Coach and Four: Allisandra's Tale

by Linore Rose Burkard

  “You'll be at Langley shortly.”

  “I am obliged,” she responded, much relieved.

  “My lady,” with another gallant bow. And he was off.

  ###

  The sound of the footsteps chasing her were getting louder, and Allisandra realized she was not going to make an escape. Her strength was gone, and her limbs were weak—in fact, something was happening to her. She felt sick to her stomach and she couldn't breathe! She stopped running. She had to. She felt as if she might die on the spot.

  If only it had been the highwayman again, she might not have been so frightened—and then realized what she had just thought. Wondrous strange, a world in which she could prefer the outlaw to the jaded aristocrat. With a dull ache around her heart she knew it was true, though; she would have delighted to see that man again, as much as she now dreaded being in the power of the other.

  Her breath indeed was coming fast—and very ragged. Her eyes filled with fear, and it was a fear that, for the moment, had nothing to do with the man who now caught up with her, stopping his pace in order not to knock into her.

  The moon had appeared, and she saw his face as he came and took her right up into his arms. He wore a resolute expression but nothing showing any anger, which was puzzling, but a relief. Her breathing continued ragged, however, and his demeanor swiftly turned to a look of concern. He moved them on hurriedly, though he, too, was winded from the chase.

  “You need only to rest, and you shall recover,” he said, in a firm voice. To Allisandra's surprise, the words comforted her. He had a deep, strong voice, which was actually quite nice. She thought she might be dying, however, and gasped, between labored breaths, “I fear not!”

  “You shall,” he insisted, in the same low but strong tone. “This is merely the result of hysterics brought on by your untoward exertion, and the cold, and your distress—on my account, no doubt.”

  “Hysterics!” She was gasping for air, but had to respond to such an insult. “I do not indulge in them, sir!”

  He eyed her sagaciously. “You do, now. Try to calm yourself.”

  She discovered that she was indeed stiff with dread and made an attempt to do as he said, allowing her head to fall back against his arm. She was utterly spent from that mad chase. And it was madness. For her to think she could outrun a man in apparently good form. There had been rumours that Dorchester's health was deteriorating as a result of his debauched lifestyle. She now questioned their veracity, seeing as he had chased her down and then scooped her up and was still moving quickly with her in his arms.

  When they reached the coach, he took the steps without putting her down. Allisandra was alarmingly breathless, but she had the presence of mind to move off of him when he sat down. In return he took gentle hold of her shoulders and told her to lay down, her head upon him. “You must calm yourself,” he said, encouragingly.

  She was so ill that she ignored the impropriety of having her head upon him. She tried to ignore everything that was happening, to imagine it all away. Even if just for a moment, knowing she must focus on regaining her breath. Her strength. Her wits. And slowly, she did. Little by little, her breaths came in more measured intervals, and were deeper.

  The lamp had been lit, and she looked curiously at the aristocratic face above her. Oh, yes—it was Dorchester all right. She remembered the smooth skin, dark, long locks, a fine nose and mouth, well-shaven jaw and piercing dark eyes. Dark eyes that met hers. Returning her gaze. Allisandra coloured and sat up. She resumed her place against the cold side of the coach, wrapping her arms around herself, and huddling.

  “My lady,” he said, lightly. She stiffened involuntarily but turned her head towards him —just enough to show she had heard, but no more.

  He reached into a hidden pocket of his waistcoat. Allisandra's curiosity was piqued, and so she watched. He found the desired item and pulled it forth—a small flask. He undid the cap and passed it immediately in her direction. She was thirsty, but eyed it warily.

  “This will do much to improve your constitution,” he said encouragingly, holding it out for her to take. Reluctantly she did so, and sniffed at its open mouth cautiously. She quickly thrust back the flask, crying, “Spirits! No, I thank you!”

  He shifted in his seat but would not take it back. “You are not well, my lady. What's more, you are cold, and possibly hungry, and tired—a few sips of this, and you will feel greatly restored, I give you my word.”

  “Your word!” she shot out, not to his surprise, only.

  In a somber tone, he repeated, “I give you—my—word.”

  “You evidently know little of me,” Allisandra began. She was going to inform him of her scruples against spirits, but he shot back, “I know all about you! I am not proposing that you take up brandy as a past-time; I am suggesting that a small, harmless amount of the stuff will do you some good, and, what's more, you need it. Do not think I am unaware of the degree of your discomfort. Unfortunately, it could not be avoided, for I had precious little time to rescue you.”

  “Rescue me! Rescue me?” Allisandra was speechless for a moment. “What can you mean, sir?” He had her full attention.

  But he merely looked meaningfully at the flask. “Take a drink, and we'll talk later.”

  Allisandra, who had drunk nothing but the weakest wine all her life (requiring special permission of the King, in fact, for everyone else at his table drank whatever he offered them) looked doubtfully at the container, wrinkled her nose at the smell, and forced down a swallow. She immediately coughed, looking accusingly at her companion, and hurriedly handed back the vile libation.

  He murmured, “Very good,” and then took a deep gulp, letting the fluid run smoothly down his throat, as one accustomed to it. But he stopped at that, re-capped the flask, and put it into the pocket of his frock-coat.

  For a few seconds Allisandra heartily regretted her sip, when suddenly she felt a strange but nice sort of sensation. It was warmth that was spreading throughout her limbs, seeming to come from her stomach or throat area. To her astonishment, his lordship had been right—she could feel the effect of this drink, and it was not a disagreeable thing. She felt warmer and more relaxed. The feeling spread to her face, which was now rosy. She stretched her neck and shifted a bit on her seat, relaxing into the upholstery. Dorchester noticed and suddenly the flask was there, in front of her again, and he said, “Go on, once more. You'll feel better, yet,” in his low but hearty tone.

  She hesitated, but decided that just one more small sip could not do her harm; did not even the king's physician prescribe brandy now and then as a medicinal recourse? So she accepted the drink, and thanked him quietly. He, too, repeated the action and then put the flask away into his pocket.

  Allisandra leaned her head back. Though there was nothing comfortable about the seventeenth-century coach, not even a duchess's, for all the velvet in the world could not disguise a rough road or the effects of travelling upon it. But she must have been tired, for she felt suddenly comfortable enough to sleep/. Sleep?/ What was she thinking? For here she was, being abducted! By the rake-hell John Wilton! The king would know of this, she would see to that! Yet, the man was keeping his distance....and she felt so very sleepy....And that was the last thing she remembered.....

  M'lord, 'at was 'is Majesty's coach just run by us!”

  The carriage had stopped, and Allisandra came awake with a jolt. Her head was resting against Lord Dorchester's shoulder, and he had one arm wrapped around her to support her. As soon as she grew aware of it, she removed the offending arm from about her, and moved herself over on the cushion with haste.

  Dorchester was frowning at the liveried servant speaking to him from the open door. He had heard the other coach pass, guessing whose it might be. Now he knew for sure. He knew, too, where the king was going, marveled that they had not met sooner, and would feel better when more distance was between them. There would be others in the king's retinue with whom they had yet to meet, but they should not pro
ve to be problematic.

  He gave orders not to stop again unless he directed them to, and the coach resumed its barreling pace forward. They would have to make haste.

  Allisandra's brain was fully awake, now. Could it really have been the King passing? Perhaps she might have hope of a rescue. Lord Dorchester had spoken of rescuing her, but that was absurd. She needed rescuing from him. As the King's ward, she was entitled to royal protection. There had to be a way she could make her presence known when the royal entourage passed by following His Majesty. She sat, trying to think what to do.

  Dorchester was sitting back in thought as well.

  “The King's coach 's stopped, melord!” The shout came from one of the postilions on the back of the carriage, and Dorchester frowned. His pulse quickened a little in excitement, though, as the thought of a possible encounter almost appealed to him. It was only on Allisandra's account that he wished to go unnoticed.

  Allisandra’s pulse also had quickened—with hope. “Hadn't you ought to speak to the king?” she asked.

  He didn't look at her. And made no answer.

  “They have seen us; He'll know you are ignoring him!”

  At this he turned to say, “It is the duchess who appears to be ignoring him, as this is her equipage.” She had forgotten that, and her heart sank.

  They both heard the sound of more vehicles approaching—the king's retinue! Dorchester quickly put out the lamp, and listened... When the noise grew sufficiently loud to be almost upon them, Allisandra, in a flash of inspiration, pulled off an expensive shoe from one foot and thrust it forcefully against the opposite wall of the coach. To her great satisfaction, the vehicle began slowing down. She stole a glance at the earl who gave her a mild look of reproach, but then he pounded thrice against the same wall, very deliberately, for he had his own coachman who knew his code, and they picked up speed once more.

  There would be no stopping; there was no way to let anyone know she was there.

  The road grew silent after the three coaches carrying courtiers and ministers and servants passed by and they were alone again. Allisandra's attempt to solicit help had failed, and she settled against the wall, away from the earl, with a heavy heart.

  ###

  When the King's stately carriage had first passed the duchess's, one of the ministers of state had been peering out the window. He recognized the Langley crest on the vehicle's door.

  “Your Majesty! The Duchess's carriage!”

  Silence fell within the royal equipage.

  And then the king spoke lazily. It took a lot to raise his excitement—perhaps even his interest.

  “Not likely.”

  “Upon my honour, Sire! It was the Langley crest!”

  Another voice spoke: “I saw a glimpse of the livery on a servant. It was not the duchess's colours. She is silver, is she not?”

  Suddenly opinions were flying from all around His Majesty on whether it was indeed the duchess's coach, or the colours of her livery, and on what she could be about going forth in her carriage when she ought to have been expecting to entertain the King. The monarch grew weary betimes and held up an arm.

  “Silence!” When his word had been obeyed he said, “Stop the coach and let us think on it a moment.”

  The carriage soon ground to a halt. This was when, leagues behind them on the straight road one of the earl's servants—wearing secondhand colours so as to maintain secrecy for his master, Dorchester—could see that the royal coach had stopped and alerted his employer.

  Back in the King's carriage, the atmosphere was still one of puzzlement, but not alarm. “Why would Her Grace leave Langley, just when His Majesty is expected?” one asked. Another said, “That coach was moving betimes! In a hurry, I'd say.”

  “And, knowing of the royal visit, why did she not stop when she encountered this vehicle?”

  “Where could she be going?”

  Suddenly the monarch spoke, and his words, of course, were law. “Her Grace is expecting us. Whatever the cause of her coach being on the road, I am certain it cannot concern us. Let us move on. I'm ready for my supper! And I will see the lady Allisandra, for I've momentous tidings for her.”

  The royal equipage resumed its journey.

  “How much farther is it?” asked the king.

  “We should be arriving within thirty minutes o’the clock, Your Majesty.”

  “Good.”

  ###

  Back in the duchess's coach, there was silence while Allisandra marveled secretly at Lord Dorchester's patience. She was doing everything in her power to make herself difficult to convey, and he was taking it with amazing affability. If she hadn't long known how evil his past was, she could almost find the man agreeable. It was irritating.

  “Would it help,” he said, suddenly, “if you understood that it is your 'guardian' I am rescuing you from?”

  “His Majesty?” she asked, incredulous. She was fully confident of his being in error. There were many things he could have said that she might have believed, but this was not one of them. “He protects me!”

  “His Majesty,” he repeated, “has finally found a suitor for you that meets with his approval. He is anxious to have it done before you reach your majority, so the Comte, therefore, came along quite conveniently.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “The King, to his credit, almost let you decide for yourself on your marriage; he was loathe to take advantage of you for his own benefit, which, in itself, is remarkable in him; but the Comte de Puillon, that sickly old rattle-bag slowly dying of consumption, made him an offer he dared not refuse.” He was eyeing her compassionately and he spoke gently, but no amount of gentleness could disguise the horror of what he was suggesting.

  Her eyes narrowed. He continued, “It turns out that our emaciated friend happens to own a great deal of land which produces a vast income. What's more, he has long desired to settle in England. He offered the King 100% of the proceeds of the sale of his land in France—land which the Queen of France has long had her eyes on and will no doubt pay double its value to possess—in return for an estate on English soil—and you.” He fell silent, watching for her reaction.

  Allisandra digested the information, searching her mind for clues, for anything she might have seen or heard in the past to either refute or lend credence to the story. But nothing came to mind. She knew that the Comte had been given the ear of the King on many occasions of late, and that an introduction to her had been requested; but then, many people, new at court, requested the same. And the King had many times avowed to protect her! She did not think he would give her up for mercenary reasons.

  “I cannot credit this!” she pronounced, finally. “The King is my friend—and guardian. He cares for me.”

  “And so he does. He also lusts for you.”

  “You—you blackheart! How dare you!” She would have struck at him she was so blinded by momentary outrage, but he strongly grasped—and held—her raised arm.

  “I dare to state the facts, which no one else had the stomach to tell you since no one else thought anything could be done. Except me.”

  When she still showed no sign of crediting his assertions he added, “His Majesty is happy to give you to an old cavalier who cannot have much time left him. Once you are a widow he will bring you back to Whitehall and make you his mistress.” When she would have objected, he added, “Even the most virtuous lady, before marriage, may sometimes be brought 'round afterwards, particularly when her husband is no longer alive, and she has the king as her admirer.”

  “I will never be his mistress, king or no!” She glared at him as though it were his fault. She hated him for telling her this. She did not want to believe that Charles would treat her in such a fashion—or that he would scheme to one day make her his mistress.

  “How could you know of such things, and I not have heard? There are no secrets at court and I have many friends!”

  “This arrangement was made recently; and secrecy was the
reason you were sent off to the duchess's keeping. Your friends were helpless in any case, but once you were removed to Langley, even if they might have dared warn you, they could not. As I am not known to be your friend, Charles saw no conflict of interest in telling me what was afoot.”

  “He wished to take no chances, and it was only on account of my haste that I managed to reach you before he did. The Comte was no doubt in one of the vehicles which passed us earlier, as well as a priest. The King would have had you married in Langley's chapel.”

  “And Elizabeth...she knew?” she asked, disconsolately.

  “Only as of last night, when I managed to get a messenger to her. Why else, I ask you, would she willingly conspire with me, to hand you over?”

  This struck such a chord of truth inside Allisandra's heart that suddenly she knew he was telling the truth.

  “The Duchess knows nothing of my reforming”—Allisandra’s head shot around to face him. Reforming! She had not heard of it, either. Such was the case when one was away from court; none of the news or gossip could be learned. But he was continuing his tale, and so she listened, very interested despite all of the distaste she felt for the whole affair.

  “Her Grace,” he was saying, “required only one promise from me, easily given, which persuaded her of the wisdom of trusting you to my power, rather than allowing you to fall to the Comte's. You see, then, how much your 'guardian' has protected you.” His voice was edgy and utterly commanding. Compelling. /Hateful./ A bolt of anger shot through her. How dare such a profligate attack the name of the King! His Majesty was kind and soft-hearted! Surely he would have allowed her to refuse the plan.