Runaway Bride Page 6

  ‘No use to fly out at me, Jenny. If you mean to act the termagant it will have to be separate establishments, that’s all. Your fortune, I apprehend, will be enough for both. No need to call on mine.’

  ‘You dispose mighty freely of my fortune.’ She was becoming really angry now.

  ‘I shall be able to. My uncle’s lawyers are drawing up the settlements today.’

  ‘I’ll never sign them.’

  ‘I warrant you will, if Uncle Gurning intends you should.’

  It gave her coldly to pause. How far would her uncle go? She changed her tone. ‘Edmund, we are old friends. Only help me in this and I’ll do anything for you. The half of my fortune—anything.’

  ‘How should I help you? Believe me, you are beyond help. But compose yourself and make the best of it. I promise I’ll not be a demanding husband. Indeed,’ he reddened, ‘separate chambers will suit me vastly well.’

  Absurdly, the fact that he did not even want her was the last straw. She broke into furious tears and might even have flown at him if her uncle had not appeared. He must, she realized, have been listening outside the door.

  ‘Well, well,’ he rubbed his hands. ‘Enough of your billing and cooing. Time for that tomorrow.’ His voice hardened. ‘To your room, miss, and do not think to leave it again tonight.’

  Hope dwindled. ‘But shall I not see Elizabeth?’ She had always been fond of her cousin.

  ‘Time enough for that tomorrow. Promise you’ll do nothing to shock her and she shall act as your bride’s maid.’

  It was defeat. In numb despair, she heard the key of her room turn in the lock, then started, ceaselessly, to pace up and down. Below, she heard the sound of carriages driving up. So her uncle was entertaining tonight. No doubt he felt he had cause for celebration. The settlements she and Edmund were to sign tomorrow would conceal for ever his depredations upon both their fortunes.

  To and fro she paced, to and fro. What did she care for her fortune if she could only save herself? She went to the window and looked out. The front drive lay far below her, clear in the moonlight. A cord of knotted sheets? But if she could make one long enough, where would she go? Lucy Faversham’s house was five miles away; the stables were securely locked at night. No matter for that. She would walk. Systematically, she removed the sheets from her bed, rejoicing that they were the finest of strong cambric, and set to work. But the rope, she soon saw, would not be nearly long enough.

  Again, she was facing despair, when she heard a tiny scratching at her door. She hurried to it.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she whispered.

  ‘It’s I, Elizabeth. Oh, Jenny, what are they doing to you?’ Hope sprang, unreasoning. Here, perhaps, was an ally. ‘Lizzy, my love, I am in despair. Your father means that I shall marry Edmund tomorrow.’

  ‘Marry Edmund?’ There was a catch in the whispered breath, and suddenly Jennifer saw it all. Edmund’s detachment, the despair in Elizabeth’s voice...Here, indeed, was an ally.

  ‘Lizzy,’ she whispered urgently. ‘We cannot talk like this. Run quick to the servants’ quarters. The key of the housekeeper’s room fits mine. The boys discovered it years ago. Then we can talk in safety. But be sure my uncle does not see you.’

  ‘Never fear for Father,’ came the whisper, ‘he is entertaining the Whig Committee. They are safe for hours. And Mother is retired with one of her megrims. Wait, Jenny, I’ll fetch the key.’

  Pacing, more hopefully now, up and down the room as she waited, Jennifer considered what was best to do next. When Elizabeth returned and, breathlessly, unlocked the door and slid inside, she was ready with her plan. There was no time to be lost. At any moment her uncle might come to make sure his captive was safe. Urgently, she whispered her instructions to Elizabeth. The stable door must be left unlocked. Then, when the house was quiet, she would let herself out of her room with the housekeeper’s key (which would never be missed) leaving the knotted sheets hanging from the window to make her uncle think she had escaped that way, without help from the house.

  ‘But, Jenny,’ asked Elizabeth, ‘where will you go then?’

  ‘Where but to the Favershams? I am confident the General will stand my friend against such a piece of tyranny as this. Why, what’s the matter?’

  ‘Matter enough I fear. The Favershams left for their London house last Friday sennight.’

  This was a blow indeed. For a moment, Jennifer was silent, then she brightened. ‘Nothing for it but to follow them then. And, indeed, I shall be safer in London than five miles away. Faversham Hall is the first place my uncle will look for me.’

  ‘But how will you go to London?’

  ‘By the stage coach, you goose. Do you think I’m too fine a lady to ride in it?’

  ‘I think you’d do anything, Jenny,’ said Elizabeth with fervent admiration. ‘But take the stage coach tomorrow you cannot. It is three weeks past that they discontinued all but the Tuesday and Friday coaches for the winter.’

  Jennifer’s face fell. ‘That is indeed a facer. But no doubt I could hire a chaise in Petworth. How much money can you lend me, Lizzy? You see I do not ask whether you are willing to lend it me.’

  ‘Nor need you, my love, but alas, I fear I am in low water. My father sent me to Chichester only the other day with a host of commissions and my pockets are sadly to let. Will three guineas be of any use to you?’

  Wondering if this unusual shopping expedition was an unhappy chance, or yet another instance of her uncle’s providence for evil, Jennifer counted her own money, which amounted to still less. ‘No use,’ she said at last. ‘Even with your three guineas, for which I thank you with all my heart, I shall not have enough. No help for it. I shall have to ride all the way. No, never look so cast down, Lizzy, you well know it is something I have always longed to do.’

  Elizabeth did indeed look horrified at the idea. ‘But, Jenny, you, a young lady, to ride all that way unattended? Only think of the scandal.’

  ‘Too late for me to be troubling myself about scandal, I fear, but you are right for all that. I shall not ride as a lady. Do you recollect last Christmas when we acted Mr Garrick’s Irish Widow and I took the part of Mrs Brady and had to masquerade as a lieutenant? Everyone said I made an admirable boy. Well, I shall do it again. I still have the old green coat of poor Richard’s that I wore, and the breeches I made to wear with it. With a greatcoat over all and,’ she looked wistfully at her reflection in the glass, ‘something of an execution upon my hair, I shall pass for an excellent young sprig on exeat from Eton.’

  ‘But what will the General say when you reach Great Peter Street so habited?’

  Jennifer pulled a face. ‘My love, I dare not even consider it. No time for terrors now; run, quick and fetch me the money. Even uncle’s hard drinking politicos will go home at last. And you must help me crop my hair before you go. What an excellent thing it is that it is become modish to wear it short. I will be quite the thing, I promise you.’

  Which did not prevent kind-hearted Elizabeth from bursting into tears as the auburn curls floated to the floor. ‘Oh, Jenny, I cannot bear to have you go away. I love you so dearly. Far better than Papa.’

  Jennifer smiled at her fondly. ‘And are proving it, my love. But, remember, if I stay, I must marry Edmund and I do not believe that would suit either of our books.’

  Elizabeth went so fiery red that Jennifer kindly said no more, but urged her to get safely back to her room before the party downstairs broke up. With a last, tearful kiss Elizabeth left her. Alone, Jennifer found the time pass slowly. She did not dare lie down on her bed for fear of falling asleep. She must make her escape as soon as the house was quiet, so as to be as far forward as possible on the road to London when her escape was discovered and pursuit began.

  To give herself a little more time, she sat down and composed a note to her uncle. The inkwell in her little writing desk had nearly dried in her absence, so it had, perforce, to be brief:

  ‘Uncle: I shall risk my life climbing from m
y window rather than submit to your odious plan. Do not seek for me again. I am not gone back to Laverstoke. Believe this and spare yourself the embarrassment of making enquiries there. Believe, too, that I do not intend to be found.’

  Here the ink ran out and she did not even sign the note. It should, she hoped, protect Elizabeth. She hoped, too, that her uncle would believe her pockets well enough lined to permit her hiring a chaise, which would take her to London before he had any chance of catching her. He would, of course, be informed that Starlight was missing, but must, she hoped, assume that she had ridden him only as far as one of the neighbouring towns where she might hire a chaise. If her luck held, he would lose some time enquiring whether she had indeed done so. Most of all, she found herself passionately hoping that he would believe her statement and not seek her at Laverstoke Hall. The idea of his confronting Lord Mainwaring and demanding her as his errant ward was somehow intolerable. Then she caught herself up: why should she assume that Lord Mainwaring would interest himself in her disappearance? When he heard of it, he would merely shrug it off, convinced of the justice of his original doubts of her.

  A tear trickled down her cheek But this was no time for despairing. She pulled herself together and went briskly to the big closet where she had sadly packed away such of her brothers’ clothes as she could not bear to part with. When she had dressed, she considered herself carefully in her looking-glass. Yes, with the greatcoat’s shower of capes which added much-needed width to her shoulders, she would do well enough. If possible she must not take it off. Just as well it was winter.

  A sudden burst of merriment from below told her that her uncle’s party was breaking up at last. A sudden thought struck her. What if he should pay her a late visit? Quick as a flash, she hid the knotted sheets, coat and greatcoat in her closet and climbed into bed, pulling the clothes well up around her chin. Surely he would not intrude upon her bedroom, but it was best to play safe.

  A few minutes later, as the carriages rolled away from the sweep below, there came a knock on her door.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she called sleepily, blowing out her candle.

  ‘It is I, your aunt. I came to see if you want for anything, Jenny?’

  Not for the first time, Jennifer acknowledged in her uncle a worthy adversary, as she heard the key turn in the lock of her door. Her aunt entered in her violet négligé, her candle throwing odd shadows about the room as she looked round, clearly under orders to make sure that all was as usual. Then she approached the bed and put a cold hand on Jennifer’s forehead. ‘Do not attempt to fight your uncle any more, Jenny my dear. You only waste your time. He always wins. Act a complaisant part tomorrow and it shall be the better for you.’

  Terrified lest her aunt should notice that she had on one of her brothers’ shirts, Jennifer buried herself still deeper in the bedclothes, pretending a sleepy obstinacy.

  ‘Oh, very well.’ Her aunt’s tired figure drooped still more as she turned away. ‘I just hoped to make things easier for you, Jenny.’

  ‘Thank you, Aunt, I know you mean it kindly.’

  At last she was gone, but still Jennifer forced herself to lie quiet, her eyes fiercely open, staring into the darkness, until the last sound of movement died away in the old house. She knew all its noises by heart and could tell when Soames came up the back stairs, creaking heavily on the third step from the top, and then, last of all the servants, went on up to his room above. Then she heard her uncle climb the front stairs, whistling Jenny Sutton to himself. How like him, she thought angrily, to take no thought for others who might already be asleep. He paused for a moment outside her door and gently tried its lock. Then she heard him slam the door of what she still remembered as her father’s room, next to hers. She waited until she heard his familiar, detested snore before she slipped out of bed. She had no means of relighting her candle, but fortunately the moon shone brilliantly in at her window. By its light she finished her few remaining preparations. She made a sad botch of tying her brother’s cravat, remembering, as she struggled furiously with it, the jokes and laughter that had accompanied similar struggles last time she did so. No time, now, for such memories. She pulled the greatcoat close round her, slipped the few guineas she and Elizabeth had been able to muster into her purse, then felt her way along the dark side of her room to the secret drawer of her desk. Fumbling with the well-known catch, she got it open and took out her pearls, the one piece of her jewellery that her uncle had not discovered and impounded while she was away. If the worst came to the worst they would provide her with the means to supplement her scanty resources. Then, breathlessly, she crossed to the door, turned the housekeeper’s key in the lock and pulled it gently open.

  CHAPTER VI

  Moonlight lay cold and clear across the stable yard. Somewhere in the park, an owl hooted; nearer at hand, a horse stamped restlessly in its loose box. Jennifer moved cautiously towards Starlight’s stall. She knew only too well how lightly Thomas, the head groom, slept in his room over the stables, how quickly he would wake up at any unfamiliar sound.

  But Starlight greeted her with a quiet whicker of affection and showed only polite surprise when instead of the side saddle to which he was accustomed, she set an old one of her brothers’ across his back, congratulating herself as she did so on memories of her tomboy days when she had scandalised Aunt Julia by riding astride with them. Whispering encouragements, she led Starlight as noiselessly as possible out of the yard and a little way down the back drive. Then, happily free in her unwonted costume, she was up, softly urging Starlight to a canter as she guided him on to the grass verge of the drive which would deaden the sound of his hooves. How furious her father would have been at the resultant marks on the smooth grass...But all that was long ago. She clenched her teeth against memory and urged Starlight to a gallop. The park gates were locked at night, but this was not the first time she and Starlight had jumped them.

  Once on the open road, she breathed more easily. Her main anxiety now was lest she lose the road to London. To have to enquire the way might prove fatal. Luckily, she knew the first part of it so well that there was no chance of a mistake, even by the deceptive light of the moon. A quick hard ride through silent fields brought her to her first hazard, the outlying houses of Petworth town. Suppose, by an impossible bit of bad luck, she should meet some night-wandering friend of her uncle’s? But why should he recognise her? With one hand she turned the big collar of her brother’s greatcoat higher about her face and pulled his hat down over the vivid betrayal of her hair. Petworth must be faced. She dared not risk the delay involved in riding round the outskirts of the town.

  To her anxious ear, Starlight’s hooves echoed with appalling noise down the moonlit street. At every moment, she expected a window to fly open, a question to be asked...But, she soothed herself, this was a main road. Night traffic along it must be fairly frequent. It was only to her tense nerves that her presence there, guiding Starlight across the well-known market square, seemed so dangerous, so extraordinary as to compel comment. Now, at last, they were skirting the high walls of Petworth House. A light—the first she had seen—burned in the window of the lodge. Suppose she should ring there and throw herself on the mercy of Lord Egremont? He had long been a patron of her father’s and had often chucked her under the chin in happier days. For a moment, the idea was tempting. But her uncle was too securely entrenched in the county to be braved here, so near home, and Lord Egremont too busy with his affairs of state and art to care much for the fate of one almost unknown young woman. Besides, she remembered her costume. Impossible to present herself at Petworth House so garbed. Her arrival at Lucy’s was going to be difficult enough.

  Her mind made up, she urged on Starlight who had sensed her hesitation and paused in his stride. Soon they were out of the town, following the long wall of Petworth Park. Relieved for the first time from immediate apprehension, with the moonlit road unwinding itself before her, Jennifer had time to feel how tired she was. Soon, she must sleep. A
nd yet, dared she? How long could she reckon before her uncle found she was gone? What if he should bully the truth out of Elizabeth and come straight after her, instead of losing time, as she hoped, in enquiries at the livery stables in Petworth and even, perhaps, Chichester?

  Arguing this way and that with herself, she rode determinedly on, swaying, sometimes, a little in the saddle, increasingly grateful for the familiar steadiness of Starlight’s gait. After what seemed a very long time, a lightening of the air, the occasional chirp of a bird, and, ahead of her, a rousing chorus of cocks, told her the dawn was coming. Starlight pricked up his ears, houses lay ahead; they had reached the outskirts of Billingshurst. Wondering to herself how much Starlight had been exercised the day before and whether he, too, was tired, she remembered, suddenly, a little tavern in Billingshurst, not the regular coaching inn, but an insignificant little place in a side road upon which she and her brothers had happened once after a long day’s hunting. She remembered the landlady’s kind red face and her hearty welcome, still more, the admirable ham and eggs she had produced with profuse apologies for insulting the gentry with such simple fare. There, surely, she might bait Starlight and sleep in safety for an hour or so? Instantly decided, she turned down the remembered side road and was soon rapping in authoritative imitation of her brothers at the door of the little house.

  It was opened, after a nerve-racking delay, by the very red-faced woman of her memory. Too civil to show her surprise at the early visit, the woman—elderly now and stooping, but loquacious and obliging as ever—begged many pardons for her delay. She had been out at the back feeding the hens—had had no idea—was very sorry. She punctuated this incoherent speech with strident calls for ‘John, John, where is the boy...’

  He appeared, a half-grown lad, still rumpled from bed and rubbing sleep from his eyes, but roused himself at the sight of Starlight, took the bridle from Jennifer and promised him the best of care. His mother, meanwhile, was busy blowing up the reluctant fire, apologising for the lack of service and promising, in the same breath, a grilled chicken, and the best chamber to the strange young gentleman who looked so tired and must, she thought, be ill, since he kept his greatcoat close round him even indoors.