‘It’s my damnable temper, maman,’ he said ruefully.
She nodded. ‘I know. That is why I am feeling very miserable. It is no good people saying you are a devil like all the Alastairs, because me, I know that it is my temper that you have, mon pauvre. You see, there is very black blood in my family.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘M. de Saint-Vire – my father, you understand – was of a character the most abominable. And hot-headed! He shot himself in the end, which was a very good thing. He had red hair like mine.’
‘I haven’t that excuse,’ said her son, grinning.
‘No, but you behave just as I should like to when I am enraged,’ Léonie said candidly. ‘When I was young I was very fond of shooting people dead. Of course, I never did shoot anyone, but I wanted to – oh, often! I meant to shoot my father once – which shocked Rupert – it was when M. de Saint-Vire kidnapped me, and Rupert saved me – only Monseigneur arrived, and he would not at all permit it.’ She paused, wrinkling her brow. ‘You see, Dominique, I am not a respectable person, and you are not a respectable person either. And I did want you to be.’
‘I’m sorry, maman. But I don’t come of respectable stock, either side.’
‘Ah, but the Alastairs are quite different,’ Léonie said quickly. ‘No one minds if you have affaires. Of course, if you are a very great rake people say you are a devil, but it is quite in the mode and entirely respectable. Only when you do things that other people do not do, like you, and make scandals, then at once you are not respectable.’
He looked down at her half-smiling. ‘What am I to do, maman? If I made you a promise to become respectable I am very sure I should break it.’
She slipped her hand in his. ‘Well, I have been thinking, Dominique, that perhaps the best thing would be for you to be in love and marry somebody,’ she said confidentially. ‘I do not like to say this, but it is true that before he married me, Monseigneur was a very great rake. A vrai dire, his reputation was what one does not talk about. When he made me his page, and then his ward, it was not to be kind, but because he wanted to be revenged upon M. de Saint-Vire. Only then he found that he would like to marry me, and do you know, ever since he has not been a rake at all, or done anything particularly dreadful that I can remember.’
‘But I could never hope to find another woman like you, maman. If I could I promise you I’d marry her.’
‘Then you would make a great mistake,’ said Léonie wisely. ‘I am not at all the sort of wife for you.’
He did not pursue the subject. He was with her for an hour and more; it seemed as though she could not let him go. At last he wrenched himself away, knowing that for all her brave smiles she would weep her heart out once he was gone. He had given his word to her that he would leave London that night; he had much to do in the few hours left to him. His servants were sent flying on various errands, one to Newhaven to warn the captain of his yacht, the Albatross, that his lordship would sail for France next day, another to his bankers, a third to a quiet house in Bloomsbury with a billet, hastily scrawled.
This was delivered to an untidy Abigail who received it in a hand hastily wiped upon her apron. She shut the door upon the messenger, and stood turning the heavily sealed letter over in her hand. Sealed with a crest it was; she wouldn’t be surprised if it came from the handsome lord that was running after Miss Sophy, only that it was directed to Miss Challoner.
Miss Challoner was coming down the stairs with her marketing-basket on her arm, and her chip hat tied over her curls. Miss Challoner, for all she was better educated than her sister, was not too grand to do the shopping. She had constituted herself housekeeper to the establishment soon after her return from the seminary, and even Mrs Challoner admitted that she had the knack of making the money last longer than ever it had done before.
‘What is it, Betty?’ Mary asked, pulling on her gloves.
‘It’s a letter, miss, brought by a footman. For you,’ added Betty, in congratulatory tones. Betty did not think it was fair that Miss Sophy should have all the beaux, for Miss Mary was a much nicer-spoken lady, if only the gentlemen had the sense to see it.
‘Oh?’ said Mary, rather surprised. She took the letter. ‘Thank you.’ Then she saw the direction, and recognised Vidal’s bold handwriting. ‘But this is –’ She stopped. It was addressed to Miss Challoner sure enough. ‘Ah yes! I remember,’ she said calmly, and slipped it into her reticule.
She went on out of the house, and down the street. It was Vidal’s hand; not a doubt of that. Not a doubt either that it was intended for her sister. The scrawled direction indicated that the note had been written in haste; it would be very like the Marquis to forget the existence of an elder sister, thought Mary with a wry smile.
She was a little absent-minded over the marketing, and came back with slow steps to the house. She ought to give the billet to Sophia, of course. Even as she admitted that, she realised that she would not give it to her, had never meant to from the moment it had been put into her hand. There had been an air of suppressed excitement about Sophia all the morning; she was full of mystery and importance, and had twice hinted at wonders in store for her, but when questioned she had only laughed, and said that it was a secret. Mary was anxious as she had not been before; this letter – and after all it was certainly directed to herself – might throw a little light on Sophia’s secret.
It threw a great deal of light. Safe upstairs in her bedroom, Mary broke open the seal, and spread out the single thick sheet of paper.
‘Love –’ the Marquis began – ‘It is for to-night. My coach will be at the bottom of your street at eleven. Join me there and bring nothing that you cannot hide beneath your cloak. Vidal.’
Miss Challoner’s hand crept to her cheek in a little frightened gesture she had had from a child. She sat staring at the brief note till the words seemed to start at her from the page. Just that curt command to decide Sophia’s future! Lord, but he must be sure of her! No word of love, though he called her by that sweet name; no word of coaxing; no entreaty to her not to fail him. Did he know then that she would go with him? Was this what they had arranged in that stolen interview last night?
Miss Challoner started up, crumpling the letter in her clenched hand. Something must be done and done quickly. She could burn the message, but if Sophia failed Vidal to-night, would there not be another to-morrow? She had no notion where Vidal meant to take her sister. A coach: that meant some distance. Doubtless he had a discreet house in the country. Or did he intend to cheat Sophia with a pretended flight to Gretna Green?
She sat down again, mechanically smoothing out the letter. It was of no use to show it to her mother; she knew from Sophia what absurd dreams Mrs Challoner cherished, knew enough of that lady, too, to believe her capable of the crowning folly of winking at an elopement. Her uncle could do nothing, as far as she could see, and she had no wish to blazon Sophia’s loose behaviour abroad.
When the idea first came to her she did not know; she thought it must have been hidden away in her brain for a long while, slowly maturing. Again her hand stole to her cheek. It was so daring it frightened her. I can’t! she thought. I can’t!
The idea persisted. What could he do after all? What had she to fear from him? He was hot-tempered, but she could not suppose that he would actually harm her, however violent his rage.
She would need to act a part, a loathsome part, but if she could do it it would end the Marquis’s passion for Sophia as nothing else could. She found that she was trembling. He will think me as light as Sophia! she reflected dismally, and at once scolded herself. It did not matter what he thought of her. And Sophia? What would she say? Into what transports of fury would she not fall? Well, that did not signify either. It would be better to bear Sophia’s hatred than to see her ruined.
She consulted the letter. Eleven o’clock was the hour appointed. She remembered that she was to spend the evenin
g with her mother and sister at Henry Simpkins’ house, and began to lay her plans.
There was a table by the window with her writing-desk upon it. She drew up a chair to it, and began to write, slowly, with many pauses.
‘Mamma –’ she began, as abruptly as the Marquis – ‘I have gone with Lord Vidal in Sophia’s place. His letter came to my hand instead of hers; you will see how desperate is the case, for it is plain he has no thought of marriage. I have a plan to show him she is not to be had so easily. Do not be afraid for my safety or my honour, even tho’ I may not reach home again till very late.’ She read this through, hesitated, and then signed her name. She dusted the sheet, folded it up with the Marquis’s note to Sophia, and sealed it, directing it to her mother.
Neither Mrs Challoner nor Sophia made much demur at leaving her behind that evening. Mrs Challoner thought, to be sure, that it was a pity she must needs have a sick headache on this very evening when Uncle Henry had promised the young people a dance, but she made no attempt to persuade her into accompanying them.
Miss Challoner lay in bed with the hartshorn in her hand, and watched Sophia dress for the party.
‘Oh, what do you think, Mary?’ Sophia chattered. ‘My uncle has contrived to get Dennis O’Halloran to come. I do think he is too dreadfully handsome, do not you?’
‘Handsomer than Vidal?’ said Mary, wondering how Sophia could prefer the florid good looks of Mr O’Halloran to Vidal’s dark stern beauty.
‘Oh well, I never did admire black hair, you know,’ Sophia replied. ‘And Vidal is so careless. Only fancy, sister, nothing will induce him to wear a wig, and even when he does powder his hair the black shows through.’
Mary raised herself on her elbow. ‘Sophia, you don’t love him, do you?’ she said anxiously.
Sophia shrugged and laughed. ‘La, sister, how stupid you are with all that talk of love. It is not at all necessary to love a husband, let me tell you. I like him very well. I do not mean to love anyone very much, for I am sure it is more comfortable if one doesn’t. Do you like my hair dressed à la Venus ?’
Mary relaxed again, satisfied. When Sophia and her mother had left the house she lay for a while, thinking. Betty came in with her supper on a tray. Her appetite seemed to have deserted her, and she sent the tray away again almost untouched. At ten o’clock Betty went up the steep stairs to her little chamber, and Mary got out of bed, and began to dress. Her fingers shook slightly as she struggled with laces and hooks, and she felt rather cold. A search through one of Sophia’s drawers, redolent of cedar-chips, brought to light a loo-mask, once worn at a carnival. She put it on, and thought, peering at herself in the mirror, how oddly her eyes glittered through the slits.
She had some of the housekeeping money in her reticule; not very much but enough for her needs, she hoped. She hung the bag on her arm, put on a cloak, and pulled the hood carefully over her head.
On the way down the stairs she stopped at her mother’s room, and left the letter she had written on the dressing-table. Then she crept noiselessly down to the hall, and let herself out of the silent house.
The street was deserted, and a sharp wind whipped Mary’s cloak out behind her. She dragged it together, and holding it close with one hand, set off down the road. The night was cold, and overhead hurrying storm-clouds from time to time hid the moon.
Mary came round the bend in the street, and saw ahead of her the lights of a waiting chaise. She had an impulse to go back, but checked it, and walked resolutely on.
The light was very dim, but she was able as she drew closer to distinguish the outline of a travelling chaise drawn by four horses. She could see the postilions standing to the horses’ heads and another figure, taller than theirs, pacing up and down in the light thrown by the flambeaux burning before the corner house.
She came up to this figure soft-footed. He swung round and grasped at her hand, held out timidly towards him. ‘You’ve come!’ he said, and kissed her fingers. They shook in his strong hold. He drew her towards the chaise, his arm round her shoulders. ‘You’re afraid? No need, my bird. I have you safe.’ He saw that she was masked, and laughed softly. ‘Oh, my little romantic love, was that needful?’ he mocked, and his hand went up to find the string of the mask.
She contrived to hold him off. ‘Not yet! Not here!’ she whispered. He did not persist, but he still seemed amused. ‘No one will see you,’ he remarked. ‘But keep it if you will.’ He handed her up into the chaise. ‘Try to sleep, my pretty; you’ve a long way to travel, I fear.’
He sprang down from the step, and she realised with a shudder of relief that he was riding.
The chaise was very luxuriously upholstered, and there was a fur rug lying on the seat. Mary drew it over her, and leaned back in one corner. He had said she had a long way to travel. Could this mean the Scottish border after all? She suddenly thought that if Gretna was his goal, she had done her sister the greatest disservice imaginable.
She leaned forward, peering out of the window, but soon abandoned the attempt to mark their route. It was too dark, and she lacked the sense of direction that would have told her whether she was travelling northwards or not.
She had never ridden in a chaise so well sprung as this one. Even over the cobbled streets she was not conscious of any peculiar discomfort. She could catch no glimpse of her escort, and supposed that he must be riding behind. Presently a gleam of moonlight on water caught her eye, and she started forward to look out of the window once more. The chaise was crossing a bridge; she could see the Thames running beneath, and knew then that she must be travelling south. Gretna was not his goal. She felt a paradoxical relief.
Once clear of the town the horses seemed to leap forward in their collars. For a little while Mary felt alarmed at the wicked pace, expecting every moment some accident, but after a time she grew accustomed to it, and even dozed a little, lulled by the sway of the coach.
A sudden halt jerked her awake. She saw lights, and heard voices and the trampling of hooves. She supposed the time of reckoning had come, and waited, outwardly calm, to be handed down from the coach. The moon was visible, but when she tried to discover where she was she could see only a signboard swinging in the wind, and knew that the equipage had merely stopped to change horses. The door of the chaise was pulled open, and she drew back into the corner. Vidal’s voice spoke softly: ‘Awake, little Patience?’
She stayed still, not answering him. If she had the courage she would disclose her identity now, she thought. She shrank from it, visualising the scene, at night on a windy road, with sniggering ostlers to witness it.
She heard a low laugh, and the click of the door as it was shut again. The Marquis had gone, and in a moment whips cracked, and the chaise moved forward.
She slept no more, but sat bolt upright, clasping her hands in her lap. Once she caught a glimpse of a rider abreast of the coach window, but he drew ahead, and she did not see him again.
They halted for the second time presently, but the change of horses was accomplished in a twinkling, and no one came to the chaise door. A cold grey light informed her that the dawn was approaching. She had not anticipated that her imposture would remain undetected for so long, and wondered uneasily how far into the day it would be before she reached home again.
As the light grew the interior of the chaise became dimly visible. She observed a holster within easy reach of her hand, and with calm forethought, possessed herself of the pistol it contained. It was rather large for her small hand, and having very little knowledge of firearms she had no idea whether it was loaded or not. She managed to put it into the big pocket of her cloak. It made the cloak very heavy, but she felt safer. The quivering alarm that had possessed her from the start of this queer journey began to leave her. She discovered that her hands were now quite steady, and felt that she could face whatever was to come with tolerable composure. She began to chafe at the
length of the journey, and wondered with a kind of detached interest whether she had enough money in her reticule to pay for her return. She hoped she would be able to travel by the stage-coach to London. The hire of a chaise would be beyond her means, she was sure. That Vidal might convey her to her door again, never entered her head. Vidal was going to be far too angry to consider her plight.
At the next halt she caught sight of Vidal for a moment, as he mounted a fresh horse, but he did not come to the coach door. Apparently the lover was forgotten in his desire to press on. She had heard from Sophia that he travelled always at a breakneck pace, springing his horses; otherwise, she reflected, she might well have supposed that he was flying for his life.
Pale sunlight began at last to peep through the clouds. Mary tried to calculate how far they had journeyed, but could arrive at no satisfactory estimate. Houses came into sight, and presently the chaise swept into a cobbled street, and slackened speed.
A corner was turned. Mary saw a grey tumbling sea, and stared at it in bewilderment. That Vidal meant to carry Sophia out of England had never really entered her head. She began to realise that such really was his intention, and remembering his late duel she felt that this possibility ought to have occurred to her before.
The chaise drew up with a lurch. She turned quickly from her contemplation of a yacht lying in the harbour and waited for the door to be opened.
Somebody let down the steps; it was Vidal who opened the door. ‘What, still masked?’ he said. ‘I shall call you Prudence, love. Come!’ He held out his hands to her, and before she could lay her fingers on his arm, caught her round the waist, and swung her lightly down. She had a momentary sensation of complete helplessness, and was annoyed to find that she liked it.
‘In with you, sweetheart,’ he said gaily. ‘There is just time for you to drink some coffee before I must bundle you aboard ship.’