Джорджетт Хейер - The Masqueraders

“Which Madam Prudence lacks. Dear me!”

“Entirely, sir. I was made for sobriety.”

“It looked excessively like it — back yonder in the coach,” said Sir Anthony, thinking of that shortened sword held to poor Matthew’s throat.

“Needs must when the old gentleman drives,” said Prudence, smiling. “I should like to breed pigs, Sir Anthony, I believe.”

“You shall,” he promised. “I have several pigs down at Wych End.”

The chuckle came, but a grave look followed. “Lud, sir, it’s very well, but you lose your head over this.”

“An enlivening sensation, child.”

“Maybe. But I am not fit to be my Lady Fanshawe.”

The hand closed over her wrist; there was some sternness in the pressure. “It is when you talk in that vein that I can find it in me to be angry with you, Prudence.”

“Behold me in a terror. But I speak only the truth, sir. I wish you would think on it. One day I will tell you the tale of my life.”

“I’ve no doubt I shall be vastly entertained,” said Sir Anthony.

“Oh, it’s very edifying, sir, but it’s not what the life of my Lady Fanshawe should be.”

“Who made you judge of that, child?”

She laughed. “You’re infatuated, sir. But I’m not respectable, give you my word. In boy’s clothes I’ve kept a gaming-house with my father; I’ve escaped out of windows and up chimneys; I’ve travelled in the tail of an army not English; I’ve played a dozen parts, and — well, it has been necessary for me often to carry a pistol in my pocket.”

Sir Anthony’s head was turned towards her. “My dear, will you never realise that I adore you?”

She looked down at her bridle hand; she was shaken and blushing like any silly chit, forsooth! “It was not my ambition to make you admire me by telling you those things, sir.”

“No, egad, you hoped to make me draw back. I believe you don’t appreciate yourself in the least.”

It was very true; she had none of her father’s conceit; she had never troubled to think about herself at all. She raised puzzled eyes. “I don’t know how it is, Tony, but you seem to think me something wonderful, and indeed I am not.”

“I won’t weary you with my reasons for holding to that opinion,” said Sir Anthony, amused. “Two will suffice. I have never seen you betray fear; I have never seen you lose your head. I don’t believe you’ve done so.”

Prudence accepted this; it seemed just. “No, ’tis as Robin says: I’ve a maddening lack of imagination. The old gentleman tells me it is my mother in me, that I can never be in a flutter.”

Sir Anthony leaned forward, and took the mare’s bridle above the bit; the horses stopped, and stood still, very close together. An arm was round Prudence’s shoulder; the roan’s reins lay loose on his neck. Prudence turned a little towards Sir Anthony, and was gripped to rest against a broad shoulder. He bent his head over hers; she had a wild heart-beat, and put out a hand with a little murmur of agitation. It was taken in a firm clasp: for the first time Sir Anthony kissed her, and if that first kiss fell awry, as a first kiss must, the second was pressed ruthlessly on her quivering lips. She was held in a hard embrace; she flung up an arm round Sir Anthony’s neck, and gave a little sob, half of protest, half of gladness.

The horses moved slowly on; the riders were hand-locked. “Never?” Sir Anthony said softly.

She remembered she had said she could never be in a flutter. It seemed one was wrong. “I thought not indeed.” Her fingers trembled in his. “I had not before experienced — that, you see.”

He smiled, and raised her hand to his mouth. “Do I not know it?” he said.

The grey eyes were honest, and looked gravely. “You could not know it.”

The smile deepened. “Of course I could know it, my dear. Oh, foolish Prue!”

It was all very mysterious; the gentleman appeared to be omniscient. And what in the world was there to amuse him so? She gave a sigh of content. “You give me the happy ending I never thought to have,” she said.

“I suppose you thought I was like to expose you in righteous wrath when I discovered the truth?”

“Something of the sort, sir,” she admitted.

“You’re an amazing woman, my dear,” was all he said.

They rode on in silence, and quickened presently to a canter. “I want to rest you awhile,” Sir Anthony said. “Keep an eye for a likely barn.”

“The horses would be glad of it.” Prudence bent to pat the mare’s neck.

They were in farm-land now; it was not long before they found such a barn. It lay by some tumbledown sheds across a paddock, where a little rippling stream separated field from field. The farm buildings were hidden from sight by a rise in the ground; they rode forward, past what was left of a haystack, and dismounted outside the barn.

It was not locked; the door hung on rusty hinges, and inside there was the sweet smell of hay.

Sir Anthony propped the door wide to let in the moonlight. “Empty,” he said. “Can you brave a possible rat?”

Prudence was unbuckling her saddle-girths. “I’ve done so before now, but I confess I dislike ’em.” She lifted off the saddle and had it taken quickly from her.

“Learn, child, that I am here to wait on you.”

She shook her head, and went on to unbridle the mare. “Attend to Rufus, my lord. What, am I one of your frail, helpless creatures then?”

“You’ve a distressing independence, on the contrary.” Sir Anthony removed the saddle from the roan’s back, and led him into the barn. For the next few minutes he was busy with a wisp of straw, rubbing the big horse down.

Prudence went expertly to work on her mare, and stood back at last. “It’s warm enough here,” she remarked. “They’ll take no hurt. When they’ve cooled we’d best take them down to the stream. Lord, but I’m thirsty myself!”

Sir Anthony threw away the wisp of straw. “Come then. There’s naught but my hands to make a cup for you, alack.”

But they served well enough. They came back at length to the barn, and found the horses lipping at a pile of hay in the corner. A bed was made for Prudence. “Now sleep, my dear,” Sir Anthony said. “You need it, God knows.”

She sank down on to the sweet-smelling couch. “What of yourself, sir?”

“I’m going to take the horses down to the stream. Be at ease concerning me. What, must you be worrying still?”

She lay back with her head pillowed on her folded greatcoat, and smiled up at him. “A pair of vagabonds,” she said. “Faith, what have I done to the elegant Sir Anthony Fanshawe? It’s scandalous, I protest, to set you at odds with the law.”

Sir Anthony led the horses to the door. “Oh, you must always be thinking you had the ordering of this!” he said teasingly, and went out.

When he brought the horses back her eyes were closed, and she had a hand slipped under her cheek. Sir Anthony took off his greatcoat, and went down on his knee to lay it gently over her. She did not stir. For a moment he stayed, looking down at her, then he rose, and went soft-footed to the door, and paced slowly up and down in the moonlight. Inside the barn the horses munched steadily at the armful of hay he had given them. There was silence over the fields; the world slept, but Sir Anthony Fanshawe stayed wakeful, guarding his lady’s rest.

Speculation concerning the result of my Lord Barham’s coming meeting in Grosvenor Square was in abeyance. The strange flight of the Merriots formed the topic of every conversation in Polite Circles. It was a seven-days’ wonder, and society was greatly put out to think it had received this couple with open arms. It was felt that my Lady Lowestoft had been very much to blame, and quite a number of people who heard my lady’s lamentation felt a glow of superiority. They had a comfortable conviction that they would never have been so foolish as to invite such a chance-met pair to stay. One or two persons had an odd idea that they had heard my lady say she was acquainted with the Merriots’ father, but when they mentioned this my lady was positively indignant. Voyons, how could she have said anything of the sort when she had never set eyes on the elder Mr Merriot? She had been most grossly deceived; no one could imagine how great was the kindness she had shown the couple; she had had no suspicion of foul play. When she heard that Mr Merriot was taken by the law for the killing of Gregory Markham she was so shocked, so astonished, she could scarcely speak. And then, next morning, to find Kate flown, and a horse gone from her own stables — oh, she was prostrated. The affair was terrible — she believed she would never recover.

It seemed like it indeed. Society grew tired of hearing her on this subject, for she could talk of naught else. And where had the Merriots gone? Who were the men who snatched Peter from the coach? One had undoubtedly been the servant, John, but who was the other? The unfortunate gaolers swore to a man of gigantic size, but no one paid much heed to that. It was the sort of exaggeration one would have expected.

Sir Anthony Fanshawe heard of it down at Dartrey, and took the trouble to write to his friend Molyneux. He protested he could not believe young Merriot was the villain this affair showed him to be. He was inexpressibly shocked by the news, but he felt sure some explanation must sooner or later be forthcoming. He ended by telling his friend that he had some notion of extending his stay with my Lady Enderby, since her ladyship had with her a most charming visitor.

Molyneux chuckled over this, and told Mr Troubridge that Beatrice Enderby was once more trying to foist an eligible bride on to poor Tony.