by Mira Stables
But after Barnet Mr. Winfield suffered a check. No one in Potters Bar had noticed the tan-coloured chaise, yet surely Sandiford, not the sort of man to outface his cattle, could not intend to push on as far as Hatfield? Those bays must already be hanging on his hands. If he had taken to the side roads he might be planning to rack up somewhere for the night; and it could be anywhere, though it was likely to be a small place, and quiet. If, as Dermot surmised, he was hoping to force Katherine into marriage, he would not want any actual scandal, though he would hold the threat of it over the girl’s head. He decided that his best chance was to cast back and investigate any promising side roads and small hostelries. It was an infuriating task, and he was beginning to think it a hopeless one when sheer chance led him to the Grey Goose Feathers. He had given it one swift assessing glance and had almost ridden past. It was too small for Sandiford’s purpose, he reckoned, and seemed to be deserted. The shutters were already up across one window, and that was unusual with still an hour of daylight left. Perhaps it was that shuttered window that invited him to survey the place more closely. He rode round to the front, and there, drawn to one side, was the chaise he was seeking. It had been wheeled out of a large, barn-like building which served the inn as stable and coach house combined, and its elegance looked sadly out of place in those shabby surroundings. A few scrawny hens were scratching despondently in the dusty yard, and there was a strong aroma of pig. A thin slip of a lad, whom Dermot judged to be about twelve or thirteen years of age, was so engrossed in restoring the glossy panels to their pristine perfection that he remained unaware of the newcomer’s approach until Dermot addressed him.
He glanced up from his task, eyes widening in amazement at the realisation that two proper swells should have chosen to honour the Grey Goose Feathers on one and the same day. But he was an intelligent youth despite his rustic appearance, and it soon occurred to him that this gentry cove had perhaps come in search of the other one.
“Wos you looking for Lord Sandiford, sir?” he enquired eagerly. “Bloke as owns this chaise? A’cause I’m sorry to say ’e’s not ’ere. ’E’s gorn orf wiv Mister Keane—the landlord—to watch some cock-fighting. And some fisticuffs, too,” he added on a wistful note. Cock-fighting did not much appeal to him, but he would dearly have loved to see that turn-up; though there was some degree of pleasure to be got from handling a bang-up turn-out like this one.
Dermot, thanking him heartily, if silently, for his unsolicited help, asked if he could be accommodated for the night. The boy was doubtful.
“Best ask the missis,” he decided. “’S’only a small place and some of the rooms already taken. Shall I ’old your ’orse, sir, while you goes to talk to ’er? Round that way. She’ll be in the kitchen.”
Thus directed, Dermot made his way round to the kitchen quarters and made the acquaintance of Miss Matilda Keane. No, she said, she was sorry to be disobliging but her rooms were already taken. She had only the two. The groom’s quarters were quite unsuitable for a gentleman. He had best ride on to North Mimms or Water End. Dermot accepted this in good part, feeling that he was on a hot scent with his quarry almost in view. He thought again about that shuttered window. There could be an excellent reason for it. And unless he was much mistaken, that kind of shutter opened easily enough from the outside, provided one could force the lock without undue noise. He explained to Miss Keane that both he and his horse were in need of rest and refreshment before embarking on a further search for accommodation. The lady would have liked to refuse, but felt that to do so would arouse suspicion.
She said grumpily that Tom would see to his horse, but that he himself must make do with plain fare. “We don’t reckon to cater for the gentry, but if you’re sharp-set there’s ham and eggs or the end of a cold mutton pie.”
Mr. Winfield, accepting this Spartan fare with admirable tolerance, was presently ushered into the inn’s diminutive coffee room. He sat down to his simple meal with renewed confidence. While overlooking the provision for his horse, he had chanced to see Lord Sandiford’s bays. His Lordship, one of whose more endearing qualities was a total lack of regard for his own consequence, had driven off quite contentedly to his evening’s entertainment in the landlord’s gig. His bays, as Dermot had suspected, had done more than enough. The sight of them bedded down as comfortably as was possible in the rather rough and ready conditions prevailing at the inn was a powerful stimulant to Dermot’s conviction that somehow he must have Katherine away out of this perilous situation. He was not quite sure how it was to be managed. His own mount was pretty weary, but could be relied upon to carry Katherine’s light weight for a few miles yet, and those bays were in no case to set out in pursuit. Not that he thought there would be any pursuit. Let him but get the girl safely away before Sandiford returned, and he rather thought that milord would concede defeat.
The next thing to be done was to establish communication with the prisoner, for prisoner he was convinced that she was. Finishing his meal he pondered the problem of how to distract Miss Keane’s attention while he investigated that shuttered room. The coffee room was next door to the tap, and having served his meal she had gone back to her duties there. Since a glance through the open door had shown him that there were no more than half a dozen customers, the duties were not very onerous, and he could not rely upon them to keep her fully occupied. He strolled into the tap and asked if she could make him a bowl of rum punch, complimenting her on the excellence of the mutton pie. There was no softening in her manner despite his pleasant address.
“It’ll take me nigh on half an hour,” she told him sourly, “what with the fire burnt low and the kettle to boil, not to mention the lemon to squeeze and nutmeg to grate and me single-handed tonight. By that time it’ll be full dark and your honour still with a bed to seek. Ye’d do better to ride on to North Mimms, like I said.”
Dermot assured her cheerfully that he had no objection to the delay, watched her dispense a couple of mugs of ale to her thirsty customers, and saw her started safely kitchen-ward before he returned to the coffee room. Thence he moved swiftly enough.
The shuttered room lay at the back of the house, almost opposite the coffee room, and he had taken care to close the tap-room door behind him. Two swift strides took him to the locked door. To his amazement the key was in the lock. He did not hesitate but turned it and opened the door a crack, exclaiming urgently, “Katherine! Are you there? It’s Dermot Winfield.”
An anxious mind and a lumpy mattress are not conducive to peaceful slumber. Katherine had been tossing restlessly, striving in vain to find some way out of her dilemma that would save her from a forced marriage. The sound of the key turning in the lock brought her wide awake, sitting up in bed with the covers clutched to her breast, her heart thumping wildly at the invasion of her privacy.
The unexpected prospect of escape suggested by Dermot’s softly spoken words caused her to forget all about the behaviour proper to a young lady surprised in her bed by a visit from a gentleman.
“How did you find me? Oh! Thank God that you did,” she said breathlessly, instinctively keeping her voice low. “You’ll help me out of this coil, won’t you? I swear I hadn’t the least notion of what he meant to do. Oh! Please take me back to Aunt Julia.”
“Precisely what I have in mind, child, so stop fretting,” returned the soft, confident whisper. She could just make out the loom of his tall figure against the streak of dim light admitted by the partly opened door, and spared a moment to hope that he could not see her. “But it will not do to run away without a proper plan of escape. We have only one tired nag between us until we reach the next posting inn—some four or five miles. It won’t do to raise a hue and cry on our tails. With your permission I’ll leave you, briefly, or the landlady will be looking for me. Give me half an hour and I’ll be tapping on your window. Can you be ready to come with me then, as quietly as possible? My whole idea is to snatch you away leaving no one the wiser until we’re out of reach of pursuit.”
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nbsp; Yes, she could be ready. Somehow she would make shift to dress in the dark. Her appearance did not matter. All that counted was to win free of this stuffy chamber and his Lordship’s odious plans. She even smiled as she heard the key turn in the lock once more. Her fellow conspirator was taking no risks. She climbed out of bed and began to feel round about for her clothes.
Chapter Twelve
Mr. Winfield was lounging indolently over the table in the coffee room when Miss Keane brought in her aromatic offering, and dumped it unceremoniously beside him. She was terse and tetchy.
“Will that be all, sir? Because I’ve my other customers in the tap to attend to.”
Dermot assured her that he had no further requirements and said that he would settle his reckoning there and then in order to spare her the trouble of another interruption in her duties. She had the grace to look a little shame-faced, but when he said that he would like his horse in half an hour’s time she told him gruffly that he would have to saddle up for himself.
“We’ve but the one ostler,” she explained, “and he’s gone off with my brother. Tom, the stable boy, is only a lad that comes in to help. His mother likes him home before the darkening. The lantern’s lit in the stable. You’ll manage well enough.”
Nothing could have suited him better, but he made that pretence of annoyance that he knew she would expect, mumbling something under his breath that might be taken as a reflection on the standard of hospitality prevailing at the Grey Goose Feathers. This took very well, the lady thawing into something that was almost geniality, as she informed him that he had come on a bad day, and that one woman could not be expected to attend to the tap room and the stables and house guests as well, but that if he chose to call in again on his return journey and found her better placed, she would show him what she could do in the way of a neat plain dinner.
They parted, each with a certain degree of respect for the other, she to return to her tap-room responsibilities, he to make pretence of sipping his rum punch while he considered the details of his plan for freeing Katherine. It did not take him long to decide that the sooner it was put into operation the better. It might not be so very long before Lord Sandiford, the landlord and the ostler returned to augment the forces arrayed against him. Best if he and Katherine could be away before that happened. He pondered the disposal of a bowl of rum punch. Having made such a point of ordering it, it would be highly suspicious to depart leaving it to cool on the table, but this was no time to be getting top-heavy from injudicious potations. There was no suitable receptacle in the coffee room, no convenient vase or bowl of flowers. Cautiously he tried the casement window. It opened sweetly enough at a gentle touch, giving him a much better appreciation of Miss Keane’s housekeeping. He leaned out quietly, peering into the gathering darkness. He could detect no sign of life, save for a climbing rose that encircled the window and startled him by catching at his sleeve. Gently he poured a libation of rum about its thorny feet and hoped it was duly appreciative. That done, he gathered up hat and whip and took his departure, putting his head round the tap-room door to bid Miss Keane good night, assuring her that he would be off now and thanking her politely for her hospitality. The gesture was quite unnecessary, the thanks certainly unjustified, but he hoped that his behaviour would dispel any lingering suspicions that Miss Keane might be nourishing about his reason for visiting the Grey Goose Feathers, and so make it possible for Katherine and him to show a clean pair of heels to any possible pursuit. He then betook himself to the stables, where he saddled his horse and presently trotted down the lane that led towards the Great North Road, keeping his eyes open for a likely place to secure the nag while he himself returned for Katherine. A farm gate, set a little back from the road, looked inviting. He opened it and led his horse through into a small copse which seemed ideal for his purpose. Even when the moon rose it seemed unlikely that any one would notice that there was a horse tucked away among the sapling trees. Nevertheless, he penetrated as far as possible into the copse before he secured the horse and made his way swiftly back to the inn.
All was still quiet. He circled it watchfully. The stable lantern still glowed, as did the lights in the entry and tap-room. There was a subdued hum of talk audible as he passed the tap-room window, but otherwise all was quiet. Certainly there was no sound of an approaching vehicle which might spell disaster to his plans. Treading swiftly, now, but softly, he moved round to the back of the inn and to the shuttered window. It was very dark, for the moon had barely reached the half and this side of the building lay in shadow. He explored the shutters carefully with his finger tips and sighed his relief. No padlock. Just a heavy iron bar fastened with a button, the shutters themselves warped by the weather. He had to lean the whole of his weight against them before he could persuade the button to turn, but he managed it with only the smallest squeak from the protesting iron. It was rather more awkward to lift the bar down, until he discovered that it was hinged at one end. The shutters needed coaxing, the right hand one having to be lifted down first, whereupon its brother followed easily enough. He laid them flat on their faces in the yard where they could not trip his feet, and returned to the window. Katherine had already pushed the casement wide, for although he had made very little noise she had been listening eagerly for his coming. He set his hands about her waist and lifted her over the low sill, carefully pushing the casement to, so that it would not attract attention. Then he picked her up bodily, laying her across his shoulder and bidding her hold tight as he made for the yard gate, keeping to the deepest shadow as far as possible and hoping that none of the drinkers would choose this moment to set out for home. Not that his comings and goings were any concern of theirs, but he did not wish to leave any witness who could say which way he had gone. He had skirted the stable with its betraying glow of light, and had almost reached the gate when he heard the inn door open. He carried his burden through the gate and dragged it shut behind him, set Katherine on her feet and took her hand in a firm clasp. “Run for it,” he ordered briskly. “Not far to where I left the horse, and let’s hope those fellows are going the other way.”
They ran, Katherine stumbling over the rough surface of the lane in her thin slippers, but steadied by the strong hand that held her from falling. She managed a little better as her eyes became accustomed to the gloom, but was thankful enough when Dermot called a halt at the gate that opened on to the copse. She clung to the top bar thankfully, trying to still her hurried breathing, as she saw that his head was tilted back the way they had come, listening for sounds of pursuit.
All was quiet. Whoever had left the inn as they were making their own escape must have turned the other way on reaching the lane. Dermot brought the horse and lifted Katherine on to the saddle. He teased her a little, ascribing her silence to fear of re-capture, and doing his best to laugh her out of it, reminding her of the last occasion on which he had been obliged to perform this service for her, and warning her, in a very solemn voice, that she really must not make a habit of this tendency to claim his services as knight errant. He fancied he saw the flicker of a smile break the tension of her still little face, but it was too dark to be sure and he concentrated his attention on encouraging his weary mount.
The going was a little easier when they reached the post road, though now they had to face the hazard of meeting other travellers. There was the risk that Lord Sandiford would be among them, and not even a Good Samaritan stranger would be welcome in their present circumstances. Until they could reach some inn where they could hire a vehicle to convey them the rest of the way, Dermot had no desire for contact with his fellows, however kindly intentioned. The natural tendency of passing vehicles to slow down slightly as they overtook the plodding pair gave him one or two bad moments, and he was thankful indeed to see the welcoming lights of a small posting inn.
With only one horse between them and that one saddled for a gentleman, no servants and no luggage, they aroused a strong degree of curiosity in the ostler who came forward to enqu
ire as to their needs. He stared at them with bulging eyes. But Dermot’s air of quiet assurance, and the size of the roll of bank notes that he pulled out of the inner pocket of his coat, brought satisfactory results. The man swallowed his curiosity and served them deferentially. A post-chaise and four was figged out—a good even team, declared the ostler. The weary animal that had served them so well should be cared for and returned to its own stable tomorrow. The postilion mounted to his place, Dermot handed Katherine into the chaise and climbed in beside her, and the vehicle pulled out of the yard and took the London road. Dermot gave a great sigh of relief for the accomplishment of the most vital part of his mission.
Katherine was very quiet. She had thanked him when he handed her up into the carriage, and had pressed his hand so convulsively as she did so that he had understood her thanks to extend to far more than gratitude for so simple a courtesy, but once seated she had relapsed into silence. Her thoughts could scarcely be pleasant, he guessed. Though she had been delivered from her prison, her situation was still an uncomfortable one and would provoke a good deal of unkind comment in the polite world should its history ever become known. He began to assure her that she could perfectly rely upon him. It would not be so very late when she reached home. Perhaps no more than two o’clock. She must often have been as late as that in returning from a party. Lady Julia would be so pleased to see her safe and sound that she would not be cross, and, for his part, he would never breathe a word to a soul about the evening’s events.
She gave an odd little laugh and said quietly, “No need to tell me that, I could not even imagine you as a mischief-maker. Nor would you ever have tried to coerce me against my will. Not that Sandiford would have succeeded, as I told him. I can never be sufficiently grateful to you for coming to my rescue—and I want to hear the full tale of how that came about—but even if you had not, I would never have yielded. He thought to frighten me with threats that I would lose my reputation, and so would be obliged to marry him, but I would never have consented. Better to accept the snubs and humiliations of Society, better indeed to retire from the social scene than to endure a life-time of misery tied to a man who only wants me for my father’s money. And my father would have been the first to support me in that decision.”