Elizabeth Mansfield (25 page)

"I am sorry to disturb you," Jane said firmly, "but I've come for my sister, Miss Adela Douglas. I understand she's staying here."

"We have a Miss Douglas stayin' here. But you surely ain't expectin' me to wake her now. It's past midnight!"

"I'll wake her myself, if you'll show me the w—"

"Heavens, Burgess," came a tremulous voice from within, "who's out there?"

"It's a young woman, m'lady," the butler said. "Says she's Miss Adela's sister."

Another candle came into view. It was carried by a diminutive woman in a ruffled nightdress and shawl. In the dim light Jane could see a small face with a pointed chin topped by a lace cap from which fell a long braid of gray hair. "I am her sister, ma'am. I believe your son's abducted her. I've come to get her back."

"Abducted her, indeed!" The elderly lady snorted as she came up to the door, but one look at the bedraggled creature in her doorway changed her tone. "Gracious me, it's pouring!" she exclaimed. "Come in, child, come in, before you catch your death!"

The butler moved aside, and Jane gratefully stepped over the threshold. "My driver is sitting out there on the box," she said. "May he be given some shelter, too?"

"Of course," Lady Fitzgerald said. "Burgess, get an umbrella and see to him, please. And you, Miss Douglas, come along with me. We'll go to the sitting room and be comfortable."

She led the way across the foyer. "You don't really believe my Taffy would ever abduct—" she began, but the appearance of a candle on the stairway stayed her tongue.

"What's going on, Mama?" came a masculine voice from the stairs.

"You'd better come down, dearest," Lady Fitzgerald called up. "There's a young woman here who says you've abducted her sister."

Taffy gasped and came leaping down the stairs. "Miss Douglas," he cried, "did you think you had to come to her rescue? How can you say abducted? You must know your sister came quite willingly."

"I can certainly second that, my dear," his mother said placidly. "Although I've known her only a few hours, I think I can say with perfect confidence that your sister is very happy to be here."

"I'm sure she is," Jane said, "but that is no excuse. She was removed from my care without a word to me, nor was her mother's permission sought for this... this excursion. I would call absconding with her in that secret way an abduction, even if Adela agreed to it."

"I can certainly second that, my dear," the elderly lady said, nodding.

"Come now, Mama," Taffy said in disgust, "you cannot second both points of view."

"I can if I wish," Lady Fitzgerald said. "Come, both of you, into the sitting room where we can talk this over."

An hour-long debate ensued, during which Taffy pointed out that his intentions were honorable, that Adela was properly chaperoned, and that this time together at his mother's house would help the couple to become acquainted.

Taffy's mother seconded every point.

Jane pointed out that this method of becoming acquainted was irregular, that society might not look favorably upon such an arrangement, and that Adela's mother had not given permission for her daughter to visit people who, one had to admit, were relative strangers.

Taffy's mother seconded every point again.

In the end Taffy admitted that it was only right that he seek Adela's mother's permission before proceeding further. "If you agree, Miss Douglas, I won't wake Adela now," he said, "but I give you my word that I'll take her home to her mother tomorrow."

His mother seconded the plan.

Jane gave Taffy's suggestion some thought. Under the circumstances, she decided, the plan was a good one. Lady Fitzgerald was obviously not a very strong-minded woman, but she was kind and good-natured. And Taffy not only seemed to be trustworthy, but appeared to truly care for her sister. Adela would come to no harm in their care. If matters worked out between Adela and this young man, it would be a very beneficial match for the girl. "Very well, so long as your promise is sincere, I agree," she said at last. "And now, I'd best take my leave."

"So soon?" Lady Fitzgerald asked. "You must at least stay for breakfast."

"No, thank you, ma'am. I must go back. I've already stayed half an hour longer than I planned."

They accompanied her to the door. "I shall be leaving London and returning home myself tomorrow," Jane said to Taffy, "so I'll probably see you there."

"I say," Taffy said "if you're going home tomorrow, why don't you come with Adela and me? Hodgkins can take Luke's carriage back himself."

"I wish I could"—Jane sighed—"but it wouldn't be right. I have to be sure that Hodgkins and Mr. Parks are not punished for my sins. Besides, there's my baggage to collect, and Adela's, too. Thank you for the offer, but I must decline."

Hodgkins was greatly relieved when Jane informed him that she was ready to go back. "It's just 'alf-past one," he said. "We should be 'ome before sunup."

"There won't be any sunup," Jane remarked as she climbed into the coach. "This rain doesn't show any sign of stopping."

In fact the rain became heavier as the hours passed. The roads grew muddier and muddier, and their progress slower and slower. Even in the depths of the carriage, Jane could hear Hodgkins cursing in frustration.

As they neared London, early-morning tradesmen began to clog the roads. The rain finally stopped, but the ruts that the increasing traffic made in the road grew worse. As Hodgkins had been fearing, one of the wheels became mired. The four tired horses—even with Jane and Hodgkins pushing from behind with all their might—could not summon the strength to pull the carriage free.

And then, as the two weary travelers stood at the side of the road, staring gloomily at their immobile coach, the sun came up.

THIRTY-TWO

Luke came down to breakfast before seven, hoping to find Jane at the table. All night he'd rehearsed a speech to her, a speech in which he would declare that he'd admit to degeneracy only in the matter of having kept a
cher amie.
Since that matter was now in the past, he would say that he deserved to be forgiven, explaining that it was youthful excess.
Even Saint Augustine,
he would conclude ringingly,
prayed, "Oh, God, make me chaste, but not yet."
He could hardly wait to deliver it.

But Jane was not at the table. The only thing waiting for him was a pile of letters at his place. He sat down, let Parks pour his tea, and began to open them. Right on top was an unfranked letter with an unrecognizable seal. "Where did this come from?" he asked the butler.

"It was evidently slipped under the door this morning, my lord," Parks said, looking at it over the Viscount's shoulder.

Luke read the message quickly. "It seems to be from some acquaintance of Miss Simmons," he murmured aloud, frowning. "Says she's ill. Strange... she was perfectly well when I saw her just the other day." He pushed aside his other letters and got to his feet. 'Tell Hodgkins to ready the carriage at once," he ordered.

"At once? The
c-carriage?"
Parks stammered.

"Yes, I've got to get to Ramsgate." He looked at the butler curiously. The man's chins were quivering. "Is something the matter, Parks?"

"No, my lord, nothing at all." Parks swallowed and started for the door, but he paused before leaving. "Are you certain you w-wouldn't rather take the curricle?"

"Why would I want to do that?" the Viscount asked, eyeing his man suspiciously.

Parks shrugged. "The weather has cleared, you know. It appears it will be a lovely day. I only thought, if you took the curricle, you could drive it yourself and make better time."

"As a matter of fact, Parks, you may be right. I would make better time. Very well, tell him to ready the curricle."

Parks nodded and scurried from the room. Once out of the Viscount's sight, he looked up toward heaven and breathed a relieved thanks to the gods for sparing him the necessity of explaining to his lordship why his groom, his carriage, and his business manager were missing.

Only half an hour after his lordship had departed for Ramsgate in the curricle, the coach and the weary travelers returned. Parks did not require much explanation to determine what had happened. They were all so well besmirched with mud that the reason was plain.

Hodgkins, on learning that the Viscount was out of town, ordered the stableboys to wash down the horses and the coach, and took himself straightaway to bed. Jane did not permit herself that luxury. With his lordship away, this was the perfect time to take her leave.

She went to her room, shook the dried mud from her boots, cleaned the hem of her gown as best she could, gathered up her portmanteau and Adela's two boxes, and started to make her way down. She hadn't gone far when she realized she could not walk to the coaching inn so heavily burdened. She returned to her room, hastily repacked only the most important items from all three pieces of luggage into the portmanteau, and left the rest, packed in Adela's boxes, to be sent to her later. There was one item, however, that she did not pack— the leather-bound Caxton Malory that his lordship had given her. That was too precious to trust to the ostlers' rough handling. She wrapped the book carefully in soft paper and put it in the reticule that she hung from her waist. In that way, she would feel it bumping against her with every step she took. A precious remembrance.

Mr. Parks had told the staff that she was leaving. All of them gathered in the foyer to say good-bye to her. One by one they came up to her and wished her well. Mrs. Hawkins embraced her warmly, and Meggie burst into tears. Joseph brought up the rear. Jane threw her arms about him, whispering her thanks for all he'd done for her.

The entire staff looked crestfallen as they returned to their posts.

Only Mr. Parks was left. They embraced wordlessly. Then he picked up her portmanteau and brought it to the door. "I only wish you could have the carriage to take you home," he said sadly.

"I don't mind the stage," she assured him, "or the walk to the inn, either."

"You'd better head for the Swan in Lad Lane," the butler said. "It's the closest. And you'd better hurry. The stages'll all be gone by nine."

She threw a quick glance at the hall clock. "That gives me almost an hour," she said, reaching for the portmanteau. The sound of the doorknocker stayed her hand. She and Mr. Parks exchanged alarmed looks. With a helpless shrug, he opened the door. Sir Rodney Moncton stood in the doorway.

"His lordship is not in," the butler said, trying to block the door.

"I haven't come to see Lord Kettering," Moncton said, pushing the butler aside. "I've come to call on Miss Douglas." He strode into the foyer but stopped short at the sight of her. "Miss Douglas, you're here!"

"How do you do, Sir Rodney," she said with a little bow, noting that the fellow was dressed with unusual care, his white-streaked hair pulled back neatly and his neckcloth immaculate. The only blemish in his polished appearance was a swollen, discolored jaw.

"I've come to ask you to take a drive in the park with me," he said with enthusiastic vigor. "How fortunate you're already dressed for the outdoors."

"I'm sorry, sir," she said firmly, "but I'm about to depart for my home in Cheshire."

His face fell. "You can't mean it! Leaving London?"

"Yes, sir."

He stood for a moment staring at her strangely. "But surely you'll be returning in a few days?"

"No, sir, I shan't." She picked up her portmanteau and tried to pass him by. "If you'll excuse me..."

"But I see no coach waiting for you," he said.

"No, I take the stage."

He wrenched the portmanteau from her hand. "You will not take the stage. It will be my pleasure to drive you home in my carriage."

'To Cheshire?" She shook her head and tried to take the luggage back. "That is not possible, sir. I could not accept."

"Why not?" he demanded. "It's but an afternoon's ride."

"It's much more than that," Mr. Parks put in nervously.

Sir Rodney glared at him. "The time means nothing to me."

"Please don't insist, Sir Rodney," Jane said. "We are strangers, after all, and I have no abigail or chaperone. Surely you must understand that I cannot accept such an offer." And she reached again for her luggage.

He held it off from her. "Then at least let me take you to the coaching inn. Are you bound for the Swan? It cannot be more than a few minutes away. What harm can there be in that?"

Jane and Mr. Parks exchanged glances. The butler's look seemed to say that, although Sir Rodney was annoying, the offer was not unreasonable. Jane herself was weary of debating with the man, and time was passing. There was no harm, she supposed, in accepting the brief ride. "Very well, sir," she said with a surrendering sigh, "I'll accept your invitation with thanks." Quickly, as if he feared she'd change her mind, Moncton ushered her out, gave her portmanteau to his tiger, bundled her into the carriage, and, with a nod to his coachman, jumped in after her. Jane gave one last wave to Mr. Parks, who stood in the doorway watching her, and the carriage set off. She kept looking out of the coach's rear window until the Kettering town house was no longer visible.

If she'd been alone, she could have given way to the tears that had been welling up in her throat for the past half hour, but even this small release was denied her. It wouldn't do to cry in the presence of Sir Rodney Moncton.

She supposed she ought to be grateful to Sir Rodney for his generous escort, but his overbearing manner was not endearing. He had a discomfiting way of behaving as if he were her intimate friend instead of a rather irritating stranger. Even here in the carriage, he'd seated himself much too close to her. She slid over to the farthest corner of the seat, hoping he would not be so rude as to follow. For a few moments he remained where he was, but slowly, almost imperceptibly, he moved toward her until his knee was pressing against her leg again. Squeezed into the corner as she was, she could either submit in silence or complain and make a scene. She decided to submit, for the ride
(thank goodness!)
would be short.