Chapter 21
Esme looped the length of rope around the lone linden tree. The valley was vast beneath her, but what choice did she have?
S
he could not wait for Ben to help her. If she stayed another day, it would mean another night in Edward’s arms. No matter what she said—and she had said it all, spelling out how it was the
very last time
every time they had made love, all three times—she didn’t trust herself to keep her word. If she succumbed to Edward again, she might as well lie down in the road and wait for the London stage to run over her, just like in
Beauty and the Baronet
, only at the last minute the baronet pulled the beauty from certain death and into his bed. Edward would do the same. She could
not
keep opening to him—not her mouth, not her legs, not her heart. Nor did she want to open her ears to listen to a new list tomorrow.
She looked at the little bedside clock. It would be later on
today.
They had spent quite a long time in bed, Caroline initiating several moments she meant to remember. The last desperate, drowning kiss. The last graze of her nipple between his teeth. The last twisting thrust of his hips. Even though she tried consciously to cling to the concept of “last,” another day spent at Bradlaw House would make her lose her resolve. Edward would be immaculately civil, his gleaming dark hair brushed back, his face impassive. He would grant her everything he thought she wanted and more. Likely she would be the best-set-up estranged wife in England. In Europe. In the world. And she would be bound to thank him in the only way she knew how.
There was not a hope of her sleeping with Edward’s scent on her bedding. On her. She opened the door to the dressing room. Very conveniently, the armoire had crisp white sheets stacked on the top shelf. But she would not be changing the linens. Just her clothes, because even the wrinkles of her blue dress had wrinkles after what Edward had put her through.
Caroline pulled the last fresh dress from its hanger—a simple slate gray travelling costume with a narrow skirt and tight-fitting matching jacket. She sponge-bathed with the cold water in the pitcher, dug clean undergarments from the drawer where the invisible maid had arranged her few possessions, and buttoned up the silver buttons herself as best she could. Her difficulty was a reminder that she had indulged herself far too much the past few months. If she weren’t careful, one could tip her sideways and roll her down the street like an empty wine barrel. Declaring her hair a hopeless cause, she braided it and tucked it up under a black straw bonnet. Her jewels pinned safely into a pocket in her skirts, she began knotting the sheets together with all the expertise of one of Admiral Nelson’s sailors.
Dawn was not so very far off, and the road from Bradlaw House led straight into Ashford, a busy market town. While she might have wished for her vanished half-boots, her black leather slippers would have to do. She laced them up her stockings, tying them as tightly as she did the sheets. Once she had dropped her line out the window, she discovered she’d underestimated. With a sigh, she pulled a fragrant rumpled sheet from the bed and added one last length. She dragged the chintz chair to the window for an anchor, hoping it wouldn’t catapult over the window frame and come crashing down on her head. The furniture in the first room was much heavier, but Caroline had to escape from where she was. At least the drop to the ground was much more manageable. She could do it with her eyes closed.
And did, barring a disconcerting moment when a gust of wind twisted the makeshift rope and swung her into the bricks of Bradlaw House. She contained her yelp and slipped to freedom. The house was dark and quiet behind her. The only sound was the rattle of dry leaves that would fall soon and the thudding of her own heart.
She ran along the building to the front courtyard, down the tree-lined alley to the iron gates that stood at the end. They were, mercifully, wide open, an egregious oversight on Edward’s part. If she turned right, she would wind up at Christie Park in less than an hour. Ashford was to the left, easy walking on a well-surfaced road, although the overwhelming inky blackness of the country night gave Caroline pause. By walking at a steady pace she should reach Ashford by daybreak. She shivered into her jacket, wishing she’d thought to bring the kidnapper’s cape with her. It would be a memento of the odd adventure of the past two days, and useful besides. However, the sun would soon warm her on the way. No doubt she’d be so crammed into the coach to London with other travelers she’d be too hot for comfort.
She patted her pocket, confirming that the sharp lump of stones and gold and silver was still there. She hadn’t taken all her treasures, but had every confidence Edward would eventually return her possessions to her, even Harold, who would have made an uneasy companion dangling from a window had she been able to find him. Edward would do what was right. He always did, although he’d made a detour of late, making her his unwilling mistress, holding her captive, and not only with ropes and keys.
She was finally free, the wind in her face, her steps lively. Walking to Ashford was not so very arduous. Caroline was not perfectly sure how she would barter a ticket with a trinket or two, but decided to worry about that when the time came. She had to concentrate on the dips and curves of the road and the insidious pebbles that seemed to roll under her every step.
Despite the chill, her armpits became damp and her thighs slapped together rather unpleasantly. She would be chafed and chapped, but who would ever see her red thighs? With each stride she became more aware of the soft life she’d led in London. Her breath was ragged although she moved at a snail’s pace. She was alternately cold and hot, which made no sense at all. What a pity it would be if Edward found her lifeless body in a ditch. He might mourn her, but it would solve the problem of him marrying again. She imagined the next Mrs. Christie, like the first, would be a paragon of virtue and good taste.
Caroline couldn’t remember the last time she was truly virtuous. Even her desire to free Edward was more for her sake than his. She was a selfish creature, chock so full of foibles she didn’t have a name for them all.
She laughed out loud, causing something in the grass to dart and scurry. She was so foolish. One couldn’t die from walking and sweating and feeling sorry for oneself. It was rather ridiculous wearing a bonnet in the dark without a soul to see her, so she loosened the strings to let the air cool her scalp. The straw hat bumped on her back with every step and her braid slithered from its coil. She wiped a drip of perspiration from her left eye, not that she could see a bloody thing. She could hear, though—odd shifting and rustling, croaks and cries, all the usual sounds of a country night. Once, she had been used to them. She’d spent many a Cumberland night as a girl roaming the fields and woods with Nicky. She was no longer so intrepid. London streets might be unsafe, but she’d be delighted to have the company of a few merry inebriated gentlemen and hard pavement beneath her feet.
The air was redolent of leaf mold and damp. She sniffed. Rain was coming, she was sure. Perfect. She trudged on in the gloom, checking the sky every few steps for the black to give way to gray. A handful of stars winked down, most obscured by the scuddering clouds. Caroline sent a brief prayer upward that the rain might hold off until she was closer to Ashford and was rewarded by a wet plop on her nose.
Hell and damnation
. She was already wet underneath her clothes. What difference would it make if she got rained on over them? Wet was wet. She shoved her hat back on her head and picked up the pace until a wicked stitch in her side was impossible to ignore. A low rock loomed ahead and she sat, catching her breath.
And was very glad she did, for she heard the jingling of a harness and the steady clopping of a horse in the distance. For one frightful moment she thought Edward had discovered her, but this particular horse was moving too slowly to be ridden by an angry husband. The creaking roll of a cart could be heard behind it. It must be market day in Ashford.
She stood up uncertainly, waiting to spy the conveyance and its driver. Folks were kindly hereabouts, or had been the brief time Caroline had been at Christie Park. Her walking days might be over. She kept well to the side of the road, not wishing to frighten the horse or its driver, and made her voice as sweet as warm honey. She waved a black-gloved hand in the air, not that anyone could see it.
“Hallo! Hallo! Hallo!”
The rumbling wagon came closer, its lantern swinging on a pole. Caroline saw the dark outline of its driver and a looming piebald workhorse.
“Whoa there, Ajax. And what have we got here?”
“Good morning, sir!” Caroline said brightly. “I’m on my way to Ashford. Could you possibly give me a lift? I’d be happy to pay you.”
The man raised the lantern, casting Caroline in an unwelcome pool of light. “By all that’s holy, you’re Lady Christie, you are. Haven’t seen you in these parts in years, but I’d never forget you or that red hair of yours. Does Lord Christie know you’re out in the dark and rain?”
Of all the rotten luck.
Caroline widened her smile. “Do I know you, sir?”
“Wouldn’t think so. Ham Mitchell. I’m a tenant of one of your neighbors, Lord Bradlaw. I can’t take you back home to Christie Park, you know. It’s market day. And I’m late already.”
His name was unfamiliar. She’d made an effort with Edward’s tenants, but had never felt sure of herself as lady of the manor. She was not Alice and never would be. Caroline had probably made a great many mistakes with them, just as she had with everyone else.
“Oh, that’s quite all right. It’s our home in London I’m going to.”
“On foot? Without a maid?”
She could imagine his suspicious face even if she couldn’t quite see it. “It’s a very long story, Mr. Mitchell. I promise you I’ll make it worth your while if you take me up in your cart.” The horse whickered and Caroline rubbed his ugly nose. She trusted its owner was just a simple farmer, and not a murderer. It would be most inconvenient to have walked all this way to wind up dead. She sneezed.
She hoped it just was a reaction to the horse. Lung fever would be no picnic. Girls were always falling ill and delirious in her books so the heroes could nurse them through and discover the deep and abiding love that had hitherto been absent in their flinty hearts. Caroline had no wish to be nursed. Or dead. She just wanted to get to Ashford without incident.
“I don’t know as I should. Lord Christie is no one I’d like to cross, and that’s a fact.”
Bother Edward and his reputation. “I won’t take up too much room. You won’t even know I’m in the cart. I don’t want to delay you, Mr. Mitchell. It’s raining, and you must be anxious to get your produce to market. What have you got back there under the tarp?”
“The best turnips you ever tasted. Courgettes and runner beans. Potatoes, leeks, and beetroot. Don’t change the subject. Are you running away from your man?”
Caroline stuck her chin out. “Lord Christie and I are separated, Mr. Mitchell. Surely the gossips have told you that.”
“Don’t listen to gossip much since my wife passed. What are you doing on this road then?”
It might be difficult to bribe a widower with jewels, but maybe he had a daughter—and a purse with change in it she could swap for her semiprecious finery. “I’m so sorry about your wife, Mr. Mitchell. I’ll tell you everything if you give me a ride.” Cold rain dripped from the brim of her hat down her neck. “Please, Mr. Mitchell.
Please
.”
“I shouldn’t. But I will.” He hopped off the bench and gave a brief bow. Caroline quelled her desire to throw her arms around him and kiss him. “Can’t stuff you under the canvas. You’ll crush the vegetables. You’ll have to ride up top with me.”
“I shall be delighted, Mr. Mitchell.”
After a mile or two, her delight and desire to kiss him had vanished. Caroline was convinced Mr. Mitchell had not bathed for quite some time and envied his wife her death. But as the rain pelted down, she told a much-abridged version of her story, grateful she had experience prevaricating and writing romances. Every sentence or two, she brought her gloved wrist to her nose, inhaling the wet leather so she would not have to inhale Mr. Mitchell. She made no mention of drugging and kidnapping, but painted Edward as the villain of the piece.
Mr. Mitchell seemed squarely in Edward’s corner, however. “So, you’re telling me he gave you one more chance, and you’ve run away.”
“Perhaps I’ve not made myself clear. We had a marriage of convenience, but it wasn’t convenient for anyone, least of all my husband. We never got along, not for one minute.” Except in bed, but she was not going to shock the poor man. She’d already told too much. “It’s much better we go our separate ways, as we’ve been doing these past five years. I’ve quite a terrible temper, you know. If you were married to me, you’d think I was a perfect shrew.” She sniffed her gray sleeve, hoping for a trace of jasmine.
“A man likes a woman with some spirit,” Mr. Mitchell countered. “I miss fighting with my Abby, and that’s the truth.”