Rebel Heiress (26 page)

‘But I am not bored in the least,' she said. ‘On the contrary, I
am delighted to hear what you say, for I must confess that I have found much in England to make me uneasy, though I beg that you will not tell my father I said so.'

He laughed. ‘I will promise to keep your secret if you will do as much for mine.' Then, more bitterly, ‘You can see how impossible it is for me to dream of entering politics as a Whig when I dare not even let it be known that I am thinking of it. I truly believe it might kill my grandfather, whose health is precarious enough as it is. No, I have abandoned all thought of a political career, but that does not mean I will let myself dwindle into a Sunday-only clergyman. I have seriously considered going into business. Many of the fellows are doing that now, and, do you know, society may turn up its nose at it, but at least it is real. If I cannot make two blades of grass grow where one did before, perhaps I may contrive to make a better bolt of cloth — and to keep my workpeople happy too. I have a friend, Matt Gurney — you should just hear him talk about conditions of work in the Midlands. It would make you weep, Miss Marchmont. And he says it is people like us who are needed to go in and improve things. I think he would help me to a place in one of his family's businesses, or even in their London bank, if only grandfather would approve, and if this cursed war was but over. And would not that be a better life than prosing once a week to a parcel of sleepy villagers about things they do not understand?'

Henrietta laughed. ‘It is but too plain that you are not cut out for a clergyman. I wish for your sake that my father was at home; I am sure he would sympathise with you, for I have heard him say very much the same thing himself. But, look, the child is waking and, if I remember rightly, there is a tidy little inn in this village. Tell the man to stop here, will you, and we will give her the brandy and milk you advise. I am afraid her diet so far has been something of the most frugal, poor little creature. Did you ever see anything so thin and frail?'

As the carriage drew up outside the inn Henrietta gathered Caroline into her arms, murmuring to her soothingly as she did so. The child, who had been stirring restlessly, opened wide blue eyes and stared in alarm at her for a moment, then began again her soft hopeless wailing. Simon, who had jumped out to speak to the coachman, returned and held out his arms for her.

‘Come, come,' he said, ‘soldiers don't cry like that, you know.'

The child hushed at once at the sound of his voice and held out her arms to him, managing a watery smile for his benefit.

‘You seem to have made a conquest,' said Henrietta as she handed her over.

‘Yes, I am flattered.' A quick, questioning glance for Henrietta.

The child cheered up over a bowl of bread and milk, generously laced with brandy, and smiled impartially at Henrietta and Simon, but still maintained her impenetrable silence. Henrietta, too, dutifully swallowed the brandy Simon had ordered for her. Back in the coach once more, she found herself overwhelmingly drowsy. She had returned home late from Coombe House the night before and made an early start today. The brandy, on top of the excitement of the morning, was too much for her. With an apology, she leant back in her corner of the coach and closed her eyes. She dreamt fitfully: of Simon, storming a breach at the head of his men; of Charles in a bishop's mitre. Then, suddenly, she was awake. Her head was pillowed on Simon's shoulder and he was very gently shaking her.

‘We are nearly there,' he explained as she started upright and put up a hand to her dishevelled hair. ‘You have slept well, both of you.'

Caroline was still fast asleep in her corner, and when the coach came to a halt outside the plain front of Miss Patience Gilbert's school, Simon managed to carry her indoors without waking her.

To Henrietta's deep, unspoken relief, Miss Patience was at home and welcomed her warmly, accepting her story of finding little Caroline straying in Richmond Park with a politeness that totally masked her inevitable incredulity. If this was to be Henrietta's story, she was too well bred not to accept it as it stood, and, equally of course, she would accept the child as a member of her little school. She shook her head when Henrietta described Caroline's refusal — or inability — to speak, but said they must hope for the best.

The light was beginning to fade, and Simon to look anxious, when Henrietta arose to take her leave. But her farewells were interrupted by a maid who hurried in to tell her mistress that the little girl had awakened and was carrying on ‘something dreadful, if you please, 'm.'

Miss Patience hurried away and returned to say that the
child was hysterical. She suggested that the sight of her rescuers might help to calm her. Grateful for the excuse, Henrietta followed her to the room from which the child's hopeless screams were coming, but tried in vain to soothe her.

At last the door opened. ‘May I try?' said Simon.

‘Of course. Why did I not think of it sooner? See,' she said to little Caroline, ‘here is Mr. Rivers come to say good-bye to you. He will think you do nothing but cry.'

‘Yes.' Simon took the child's hot little hand. ‘I had been thinking of coming to see you again soon, and bringing you a doll, perhaps, with golden hair and blue eyes just like you, but what is the use of a doll to a girl who does nothing but cry?'

The child stopped crying and gazed at him, her question written in her large, beseeching eyes.

‘Yes, indeed I will come, not this week, or next, because I am at a kind of a school, like you, and cannot always get away, but as soon as I can and if they tell me you have been a good girl, you shall have a doll with the bluest eyes and the yellowest hair in all of London.' And with that he handed Caroline gently to Miss Patience and led Henrietta from the room.

‘Well.' She settled herself gratefully in the coach. ‘I do not know what I should have done without you today, Mr. Rivers. But are we very late? Will you be able to get back to Oxford in time, do you think?'

‘In time for breakfast,' he said cheerfully, ‘if I ride all night as I propose to.'

‘I do hope I have not got you into trouble,' she said, conscience stricken. ‘Will it be very bad if you are found to be absent?'

He reassured her convincingly enough, but as the shadows began to draw in she realised that the last delay had cost them more time than she had thought. A new anxiety added itself to her worry over Simon. They would be returning over Putney Heath very much too late for comfort. Suppose they were to encounter one of the highwaymen who lurked there? It was true she had hardly any money on her, having given all she had to Miss Patience in earnest of Caroline's school fees, but that might be so much the worse. She had heard alarming tales of what the highwaymen did if disappointed of their booty.

She mentioned her fears to Simon, who scouted them with his usual cheerful common sense, but, seeing that she was
genuinely anxious, volunteered to sit on the box with the coachman for the rest of the journey.

‘The sight of two of us will make them think again, I promise you. I will hold my hand inside the pocket of my greatcoat as if I had a gun there, and any rascals will give us a wide berth.'

To Henrietta's relief, they crossed the heath unmolested in the gathering dusk, though Simon reported when they stopped to put him down that he had seen at least one doubtful figure skulking in the bushes as they passed. He brushed aside Henrietta's thanks for his escort and laughed at her anxiety over his ride to Oxford that night. It would be full moon. He would enjoy every minute of it. ‘Only mind you do not mention having seen me today,' he concluded. ‘I have been back in college ever since last night, remember.'

Henrietta laughed and gave him her promise: ‘I do hope I have not got you into trouble.'

‘Not the least chance in the world. And besides, what could they do but send me down? And that would be doing me the greatest possible kindness. But it will not come to that, I promise you.'

It was dark now and Henrietta drove the short distance to Marchmont House anxiously enough. If only her stepmother were out, so that she could creep in and to bed unobserved. It would be so much easier, in the morning, to invent some story to account for her late return. But as the carriage turned in at the gates of the house, her heart sank. Every room on the ground floor was brilliantly lighted. Lady Marchmont was most certainly at home, perhaps entertaining, though Henrietta was sure she had had no such plan for tonight. Well, there was nothing for it. Henrietta dismissed as cowardly a temptation to tell the coachman to take her round to a side entrance where she might enter unobserved. Best get it over with.

There was no hum of voices as she stepped into the lighted hall. ‘Lady Marchmont does not entertain tonight?' she asked the footman who admitted her.

‘No, miss.' What was the matter with the man? He seemed about to speak again when the door of the small saloon opened and Lady Marchmont appeared.

‘Well.' Her colour was high. ‘There you are at last, Henrietta! Where in the world have you been? I have been in the greatest anxiety for you these hours past. I tell you, to be
jauntering about the countryside to all hours by yourself is very far from being the thing. I only hope it is no worse. But I will not believe that! When you have taken Miss Gilbert with you on these excursions, I have forborne to comment, because, though her company does you no particular credit, it does, I suppose, count as chaperonage. But today, the Miss Giddys tell me, she is out of town. Henrietta, I am shocked at you, and what your father will say, I hardly dare to think. As for the other thing — but that I will not believe…'

Henrietta was hardly listening. In the lighted room behind Lady Marchmont she had seen a man's figure.

‘Rivers,' she breathed.

‘Yes. Mr. Rivers is returned with glorious news. We have won a great victory at Vittoria.' And then, in a lower voice, ‘I fear he is not best pleased with you, my love. I have been trying to make your peace with him this hour past. But, good God!' She raised her voice again as Henrietta advanced into the light. ‘What has happened? Have you met with an accident?'

In her fatigue and anxiety, Henrietta had forgotten her scratched face and dishevelled appearance. Now, advancing into the light, she was miserably aware of it all. ‘Not precisely an accident,' she said, and then, everything else forgotten: ‘Charles! I am most happy to see you safe.'

He took her hands in his and looked down at her gravely, both of them much aware of Lady Marchmont, who still hovered in the doorway. ‘I wish I could return the compliment. But it was not thus that I dreamed of finding you, Henrietta!' He swept her, just the same, half-resisting, into a long embrace, then, his hands still warm on her shoulders, held her at arms' length for a long, considering look. ‘Thank God, she's gone,' he said at last. ‘I am afraid I am to scold you, Henrietta.'

‘Oh, come!' Happiness at his return would not be denied. ‘This is no time for scoldings, Charles. I am sorry indeed that I was not here to greet you, but it has been a long day.' Even to him, she had already realised, she could not tell the real reason for her journey. To speak of little Caroline was to betray Lady Marchmont. ‘I have been down to Shrovebridge,' she went on, ‘but what's that to the purpose! I am so
glad
to see you, Charles. Has it been a splendid victory? Is Lord Wellington safe? Shall we be in France soon? But how comes it that you are returned so quick? You are not hurt?' She looked him up and down anxiously. ‘Your fever is not returned?'

‘No, no, nothing like that. I am afraid I must be plain with you, Henrietta. I had hoped for more time to put it to you gently, but there is none. I return tomorrow. It is already late. I beg you will be seated.'

She let him place her in a chair, aware all over again of her scratched face and the long tear that Simon had pinned up in her skirt. She looked beseechingly up at Charles. ‘Do not be angry with me, I beg. You cannot be so sorry as I am that I was not here to greet you, but in truth I could not help it. Besides' — her spirits were rallying — ‘how could I know you were coming?'

‘It is not that.' He took her up almost brusquely. ‘I am sorry to have to lecture you, Henrietta, but Lady Marchmont is in the right of it this time. How can you be so lost to any sense of your own position as to go rambling about the countryside with no protection but an old rascal of a coachman? Do you not realise that the gossip about you has reached even to the Peninsula? I made a special appeal for permission to carry these despatches so that I might have an opportunity of a word with you — and what do I find — that you are off on who knows what treacherous errand?'

‘Treacherous? What in the world are you talking about?'

‘Why, about the American prisoner, Clinton.'

‘Clinton?' She remembered something Simon had told her that morning. ‘Oh, yes, the man who has escaped from the Tower. Do you know, it is a most remarkable thing, but I met him once. He and another man whose name I have forgot boarded the
Faithful
when I was coming over, and a very bad half hour they gave us. But what has his escape to say to me?'

Rivers was looking at her anxiously. ‘Can you truly swear to me that you were not concerned in it?'

‘Who? I?' For a moment she was dumb with astonishment, then broke into an almost hysterical peal of laughter. ‘Good gracious, Charles! No wonder you were looking so grave. Did you really think I had contrived his escape from the Tower? And spent today driving him into the countryside, disguised, no doubt, in cap and apron, as my abigail? Oh, Charles, you must forgive me, but I really believe I shall die laughing.'

But he would not join in her mirth. ‘I am greatly relieved if I have been mistaken, Henrietta, but, I ask you, what else could I think? I come home to remonstrate with you about the rumours I have heard of your unpatriotic behaviour and am
greeted with the news that you and an escaped American prisoner have both mysteriously disappeared. It is no laughing matter, I can tell you. It will be all over town tomorrow, and if the Bow Street Runners are not on the doorstep first thing in the morning, I shall be very much surprised.'