? What note?”
He was startled by her reaction. “The note you sent to me about Jillian’s disappearance.”
“But I sent no note.”
“Is it a hoax?” His eyes darkened a little.
“Would to God it was!” She bit her lip, turning away a little. The rain was soaking through her flimsy muslin gown and she shivered. The wind gusted along the pavement, whining through the plane trees in the center of the square and snatching bleakly at the wisps of smoke from the chimneys high above.
He removed his coat and put it gently around her shoulders. “Well, it doesn’t matter about the note for the moment, it matters only that we find Jillian. Is there any news at all?”
“No.” Her voice caught.
“Don’t cry, please don’t cry.” He touched her cheek gently with his fingertips. “Come now, we’ll go inside, for it will hardly be useful to have you wilting with an ague when we do find her.”
She nodded tearfully, aware of his arm reassuringly around her shou
lder as he walked her back toward the door of the house. “Piers?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you for coming.”
“You should have thought of me straightaway. Indeed, I believed you had—”
His voice was so soft and tender in that moment that she could almost have confessed her love, but she remembered that he had asked Adelina to be his wife. He belonged to another now, and confessions were inappropriate. She drew away a little, and everything remained unsaid as she stepped into the vestibule where Charles was waiting anxiously.
“There is news, Piers?” he asked immediately.
“No, I’m afraid not.” Piers tossed his top hat and gloves down upon the table next to the bowl of flowers. Damp marks were left on the highly polished surface. ‘Now, then, tell me all that you know.”
Briefly they pieced together the portion of the jigsaw which they knew, and Alabeth was aware of how painfully little it was.
Piers listened in silence. “And you have no idea when she left the house?”
“Only that it was sometime after midnight.” She shivered, still holding his coat close. It smelled of costmary.
“Well, I believe it almost certain that their destination will be France,” said Piers thoughtfully, “for after this episode the Count will certainly be persona non grata in England, and his obvious course will be to return to Paris.”
She was dismayed. “Then we can do nothing—”
“No? I think that is debatable, Alabeth. In this weather there won’t be a single master who’ll put willingly to sea, not even a French master, for someone like Zaleski. I’ll warrant that every ship is still in port, waiting for calmer weather.”
Hope began to brighten her eyes. Of course, the storm!
Piers went on. “Dover is the obvious place, for he entered England that way. It’s my guess that they are there now, waiting to sail, and if I’m right, then we have an excellent chance of reaching them before they have a chance to leave for France. With your permission, Alabeth, I will go to Dover immediately.”
Charles spoke up swiftly. “And I go with you, Piers.”
“Naturally, I would not dream of excluding you. Alabeth, we will do all we can—”
“You do not imagine I am going to remain here on my own,” she cried.
“Such a journey as this will hardly be a pleasure trip.”
“I don’t care, I am accompanying you. I refuse to remain behind.”
He smiled a little at the indignant flash in her green eyes. “Very well, but one thing I do insist upon.”
“And that is?”
“That you wear something a little more serviceable that muslin.” He glanced down at the way her rain-dampened skirts clung to her legs.
She nodded, handing him back his coat and then hurrying away up the stairs, calling for her maid.
Piers turned then to Charles. “You do realize, don’t you, that this may not turn out well, for even if we find them in Dover, Jillian may not wish to return with us.”
“I know that.” Charles lowered his eyes for a moment. “I love her, Piers, and I’m damned if I’m going to let her go with him. I’ll never let her become anyone’s mistress, least of all a man like Zaleski.”
“I perceive that the Allister lamb is become something of a lion.”
“And better late than never.”
“Perhaps you are right.” Piers looked up the staircase where Alabeth had been a moment before. “Yes, perhaps you are right.”
Chapter 26
The carriage traversed the well-paved streets of London swiftly enough, but the Dover road itself was quite another matter, being almost impassable in places because of the continuous downpour. Normally the journey to Dover could be accomplished in five hours, but today it would take a great deal longer.
From a hilltop south of the Thames, Alabeth looked back at the sprawl of the capital, the greatest city in the world, but half-hidden now beneath a pall of cloud and mist. Ahead lay Blackheath and the open road, once the route of pilgrims on their way to the shrine at Canterbury, but now frequently the haunt of highwaymen, especially on days such as this, when only a few dared to travel, for there were long periods when the road was quiet enough for them to do their evil work at leisure.
Piers continually scanned the countryside, and when he shifted his position once, Alabeth saw that he carried a pistol in readiness. A swift fear rose in her at this fresh danger, but it was a danger which must be faced if they were to reach Dover in time. She looked out at the horizon, afraid all the time that she would see a break in the clouds, heralding the end of the storm, but the clouds were continuous, the rain lashing against the glass. The grays hung their heads low as they battled against a wind which was more like a winter gale than a summer storm. The magnificent lacquerwork of the carriage was mud-stained, its color barely distinguishable now, and the horses were foam flecked, their flanks steaming in the cold rush of wet air.
She huddled in a light-brown curricle cloak, beneath which she wore an apple-green woolen gown. Apple-green was perhaps not practical, but then what lady of fashion possessed practical togs? Her bonnet lay discarded on the seat beside her, its pretty ribbons shaking to the motion of the carriage.
Ahead the road was a quagmire suddenly, a dip in the countryside catching the rain so that it lay in dangerously deceptive puddles which concealed the depth of the ruts beneath. The coachman urged the carriage slowly forward, the team planting their steps with care through the mire. The carriage lurched alarmingly and immediately Piers reached out to steady Alabeth, his fingers warm and firm around hers until the danger was past and the carriage was moving more easily again.
She wanted to cling to him, but knew that she must not. He glanced at her and saw the emotion in her eyes. He misinterpreted it. “We will reach her in time,” he said gently and with more conviction than he actually possessed.
“I pray you are right,” she whispered, looking out the window again. She could hear the Count’s voice and see his face, made ugly by the twist of fury on his lips. “I swear that I will make you regret having played games. Before I have finished, you will wish with all your heart that you had accepted me.”
After several hours, the weary team drew the carriage up to a posting inn, Piers knowing that their progress would be even slower unless the horses were either changed or at least rested. To her relief, there were fresh horses immediately available, and after taking some mulled wine, they were soon on their way again, the new team setting off at a handsome pace through the rain.
At last they were in sight of Dover, and the break in the clouds which she had been dreading was now visible on the distant horizon, spreading minute by minute until the sun was streaming through, turning the patch of sea beneath to deep turquoise blue amid the gray. She watched it, her heart sinking, for already it was obvious that the storm was abating; the wind was less fierce and there were no longer rivulets of water streaming down the glass. How long would it be before the first ship set out for France?
Charles was dismayed too, sitting forward anxiously to lower the glass and urge the tired coachman to make more haste. The carriage began the descent into the old town, which nestled between steep chalk cliffs, on the northern one of which stood the proud old castle, facing resolutely out toward the coast of France, the hereditary enemy. The town crowded a sheltered gorge, the harbor and quay protected by the cliffs from the worst of the weather. A forest of masts and rigging swayed on the smooth water beyond the rooftops, and Alabeth looked at them as the carriage proceeded down the hill. Now that she was here, she knew instinctively that Piers had been right—Jillian was here somewhere!
Suddenly the wheels were rattling on firm cobbles again and the carriage moved much more easily. There were people hurrying along the pavements, and as Charles had left the glass lowered, they could hear all those sounds of a town which has just begun to emerge after a lengthy storm. Sparrows cheeped on the roofs and some dogs barked, a mother was scolding an excited
child for jumping in an inviting puddle, and street vendors were calling their wares. High above, the patch of blue seemed to fill the sky now, and she could smell the perfume of mignonette from the pots in an open window as they passed.
For her those final minutes seemed like a lifetime. All she could think of was finding Jillian, and she prayed that she would be safe and well. So, when the carriage jerked to a sudden standstill because an ox cart blocked the way, she could have wept with frustration. But had it not been for that cart, she might never have glanced up at the window of the small inn outside which they had halted, and she might never have caught that brief, brief glimpse of Jillian’s pale, tearstained face peeping out.
Alabeth’s heart almost stopped with shock, for the glimpse had been so fleeting that she thought she must have imagined it, but then the poor little face looked unhappily out once more and she knew beyond a doubt that it was Jillian!
“She’s there, Piers,” she cried, pointing up. “I saw her!”
He leaned forward immediately, following the angle of her finger, but there was nothing in the window now. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” she said, “yes, I’m sure.” He ordered the coachman to maneuver the carriage into the inn yard, and the hooves and wheels echoed beneath the low archway for a moment. The yard was ivy-clad and there was a gallery. A maid scuttled out, a bale of sheets clasped in her arms. She saw the carriage and hurried back inside again, calling to the innkeeper to hurry as there were gentry waiting to be greeted. In a moment the innkeeper appeared, hastily tying on a fresh apron and beaming all over his round face as he gestured to a tardy ostler to open the carriage doors.
Alabeth made to scramble swiftly down, but Piers restrained her. “You must remain here for the moment.”
“But—”
“No, Alabeth, you stay here. Charles and I will find her.”
“Please, Piers.”