Sheri Cobb South (16 page)

“The spinney? He’d get lost for sure, not knowing his way ‘round here,” objected the other.

“Not with a guide, he wouldn’t.” She leaned forward and propped her elbows on the table, the better to afford Sir Aubrey an unobstructed view of bountiful bosom. “I’d be that pleased to show you the way, if you like.”

The older woman planted her hands on her ample hips and glowered at the younger, but even without that woman’s patent disapproval, Sir Aubrey would have had no difficulty in surmising that, once they reached the privacy of the spinney, his escort would have been in no hurry to reach Wembley Cottage.

“Thank you, but I, er, shouldn’t dream of keeping you from your duties,” he demurred.

With a little huff of frustration, his would-be guide betook herself from the table, leaving the other to beam at Sir Aubrey as she might a schoolboy who had correctly ciphered a particularly difficult sum.

“As I was saying, sir, if you want Wembley Cottage, you just follow that lane right to the end, and there it’ll be, big as life.”

So saying, she left Sir Aubrey to enjoy his meal. The food was plain but satisfying, and yet Sir Aubrey could not quite shake the feeling that he was the main course. The younger of the two serving-women lost no opportunity to stroll past his table, often near enough that her skirts brushed his shoulder and once, when he was foolhardy enough to look up, meeting his distracted gaze with a broad wink. At one time, he would not have been averse to whiling away an agreeable hour with a game pullet who was obviously eager to oblige him. But the lures being cast out to him only served to emphasize Polly’s genteel manner, and to make him all the more impatient to prove her worthy of the position to which he hoped to raise her. Strengthened in this resolve, he at last pushed his plate away, paid his shot, and set out on foot for Wembley Cottage.

Dismissing the spinney with a shudder, he held to the main road until he passed the church, then took the lane leading off to the right. It twisted and turned, bisecting green meadows where sheep grazed, then skirting the woods—the serving-maid’s spinney, no doubt—for a short distance before ending at a quaint cottage. Summer flowers bloomed riotously in the garden, but there was still a deserted air about the place. Sir Aubrey had the sinking feeling that his hopes were about to be blighted once more. Nevertheless, he rapped on the front door, and a moment later it was opened by a maid wearing the ubiquitous dark dress and white apron and cap.

“Sir Aubrey Tabor, to see Mrs. Jennings,” he said, giving the girl his card.

“Oh, but Mrs. Jennings ain’t at home, sir,” she answered, staring wide-eyed at her mistress’s elegant visitor.

Sir Aubrey suppressed a sigh. Nothing on his journey thus far had suggested it would be easy; why should he expect otherwise now? “When do you expect her home? May I wait?”

“Oh, no, sir! She’s gone away with her sister. The doctor sent Miss Whitfield—Mrs. Jennings’s sister, that is, only you’d never guess they was sisters, if you were to ask me—”

“Yes, yes,” Sir Aubrey cut short what showed every indication of being a very lengthy comparison of the two women. “Where did the doctor send her?”

“Just a moment.” Ducking back into the house, she shut the door so swiftly that she almost caught the tip of Sir Aubrey’s aristocratic nose. A moment later the door opened again, and this time the maid bore a small square of paper. “I can’t read, sir, but she’s having all her mail sent to this direction.”

Sir Aubrey took the paper and read it. Suddenly, to the little maid’s utter astonishment, he threw back his head and began to laugh.

Mrs. Jennings’s mail was being sent to Number 11 Bedford Square, Brighton.

Chapter 13

Hasty marriage seldom proveth well. WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,
King Henry the Sixth

While Sir Aubrey criss-crossed England on his quest, Polly tried valiantly to convince herself that she did not miss him at all. She reminded herself daily that any man who could kiss a girl passionately one night only to leave town the very next morning had clearly proven himself to be undeserving of her regard, and therefore unworthy of a moment’s melancholy reflection. Unfortunately, these lofty sentiments had the effect of adding to her misery, rather than alleviating it.

In the light of Sir Aubrey’s defection, his cousin Lord Sutcliffe’s obvious admiration acted as a balm to her wounded pride. It would be a rare young lady indeed who did not enjoy being adored, and the viscount’s timidity guaranteed her safety from those attentions which she had found so alarming in bolder suitors. Consequently, young Lord Sutcliffe was both surprised and gratified to find himself elevated to the position of favorite. As if afraid his exalted status was destined to be short-lived, he availed himself of every opportunity to squire her about. Every day found them strolling about the Steine or riding donkeys along the clifftops overlooking the beach; every night, dancing at the Old Ship or Castle Inn assemblies. The marquess observed his son and heir’s courtship with a jaundiced eye, but refrained from remonstrating with the youth again—a circumstance which said much for the marquess’s faith in Sir Aubrey’s word.

One sunny afternoon in early August, Lord Sutcliffe had the pleasure of accompanying Polly to the Lanes on a shopping expedition, having successfully begged the privilege of carrying her parcels. These were not likely to prove much of a burden: Polly was immensely pleased to find a pair of gloves for only four shillings, but feared sixteen was far too dear for a painted fan, be it never so fetching. Sutcliffe was quick to offer to make her a gift of it, and after protesting prettily, Polly allowed her scruples to be overruled, and they departed the shop much in charity with one another.

Once outside, however, they came face to face with two ladies intent upon entering the same shop which had so recently enjoyed their patronage. Both ladies were of a certain age, tall and somewhat frail, and one was dressed in the unrelieved black which bespoke the recent widow. Upon seeing this person, Polly’s eyes opened wide with fear and the color drained from her face. She would have averted her gaze, but the widow had already recognized her, and to administer the cut direct would have created just that sort of disturbance which Polly wanted at all costs to avoid.

“M—Mrs. Jennings,” she stammered, “What—what a pleasant surprise! I had no idea you were in Brighton.”

“I daresay you did not,” remarked the widow, disapproval writ large upon her countenance as she surveyed Polly’s fashionable jaconet muslin walking dress, beribboned leghorn bonnet, and handsome young beau. “I thought you were fixed in London.”

“I thought so, too, but—but I am in Brighton as the houseguest of Lady Helen Brundy,” said Polly, lifting her chin a little. “Is—is this your sister? Oh, and let me introduce my escort, Lord Sutcliffe. My lord, this is Mrs. Jennings, who was kind enough to take me in when my mother died, and her sister Miss Whitfield.”

“I am sure any friend of yours must be a friend of mine, Miss Crump,” Lord Sutcliffe said gallantly, making an elegant leg.

“Miss Crump?” echoed Mrs. Jennings ominously.

“But we must not keep you standing on the sidewalk,” Polly protested, tugging at the sleeve of Sutcliffe’s coat. “I promised Lady Helen I would return in time for tea.  Do call, Mrs. Jennings.”

“Be sure I shall,” the widow promised, and Polly could not fail to read the threat concealed within those four words. “I should like to meet this Lady Helen of yours. I’m sure we would find much to discuss.”

Polly stammered an all but incoherent farewell and dragged the hapless viscount away with a most unseemly haste, her heart pounding as if it might at any moment burst. Mrs. Jennings in Brighton! Who would have supposed that her misguided search for her father would end in such disaster? Cruel experience had long since taught her that while the vicar’s widow might mouth pious platitudes, there was no real Christian charity in her. No, Mrs. Jennings would not hesitate to reveal her erstwhile ward’s perfidy to Lady Helen, nor all Brighton, for that matter. Polly was a ruined creature, and all her faculties must now be devoted to finding a way to disappear before her shame became the talk of Brighton.

So all-consuming was her inner turmoil that she could not even carry on a nominal conversation with her escort. Fortunately, Lord Sutcliffe was so preoccupied with his own thoughts that he hardly noticed his fair companion’s distress. When Miss Crump had first indicated a preference for his company, he had hardly dared to hope, but surely there could be no mistaking the meaning behind the trembling hand clutching his sleeve and the pleading blue eyes gazing up at him. In short, the young viscount had all the happiness of knowing that his affections were returned, and this discovery emboldened him to put his fate to the touch. Granted, Brighton’s shopping district was not the most romantic setting for a proposal of marriage, but the remarkable progress of Sutcliffe’s courtship over the course of the last week had made the viscount a firm believer in striking while the iron was hot, and he resolved to declare himself before his courage flagged.

“Miss Crump, you cannot have failed to notice—” Sutcliffe abandoned this approach, as Miss Crump might indeed have failed to notice, and might take offense at this seeming disparagement of her powers of observation. “Miss Crump, although you may feel that I am too young to have formed a serious attachment—” This attempt, too, was weighed and found wanting. Nothing could be gained by giving Miss Crump ammunition with which to repel his advances, and if she had not previously considered his lack of years a hindrance, it would be foolish in the extreme to bring this deficiency to her notice. The direct approach, he decided, was always the best. “Miss Crump, will you marry me?”

In truth, Polly was so consumed by her own worries that she had taken no notice of her escort’s two false starts at all, save for an awareness that every repeat of that hastily assumed name seemed to remind her anew of her sins, and of the coming retribution.    His blunt question, however, penetrated her consciousness with all the force of a lightning bolt. It was as if she had been drowning in the choppy waters of the Channel and someone had tossed her a lifeline. Surely once her name was Lady Sutcliffe, it would matter little what it had been before. For what had she to fear from Mrs. Jennings with all the dignity of the Inglewood name at her command?  Who would believe the venomous outpourings of a country vicar’s widow over the word of the Viscountess Sutcliffe and someday Marchioness of Inglewood?

“I should be happy to marry you,” Polly said without roundaboutation.

Lord Sutcliffe could scarcely believe his ears. No sooner had Miss Crump accepted his suit than he recalled in vivid detail the difficulties in breaking the news of his impending nuptials to his father. The only solution he could see was a clandestine marriage, after which he would present the marquess with a
fait accompli.
He was just drawing breath to suggest this scheme to Miss Crump, after which he was prepared to apply all his powers of persuasion to soothing her maidenly aversion to such an improper course of action, when his chosen bride took the words from his mouth.

“Only you must know that I abhor long engagements. In fact,” she added resolutely, “I have always thought it would be terribly romantic to elope.”

“I, too, think an elopement the very thing,” he declared when he had recovered from the shock. “How much time do you need to prepare?”

After some whispered debate, it was agreed that they would slip away from the Prince’s reception at the Royal Pavilion that very night. Lord Sutcliffe questioned the wisdom of this scheme, being convinced that the bride might require more time to prepare for the three-day journey to Gretna Green, but Polly, recalling Mrs. Jennings’s veiled threats, was adamant. In the end, the viscount was obliged to yield.

Shortly thereafter, he returned her to the Marine Parade where she, pleading the need to rest before her presentation to the Prince Regent, locked herself in her room in order to do her packing undisturbed. Her relief at escaping what had seemed inevitable ruin was dimmed somewhat by the knowledge that in running away with Lord Sutcliffe, she was using Mr. Brundy and Lady Helen very shabbily. She could not reconcile it with her conscience to take any of the lovely gowns with which Lady Helen had so generously provided her (and for which, however grudgingly, Mr. Brundy had paid), so after lovingly fingering the numerous pastel silks and satins hanging in the clothespress, she dragged out the dreary gray gowns that had been so much a part of her former life and folded them away in the battered valise, along with such other things as she deemed necessary for a three-day journey. To these she added her most cherished mementos from her stay in Brighton: the three dog-eared volumes of
The Wicked Count
which Lady Tabor had insisted upon presenting to her, having discovered that Polly had never read this thrilling work; the beaded reticule which Lady Helen had at last completed; and the brass spyglass which Sir Aubrey had given her that day on the beach. Interestingly enough, she spared scarcely a thought for the painted fan her future husband had purchased for her that very day, although she turned Sir Aubrey’s peace offering over and over in her hands, recalling in minute and exquisitely painful detail every word of their conversation.

You haven’t the bloodlines for a brilliant match. . . .
Well, Sir Aubrey Tabor would soon learn his mistake! She pictured with no small satisfaction the look on his face when he returned to Brighton and made his bow to the new Lady Sutcliffe. She would smile condescendingly and give him her fingertips to kiss.. . .

This image was less satisfying, as it brought another, most uncousinly kiss forcibly to mind. Quickly, as if the polished brass burned her hand, she flung it back into the bureau drawer, only too willing for Lady Tabor to return it to her son. Then, picturing him ogling the prettiest sea-bathers through its magnifying lens, she picked it up again, buried it in the bottom of the valise, and snapped the bag shut.