forward. ‘Better get mounted, my lord,’ he said, ‘or you’ll lose your lady.’
The marquess, sure that the couple would not try to break their journey anywhere until nightfall, pressed on through Barnet. The
we-aw, we-aw, we-aw
of a hunting-horn was sounding over the fields to his right. He brought his attention back to the road just in time. A section of the road had fallen in, probably having been cracked and undermined by the winter’s frosts. By forcing his team round by the narrow grass verge, he just managed to miss it. He glanced back over his shoulder. Had he not been in such haste to catch Felicity, he would have cut a stave and tied a handkerchief on top of it and fixed it in the hole as a warning to other drivers.
He stopped eventually at a large posting house to change his horses and inquire after the couple. But it had been a quiet day, they said, with hardly any traffic on the road. The marquess was puzzled. He began to wonder whether he had made a mistake, whether the couple had gone to the review after all.
He hesitated before driving on. He sat, holding the reins loosely in his hands. He deliberately banished the image of Felicity as she had looked the previous evening from his brain – that image of a seductive, accomplished, mannered Felicity, which had haunted him ever since. He thought instead of a selfish and spoilt Felicity. And then he remembered the sound of that hunting-horn.
She wouldn’t – would she? In the middle of an elopement? But then he doubted if Felicity was in that happy state of mind where the world was well lost for love. It was a gamble. But it was a gamble he decided to take. He swung his team about and headed back towards Barnet.
Night was falling fast, and he studied the landmarks on either side. He wished now he had marked that hole in the road. But he had noted that, from the direction he was approaching, a weirdly twisted willow stood just at the roadside before it.
He swung round a bend. He saw the willow, outlined against the greenish-purple sky, and then he saw a carriage on its side in the hole. A figure of a man was stooping to cut the traces while another soothed the plunging rearing horses. The slimmer, slighter man led the horses to the side of the road away from the hole.
The marquess reined in his horses, tethered them to a fence and walked forward. The slimmer man suddenly said to the stockier one in a very feminine voice, ‘Don’t start on a jaw-me-dead, Bremmer.’
‘It’s all your stupid fault,’ came Lord Bremmer’s anguished voice. ‘You
would
take the ribbons. Drive to an inch! Pah!’
‘I
can
drive to an inch,’ howled Felicity furiously, ‘but John Lade himself would have fallen into that hole in this light.’
The marquess darted towards Felicity and clipped her round the waist in a strong grasp from behind. She screamed and twisted and struggled until he clipped her on the back of the head and told her to be quiet.
‘Now, Bremmer,’ said the marquess. ‘You will both get into my carriage and come with me to the nearest posting house till I find out how we can keep your escapade a secret.’
He frog-marched Felicity to his open carriage, shouting over his shoulder to Lord Bremmer, ‘Leave those cursed horses alone. We’ll send an ostler for them.’
Felicity stopped struggling and sat sullenly beside the marquess. Lord Bremmer climbed in and sat next to her.
‘Ravenswood,’ he cried. ‘I must explain—’
‘Not a word,’ snapped the marquess, inching his team round both hole and carriage, ‘until we get to Barnet.’
At the inn, he demanded a private parlour and then ushered the guilty couple up the stairs in front of him.
Wine was brought in and the inn servants dismissed before the marquess began in an even voice, ‘Now, Bremmer, since you could have had her in church, I assume the elopement must have been her idea.’
Lord Bremmer made a brave stand although, with a sinking heart, he was already sure
The marquess, sure that the couple would not try to break their journey anywhere until nightfall, pressed on through Barnet. The
we-aw, we-aw, we-aw
of a hunting-horn was sounding over the fields to his right. He brought his attention back to the road just in time. A section of the road had fallen in, probably having been cracked and undermined by the winter’s frosts. By forcing his team round by the narrow grass verge, he just managed to miss it. He glanced back over his shoulder. Had he not been in such haste to catch Felicity, he would have cut a stave and tied a handkerchief on top of it and fixed it in the hole as a warning to other drivers.
He stopped eventually at a large posting house to change his horses and inquire after the couple. But it had been a quiet day, they said, with hardly any traffic on the road. The marquess was puzzled. He began to wonder whether he had made a mistake, whether the couple had gone to the review after all.
He hesitated before driving on. He sat, holding the reins loosely in his hands. He deliberately banished the image of Felicity as she had looked the previous evening from his brain – that image of a seductive, accomplished, mannered Felicity, which had haunted him ever since. He thought instead of a selfish and spoilt Felicity. And then he remembered the sound of that hunting-horn.
She wouldn’t – would she? In the middle of an elopement? But then he doubted if Felicity was in that happy state of mind where the world was well lost for love. It was a gamble. But it was a gamble he decided to take. He swung his team about and headed back towards Barnet.
Night was falling fast, and he studied the landmarks on either side. He wished now he had marked that hole in the road. But he had noted that, from the direction he was approaching, a weirdly twisted willow stood just at the roadside before it.
He swung round a bend. He saw the willow, outlined against the greenish-purple sky, and then he saw a carriage on its side in the hole. A figure of a man was stooping to cut the traces while another soothed the plunging rearing horses. The slimmer, slighter man led the horses to the side of the road away from the hole.
The marquess reined in his horses, tethered them to a fence and walked forward. The slimmer man suddenly said to the stockier one in a very feminine voice, ‘Don’t start on a jaw-me-dead, Bremmer.’
‘It’s all your stupid fault,’ came Lord Bremmer’s anguished voice. ‘You
would
take the ribbons. Drive to an inch! Pah!’
‘I
can
drive to an inch,’ howled Felicity furiously, ‘but John Lade himself would have fallen into that hole in this light.’
The marquess darted towards Felicity and clipped her round the waist in a strong grasp from behind. She screamed and twisted and struggled until he clipped her on the back of the head and told her to be quiet.
‘Now, Bremmer,’ said the marquess. ‘You will both get into my carriage and come with me to the nearest posting house till I find out how we can keep your escapade a secret.’
He frog-marched Felicity to his open carriage, shouting over his shoulder to Lord Bremmer, ‘Leave those cursed horses alone. We’ll send an ostler for them.’
Felicity stopped struggling and sat sullenly beside the marquess. Lord Bremmer climbed in and sat next to her.
‘Ravenswood,’ he cried. ‘I must explain—’
‘Not a word,’ snapped the marquess, inching his team round both hole and carriage, ‘until we get to Barnet.’
At the inn, he demanded a private parlour and then ushered the guilty couple up the stairs in front of him.
Wine was brought in and the inn servants dismissed before the marquess began in an even voice, ‘Now, Bremmer, since you could have had her in church, I assume the elopement must have been her idea.’
Lord Bremmer made a brave stand although, with a sinking heart, he was already sure
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