Lord Buckingham’s Bride (21 page)

He faced her uncle. ‘Where is she?'

Mr Clearwell saw that somehow he knew. ‘She sailed on the
Duchess of Clarence
just after you left for the palace.'

Francis' blue eyes were bitter and reproachful. ‘Why in God's name didn't you say anything to me? Didn't I at least deserve that much?'

‘My boy, it isn't what I wanted, but Alison begged me to give my word. She feels she must return to England to try to put things right for you with Lady Pamela, and once she had decided that that is what
she must do, there was no changing her mind. She loves you, but it isn't a selfish love; it's the sort of love that will always place your happiness first.'

‘My happiness?' cried Francis, turning away and running his fingers through his hair. ‘I must go after her.'

‘And what of Lady Pamela?'

Francis' eyes swung back toward him. ‘Sir, if I am not mistaken, that lady is to be your daughter-in-law, for I did not lie when I said that she still had a
tendre
for your son William. Alison chose not to believe me. She thought I'd have said anything at that time in order to bring my mission here to a successful conclusion. It's true that I love Pamela, but there are degrees of love, are there not? Pamela isn't the one I wish to marry. I want Alison as my bride.'

‘Then you must persuade her, my boy.'

‘I intend to. I'll follow her on the first available ship.'

I
t was humid and thundery on the evening the
Duchess of Clarence
arrived in the Pool of London, just upstream of the Tower.
Yellow-gray
clouds hung low over the city, and the air was stifling. The Thames was as still as a mill pool, with reflections barely moving on its mirrorlike surface, and every sound seemed to travel a long way. England's capital sweltered in an unaccustomed haze of oppressive early-summer heat, and after the crispness of St Petersburg it was almost claustrophobic.

Alison said farewell to Captain Merryvale, and then she and Katya were rowed toward the northern shore of the Thames and the steps between the Customs House and Billingsgate fish market. Escorted by one of the ship's crew, they were taken to the Moor's Head Inn in nearby Lower Thames Street. The inn was one of the finest posting houses in the city and was Alison's deliberate choice, for she had no intention as yet of adjourning to William's residence in Berkeley Street, Mayfair, but meant to go direct to Marchington House, which was by the Thames at Hammersmith, farther inland.

Within half an hour of leaving the
Duchess of Clarence
, she and Katya were seated in a post chaise that conveyed them at speed across the capital. It was the custom of such vehicles to drive like the wind – indeed, the yellow-jacketed postboys were known as ‘yellow
bounders
,' and were far from popular with other road users – but they were nevertheless the best form of transport if one did not possess a carriage of one's own.

Katya gazed out excitedly, for London was so very different from St Petersburg, and there was so much to look at. The maid sat on the
edge of the carriage seat, her eyes shining. She wore a straw bonnet and a blue linen chemise gown, with a plain white shawl resting lightly around her shoulders; she had left Russia wearing a cloak to keep out the chill of the northern wind.

Alison wore a primrose three-quarter-length pelisse over a white muslin gown, and a little brimless primrose silk hat adorned with a flouncy ostrich plume that curled down to her right shoulder. Her hair was swept up beneath the hat, except for a frame of soft curls around her face, and her only jewelry was a dainty pearl brooch. Her gloved hands clasped and unclasped nervously in her lap, not only because she would soon be face to face with Pamela, but also because she knew that a violent thunderstorm was in the offing. The last thing she wished was to be out on the open road when the storm broke, but she was still determined to tell Pamela the whole truth without delay and to make her accept that she was the one Francis loved.

The church clocks were striking half-past-eight as the chaise dashed along Piccadilly. Every evening at this time there was a crowd
gathered
outside the Gloucester Coffee House to watch the spectacle of the West Country mail coaches, which set off in colorful convoy as the final chime was struck. Horns blowing and hooves clattering, the six gleaming maroon-and-black coaches drove off immediately in front of the chaise, which was forced to check its speed and follow them. The postboy cursed as he reined in the lead horse he was riding, but there was nothing he could do but bring up the rear of the
dashing
cavalcade.

Katya stared out in amazement at the coaches, for each one carried outside passengers and never before had she seen people traveling in this precarious and seemingly dangerous fashion. Surely they would be thrown off when the coach turned a corner. Or they would be
catapulted
into the air if there was a bump in the road.

The convoy of coaches sped past Hyde Park Corner and on toward the Knightsbridge turnpike gate, but still the outside passengers were secure in their places. As they swept through the open gate, for his majesty's mail passed freely along the highways, it was plain that
traveling
outside wasn't quite as hazardous as the maid had thought, and she gazed admiringly after them as the chaise was forced to halt to pay the toll.

Alison glanced up at the lowering skies, where the clouds seemed to be pressing down over the city. The air was heavy and so humid that she felt she couldn't draw breath. It was unpleasantly close, and she knew it wouldn't freshen until the storm had broken and run its course. She was afraid, staring ahead along the busy highway as the postboy urged his team on once more.

A low growl of thunder rolled across the heavens and a warm breath of wind blew across the dusty road, whipping up small clouds as the chaise dashed on its way. The trees whispered, shaking their leaves, and the air was strangely clear, as if everything was much nearer than it really was. Alison's heart had begun to beat more swiftly the moment she heard that ominous roll of thunder, and she had to clasp her hands tightly in her lap to try to maintain her
composure
. She mustn't give into her terror of thunder, not now …

The chaise drove through open countryside toward Hammersmith. The hedgerows were heavy with hawthorn blossom and honeysuckle, and lacy white cow parsley nodded at the wayside. As the wind increased, petals were dislodged, fluttering through the air like warm snow. A vivid flash of lightning lit the heavens as the village of Hammersmith appeared ahead, and the first heavy drops of rain struck the coach windows. The postboy turned up his collar and urged his team to greater effort, but he knew that he wouldn't reach his destination without getting a terrible soaking.

An earspliting crash of thunder reverberated directly overhead as the chaise drove wildly through the village, passing the famous sixteenth-century Red Cow Inn, which was the first stage out of London on the much-used road to the west. The storm intensified with each minute now, and rain sluiced down the windows as more flashes of lightning were followed by thunder that seemed to roll endlessly across the sky. Puddles formed and the chaise splashed through them, sending muddy spray over the trembling cow parsley. They had left the main highway now and were driving along the country lane that led to Marchington House and its beautiful park on the bank of the Thames.

The gates of the estate were open, the lodgekeeper having left them when he had dashed inside as the storm began, and another roll of thunder disguised the rattle of the carriage as it drove through into
the park. The drive curved between rhododendrons that were in full bloom, the heavy crimson, purple, white, and pink flowers standing out against the shining dark-green leaves. Gusts of wind blustered through the trees, sometimes blowing so strongly that branches bent to and fro as if trying to break free from the trunks. Leaves spun through the wild air, and lightning stabbed brilliantly through the gloom, each bright flash followed almost immediately by another thunderclap.

Alison's heart was pounding in her breast now, and despite her determination to remain calm, the past had begun to move around her. She could hear those other hooves, driving along that Wiltshire lane, and she could see her mother's face smiling at her in the window glass. Tears were wet on her cheeks and she turned her face away so that Katya wouldn't see. The maid was unaffected by the storm; indeed, she appeared to find it as exciting as she had everything else since setting out on this first great journey of her life. Nothing had alarmed her and nothing had tired her; she was carried along by the sheer exhilaration of seeing and experiencing things she had never dreamed she would ever know. She didn't glance at Alison and so didn't know that her mistress was now close to breaking point, driven there by a storm that was the final straw after everything else that had borne down upon her in recent weeks.

The postboy urged his team on along the gravel drive as it wound between the trees of the park. The house was nowhere in sight yet, for the rhododendron drive was deliberately long so that its
magnificence
could be enjoyed to the full. By now the rain was so heavy that it washed rapidly down the carriage windows, distorting the view into a blur of bending, twisting shapes. Alison didn't see the park, but instead saw the Wiltshire countryside during a long-gone storm, and she heard her mother's gentle voice trying to soothe her. But she couldn't be soothed; she was too frightened. She stared at the rain on the glass, her breath catching as yet another jagged line of forked lightning split the sky outside. This time it didn't drain harmlessly into the ground, but struck an oak tree that hung directly over the drive a little way ahead. The tree shattered as if riven by a gigantic axe, and with a splintering groan it crashed across the way, barely giving the postboy time to rein his terrified horses in.

A wild uncontrollable hysteria surged through Alison. As the chaise drew to a sharp standstill, the horses tossing their heads within a few feet of the still-trembling branches that blocked their path, she flung the door open and alighted. She felt the wind tugging at her hem and the lash of the rain against her face. The smell of wet earth mingled with the sweet fragrant balsam trees, and torn leaves whirled away on the storm as another thunderclap split the sky overhead. The earth seemed to shudder and the rain fell even more heavily as the clouds burst.

Katya had been flung to the floor of the carriage by the force of the halt, and the postboy was preoccupied with trying to calm his
terrified
horses, so that neither of them saw Alison push her way around the fallen tree and then gather her skirts to run on along the drive, ignoring the storm. Her white muslin gown was soon drenched and mud-stained, and her pelisse was torn by the jagged branch she had caught it on while pushing past the tree. The ostrich plume in her little hat was soon a very sorry sight, hanging low and dejected over her wet shoulder as she ran tearfully along the drive, determined to somehow reach the house. Her panic was overhwelming and all she could think of was getting to Pamela and telling her the truth.

Sobs rose in her throat as she ran blindly through the storm, her little shoes offering no protection to the soles of her feet as she hurried over small stones amid the gravel. The wind soughed
impatiently
through the trees, and the clouds raced menacingly overhead. Lightning flashed again and was followed by thunder, but all she could hear was the pounding of her own heart and the accusing
whisper
of her own conscience. She had had no right to fall in love with Francis, no right to think even for a moment that she could marry him; he belonged to Pamela and must still make her his bride … Lady Pamela Linsey was meant to be Lord Buckingham's bride, not Alison Clearwell. Not Alison Clearwell. Not Alison Clearwell. The three uncompromising words were repeated over and over again in her head, and fresh tears stung her eyes as she ran on through the wildness of the storm. Her heart was in turmoil, tightening accusingly within her breast, and she was soaked to the skin as at last the drive led out of the trees and across the open park toward the house, which stood splendidly on a small hill above a bend in the Thames.

Marchington House had been built in 1762 by Robert Adam, and was a perfect example of his design. It faced grandly across its deer park, standing out sharply as another flash of lightning stabbed the surrounding countryside with electric blue. Alison stumbled on through the wind and rain, the sight of the house spurring her on. She had to reach Pamela, she had to tell her how and why everything had happened. Pamela had to believe her, and had to turn a deaf ear to Mrs Fairfax-Gunn …

Lights had been lit in the house because of the gloom of the storm, and as she drew nearer, she could see the elegant ballroom, which was built to one side of the main house. She could see the dazzling
chandeliers
and the beautiful mirrors lining the green-and-gold walls, and she could see a man and a woman, elegantly clad, dancing alone together. Their faces were flushed and smiling as they looked into each other's eyes, she so dark and lovely, he so tall, manly, and
protective
, with sandy hair and brown eyes.

Alison's steps faltered, and she stood in the rain staring at them as they danced. Her clothes clung wetly to her body, and a wild
confusion
of emotion was still swirling enervatingly through her as she watched Lady Pamela Linsey gazing adoringly up into William Clearwell's dark eyes. Pamela wore a pink silk gown that plunged low over her curvaceous bosom, and there were diamonds at her throat and in her ears; she looked breathtakingly beautiful. They paused in their seductive dancing and he drew her closer, his arm slipping around her slender waist. Then he bent his head, kissing her on the lips, and she did not hesitate before linking her arms around his neck and returning the kiss.

The rain washed coldly over Alison as she stared at them. It was all a dream, she wasn't really here at all … She looked toward the house, taking a hesitant step, but then her legs wouldn't support her. Everything was spinning – the storm, the ballroom, the earth – and day turned to night as she sank to the wet grass. She was only vaguely aware of shouts from the doorway as some footmen emerged to see if there really was someone there, as a frightened maid had claimed she had seen from an upstairs window. She heard their steps and then felt them gathering her up from where she lay. She didn't see the two in the ballroom draw guiltily apart as the servants' voices carried from
the house. Another flash of lightning illuminated the gathering gloom of the stormy evening, but Alison was barely aware of it.

Then she heard the echo of a vast entrance hall and Pamela's anxious voice asking the butler what had happened.

‘It's a lady, my lady, the maid saw her outside in the storm.'

Pamela hurried closer, looking anxiously at Alison's pale face. Her breath caught in surprise. ‘Alison?'

Alison's eyes filled with tears of wretchedness. ‘Forgive me, Pamela,' she whispered brokenly, ‘forgive me for everything. It's you that he loves, not me, you must believe that.'

‘What do you mean, Alison? I don't understand.' Pamela took her cold, wet hand. ‘What on earth are you doing here like this? I thought you were in St Petersburg. Where is your carriage?'