“I did not mean to speak with unbecoming levity.”
“Everything you do becomes you. I wish ...” He could not complete his sentence, the rawness of his longing stilling his tongue altogether.
“What do you wish, Will?” Cecilia spoke with urgency. “Tell me. Perhaps it is the same thing I wish.”
But Ormiston had turned away and the moment was gone. He was careful to forestall the chance of any such moment developing again before their departure for Ireland. He wanted nothing to prevent their journey, for he felt that if he could only get Cecilia away from Hatherley, he would have a chance to woo her as she deserved, an opportunity to persuade her of his true and tireless devotion without interruptions or misinterpretations.
The morning of their departure, some days later, was cool and brisk, with a bustling breeze sending waves chopping across the ornamental lake and clouds scudding across a cerulean sky where the moon still hung like a stray guest lurking at the tail end of a ball. Buchan endeavored to occupy a rather glum Reggie and Amelia while Lavauden and Dorcas supervised the loading of the last of the viscountess's bags, the bulk having been sent on ahead.
Dacre had insisted that his son and daughter-in-law use his most comfortable coach, a huge, black monster which needed six horses to haul it. Ormiston settled Cecilia in the coach and sat opposite her. They waved farewell, the post-boy blew a flourish on his horn, and the horses hauled the great coach around and down the drive.
The marquis kept his roads well, going so far as to experiment with a new method, suggested by a Scotsman, of mixing chipped stones with tar, although the black track made by the drive winding through the landscape seemed to Cecilia an ugly scar. The coach made good progress to the toll road, but it was noisy and confined, despite the luxury of the red leather seats and padding. But Ormiston pulled out from some secret compartment in the coach a board which served as a table for his backgammon set. He introduced her to the game and the time seemed to slip past as swiftly as the countryside. Cecilia grasped the rules of the game swiftly, and they enjoyed themselves with inventing ever more ridiculous stakes for their games, most of which ended in stalemate as the coach lurched over potholes and verges, scattering all the pieces across the board haphazardly. Cecilia found herself gazing on Ormiston as he pondered his next move, longing to reach out and trace the line of his brow with a finger, to cup his cheek with her hand, kiss him casually as she had seen Aunt Letty bestow kisses on the admiral, or simply hold his hand. But still she stifled these impulses, afraid they would be unwelcome, afraid that such behavior would reveal too much.
Cook had prepared a picnic in the Hatherley kitchens so that no halts need be made until it was time for a change of horses at Nottingham. They were to break their journey at Stoke-on-Trent before continuing through Nantwich and into Liverpool the following day.
At Nottingham, Ormiston escorted Cecilia into a parlor at the inn and ordered some tea. A spread of ham, Stilton and cheddar cheeses, celery, radishes and tomatoes, scones and cakes was laid out for the grand visitors.
“I cannot do justice to this spread. Riding in a coach hardly promotes appetite and our veal-and-ham pie seems quite sufficient,” commented Cecilia.
“They will not be unduly offended, I am sure. I am hungry enough for two, at any rate.” Ormiston tucked into the meal with a will. “The journey so far has been easier than I expected. The weather has been dry enough so that the roads are fast, I suppose.”
Cecilia sat and watched her husband. Soon enough they would be called back to the coach for the next stage of their journey, there could be no other interruptions for the next few days of travel. They were without distractions from each other for days now. There were no knotty relations between father and son, no call to cheer up or arbitrate between the two children. Even after they arrived at the house in Ireland, there could not be so many calls on their time. The concerns of her everyday life seemed to evaporate, leaving only the great conundrum of her feelings for Ormiston and his feelings for her to be solved at last.
Cecilia's reverie was interrupted by a pounding at their parlor door. It was the coachman summoning Ormiston. The viscount rolled his eyes at being dragged away from his meal but obliged the man, who looked anxious. On returning minutes later, Ormiston appeared a little exasperated.
“The old fellow is anxious that we move on. There is word of some band of highwaymen, and apparently the tiger is convinced that we are being followed. Would it inconvenience you if we returned to the road now?”
“Of course not. I am quite ready for our next stage, provided our horses aren't blown.”
The coachman's fears appeared unfounded, and they made good time to Stoke-on-Trent. The inn there was comfortable enough and Cecilia found it easy to manage without Dorcas, who had been sent ahead with the greater part of Cecilia's wardrobe, an assistant, and an escort of two footmen. She retired early, leaving Ormiston to sample an excellent port before following her upstairs. He knocked on her door, but there was no answer.
The following morning was dank and lowering, with a sudden chill in the air presaging the coming winter. The coachman was once again eager to make a prompt start, although he was well aware that when the Dacres travelled, all manner of delays might be placed in his path, particularly if there was decent port to be had. He was agreeably surprised when the viscount and his wife appeared promptly, fully dressed, their fast broken, by half past eight. He did not fancy making for Nantwich in the heavy downpours which, according to local lore, were likely to fall before nuncheon.
This morning, both Ormiston and Cecilia occupied themselves with books. He read a novel while she leafed through a detailed guide-book to Ireland and its folklore, which seemed to her charmingly colorful. Conversation was impossible with the rattle of the wheels, the pounding of the horses' hooves, and the jingle of their harness. Both readers glanced up as the coach seemed to decelerate, and were surprised to see not the town they expected, but rather, dense woodland which seemed to have been savaged by high winds. Trees were down in every direction, brambles, bushes, and ivy rampant, and great tree stumps marked huge craters in the soil. The coach came to a gradual halt. Ormiston poked his head out, then opened the door and climbed down to inspect the damage.
“Stay in the coach, my dear. There is a tree down. I shall try to help move it. I daresay if we can harness the horses to the tree, we will be able to shift it, but it will take some time, and then we will have to rest the cattle before setting off once more.”
“Is it all right if I stretch my legs a little?”
“Of course.”
Cecilia emerged to inspect the tree which blocked their way. It was an elmânot thick, but substantial. It had fallen in such a way as to impose an insurmountable barrier, for on one side was a sharp incline and on the other, dense bush. Cecilia called her husband.
“Look, Will, it's been cut down!”
The viscount came over to inspect the base of the tree. It did indeed bear fresh axe marks. His eyes met Cecilia's. She did not look apprehensive.
“Could you manage one of the horses, Cecilia?”
“I believe so,” replied Ceci steadily.
“Even without a saddle? Or proper reins?” Ormiston laughed shortly. “Of course you could. Would you ride ahead and summon help?”
“You want me out of the way.”
Ormiston shook his head and took her in his arms. “There is no one I would rather trust to extract us from this mess.”
“And if you are attacked by highwaymen?” She looked up at him, steel in her voice and flint in her eyes. She did not want to be sent off on some fool's errand.
“Please, Cecilia, if this is some form of ambush, I would feel far easier if you were riding away from it. In the meantime, we are four sturdy fellows and five horsesâwe should be able to shift this obstacle.”
“Then there is no real need to send me away. This is not some track in the wildernessâother coaches are bound to come.”
“We could wait, but we will be much quicker if you can summon help in Balterley, which I believe is the next village,” reasoned Ormiston. “I cannot force you to go, of course, but I think it might save us a good deal of time.”
“Very well.”
“Brave girl, I know I can rely on you.” He kissed her and before she could prevent herself, she twined her arms around his neck and returned his kiss. She was full of foreboding although there seemed no ostensible reason for it. But in the face of unexpected danger, she revealed more passion than she ever had before. Ormiston cradled her face in his hands, and sighed as he pulled away. “A swift return, sweetheart. Do you have money?” He handed her a pouch of coins, readied the lightest of the great horses for her, and helped her onto the beast's back. Then he reached into the pocket of his greatcoat. “Take this. It's one you've practiced firing.” He handed over a small pistol with a mother-of-pearl handle.
“Will, is this really necessary? You yourself said it is more of a toy than a weapon.”
“It will make me easier if you have something about you.”
“I will be back. Never doubt it,” vowed Cecilia fiercely.
“I never shall.” Will smiled as she wheeled the horse about and took it over the hurdle presented by the tree trunk. She did not turn back, but cantered away, her back straight.
The ride was straightforward enough, for the road was in reasonable condition, although from time to time, Cecilia was certain she could hear the sound of more hoofbeats behind her. It took no more than twenty minutes to reach Balterley, which was a mean-looking place. She went immediately to the tavern, ringing the bell in the yard furiously. She dismounted and went in search of a blanket for the horse, which was more used to a steady canter than the pell-mell gallop she had forced it into. The tack room was a filthy jumble, but she found a serviceable enough cover just as a dishevelled ostler emerged from one of the stalls.
“Here, look after this animal, if you please.” She threw the makeshift reins the coachman had fashioned from the harness at the man and strode into the public house. A slatternly woman appeared.
“I need some men and horses, or oxen if you have them in this place. I have money. There is a tree down in the woods and it impedes my coach.”
The woman looked incomprehensibly at Cecilia, then shrugged.
“I've a private parlor if you wishes to wait there. There's a gentleman there, waiting for some friends of his, but he won't mind.”
“I don't want a private parlorâI want men, and quickly, too.”
“It'll take some time. It's harvestâeveryone's out in the fields, especially with rain coming. Make yourself comfortable and I'll call you when the men are come.”
Cecilia saw the sense in what the woman said, and certainly did not wish to wait in the taproom in her current state of dishevelment. She followed the woman up some stairs and into a low-ceilinged room where a fire burnt. There were two wing chairs. As Cecilia approached, the occupant of one of the chairs rose.
“Well met, Lady Ormiston. I might have guessed that you would be riding to the rescue. How convenient for us both.”
Lazenby smiled serenely, and Cecilia saw the pieces of the jigsaw fall into place.
Eighteen
The arrival of the viscountess was not exactly as the earl had planned. He had intended that she should be abducted and brought to him here, where he might pose as the unexpected savior of her fortunes. Certainly, there was no calling off the attack on the Dacre coach. He could still appear in a favorable light by ensuring that assistance reached the viscount. But he had given away his position in his welcome. He must salvage the situation and then decide what to do with Lady Ormiston. Remaining at this tavern, with its brutish innkeeper and slatternly wife, was out of the question.
The lady was very still. She stood in the doorway of the parlor until Lazenby went over to her and drew her to the fireside. She untied her bonnet and unbuttoned her travelling cloak, which Lazenby eased from her shoulders and draped over a chair. He was about to help unbutton her gloves when she snatched her hands back and did the task herself. She went to the fire and warmed her hands.
“How surprising that you should be on the Liverpool road, too, Earl Lazenby. Perhaps your men can assist my husband. Our coach has been halted by a fallen tree. The greatest nuisance.”
Lazenby weighed up the viscountess carefully. He turned to the fire and prodded it with a poker.
“I only have a boy with me, my dear. I'm in my curricle, with a tiger to keep an eye on the bays. Allow me to escort you to Nantwich and the boy can go to your lord's assistance. We might round up some villagers to assist him in his labors.”
The earl did not look at Cecilia as he spoke. She understood the unspoken threat quite clearly. If she did not comply, the earl would ensure that no help reached Ormiston at all. Even if she waved the bag of gold in the villagers' faces, they would take a little money and a promise of more from an earl over a finite sum and a woman's word. The earl's game seemed unfathomable, but if she played along, Will might genuinely be assisted out of his predicament. Additionally, if she appeared to acquiesce in the earl's plans, he might drop his guard. But this would be the last time this Lazenby interfered with her family, she vowed.
“I would welcome your assistance and your escort as far as Nantwich, where we have bespoken a private parlor at the Crown Hotel for lunch. Perhaps they will be able to provide us with rooms for the night. I don't believe we will reach Liverpool today.”
Lazenby nodded and summoned his tiger and the landlord of the tavern to give them their instructions. Cecilia insisted that she see the men and the few beasts that could be spared for the shifting of the tree trunk before paying out any of her money. That at least would cut the start that Lazenby would have on the viscount.
Half a dozen villagers were brought forward with a single team of wiry oxen, along with the carriage horse that Cecilia had ridden to Balterley. Cecilia found the landlord and deposited with him money for the hire of the men and oxen, to be paid once all had returned to Balterley with the viscount and his coach. She could think of no alternative. She watched the men heading along the Stoke road until Lazenby tugged at her elbow to escort her into his curricle. She knew the landlord and his wife were watching, were almost certainly wondering why she chose to accompany another gentleman rather than wait for her husband, despite her tale of having to reach Nantwich to secure rooms for the following day. That, of course, would have been done by their out-runner earlier in the week.
She gazed at the curricle, reluctance freezing her steps. Lazenby's reliability was another issue. She would not put it past him to drive straight through Nantwich, or bypass it altogether. Still, she was equipped with Will's pocket pistol. She checked its position in the spacious pocket of her cloak. She also felt a pencil there, one that Amelia had left on the lawn at Hatherley. At least she should leave a proper message with the landlord.
“Wait!” She dashed back inside and chivvied the landlord into giving her paper, ink, and a pen. She scribbled a brief note, making it as innocuous as possible given that she had no time to seal it. She turned and left the inn, her back straight, her demeanor as calm as she could summon.
Although strained, Lazenby's smile was still charming. Cecilia's swift visit within had wasted another ten minutes or so, but it would take hours to clear the road. In the meantime, Lady Cecilia would provide entertainment enough, one way or another. They would not be going to Nantwich, certainly. Crewe was equally handy and would delay matters a little further.
Lazenby had no real notion of what he wanted to achieve by removing Cecilia from Balterley. But it was as though he had climbed into a boat and set it adrift on a rising river and inexorably, he must flow where the current took him. As he set the curricle in motion, he almost convinced himself that he simply wished to provide assistance to Lady Ormiston, who clearly could not remain unaccompanied in so low a dive as the Laughing Crow of Balterley. He had done nothing irrevocable yet; he still could simply escort her to Nantwich. She was desirable, but he had spent time with desirable women before without wishing to seduce them. More specifically, he had spent time with this desirable woman without wishing to seduce her.
The trustworthiness of the earl did concern Cecilia. She watched him carefully as he cracked his whip and guided his team of chestnut geldings out of the inn yard. He seemed a reasonable enough driver, but he also appeared preoccupied, as if faced with an absorbing dilemma. His gaze in the inn had reminded Cecilia of visiting a menagerie in Paris at feeding time. There had been a crocodile that appeared to be fast asleep. The keeper gingerly threw the carcass of a goat into the animal's enclosure. An eye had seemed to open and then as swiftly close again. A long minute passed and then the great lizard had lunged at the dead goat as swift as lightning.
Ceci tried to gauge how long it had been since their departure from the Laughing Crow, how long it would be until the men reached the Dacre coach, how long it would take to reach Nantwich. The calculations passed some time, and all the while, she was alert to Lazenby's every move. They came to a junction where their road widened as it joined with the route from Newcastle-under-Lyme. They were fast approaching the fork in the road which would determine her next action. The map in the taproom had been quite clear. If Lazenby kept to the left, he was also keeping his promise to take her to Nantwich; if he turned to the right, he was heading for Crewe and some less reputable course of action.
By now, the tree might have been shifted sufficiently to get the coach past it. The ride to Balterley had been no more than twenty minutes, but she had been pressing the horse. The coach would take longer. Then it would stop in Balterley and Will would be puzzled to find her gone to Nantwich. Would the landlord remember to hand the note to him?
The milestones marked the approach of the turning to Crewe and Cecilia reached into her pocket, taking hold of the small gun and cradling the pearl handle. If he turned the wrong way, she would fire the gun into the air. It would startle the horses, keep Lazenby thoroughly occupied, perhaps give her a chance to get out of the curricle and onto the road. It was another five miles to Nantwich from the crossroads, but she could walk that easily enough. And Will would be behind her. If Lazenby took the wrong turning, it would take him time to turn his team around and catch her up, and even if he did catch her up, he wouldn't be able to get her back into his curricle without a struggle.
Lazenby himself did not know which turning he would take until he reached the signpost which marked the road to Shavington and Nantwich. But the horses were going at a considerable pace, the road curved naturally around to Crewe, and he found himself guiding the curricle past first one and then the second chance to take Cecilia to Nantwich.
He kept his gaze steadily forward, but was distracted by a flash of the brilliant silk lining of her cloak. She was holding a gun, fiddling with the safety catch. His hands full with the reins, he jerked the horses back suddenly just as she fired into the hedgerow. The horses reared and plunged, whinnying and braying as the lightly sprung carriage swayed and swooped like a dinghy in high seas. Cecilia found herself half thrown, half jumping clear from the curricle just before there was a sickening crack and Lazenby disappeared as the axle disintegrated.
The terrified horses tried to gallop away from the source of their fright, but could not shake off their traces. Cecilia approached them gingerly, grabbed onto the harness, and gentled the animals with soft murmurings and strokings. When it was clear they were calm, she turned back to the mangled wreckage of the curricle. The carriage had caved in, and Lazenby appeared to be trapped within, one leg caught in splintered wood, his right arm tangled in the reins and awkwardly angled, his forehead grazed. He was unconscious.
Cecilia yanked back the leather hood so she could at least reach the unfortunate driver, but the tangle of reins and spokes seemed to be clamping the carriage together. She turned her attention to unwinding the mass of leather and buckles, queasy as she noted the blood beginning to ooze through the fine wool of the earl's trouser leg. She steeled herself to concentrate on the task at hand. Eventually, she managed to free the horses from the wreckage, easing them from the shafts of the curricle and leading them to the signpost a hundred yards down the road, where she tethered them.
Then she returned to the carriage. Lazenby was still unconscious. She pulled at one side of the carriage and then the other, easing them gradually apart until she was able to squeeze in and start unlacing the reins from his right arm. Then she tried to free his leg, but this caused him to moan and she squeezed out again. She felt at a loss; she hadn't anticipated so dramatic and grim a turn of events. The earl clearly needed medical attention immediately. His horses were still in a nervous state, which meant that riding either back to Balterley or on to Nantwich to rendezvous with Ormiston would be impossible.
The most sensible plan seemed to be to wait at the crossroads to hail the first passing vehicle and get some help in transporting Lazenby away from the scene of the accident. Cecilia walked back down the road and stood, feeling guilty, helpless, and increasingly cross as time wore on. In fact, she had only to wait a quarter of an hour before she heard the sound of a cart approaching from Nantwich. She flagged it down anxiously. It was fully laden, driven by a clean-shaven man in his forties.
“Sir, sir, please, can you help me? There's been an accident.”
The carter drew his horse to a standstill and accompanied Cecilia down the road to where Lazenby still lay. The man shook his head and tutted, but managed to free the earl from the carriage immediately.
“Best take him back to Nantwich. Roundell can set bones. My cloth will wait till tomorrow. I'll bring the cart up and we can lie him on the tarpaulins. Let's hope the rain holds off.”
So it was that over an hour later, Cecilia arrived in Nantwich at the Crown Hotel. The landlord, Bloxham, was a very different type to the man at Balterley and snorted when he heard of Cecilia's experiences at the Laughing Crow. She contrived to explain that her husband was imminently expected and had been fully conversant of her excursion with Lazenby. It took the carter and two ostlers to transfer the earl to the private parlor which had been reserved for the Ormistons, where he was laid out on a long oak table. Cecilia was shown up to a bedroom overlooking the High Street. She was offered refreshment and washing facilities.
In the privacy of her room, Cecilia removed her outdoor garments and looked at herself in the mirror. Her hair was slipping from its pins, one cheek was streaked with mud, and her eyes were glittering in her pale face. She did what she could to calm herself and set herself to rights, splashing water over her face and lathering her hands with the rose-scented soap left by Mrs. Bloxham, before taking down her hair and recoiling it into a simple chignon. Finally, she sat down on the bed and suddenly gave way to the fear that she had kept at bay since she first saw Lazenby at Balterley. What had happened to Will? How long could it take to shift a tree and come the eight miles to Nantwich? Would he think the worst and assume she wished to be with Lazenby? There had been no sign of him at the Crownâsurely he would have stopped here as they had arranged? And now she had caused this hen's broth of an accident, and must take responsibility for Lazenby's care. His wounds certainly appeared serious. Cecilia rubbed her temples, breathed deeply, and set off downstairs to discover the doctor's verdict.
The examination took some time, but finally, Roundell emerged from the parlor into the hallway where Cecilia sat on a wooden settle, her hands knotted.
“Lady Ormiston, you were in the company of our injured friend?” The doctor's tone was neutral and calming.
“I was. He was escorting me here following an accident to my husband's coach.”
“He is not your husband?” clarified Roundell.
“Oh no! Earl Lazenby is a friend of our family, a neighbor. When our journey was delayed by a fallen tree, he offered to escort me here to greater comfort. Then we had this accident.” Cecilia did not feel equal to a fuller explanation, and hoped that she would not be called to account for the fudging she had done.
“On the Crewe road?” queried Roundell.
“Yes, we had taken the wrong turning and his lordship was trying to rectify matters. That is how we came to have the accident.”