Coach and Four:
Allisandra’s Tale
A Romantic Intrigue from the Days of Charles II
Linore Rose Burkard
Lilliput Press
Short Fiction
NY. OH.
Coach and Four: Allisandra’s Tale
Copyright © 2011 by Linore Rose Burkard
ISBN-13: 978-0-9792154-1-4
Published by Lilliput Press, Cincinnati, OH
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, posted on any website, or transmitted in any form or by any means—digital, electronic, scanning, photocopy, recording or otherwise—without written permission from the author or publisher, except for brief quotations in printed reviews and articles.
Cover Design by Roseanna White
Printed in the United States of America
A well-appointed aristocratic coach rumbled to a stop in front of the stately family seat of the Duchess of Langley. The night was cheerless with no moon to speak of, stars hidden in the gloom, and the air bitingly cold.
Her Grace, a woman of a matronly age but without children, hurried to emerge from the vehicle the moment the steps were down. She stopped and turned at the door, however, and said to the young Allisandra FitzJames behind her, “No, not you, my dear.” She held out an arm and forced Allisandra to a stop, and then left the coach, shutting the door behind her.
Allisandra concluded that a game was afoot, and a small thrill went up her spine. She adored the duchess and Langley, but it wasn’t a house known for its amusements. No wonder her friend had dragged her out on such an ungodly night. She had prepared a game—or, at the least a surprise of some kind!
Through the window, the duchess added, “Stay put, sweet, I have need to call upon your trust in me as your friend.” Her face wrinkled in concern, and she looked out into the darkness as though searching for something.
Or someone.
Allisandra smiled. “Elizabeth, I prithee, what game is this?” But the duchess held up a gloved hand.
“All will be made plain, I avow, sweet child.” She resumed her preoccupied expression, looking about anxiously. To Allisandra's puzzled face, the duchess added, “'Tis for the best. For your safety! You are like my own daughter!”
“My dear Elizabeth!” Allisandra’s amusement vanished. Filled with a vague alarm, she flung herself at the door. Whatever Elizabeth was up to, she did not care for it. She wouldn’t abide it for a moment longer.
The door, however, was shut securely, and now Allisandra could see there was a footman keeping it shut from the outside. With dismay, she froze for a moment in confusion. What could be happening? Her thoughts began running together, trying to make sense of Elizabeth’s actions. But no explanation presented itself. Could it be it truly was mere sport, a game?
“Elizabeth!” She would demand an explanation; but the duchess was not in sight, and Allisandra’s fear mushroomed. She felt her breath growing short, and knew it wasn’t a result merely from the cold. She tried to shake off an ominous sense of foreboding—but suddenly nothing felt right. No danger seemed apparent or came to mind—she was, after all, the King’s Ward, and Elizabeth loved her—but what was happening? What had the duchess said? That it was for her safety? What was for her safety? She replayed the events which had led to this moment, vainly searching for clues…
Lady Allisandra and the Duchess had been getting on famously, as they always did. Allisandra had come from Whitehall to stay at Langley by order of the King, but this was an order she welcomed. She was a Woman of the Bedchamber to the Queen, second only to Lady Castlemaine, but there was little joy in the post. Court life, moreover, was filled with intrigues and suspicions, and she was weary of it. Weary of deflecting amorous advances from debauched courtiers; weary of suspicions fed by rumours, such as when some maintained she had been mistress to the king. Preposterous!
Despite her affection for the Queen, therefore, when her royal guardian had instructed that she should remove to Langley, giving no explanation or specified amount of time, she had not required either. Indeed, she was happy to visit her longtime friend, the Duchess of Langley, Elizabeth Hastings.
She assumed His Majesty had arranged the matter for her because he knew of the warm and lasting bond that existed between Allisandra and Her Grace. Orphaned too young to remember the parents who had faithfully served in Charles’s restoration, Allisandra had been raised in a French convent. At age thirteen, the King deemed it was time for her to learn the ways of the English, and had her removed to Langley. There, the duchess had taken the young woman under her wing, and the two had forged a relationship not unlike mother and daughter. At eighteen, however, Allisandra was again summoned—this time to Whitehall, and had been living there in her own apartments ever since.
Thinking on it all, knowing how Elizabeth loved her, she continued to feel perplexed, but tried to hold greater alarm at bay. The friend who was like a mother to her surely could have nothing sinister afoot.
And yet--Elizabeth had formed what seemed a flimsy excuse to induce Allisandra to go outside this cold evening, saying she longed for air—but that Allisandra must accompany her. No sooner had they left the house than the duchess decided it was a drive she needed—in the black of night!--and lo, but the duchess's luxurious coach and four were already in front, at their service.
It was clear, even then, that Elizabeth had been up to something. But there was no reason for Allisandra to think it had anything to do with her. Moreover, she loved her friend and wished to be agreeable, so she asked no questions and did as the duchess bade her. Now she was regretting it.
It appeared Elizabeth had a secret—a reason for arranging this. But why? Allisandra was frightened. Had the duchess forgotten, already, the recent shock Allisandra had suffered when the coach she'd been travelling in on her way to Langley had been set upon by highwaymen?
In the end, that event left her impressed with a man she ought to despise; but he was singular for a highwayman, the type to fill a girl's head with romantic notions. What's more, he hadn't hurt her. (To this day, three weeks later, she thought of him wistfully—against her better judgment of course. Though her encounter at his hands had not ended in any great abuse, the rake had insisted upon kissing her. All the saints could not have induced her to allow there was pleasantness to it, but there was. Oh, there was. And to him. But why was she thinking of him now? She ought not to think of him at all! She ought to find a decent courtier to dream about, a man with the King’s approval.)
In any case, the upset at being stopped by scoundrels on the road had indeed given her a deal of frights; and with that event only weeks in the past, how was she not to feel a great alarm now, alone and trapped inside the duchess's carriage? But of course this was different. It had to be. This was Elizabeth, her true friend!
The duchess reappeared, and Allisandra threw herself at the door again.
“Elizabeth! What?”—was all she got to say. Someone was holding a torch so that the duchess’s face shone in the light, and it was filled with consternation. Or was it fear? Allisandra’s heart sank. Something was happening, and it did not bode well!
But then, as she watched, Her Grace heaved a sigh of relief, and her demeanor lightened—a little. She exclaimed, speaking to someone Allisandra could not see, “Oh, thank heavens! I was despairing of you, Dorchester!”
Allisandra's brows furrowed. Her legs felt suddenly weak. Dorchester? Surely not the infamous Lord Dorchester? What business could the duchess be about concerning this indecent man? He was one of the most well-known libertines in existence, and certainly the worst in Charles’s cou
rt.
He came into view as the pair outside the carriage exchanged a few words, and Allisandra watched fearfully. She could see him only in shadow, but pounded on the door in alarm.
“Let me out, Elizabeth!” And the door did open—but following a rush of cold air, she was met, and taken hold of—by Lord Dorchester, who eyed her gravely while moving her back to her seat, and then punched the wall with force to signal them off. Allisandra jumped up and threw herself towards the door, even as the coach’s wheels began turning and they moved away from the estate.
“Do not fret!” she heard her friend cry. “His intentions are fully honourable!” But as she caught a last glimpse of Elizabeth, she could see the duchess had put both hands, clasped, up against her mouth, and there were tears in her eyes. Tears!
“What have you done, Elizabeth?” Allisandra’s words bounced back at her, as useless as they were weak. She stood against the door, watching the house recede from view.
Her mind went numb. Behind her, she heard the sound of something striking flint and knew he was lighting the interior lamp. She went into a blind panic. She tore at the handle of the door, ready to jump out of the moving vehicle if that’s what it took to free herself from the power of Lord Dorchester. But the man moved swiftly. He grasped hold of her and forced her to the cushion though she fought against him frantically.
“Elizabeth! Your Grace!” Her cry filled the air and she continued to fight against his lordship, who was holding her firmly. She managed to hit him, kick him in the shin, and altogether put up such a fight to make him exclaim, “Madam, you mistake me!”
They were both breathing hard by now but Allisandra was not ready to give up. He was forced to pin her arms to her sides, and then, with terrible timing, the coach went into a sharp turn, sending her fast up against him.
In truth, his arms kept her from falling, but she spat out, “Let me go, you villain, I hate you!” When he ignored this, she yelled anything that came into her head, hardly knowing what she spoke in her panic. She struggled to free her arms and then pummeled his chest, and then his face. He said nothing, and was firm as he subdued her hands once again, but he did not hurt her. Oddly, he seemed hardly provoked, and a sudden beam of moonlight falling through the window and upon his face told her he had stood it all with a firm look of determination.
The coach was hurtling down a road rutted with mud holes and the rocking made her yet more in need of steadying. Each time the carriage bobbed Dorchester’s grasp kept her upright. With delayed shock, and a feeling of despair, Allisandra realized she was trapped. She was a prisoner. And in the hands of Lord Dorchester, a man she had never found the least reason to approve of. In utter dismay, tears filled her eyes, and she went limp. There was nothing she could do.
Woodenly, Allisandra allowed herself to be lowered to a seat. Dorchester then claimed a spot on the cushion across from her but Allisandra did not look at him. Not for a minute, at least, and when she did—curiosity getting the best of her—she saw he was still grave and staring at her with an abashed and almost troubled look. She wondered fleetingly what he was about, but then remembered. This was Lord Dorchester! No, she had no wish to know anything of him, least of all what he wanted of her.
She glared at him, putting as much ice into her gaze as she felt capable of producing. But in return, she received a look which held no anger or sinister intimations. There was nothing but a cautious appeal in his face. He seemed to be expecting the worst, yet hoping against it. His eyes held, in fact, a sort of admiring compassion. How could this be? They had never been friends—indeed, quite the opposite.
She averted her face from his gaze, closing her eyes for a moment and tried to wish it all away. If only she merely dreamt! What would Lord Dorchester, the court's most notorious libertine, want with her? Allisandra, by contrast to his experience of life, might just as well have been a cloistered nun. The King had kept her sheltered. How could this be happening to her?
A glance at her captor confirmed that he still watched her. She did not relish it, and she took a wrap, earlier discarded in favor of trying to escape, and put it around her cloak, enclosing herself in it tightly. As though he understood her thoughts, her wish to escape his gaze, Dorchester extinguished the interior lamp, leaving the carriage in almost pitch darkness. There were outdoor lamps for the coachman, but the glow was swallowed up by the dark night, and Allisandra tried to compose her thoughts while taking refuge in the dark as if it were a palpable thing and could offer protection from him. If only!
She needed to gather her wits, to make sense of what could be afoot. Dorchester. His name alone filled her with dread.
“You realize the King will hear of this,” she said, hoping to sound ominous. From the shrouded figure sitting across from her, she heard, “I do.”
“I daresay it will be the Tower for you—or worse.”
He made no reply.
As she sat there in the silence that ensued, thinking she was achieving a calmness of sorts, a fresh wave of panic began to creep up her body, for she could think of no explanation for what was occurring; Growing stiff with fright she wondered if she was going to be like the ladies who swooned from such things. She hoped not.
“May I speak?”
His sudden words made her jump, but they were welcome. Perhaps he would explain himself. Explain the duchess’ actions, too. She must learn Elizabeth’s reasons for putting her into the power of such a shameless rake as Dorchester. Without answering him, she heard movement and suddenly he was there beside her, which gave credence to all her worst fears.
“Do not touch me!” she cried, throwing herself as near to the wall opposite as possible. She pulled her cape around her again, as tightly as she could.
After a brief silence he said, in a low tone that could only be called kind, “Do not be afraid. You needn't fear me.” When she made no answer, he added, “I shan't lay a finger upon you without your leave.”
“Then you shan't lay a finger upon me!” His words were unexpected reassurance, however, and she turned her head to get a curious glimpse of him. She could see, with the window behind him, that he was looking at her, but in the darkness it was impossible to make out his face. They had met previously at court, of course, and seen each other on occasion at Whitehall since the King had brought her out nearly a year ago.
Everyone agreed that Lord Dorchester had a beautiful countenance, with large, dark eyes, a manly nose and mouth, smooth complexion, and long, thick dark curly locks such as were fashionable at the time. In addition, he possessed a sharp wit and wrote poems that made ladies blush but kept men— including the King—well amused.
He was considered dangerous on account of those good looks for many women found him irresistible, and he took full advantage of it. Allisandra had marked what was commonly called, his 'angelic' face, only to her mind she found it indelibly stamped by the habitual cynicism and general look of debauchery that characterized him. Aside from a few reluctant glances at the fine figure he cut, she therefore had paid absolutely no attention to him other than a polite nod of greeting when it was called for. And his behaviour to her had been no different, for they each recognized in the other a great unsuitability.
It occurred to her now, in fact, that she had at least once been the brunt of one of his jokes, when he had referred to her in some verses as the “ice princess.” “Ice” because she was notoriously cold to the warmest applications for her hand (yet this was simply because she had not been approached by a suitor who met with both her and the King's approval. And she needed His Majesty's approval, being his ward.)
The “princess” was merely a reference to her protected status at court which again was on account of being a ward of the monarch's. In the poem, Dorchester had also referenced her beauty, calling it “great”--but what did that matter, when he saw fit to ridicule behaviour on her part which was merely proper?
The man was a libertine, an irreverent wit. Lady Allisandra was a devotee, virginal, and neither a coq
uette nor whore, the sort of women Lord Dorchester was usually drawn to. What could he want with her? Indeed, how could this be the selfsame man? Why would the duchess have put Allisandra into his power? A man known for his illicit liaisons! Suddenly, she had a thought.
“Are you really Lord Dorchester?” she asked.
“I am.”
“John Wilton, Lord Dorchester?”
A pause.
A sigh.
“I am.”
She stared at the shape of his head—he wore the customary large, feathered hat of the cavalier, and below it she could just imagine the dark locks hanging on either side of his “angelic” face. That face—hiding the heart of a devil! She struggled to contain her distress.
“I assure you, you are safe in my hands,” he said firmly, as if aware of the general direction of her thoughts. “I mean you no harm.” His voice was deep but light, and yet somehow grave.
“Though I have the reputation of being an innocent;” she said, “I prithee, do not think me ignorant as well.” I am acquainted with what you are famous for, she added, but only in her thoughts. Safe in his hands! Had any lady of her acquaintance ever been safe with Lord Dorchester? Hardly.
After a momentary silence, he returned, “I think of you as many things, but 'ignorant' is not one of them.” Minutes of silence passed. His last words troubled her, for why should such a man think of her at all? She was cold, and tired and hungry, and on top of all that, she could not relax for one second. Not while she was being abducted by this scoundrel! Taking her —where?
She peeked in his direction and immediately the head turned towards her.
“Yes? Don't be afraid. You may ask me anything.”
“Where are you taking me?”
He answered slowly, “Huxton Hall.”
She let out a breath of shock. Her heart sank.
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