‘Of course.’ She rang and gave the necessary orders. ‘But can you guess where he will have taken her?’
‘I hope so. I must stake all on that. His yacht, I know, lies at Southampton. And I recollect Harriette Wilson’s telling me of a night she once spent with him at a little inn at Epsom where he brags of being lord of the roast. He will take her there, for the night, to make her ruin complete, then on to France, to escape my vengeance.’
‘And what will you do, George?’
‘Kill him, if necessary. And marry Jennifer tomorrow whatever has happened. You might ask your cousin the Bishop to put things in train for a special licence, ma’am.’
‘Certainly. But I hear the carriage. Do not do more shooting than you must. And, George,’ she called him back. ‘Whatever has happened to her, do, I beg, remember not to bully Jennifer. We never like being taken for granted.’
He hurried back to kiss her hand. ‘Oh, ma’am, if I can but find her...’
The Duchess’s coachman was not used to letting anyone else drive his team of greys, but one look at Mainwaring’s face sent him meekly to their heads. He was grateful enough to be taken up and allowed to go too. As they swept headlong into Park Lane he closed his eyes in silent prayer. A blind beggar, on the other hand, who was laboriously tapping his way across the road, opened his eyes and, his sight miraculously restored, leapt for the gutter and safety. In Whitehall, a young ladies’ seminary, out for its afternoon walk in demure crocodile, scattered like leaves before a hurricane. The coachman settled his hat more firmly on his head and grinned at Mainwaring’s man. ‘It seems we are in a hurry,’ he said.
The greys were badly winded when Mainwaring drew up outside the little inn Harriette Wilson had described to him, but the coachman had not even ventured a protest. Now, Mainwaring flung the reins to him and hurried inside. It was late. But was it too late? The question had been ringing in his mind all the way.
There seemed to be no one about. He hammered angrily on the door with the butt of his whip and shouted: ‘House, there, house!’
An old woman came tottering out from what smelled to be the kitchen and looked at him in quavering alarm. ‘Lawk-a-mussy,’ she said, ‘more quality. As if we had not had enough trouble tonight.’ Then, raising her voice, ‘John,’ she called up the stairs, ‘John, here’s another on ’em.’
‘Coming, ma,’ said a man’s voice. There was a sound of conversation above and then a short, fat, red-faced man came downstairs holding a basin which he handed to the old woman. ‘The sawbones says more cold compresses and look sharp about it. And the spirits of ammonia, too, for fear he goes off again.’ Then he turned civilly enough to Mainwaring. ‘I beg your pardon, sir, for keeping you, but we are all to pieces here tonight. And I who have always kept as respectable a house as any in Surrey.’
‘I am sorry to trouble you at such an awkward time,’ said Mainwaring, wishing he had considered more carefully what he was to say, ‘but I am searching for a young lady who I believe may have been brought here.’
‘Young lady,’ the landlord bristled up at the phrase, ‘young vixen, more like. Young lady, you call it! You should have heard what Mr Mandeville called her when he came to his senses. And him the most generous, open-handed gentleman that ever drew breath. To treat him so; why prison’s too good for the likes of her. Young lady, indeed, young besom, I should call her...’
Mainwaring was too much delighted at the implications of this speech to care for the man’s vehemence: ‘Call her what you will, my good man, only tell me where she is.’
‘I can tell you where she ought to be, right enough, and that’s in the lockup for manslaughter, robbery with violence and I don’t know what else, but Mr Mandeville will never bring a charge, so good as he is, and him lying there dead to the world for some half-hour or more before we found him. For he had given orders, you see, after I put the dessert on the table, that he was not to be disturbed. And natural enough, saving your honour’s presence, with such a prime handful for his companion. Too prime and a half for him, was what she proved...But how was I to know, when she sat there prattling away about Paris, and new bonnets and I don’t know what kickshawses...How was I to know, I ask you, that all the time she had murder in her heart?’
‘And had she?’ Mainwaring was feeling better. The quick pulse that had beat out its refrain of ‘too late, too late’ in his head all the way from London had slowed to a steadier beat. Jennifer was safe.
‘Had she not, sir? No sooner is my back turned than she ups with a bottle of claret—a full bottle, sir, of my best claret that set me in I don’t know what the dozen, and cracked the poor gentleman over the head with it as cool as you please. And picks his pocket too, sir, and then has the effrontery to bandage up his poor head for him before she walks out of the house as cool as a cucumber. And he will not even have the constable after her, sir. You never saw the likes of it, just lies in bed and groans when I urge it.’
‘Well,’ it was hard to conceal his relief. ‘You can hardly be surprised at that. He would look a pretty fool letting himself be robbed by a young lady.’
‘Young lady.’ It started the landlord off again. ‘Young termagent if you ask me. He should have known better than to take up with a red-head wench; there never was but trouble come from them, and so I could have told him...’
But Mainwaring had heard all he needed to know. Jennifer had got safe away and had already dealt so roundly with Mandeville that there was no room for his intervention. You can hardly shoot a man who is in bed with concussion. So much, he thought rather ruefully, for his knight errantry. But it was still urgent that he catch up with her as soon as possible. Besides, a cold thought struck him, had the blow which felled Mandeville been self-defence, or revenge?
Spurred on by this thought, he bade a curt farewell to the landlord, returned to the carriage, jumped inside and ordered the Duchess’s coachman to drive him to the centre of the town as fast as possible. Here, too, he found that Jennifer had left her mark. Questioned, the landlord of the coaching inn was voluble in his detcription of her high-handed ways. ‘But free of her purse.’ He pocketed Mainwaring’s tip. ‘A very free-handed young lady. And nicely spoken, too, once she had got her own way.’ Yes, she had taken his best team of horses; she was going Petworth way...driving through the night...a death in the family, perhaps a couple of them, he was sure he did not know...Mainwaring cut short his wonderings, thanked him for the information, hired his second best team of horses and set out in his turn for Denton Hall.
Jennifer, meanwhile, had waked, dealt kindly but firmly with her aunt’s hysterical amazement at sight of her, discussed with her father’s delighted agent her uncle’s depredations on the estate and found them little worse than she had expected, and sent off a messenger post-haste to London with letters for the Duchess, her uncle and Elizabeth. The gist of all of them was the same. She was at home; she did not explain how or why; she proposed to stay there, and, so far as the world was concerned, she had, in fact, never left. Writing her gratitude once again to the Duchess, she could not banish from her mind the possibility that Mainwaring, too, might read what she said. It made the task doubly difficult and the note rather shorter than she would have liked. To Elizabeth, she was soothing; to her uncle, firm. She had talked to her agent, she told him, and knew exactly how matters stood. She awaited the news of Elizabeth’s engagement to Edmund. The wedding, she suggested, should take place at Denton Hall, where she hoped to see them all shortly.
So much for the past. At least, she had got much of it tidy. As for the present, it seemed to consist mainly of her lachrymose Aunt Gurning, who appeared equally in despair at the idea of her husband’s returning or of his staying away. In either case, it seemed, she was bound to suffer from his fury at the thwarting of his plans.
‘Never fret, Aunt,’ said Jennifer at last. ‘I will protect you.’
‘You, Jenny?’ Her scepticism was all too evident.
‘Who else? I am the head of the famil
y now. I cannot think why I had not realised it long since. I will see to it that my uncle treats you properly.’ She rang the bell. Already she was tired of the present and longed to be alone to face the future. ‘Soames,’ she said, when he appeared, ‘what horses have we in the stables?’
‘None fit for you to ride, I fear, Miss Jenny. There is only your brother’s Black Prince and you know you were never allowed to ride him.’
‘No more I was, Soames.’ She smiled at him brilliantly. ‘Order him saddled at once.’
Soames protested; old Thomas the groom threw up his hands in horror. But she was Miss Purchas of Denton Hall and she intended to be obeyed. When she came downstairs twenty minutes later, Black Prince was jigging about on the carriage sweep, held by a stable boy, while Thomas waited in attendance on his own cob, disapproval in every inch of him.
‘He’s mortal fresh, Miss Jenny,’ said the stable boy as he helped her to mount.
‘Good,’ said Jenny. ‘So am I. I have wanted a real gallop this age. No use looking such a death’s head, Thomas, but I suppose I must let you come too if you wish.’
She had her gallop, all out, on the Downs above her house, then paused to let Thomas catch up with her and to look with a prodigal’s affection at the prospect of park and woodland below her. Then, as Thomas rode up, puffing and reproachful, she stiffened. ‘Is not that a carriage, turning off the Chichester road towards the Hall?’
He looked but shook his head: ‘Indeed, I cannot say, Miss Jenny, my eyesight is failing sadly these days.’
But she was sure of it now. A carriage and four horses. Her parsimonious uncle only travelled with a pair. Who could it be? She would not let herself hope. But she dug her heels into Black Prince’s sides and said: ‘I’ll race you home.’
Mainwaring was there before her. Asking if Miss Purchas had yet returned to her home, he did not miss the look of surprise and anxiety on Soames’ face.
‘Returned, my lord?’ asked the butler, at his stateliest. ‘Miss Purchas has not been away. But she is out at the moment. Riding, I believe.’
And in confirmation of his words, a figure appeared, taking, at speed, a hazardous curve of the Downs, vanishing for an instant, then reappearing, riding more sedately through the outlying trees of the park. Mainwaring stayed where he was on the graceful steps of the house, with Soames, unheeded, behind him. She rode up, her colour high, her curls dishevelled, smiled a greeting to the Duchess’s coachman, who was walking his horses, dismounted, and came, leisurely it seemed, towards Mainwaring, drawing off York tan gloves as she came.
‘You were seeking me, my lord? Soames, refreshments in the office, if you please.’ She led the way indoors. ‘I will be with you in a moment, Aunt.’ A fretful voice had called her from the head of the stairs. ‘This way, my lord,’ She led him into a plain, work-a-day room he had not seen before, motioned him to an upright chair and settled, herself, at her uncle’s desk. She was glad to do so. Her knees were shaking.
For a moment, both were silent. Outside, Thomas and the stable boy discussed racing form as they led the horses round to the stables. In the room, rose petals, falling from a vase on the chimney-piece, sounded loud in the tense quietness.
Mainwaring spoke first. ‘Your butler tells me you have never been away.’
She smiled. ‘Good Soames. He does so hate to lie; but he will do anything for the Family, as he calls us.’
Another silence. She was not going to speak. He stood up and prowled over to the window. ‘It is not enough,’ he said, ‘you do not understand the force of scandal. Jennifer—Miss Fairbank, devil take it, I mean Miss Purchas, you must see there is no help for it but to marry me.’
She looked up at him, dark eyebrows raised. ‘Must I, my lord?’
‘I tell you, it is the only way. Too many people remember Miss Fairbank, who made, you must recollect, a considerable sensation. Return to town as Miss Purchas—can you not imagine the talk?’
‘Easily, my lord. But I do not propose returning to London. Miss Fairbank is dead and gone. We will forget her, and her follies, if you please. As for Miss Purchas, she has had enough of London. She will live in the country, a paragon of good works. You have no need to have me on your conscience, my lord. I can take care of myself.’
For the first time he smiled. ‘No need to tell me that. I am but now come from Epsom.’
‘Oh,’ her hand flew to her mouth, ‘you know, then? How is Mr Mandeville?’
‘As angry as concussion and a country doctor can make a man. But that is why I am come to you so fast. Tell me nothing. I do not want to know what happened between you and Mandeville, but you must see that it leaves you no course but to marry me. The landlord will talk, even Mandeville himself may, though I doubt it after the floorer you gave him. And what of your silly cousin and your uncle who were, by all accounts, canvassing the whole affair in front of the servants. Everything else—Miss Fairbank and her follies, if you must call them so—all that might pass, but this...Believe me, I speak as your friend. Marriage is your only hope.’
‘You are too good.’ She had herself well in hand now. ‘But I do not need such forced friendship. I have told you already that your promise to my brothers must be forgotten. Now, I beg you to leave me. We have no more to say to each other, you and I.’
He was angry now; angry because she had not needed his help; angry because he loved her. He turned from the window and stood over her: ‘Very well then. Stay here and rot in your country retreat. Devote yourself to good works, bully your servants, breed dogs—I beg your pardon?’
‘I said, not dogs. Cats, perhaps, or monkeys...’
Suddenly he was laughing. ‘Jenny, have I lost my temper again? Have I been bullying you? My grandmother told me not to. Why do I never remember her advice in time? Do you not understand that I love you, have loved you this age, have fought it, have tormented myself with scruples? Do you not see that that is why I want you to marry me? To the devil with promises, brothers, uncles, the whole pack of them. Who cares for them, or your name? Have half a dozen, if you like, if you will only take mine as well. Take me, Jenny; forgive me. I am but a poor hand at a speech. I have made a mull of things from start to finish, but, believe me, I love you. I think I always have.’
She looked up at him. ‘Even when I stole your horse? Confess you thought me a complete hoyden.’
‘Yes, but then you looked at me with those fierce eyes of yours and gave me such a setdown. You, a governess, a little chit of a thing...You made me see you. I shall never want to look at another woman. Marry me, Jenny. You would not condemn me to becoming a bad-tempered gouty old bachelor—Oh, damme, I know what that smile means. I am quite bad-tempered enough already. It is true, Jenny, I am a spoiled, cross-grained wretch, who does not deserve you, but you could tame me, I promise you could.’
‘And suppose I fail?’
‘You fail? When did you fail at anything you set your hand to? You have made a friend of my grandmother and an enemy (God bless you) of my Aunt Beresford. You have defeated Mandeville and outgeneraled your uncle. Surely, after that, you are heroine enough to try your hand with me? I shall be a brute, Jenny. I shall sit up to all hours drinking with my political friends. I shall come home in a rage when things go ill at the House and expect you to be waiting there to soothe me. Indeed, I shall always want you to be there. I shall love you very much, Jenny. My grandmother says forgiveness is easy for a woman. Can you find it in your heart to forgive and love me a little?’
‘Your grandmother,’ said Jennifer, ‘is a very wise woman. I shall like being her granddaughter.’
He took her in his arms. More rose petals fell on the chimney-piece. It was very quiet in the little room. At last, he moved his head to look down at her: ‘And no more running away, my love.’
She smiled up at him. ‘Run away?’ she asked. ‘Why should I?’
If you enjoyed Runaway Bride by Jane Aiken Hodge you might be interested in in An Inconvenient Affair by Mary Williams, also published by
Endeavour Press.
Extract from An Inconvenient Affair by Mary Williams
Chapter One
She couldn’t rest. Watchful and tense, her nerves were stretched almost to breaking point. The ominous approach of thunder looming over the Burnwood hills didn’t help. Storms there were violent, as though the ancient heart of the range was erupting to vengeful life again, after countless millions of centuries.
Emma Fairley, born in the vicinity and now in her twentieth year, had become sensitized to every mood of that particular north-western corner of Leyfordshire. Something of its lush sweetness, veiled mystery of its valleys and rugged freedom of rocky summits was in her very blood. A haunted area — one of volcanic origin, which at times could stir the imagination from dreamy peacefulness to a primitive awareness of a far-off bygone age. Apprehension then shuddered through Feyland Woods from the lonely tip of Hawkswycke Hill. The forest wilderness of larch, silver birch, and ancient oaks became a place of shadowed mystery; in the creeping mists of early summer and autumn, twisted branches of sloe and elder were grasping arms — the deep green tarns of Feyland, waiting graves for the unwary.
Emma, on that far off autumn evening, was keyed-up to face not only nature’s elemental challenge, but a personal crisis which involved the whole of her future and that of her father, William Fairley — especially the latter. So much was at stake; on his meeting that day with Jonathan Bradley — business tycoon and owner of the new Leyford Comet, a daily newspaper intended to oust the well-established Leyford Courier — depended the survival of The Charwood Echo, her father’s own newspaper and particular baby. Bradley was determined to acquire it by fair means or foul. He had the wealth and the power. Already the Echo had been hit by the new sensational publication Comet which was cheap in price, flashy perhaps, but sufficiently colourful to woo a considerable public!
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