The Other Miss Derwent

by Patricia M. Ashley

  “Lady Dunford? I do not think I have heard you mention. .....”

  “Yes you have,” she interrupted impatiently. “My mother’s sister. She sends me the Ladies’ Diary, and a guinea upon my birthday — she is my Godmama too, you know.”

  “But have you ever met her? She may not wish to receive you!”

  “She came here once when I was eleven or twelve. I do not remember her very clearly, except that she was very plump and good-natured. She did not come again – I think she argued with Papa about the way he was bringing me up — but she still writes to me, and has often said in her letters how much she wishes that she could see me again!”

  He reflected that it was an easy enough thing to say when there was no chance of its happening, and she had not offered to have Anastasia stay with her.

  “Where does she reside?”

  “In London. She is a widow, and has one daughter of about the same age as me, perhaps a little older.”

  “You surely do not intend to just turn up on her doorstep one day demanding admittance, and hope that she will take you in? She is just as likely – more so!—to send you straight back here!”

  “That is a risk I will have to take. I have made up my mind not to be here when Sir Montagu arrives, and that is that!”

  “It will make him look very foolish if it becomes known that you ran away from home rather than receive his proposal!” he objected.

  “Good! Perhaps it will give him a disgust of me!”

  “But Anastasia! Don’t you think it would be better to stay here and face it out? If you are firm in your refusal, and careful always to be in the company of your sister-in-law or niece, you can have nothing to fear! He must give up in the end and leave, and then the fuss will soon die down.”

  “No! James and Maria would go on and on at me for ever, and I am not going to see Sir Montagu even to say No! And if I did refuse him, I would never have a London come-out, or go anywhere where anything ever happens’. And I want to!”

  In a moment of disquieting self-revelation Robin discovered that he would much rather have her stay here than go to London, where, due to her prettiness and lively ways, she would very soon have admirers of far more consequence and address than himself.

  It went to his heart to put a dampener on her scheme, but he steeled himself with the reflection that when she eventually gave in and agreed to marry him, she could go to London as often as she pleased in his company.

  “I think that you ought to reconsider the situation after a good night’s sleep,” he said firmly. “Your nerves are naturally overset, but things will not seem so desperate tomorrow! And once you have shown yourself steadfast in refusing the offer, they will all go off to London and things will be just as they were before.”

  “Just as they were before. ...” she murmured, with a sinking of the heart. Before she had set eyes on a tall, dark young man who had seemed to open a door upon the constricted circle of her life to show her a glimpse of the world outside. No, things could never be the same again!

  She turned to him decisively: “There is no use in trying to persuade me to change my mind. I am decided — and I will go tonight.”

  “Tonight! How can you? How will you get there?”

  “I will ride to Norman’s Cross, where they do not know my face, and catch the stage there. I should be in London by tomorrow evening.”

  “Travel on the common stage, and alone! You cannot! Besides,” he added shrewdly, “It would cost a deal more money than you have, I daresay!”

  “Oh, I have a little. . . .but I thought that you would lend me some too, just in case I have not quite enough.”

  “Not to go junketing off on the common stage, I wouldn’t! Not to mention your riding off to Norman’s Cross alone in the middle of the night — it is not to be thought of. I do not know what people would say to me if I helped you to do any such thing!”

  “They would not know, if you did not tell them. Oh Robin, will you not help me? Please?”

  But to her surprise he remained impervious to all her cajolings.

  “No,” he said finally, “Things will seem vastly different in the morning, I promise you! I tell you what,” he added nobly, “Why do you not write to your Aunt, asking her if she would have you to stay with her for a week or two? I daresay she would.”

  She made an exasperated noise. “I cannot wait that long! Besides, what is a week or two in a lifetime? But I can see there is no moving you, so I am going in. I had not thought that you would be so unfeeling!”

  “You will not do anything foolish, will you?” he called after her anxiously. He knew her stubbornness when she had made her mind up to something.

  “No. No, I will not do anything foolish. Goodnight, Robin!”

  With that reply he had perforce to be satisfied, bur reflecting that, without sufficient money, she had not the power to go anywhere, he was reassured.

  He made his way back to his horse, feeling, in some indefinable way, rather a traitor.

  Chapter Six

  Anastasia’s spirits were only momentarily dampened by the defection of her friend, and she immediately began to consider how she was to get to London without his help.

  She knew that a stagecoach stopped at Norman’s Cross, some twelve miles away, at four the next morning on its journey to London; it would be an easy ride to meet it, but. . .would she have sufficient money to buy a place upon it?

  Slipping silently back to her room she lit her candle at the embers of her fire, careful to make no noise, for Louisa slept in the adjoining room as was evident from her gentle snores.

  It was now not far past midnight: she had plenty of time.

  She looked into her stocking-purse, a woefully thin one, at the remains of the last guinea her Aunt had sent her. If only she had not been tempted to buy that green ribbon from the tallyman last time he had called! She wondered doubtfully if the remaining coins would be sufficient to pay for her ticket to London. There was the coachman too, who, she rather thought, would expect a tip, and the guard.... or no, perhaps it was just the Mails that carried guards?

  But excitement had banished all fear, and she was not to be stopped by such minor matters as these.

  “After all,” she murmured, “We are not so very far from London here – a day’s journey – it might just be enough. And — why, if it is not, I will travel by it as far as I can, and walk the rest of the way!”

  This struck her as a very good solution, though some doubts as to the impropriety and dangers of a young lady’s journeying to London alone entered her head.

  She bit the tip of her finger thoughtfully. Maria had hinted at the awful things that happened to young ladies who behaved with impropriety, all the more terrible for being but vaguely delineated.

  Then she was taken with a brilliant notion. Shielding her candle so that only a dim reddish glow escaped her fingers, she silently slipped from her room into the passage; and from thence into the chamber occupied, when he was not called away by the exigencies of education, by Master Endymion Derwent.

  Some twenty minutes later she stood again before the glass in her room attired very creditably as a youth.

  Her nephew was a well-grown youth of some fourteen summers, and in his coat and breeches she looked very little older.

  She had abandoned, after the first attempt, any idea of trying to tie a neckcloth in even the simplest of fashions, and instead had knotted a blue belcher handkerchief around her neck.

  She had despaired of ever finding any footwear to fit her, Endymion’s feet having outgrown the rest of him, but by dint of much searching had finally discovered an outgrown pair of boots in one of the cupboards which would, once she had padded out the toes a little, not be too uncomfortable.

  Regarding her reflection from various angles with critical approval, she caught sight of her hair, cascading in very unmanly curls down the back of her coat. She tried the expedient of tying it up and tucking it into a round, floppy-brimmed hat she had chosen as being
the most concealing, but the result was unsatisfactory. It would hardly stand the light of day without some risk of her masquerade being detected.

  Going to her workbox she drew out her scissors. For a long moment she stared at her reflection, framed in curls that were more russet than red, and which seemed to gleam in the candlelight with a life of their own.

  Then she took a deep breath and resolutely began to snip away the bright locks, throwing them to the back of the fire.

  When she had finished she examined the result with startled approval. The burnished curls clustered closely about her head, which felt curiously light, and made of her a very pretty youth indeed.

  She thought that she would pass perfectly well, so long as she remembered to stride out in a masculine fashion, and to speak as deeply as she could.

  Swiftly, one eye on the little ormolu clock ticking away the minutes, she packed a small valise with a few necessities, which she thought would be all that she could manage on horseback.

  She shrugged into an enveloping great coat and jammed the hat firmly on her head, before turning to survey the room.

  The locks of hair in the grate were barely smouldering, and she set the candle to them before finally blowing it out and leaving.

  The stables were separated from the house by a small courtyard. Putting down her valise she tiptoed into the harness room and removed a saddle and bridle; and then, as an afterthought, looked around for something with which to tie on her valise. She found a strap which might do the trick, and added it to her armful.

  Creeping across the yard she entered the box of the oldest and quietest hack in the stables. Jupiter might not be the horse she would have preferred to ride for ten or so miles through the night, but he was the one liable to make least fuss and noise upon being taken from his warm stable at dead of night, and then having strange pieces of luggage attached to him.

  In this she proved correct. Jupiter certainly eyed her with astonishment, but consented to be bridled. When he was ready she took a great armful of his straw and spread it on the cobbles to muffle the sound of his hooves. Then, collecting her valise, she led him out and across the yard to where a pathway wound through the bushes.

  Every small sound he made seemed loud in the night’s stillness, and she looked fearfully back to see if anyone had been disturbed. Nothing stirred, and they were soon out of ear-shot.

  Once safely away she stopped to fix the valise to the saddle, a task more awkward than she had expected. Jupiter regarded her over his shoulder with interest and blew down the back of her neck. She managed to achieve it eventually, and swung herself into the saddle.

  She had frequently ridden astride as a child, but James and Maria had vetoed such activities, so that it took her some little while to become used to it again.

  It was a still, clear night, and since she knew the first part of the way fairly well she found herself enjoying her ride through the sleeping countryside.

  But as she drew further away from her home she missed the way once or twice, and was forced to take to the road instead.

  She began to worry about the time, and then had the most disquieting thought that the coach might be too full to take her up. What then could she do? She did not think dear old Jupiter capable of the journey to London!

  Besides, there was a much greater risk of her being seen and recognised on the road, or found by her family in search of her, or even – most horrible of all prospects – of coming face to face with Sir Montagu on his way to visit them!

  On this despairing note she rode into the village of Norman’s Cross and saw the lights of the inn ahead.

  She was not a moment too soon, for as she dismounted in the yard she heard the rumbling of heavy wheels approaching, and in another minute the Stage itself came into view.

  The inn yard had been almost deserted on her arrival, but now the scene became transformed into a bustle of noise and activity. The inn door flew open and people hurried out; the ostlers began to fig out a fresh team, and parcels of all sizes and shapes were piled up for loading.

  The coach drew up with a clatter, and she eyed the interior with dismay for it seemed to hold a full complement of bleary-eyed and bad-tempered passengers.

  The driver, a fat, red-faced, important looking personage swathed in a many-caped coat, swung down from his high seat, and she nervously accosted him with a request to know if he could take her up.

  He scratched his ear thoughtfully and considered her, seeing a delicate-seeming young man — a gentleman if he was any judge – and as such good, perhaps, for a half-guinea tip at the end of the journey. He said regretfully: “There’s no inside seats left. Booked up afore we left, they were.”

  Her face fell with disappointment.

  “But there’s room enough outside, if so be you don’t mind the weather. Mortal cold it be up there tonight for April.”

  She grasped the offer eagerly. Why had she not thought of that? Cheaper, too! Tentatively she enquired the fare to London, only to learn that it was beyond her slender purse.

  She swallowed her pride, told him how much she had, and asked how far he could take her for such a sum.

  His manner became brusque. He had been taken in by the young man, and there would be no rich pickings for him at journey’s end! Bad-temperedly he named a spot some miles from her objective, and hardly waited for her acceptance of it before brushing past her into the inn, calling out to one Jem to bring him: “A tankard of hot flannel – and be quick about it!”

  The coach passengers had vacated their places, some to stretch their legs about the yard, and others to rush into the inn upon the chance of a few sips of scalding coffee before the journey resumed.

  Still holding the patient Jupiter she looked about her, and spotted a likely-looking lad going back to the stables. She called and beckoned. He looked at her uncertainly and came across.

  It took her several minutes of eloquent persuasion to convince him that, if Jupiter were to be taken to Derwent Place later that day, suitable reward would be forthcoming for his trouble.

  He eyed her suspiciously. She did not rate his intelligence as being of any high order, but it could not fail to strike him as strange that she had not the money to pay him to return the horse, when she claimed that she had borrowed the horse from Sir James Derwent.

  However, in the end he agreed, the deal being clinched by the timely bestowal upon him of Endymion’s stock pin of silver, and she removed her valise and patted Jupiter goodbye.

  She hoped that he would get back safely, but that was the best she could do for him. She thought that the youth would be too nervous of its being Sir James’s horse after all, not to take it back that day as they had agreed.

  She was not a moment too soon in removing the valise and seeing it stowed in the coach, for the driver just then came striding out of the inn followed by a gaggle of passengers, who scurried across the yard with loud complaints of coffee too hot to drink.

  Without a glance at her or his other passengers, he swung himself up into the seat and prepared to drive off.

  Everyone piled hastily in, and the only other outside passenger, a grey-haired, kindly looking man, leaned down to help her up.

  Before she was properly in her seat the coach was off with a belated cry of: “’Ware heads!” And she narrowly missed striking her head on the arched gateway as they turned out into the road.

  “No consideration!” said the grey-haired man fretfully, drawing a thick travelling rug about himself. “No consideration at all!”

  Anastasia was too fully occupied in trying to hold on against the unaccustomed swaying to reply.

  Chapter Seven

  Sir Montagu pulled on his tight-fitting coat of corbeau coloured cloth, not without some difficulty, and smoothed down the set of the sleeves with a well-tended white hand on which an emerald glowed.

  The girl on the bed sat huddled into her wrap, watching him with large, anxious blue eyes.

  He turned from adjusting his cravat in t
he spotted glass over the mantelshelf and an unpleasant smile marred his handsome face.

  “Well, my dear Kitty, I am afraid we are come to the parting of our ways.”

  Her little pointed face grew pinched and pale. “Parting of our ways? I d-don’t understand you... ..” she faltered.

  “Oh come, my dear! The time for all that hurt innocence is surely long gone! You must have realised that our meetings, pleasant though they have been, could not go on for ever?”

  “Not go on for ever? But. . .but – you said you would marry me! You promised’.”

  “Marry you’? Sir Montagu Morley to marry the likes of you!” He gave a sneering laugh. “You must be all about in your head!”

  She crimsoned, and then grew pale again. “Monty! – this cannot be you speaking to me so, after all we have been to each other! You knew I was a farmer’s daughter when you persuaded me to leave my home, but — you said you loved me, and would marry me once we were safely away to London. But now – oh! I have been so afraid that you were changing towards me, and only see how right I was!”

  “Oh, let us have an end to this tragedy! You cannot surely have believed that I meant it. Why should I marry you, when it was clear enough that I could enjoy your favours for nothing?”

  She fixed her large blue eyes on his face in mute entreaty. She had been a pretty enough girl when he had first brought her to Town: plump, and with a fresh complexion and golden hair. But worry, guilt, and the slowly growing realisation that she had been deceived by the man whom she had loved and trusted, had turned her thin, anxious, and pale.

  “Look at you!” he said scathingly. “Growing pale and scrawny already. That’s no way to hold a man’s interest, I can tell you!”

  “But then. . . . .did you never love me?” she asked in a breaking voice. “Did you ruin me merely for sport?” Large tears quivered on her lashes.

  “Sport! – aye, we sported well enough, didn’t we?” He had his back to her as he placed his black beaver hat at a rakish angle upon his carefully arranged locks. “But now I’ve inherited a snug little property, and mean to marry, so we must part.”