“I know,” she said. Her eyes were big and luminous.
“And now”—his voice was puzzled—“I can’t imagine how I missed you.”
Her heart was singing.
“I don’t suppose,” he murmured, leaning close, “that I could tempt you to stay the night?”
At her shocked expression, he laughed. “Come along, Pamela.” He pulled her to her feet. “I’ll escort you home to Axeleigh!”
On the way back they reined in their mounts in the shadow of convenient patches of trees to kiss again—and yet again.
So rapt in each other were they that they might have missed the gates had not the horses turned in automatically.
“Ah, Pamela, Pamela,” he sighed as he paused for a last lingering kiss at her front door. “I don’t suppose you’d care to ask me in to spend the night?” he grinned.
“Get you back to Huntlands!” laughed Pamela. “If the servants are watching, we’re scandal enough as it is!” But her voice was shaky with desire. She had watched Tom pursue so many girls—ah, it was wonderful to be the one pursued! Her imagination raced on. A short betrothal—and married in cloth of gold, just like she’d always planned. Her father had said he’d be back in time for the Hawleys’ party; perhaps Tom would ask him for her hand! The Hawleys’ party! She turned in sudden consternation to Tom.
“I forgot—Dick Peacham is back and he’ll be taking me to the Hawleys’ party! Oh, Tom—”
“No matter, I’ll see you there.” Tom gave her another kiss and was gone with a wave of the hand, riding off toward Huntlands.
Pamela stood there watching until he was out of sight. And walked in on air. Tom was hers—hers at last!
That wonderful knowledge kept her awake until nearly dawn. And so she did not see Constance steal out in that dawn, expecting Galsworthy. She had been fast asleep when Galsworthy, arriving unexpectedly early, had peered through the kitchen window in hopes of signalling cook—and been scared off by Pamela brandishing a pistol.
But Galsworthy did not come. Constance told herself he would surely come tonight and determined to stay home from the Hawleys’ party to wait for him.
Clifford Archer was late in getting home. He remembered that he was supposed to take his daughter to a party at Hawley Grange and supposed he’d have time only to change his travel-stained clothes before he did so.
He found instead a note:
Dick Peacham has come home and is squiring me to the party. I will see you there.
Pamela
Clifford Archer sighed. So he was to be bored with Peacham’s company again. Oh, well, he supposed that was a cross that fathers of marriageable daughters had to bear!
Dick Peacham was not one of Monmouth’s supporters and it startled the Hawleys to see Pamela stroll in on Peacham’s arm, for they had thought him safely gone. They hoped the new arrivals would not notice how predominantly female was the gathering at the moment, for most of the young bloods—Monmouth supporters all—were holding a meeting at the far end of the house. And Peacham was a King’s man, they were almost certain.
Innocent of all this, Pamela, who was carrying a flowered calico dress over her arm, detached herself from Peacham and went looking for Dorothea. She found her just coming from the corridor that led to the meeting room.
“Tom asked me to return this to you, Dorothea,” she said. And then—because Tom had squired Dorothea several places—she couldn’t resist adding, “As you can see, I’ve had it washed and ironed. And most of the grass stains on the back came out.”
Dorothea bridled at the implication of Pamela’s words. A narrow gleam came into her eyes. She had always been jealous of Pamela, next-door neighbor to Tom Thornton and—in Dorothea’s view—practically a bedfellow, romping about with him on horseback through the summer meadows! It had always been her intention to snare Tom and she was not to be robbed of her chance by a golden girl who wore clothes like gilded boxes!
“How nice of you,” she said sweetly, and in reaching for the dress, dropped a ring to the floor.
Pamela leaned down and picked it up—as Dorothea had meant her to do.
“Oh, you are not to see that—not yet!” Dorothea dimpled as she snatched back the ring from Pamela’s hand. But Pamela had seen what Dorothea meant her to see. It was Tom’s distinctive signet ring that he always wore on his little finger.
“Where did you get that?” asked Pamela, her face blank.
“Will you promise not to tell?” Furious at Pamela’s implication that she’d been lying on her back in the grass with Tom and determined to retaliate, Dorothea leant forward. “He wants no one to know about it but—we are secretly betrothed!”
Tom’s ring... secretly betrothed! With those few words, Dorothea had split her world in two. She felt as if she had been all her life climbing a mountain, struggling higher, ever higher into the sunlight so that Tom would see her, notice her, love her. And now suddenly she had been plunged down into an abyss.
Tom did not love her, he was but toying with her—as he had toyed with so many girls. It was Dorothea he meant to marry! For Tom would not have parted with that ring otherwise. It had been his father’s—it meant much to him. Pamela wanted to run away and hide and weep and beat her head against the wall.
But she did none of those things. She was her father’s daughter, courageous to the end. And combative. Anger rose in her suddenly. She had been made a fool of last night—and she would strike back! She asked herself what would irk Tom most? Why, to have her elude his clutches, of course—and she would. She would not be one more conquest for uncaring Tom Thornton!
By heaven, she would strike him a blow! She would betroth herself to Dick Peacham!
With an airiness she did not feel she turned away from a slyly smiling Dorothea and blundered toward her father, who was just coming through the door.
“I must speak to you,” she cried, tugging at his arm. And when she had got him aside, she said in a rush, “Dick Peacham has offered for me again” (as indeed he had, all the way from Axeleigh to Hawley Grange), “and I have decided to accept him. I want you to announce it. Now."
The Squire stared at her, trying to collect his wits. “Are you sure it is Peacham you want?”
“Yes, I am very sure!” Pamela’s voice shook. “Make the announcement or I will!"
“Very well,” said the Squire, for in spite of the fact that he did not like Peacham very much, with the blackmailer’s demands rising ever higher, he would be very glad to see his daughter settled. “But if this is some whim of yours, Pam, I warn you that I will hold you to it—and so will young Peacham.” He beckoned to Peacham and took Pamela by the hand and strode to the center of the room—and lifted the glass that had been thrust upon him almost as he entered. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “I wish to announce the betrothal of my daughter Pamela to a gentleman who needs no introduction—Dick Peacham. A toast to the bride and to my future son-in-law!”
Dick Peacham’s surprised face was suddenly radiant. He turned rapturously to look down into Pamela’s upturned rebellious face. Little minx! She had given him no inkling of this on the way over. And now he was to have not only a beautiful and virtuous bride but a large dowry as well! He puffed out his chest as people crowded around his satin-clad form to offer congratulations.
But there was one who offered no congratulations.
Tom Thornton was just coming down the hall as the Squire made his ringing announcement. He stopped stock-still and for a moment his face lost all its color. Then he strode forward, brushing people aside to reach Pamela.
“What’s this about a betrothal?” he growled.
“Why, didn’t you know?” Pamela, who had by now got control of herself, gave him a bland smile. “I’m going to marry Dick Peacham.”
So she had been but playing with him last night! Egging him on—and all the time intending to marry Peacham and gain a title!
“I wish you joy of him,” said Tom bitterly and whirled about, almost crashing into Do
rothea, who had glided through the crowd after him.
“Tom.” Dorothea drew him aside. “I found your ring in the hall just now. You must have pulled it off when you drew off your gloves.”
Men from the meeting were sauntering in now, singly and in pairs. Tom had been so eager to see Pamela that he had dashed on ahead—and for this!
“Thank you, Dorothea,” muttered Tom. “I didn’t realize I’d lost it.”
“It’s so pretty,” sighed Dorothea, flashing her hand so that Pamela, who was watching them, could see. “Would you let me wear it, Tom—just for the evening?”
“Certainly,” he said in a harsh voice. “You can wear it for the evening, Dorothea.” He too was looking at golden-haired Pamela, meeting her gaze grimly.
But Pamela had seen enough. Proof, she thought sadly. She turned away—toward Peacham.
That night she told Tabitha about her betrothal and to the girl’s astonishment burst into tears.
Later she would see that ring back again on Tom’s finger—and be too proud to ask him how it got there.
The Rose and Thistle,
Bridgwater, Somerset,
June 5, 1685
Chapter 30
Pamela and Constance were just dismounting from their horses outside the Rose and Thistle in Bridgwater when the inn door was flung open and a booted foot propelled Jack Drubbs into the late afternoon sunlight of the innyard.
“Well!” said Pamela, stepping nimbly aside as Drubbs staggered forward to sprawl almost at her feet.
“Perhaps we shouldn’t go in after all,” demurred Constance with an apprehensive look at Drubbs, who had come to his feet with a snarl and was shaking his fist at someone in the dimness within but making no move to return.
“But it’s so hot and dusty,” protested Pamela. “And my throat is parched and yours will be too before we get to the Ellertons!” She swept her light blue linen skirts around Drubbs, who had snatched up his hat, clapped it hard on his head and was stalking away, muttering.
Today at lunch Pamela had proposed this jaunt to visit Mary Ellerton, five miles the other side of Bridgwater.
Constance had looked up in surprise. “But the Ellertons will insist we spend the night and you’ll miss Dick when he comes over tomorrow morning!”
Pamela’s answering look told her that missing Dick Peacham was just what she had in mind. She had been despondent ever since her betrothal had been announced. She was trying to postpone the wedding but the banns were already being cried.
“By all means, you should both go.” From the head of the table, Clifford Archer, who was usually against overnight jaunts, chimed in. Constance, aware of how badly she had disappointed him in her marriage to a runaway bridegroom, told herself there was little chance she would run into Tony Warburton on the ride, and agreed. In fact, the wave of excitement that had engulfed England these breathless days was gradually bringing her back to life; she would be glad to feel the breeze ruffle her hair as she rode down country lanes, glad to see the hospitable Ellertons, who were often guests at Axeleigh.
And now here they were, stopping by the Rose and Thistle for a tankard of cider, cooled in the springhouse, before they continued their journey.
As they came out of the sunlight into the inn’s dim, low-ceilinged interior, the gentleman whose booted foot—after a few minutes of heated argument—had propelled Drubbs’s body through the inn door, was sauntering back to his seat at a far corner of the common room. He was a tall gentleman with a rather rakish carriage, and he wore unremarkable clothes—a coat and trousers of russet, well-polished boots that at the moment were dusty from travel, a spotlessly clean though rather plain cravat. His sword was serviceable and he carried two pistols stuck in his belt—but that too was unremarkable in times like these of political unrest. The handful of men in the common room relaxed as the tall gentleman took his seat again for they had all been witness to the incident when Drubbs, passing by, had carelessly spilled some ale on the russet gentleman’s sleeve, been insolent about it, and got himself booted out.
Pamela and Constance seated themselves near the front door and began to fan themselves with the carved ivory fans they carried. The innkeeper’s wife, seeing it was the Squire of Axeleigh’s daughter and his ward who graced their establishment, bustled over with the tankards of cool cider herself and the girls surveyed the other occupants of the room.
Everyone present was looking at them, but on one they had made an indelible impression. The russet gentleman in the corner, with his plumed hat fashionably shadowing his eyes, brought that hat a little lower with his right hand and regarded them through his fingers as he bent over his ale.
Pamela’s back was to him and he could not see her well. But Constance’s gaze passed over him listlessly only to snap back again. And then remain. All of her being stilled suddenly.
That russet hair spilling gracefully from beneath his wide-brimmed hat, that fine hand that obscured his face, the very stance of those broad shoulders—she waited for him to move and as if she had given him a signal, he brought down his concealing hand and looked calmly into her face.
It was Dev!
Her long hours of practice in covering over plots against the Crown, her brief eventful time as a highwayman’s ever-watchful bride, that day stood Constance in good stead. Nothing but her sudden pallor gave the slightest hint that anything was amiss and Pamela, turning to speak to her, thought it was the light that made Constance appear so washed-out.
“Ye go to Bristol, ye say, sir?” One of the room’s other occupants, a farmer who had struck up a conversation with Dev before Drubbs had spilled the wine, now continued it.
“Aye, to Bristol,” said Dev, his steady gaze still on Constance.
Attracted by his rich cultivated voice, Pamela, her face shadowed by her wide-brimmed plumed hat, glanced back at the speaker and noted that his gaze—oblivious to all else—was concentrated on Constance. But that was nothing new—Pamela was used to seeing men look at Constance as if a thunderbolt had struck them. And indeed some of them had been looking at Pamela that way lately! She did not see Constance shake her head imperceptibly.
That faint gesture was not lost however upon the young highwayman. Dev noticed suddenly the richness of her amethyst gown, for all that it was dusty, the resplendent violet plumes of her hat, the elegance of her bearing—no, she had always had that, it had just been less apparent in faded mauve linen than it was in heavy rippling silk. Giving no sign that he had dashed all the way across England to find her, he waited. He had not long to wait.
Constance sat quietly sipping her cider. She no longer looked at Dev. Her thoughts were whirling. Dev—here! And no sign of Gibb or of Nan. She passed a distraught hand over her forehead.
“Pamela,” she murmured. “If you are my friend, ask no questions. Tell the innkeeper I am ill and take us two rooms for the night.”
Pamela gave her an astounded look. “But—” she began. “Oh, please,” murmured Constance in an anguished voice. “Do as I ask. And then just—just disappear for a while!”
Bewildered and more than a little irritated by Constance’s mysterious manner, Pamela got up. Her back was still to Dev as she approached the innkeeper, who was now standing beside his wife at the front door, listening to her tirade about how badly the new scullery maid had washed the trenchers.
“My friend has been ill,” Pamela told him. “The journey has overtaxed her strength, I fear. I think we had best lodge here for the night.”
“Ye can have the room to the left of the stairs,” said the innkeeper, rubbing his hands. “ ’Tis my best.”
“We will need two rooms, for my friend needs to rest undisturbed.”
“I’m Sorry, mistress, but ’tis my last room.”
“No, there’s the scribe’s room down the hall,” interrupted his wife. “He’s off to Bristol and won’t be coming back tonight—if ye don’t mind his things being there.”
“I don’t mind at all,” spoke up Constance’s voi
ce. She had risen and joined them and she was clutching her head and swaying slightly. “I think I’ll just go up now,” she added faintly.
Mystified, her face still concealed from Dev by her wide-brimmed hat, Pamela watched Constance mount the stairs, shepherded along by the innkeeper’s wife. Then she went out the front door and took a restless walk around Bridgwater. Although she was eaten up by curiosity, she lingered on the bridge across the River Parrett, skimming stones across the smooth water. Why on earth would Constance want to linger at the inn when the Ellertons’ big hospitable house was only a comfortable ride away?
She turned from the bridge with a sigh and her eyes widened.
Here in the flesh was her explanation! Captain Warburton, looking very fit and with his plumed hat riding rakishly on his dark head, was sauntering on horseback down the dusty street. As she watched he turned into the innyard and dismounted, went into the inn.
That was why Constance, who had refused to leave Axeleigh all this time, had been so willing to come along today! She had never had any intention of visiting the Ellertons! The Rose and Thistle had been her destination—and a tryst with Captain Warburton!
Pamela was thrilled. Instantly she forgave Constance for her deception. Constance was probably sworn to secrecy, she told herself, and lost herself in romantic imaginings of their clandestine meeting. In order to give them more time together, she lingered by the bridge, skimming stones. It was dusk before she went back to the inn. Noting that Captain Warburton was nowhere in evidence and his horse was gone, she ignored the obvious explanation that he had but stopped by for a tankard of ale on this thirsty day and then ridden on back to Warwood. Perhaps he and Constance had run away together! If so, she would give them a chance to get far away before pursuit could be launched. She ordered her dinner sent up.
Hardly had Pamela left for her walk than Dev had finished his ale, paid for it, and sauntered out into the deserted innyard. He had rounded a corner of the inn and seen across a low roof a window—and framed in that window Constance, beckoning to him.
Lovely Lying Lips Page 41