The Makeshift Marriage by Sandra Heath

thronged with bathing machines as fashionable society came to enjoy the sea air, but for the time being it was quiet still.
    The boat came to a halt at the water’s edge and the sailors jumped out to drag it further up the beach. Laura got out and stood looking at the stone steps leading up from the beach. A doctor. Please, a doctor….
    The waiter at the inn shook his head. “I’m afraid Mr. Harper, the surgeon, has been called away over Bridport way. He won’t be back before tomorrow.”
    “Is there an apothecary?”
    “Not since old Mr. French died two months back.”
    She looked helplessly around the tap room with its stacked barrels and dusty floor. Through the bow window she could see the bay where the Cygnet lay at anchor. Dared she wait here for the surgeon to return? What if he was delayed?
    She turned to Henderson. “How far is it to King’s Cliff from here?”
    “Reckon about twenty-five miles.”
    “And where does Dr. Tregarron live?”
    “Langford. About five miles from King’s Cliff by road, but only one mile through Langford Woods.”
    She looked back to the waiter. “Do you have a chaise for hire? And a good saddle horse?”
    “Yes, my lady.”
    “Then have both made ready. Henderson, I intend to go on to King’s Cliff. You must ride ahead and find Dr. Tregarron, or any other doctor if he is not available. Be waiting at King’s Cliff.”
    “Very well, my lady.”
    She seemed to have been waiting an unconscionable length of time, and the valet had long since ridden off when the waiter at last came to tell her that the chaise was ready.
    She sat with Nicholas’s head resting on her lap as the coachman whistled and cracked his whip to encourage the team to greater effort as the heavy old carriage lumbered out of the cobbled yard and turned slowly up the steep hill that led out of Lyme Regis. She steadied Nicholas as the carriage swayed, and she stared blindly out of the window. They were almost at journey’s end and would reach King’s Cliff before dawn. But what awaited her there?
    * * *
    The chaise came to a standstill again and at first she did not open her eyes, for the journey had involved many stops at tollgates and crossroads, but then she recognized Henderson’s voice and looked out immediately. Lanterns moved by some immense wrought-iron gates and she could make out the windows and door of a lodge. Henderson came to the carriage door and opened it.
    “Is all well, my lady?”
    She nodded. “He is the same.”
    “Dr. Tregarron waits at the big house. My lady…?”
    “Yes?” She caught the unease in the valet’s voice.
    “I had to wait here by the gates on account of the keeper not believing Sir Nicholas was alive. None of them would believe me at first.”
    She stared blankly at him. But how could they think he was dead? How could they know anything of what had taken place in Venice? They could only know if someone had sent word —but who would do that? She certainly had not, and neither had the valet. Then she remembered the British consulate. Yes, that must be the answer—someone there must have written to King’s Cliff when Nicholas was believed to be in extremis.
    Henderson closed the door again and climbed up beside the coachman. The gates swung open, creaking loudly, and the chaise jolted forward for the last time as the tired team trotted along the gravel drive toward the immense silhouette of the house, so clear in the pale moonlight.
    Her heart began to beat more swiftly now and she was suddenly afraid. Soon she would be face to face with Augustine Townsend… .
    Lamps had been lit beneath the tall, marble portico, and as the chaise came to a halt the great doors of the house were flung open and some footmen in dark green and gold livery came out, followed by a dark-haired young man in a fashionable dove-gray coat and beige breeches.
    Henderson jumped down to open the carriage door and the young man looked up at Laura. His long-lashed eyes were dark brown and the