The Outrageous Debutante (19 page)

But now, as if it were beyond him to resist, he took her hand from where it lay loosely on her reins and raised it to his lips, first turning it, as he had the previous night, to press his mouth to her palm, then released her. She raised that hand for just a moment, tempted to bend and touch the dark hair where it lay at his temple. But did not, of course, could not prolong the pain of this brief and dispassionate farewell for either of them. But she pressed her palm with its burning imprint against the bosom of her velvet jacket, against her heart.

He watched her go. If Furness thought his expression a little bleak, he decided that it had more to do with a colicky mare than the departure of the guests.

‘Jed.’ Lord Nicholas beckoned one of the stable boys, a likely lad, who was emerging from the stable. ‘Follow them. Take someone with you—George Abbot, perhaps. And keep your eyes open on Lord Westbourne’s acres.’

‘Afraid of trouble, my lord?’ Furness frowned, not liking the possibility.

‘No. But I would not wish harm to come to them. I have heard that the Maidens have been active this fortnight.’

Stepping forward to hold Jed’s mount steady, Furness grunted his disgust. ‘Men dressed as women!’

‘Disguised they may be, but they are a rough crowd with little respect for the law when their wages are low and their children starving.’ Lord Nicholas turned back to the lad as he mounted. ‘Stay with them until Tenbury is in sight, Jed. Anything that worries you, anything at all, one of you ride to get help.’

Some little time later Nicholas, sleeves rolled up, was inspecting a newly arrived foal, all long legged and satin smooth, as it lay and dozed in the sunshine beside its protective mother. He looked up and rose to his feet, a finger of disquiet touching his spine, as Jed galloped into the courtyard with a hasty clatter of hooves, the horse in a lather.

‘What?’ Nicholas strode over.

‘The Maidens’re out, m’lord.’

‘Are they on the road?’ Nicholas grabbed the bridle in an urgent hand, muscles suddenly tense at the news.

‘Aye, my lord. Met Nol Price from the Westbourne estate by the packhorse bridge,’ Jed gasped, not bothering to dismount. ‘The word is out. Riots, m’lord. Labourers have gathered—most like the Maidens—decked out in skirts and shawls and such. Nol said a big group, out for trouble against my lord Westbourne. Burning ricks. And I saw black smoke in the distance.’ He ran a hand over his face, which was red from his efforts. ‘I didn’t know … I thought I should come back here for help. George went on to warn them … or lead them to safety. But if the Maidens’re out in force and it’s mischief they’re after …’

Nicholas did not linger. The relaxed country gentleman underwent an instant transformation. ‘You did the right thing, Jed. Get a fresh horse and tell Mat to join us.’ He was already grabbing saddle and bridle and opening the door of the bay stallion’s stall. ‘Come with me, Furness. We’ll take the pistols—better safe than sorry. And move it!’

The scenery on that bright morning, which had so captivated Thea when she rode to Aymestry on the previous day, now meant nothing to her. She travelled in silence, lost in her own thoughts, blind to the beauty around her. Sensing her abstraction, Agnes, too, kept her own council and any comments she might make were directed at Dacre. She was aware of the new level of tension between her mistress and Lord Nicholas—who could not be? Yesterday, the atmosphere in the stable yard and when they had take tea had been strained, even uncomfortable. But now? Agnes would have given her best kid gloves to know what passed between them the previous evening when they had dined together. But whatever it was, it had brought neither of them happiness. She could have cut the atmosphere this morning with the silver scissors in her reticule.

Thea was oblivious to Agnes’s speculations, to everything but the ache that was almost physical around her heart. It gnawed at her, intensified by the anguish of the knowledge that, however much she might love him, however much he might be drawn to her, fate had determined that she would never see him again. Or be allowed to love him as she wished.

Thea deliberately straightened her shoulders, shortened her reins as The Zephyr tossed her head. There was nothing she could do about it, she lectured herself. She must forget Lord Nicholas Faringdon and turn her thoughts to the future. But she could not. The memory of the possessive touch of his mouth on hers remained a tangible presence, his rejection of her an impenetrable mist of sorrow.

Dacre’s voice jolted her out of her preoccupation.

‘Look to the left, Miss Thea. Smoke over by those barns. Looks like a large fire.’

Thea blinked, realised that they had already left the Burford estate and were crossing the arable fields of a neighbouring landowner. And, yes, there was a large fire, dark smoke billowing, flames clear as they leapt into the sky from the dry timber and straw.

She pulled the grey mare to a halt. ‘Does the road go near? I don’t remember.’

‘No, Miss Thea. It curves to the east. It should not be a problem.’ But Dacre, although unwilling to voice it, kept Lord Faringdon’s warning in mind.

The little party continued, more cautiously now and with closed ranks, keeping a watch on the road ahead. It dipped towards a small copse and they could see a crossroads where a wider track, obviously a drove road, came in from Ludlow to the west. The fire was now closer, with the dense smoke beginning to drift across their path in the still air, but did not necessarily give any cause for concern.

‘Only some old hay ricks.’ There was relief in Dacre’s voice. ‘No danger, I think.’

‘But look at the crossroads.’ Thea raised her hand to point to the meeting of the tracks.

A little crowd of people, perhaps a dozen or more, had gathered. Still too far away for any detail, they could hear raised voices and the movement of the bodies suggested some agitation. Thea squinted against the sun and then it struck her.

‘Why, look. They are women.’ She could see the heavy skirts and bright shawls habitually worn by countrywomen in the fields, their heads covered by scarves or white cotton bonnets. ‘What can it be?’

‘I mislike it.’ Dacre pushed his horse parallel with Thea’s and motioned the servant to take closer order behind him next to Agnes Drew. For indeed there was a tension about the little group, despite their distance.

‘It may be that someone has been hurt in the fire,’ Agnes suggested. ‘A child perhaps.’

They continued to approach with some caution, too conscious of the harsh tone in the voices that now carried to them. Women
they might be, but something had occurred to reduce them to stark anger.

‘But they are not women.’ Thea’s sudden and surprised statement brought the travellers to a halt again, for, despite the swirl of skirts, the layers of scarves and shawls, the forms beneath were now clearly masculine, long limbed and broad shouldered, as were the harsh voices that shouted and demanded attention. Now it could be seen that their skirts, hitched up from the ground for ease of movement, covered breeches, rough stockings and heavy work boots. And they carried a range of sticks and scythes and even an old shotgun, all being wielded with evidence of high-running emotions.

The Maidens!

Dacre immediately, acting on pure instinct, stretched out his hand to snatch at Thea’s bridle, whether she would approve or no. Emotions were indeed running high. One of the group had swung himself up on to a tree stump and was haranguing the rest, emphasising his points with fierce gestures. There could be danger here for the well-born travellers.

‘We have no quarrel with them, nor they with us.’ Thea glanced at her groom with raised brows and not a little anxiety. ‘Why should they harm us?’ She twitched her bridle free and applied her heels to the grey’s flanks. Better to get past the danger as quickly as possible. Nothing could be gained by sitting here in the road, simply waiting for God knew what outcome. But as they walked their mounts forward, confidently enough in appearance, shouts broke out. They were able to hear, one overlapping another, as the men addressed their leader who had taken up a stance on the fallen oak, his skirts flapping round his legs in his agitation.

‘We’ll starve if he has his way …’

‘The bastard cares nought for us, now that …’

‘He’s told us we’ll be laid off come summer …’

‘Wages be so low …’

A litany of rural complaint that had been given a sharp edge by some local crisis.

Thea refused to halt, determined to press forward. She might sympathise, but the responsibility was not hers to remedy. Rather her need and her duty was to ensure the safety of Agnes and her servants. She found herself praying that the volatile gathering would accept their ignorance of local affairs and allow them to pass with nothing more than harsh words and accusations. Besides, there was no help to be sought in the circumstances. They must brazen it out.

Then a shawl-draped head in the crowd turned at the beat of the hooves and saw them.

‘What have we here? Fine feathers on even finer horseflesh.’ He laughed derisively at the prospect of such wealthy prey.

The crowd turned, harsh, masculine faces ridiculously framed by scarves and shawls and bonnets. But there was nothing ridiculous in the scene. The faces turned towards them were twisted in anger and despair. There would be no sympathy here for their innocence.

‘They’re not from round ‘ere.’ One voice, perhaps of reason, drifted on the charged air. ‘They’ve nothing to do with Lord Westbourne and his damnable machines …’

It was only one voice, easily swamped by the rest.

‘They do well from our labour by the looks of ‘em …’

‘Look at those horses—we can sell ‘em …’

A stone was thrown. Then another. And, as one, the crowd rushed towards them, intent on stealing anything of value from the hated landlord class.

For Thea, everything afterwards happened in a mad rush of uncontrolled and confused aggression. A well-aimed stone struck Agnes on the side of her head, causing her horse to shy, and she fell heavily on to the road. Thea cried out in alarm and tried to reach her. Dacre’s bridle and that of their servant were both seized, preventing them from either going to the rescue or riding to secure help. Thea also found herself surrounded by a sea of bodies, ungentle hands grasping at her bridle, her saddlebags, her long skirts. She could do nothing but fight to prevent herself being pulled from the saddle as The Zephyr stamped and fidgeted, head tossing in increasing unease at the harsh treatment.

‘She’ll ‘ave something of value ‘ere … And this animal’s worth a pretty penny …’

Suddenly the outcome, or any sense of the present outrage, was taken out of Thea’s hands. She simply froze in a blind, unreasoning panic. Memories flooded back, vivid and intense, to rob her of all sense. She knew in her mind, clear as faceted crystal, that she should ride for help. She should go to the aid of Agnes, who lay on the ground amidst the stamping hooves and the swarm of attackers. As if from a distance, she watched herself in mounting horror. She could not move, could not force her body to follow the dictates of her brain. Her whip was snatched from her unresponsive hand. She was unable to breathe, her ribs constricted by sheer irrational terror. Pulled from the saddle, she landed on her knees on the stony ground. She did not even feel the sharp edges that cut into her flesh, only felt the hands that grasped her arms, and urged her to stand. She could see where Agnes was trying to sit up and knew that she should go to her—but could not. Dacre attempted to push his horse between the rabble and his stricken mistress, but to no avail. They were outnumbered and in the violent control of their attackers.

‘Let’s make an example of ‘em … show his bloody lordship that we mean business … He’ll ‘ave to listen to us …’

Again it was only one voice. But it was enough. Shouts of enthusiasm and encouragement exploded round them.

Thus the outcome for the travellers was fraught with more than the danger of being robbed. And yet for Thea, dragged to her feet, dishevelled, skirts covered with dust, it had no meaning. Terror continued to hold her, cold and immobile in its grip.

The sound of a single shot brought the furious rabble to a halt, caught in a strange moment of silent stillness. Even the birds were shocked into silence.

Lord Nicholas Faringdon, accompanied by Furness and his two grooms, had come to a halt on the little rise above the crossroads, just long enough to assess the situation. It took no more than a moment to see the intent, if not the detail of it. And it was
clear that one pistol shot fired over their heads would not disperse this enraged gathering. Nor could Nicholas risk firing again. It would be impossible to ensure the safety of Thea and her escort in the seething mass before him.

‘What the hell in going on here?’

‘They’re Lord Westbourne’s tenants, m’lord.’ Furness pulled up beside him, pistol in hand.

‘So I see.’ It explained all.

Lord Nicholas could see Dacre still trying to escape the attentions of three skirt-clad individuals. He could not see Agnes at all. And Thea? There was a flash of blue velvet in the very heart of the group. And he glimpsed her plumed hat being whirled aloft by a shawl-swathed arm. His blood ran cold in spite of the heat of the day and the sweat which trickled between his shoulder blades after their hard ride.

‘Ride on!’ His voice was urgent but betrayed none of his fear. ‘But don’t risk firing.’

Without another thought, even though desperately outnumbered, they kicked their mounts into action, relying on fists, the power of their horses and any remaining vestige of authority that Lord Nicholas might have with the Maidens.

The rioters gave way at the initial charge, but were not to be overawed or intimidated by a mere four men and surged forward again. Using his riding whip and the force of his horse, Furness managed to thrust his way to Agnes’s side where she still half-lay in the dirt. Nicholas aimed his horse towards Thea. A heavy blow on his shoulder from an accurately wielded length of wood caused him to wince and snarl though his teeth, but did not deter him. He turned his body to use his booted foot to push aside a man with a pitchfork. A sharp right jab deterred another from attempting to pull him from the saddle. He pressed on.