Summer Escapade Read online

  Instead of ranting and raving and working himself up into a frenzy at this additional delay, Terence was quite calm when he accepted the dolt’s apologies. “You did not also happen to smash a wheel on a green chaise, did you?” he asked in the mildest of voices. “A yellow wheel, it would have been.”

  The squire’s son—or so he introduced himself—hastened to assure Terence that he had been responsible for only one broken wheel that day. Terence forbore asking how many wheels the lad might have destroyed on previous days.

  As luck would have it, they were only a half mile from the next village, which amazingly enough boasted a wheelwright. Taking up the boy on his offer of assistance, Terence sent Sweeney along with the broken wheel while he himself stayed with the horses and the phaeton.

  The sky was a cloudless blue and showed no sign of the previous night’s storm. While he rested on the grassy verge, Terence was not interested in the beauties of nature that surrounded him, nor did he allow himself to fret about his niece’s safety.

  Instead, he contemplated the wisdom of such maxims as “Spare the rod and spoil the child.” Even though he knew full well that he could never in his life actually strike his niece, still he could not keep his eyes from straying to the nearby shrubbery, and he found himself mentally selecting the branches that would make the best switches.

  Did the beautiful dowager viscountess approve of whipping recalcitrant children? He had a feeling she did not. Smiling to himself, he wondered what it would take to disturb her calm. Black eyes and bloody noses did not faze her, to be sure. But if someone were to whip one of the children on the Dunmire estate, would she rise up like an avenging angel and smite the offender? He rather thought she might—although he could not picture her as a raging fury. It was more likely that she would remain calm and dispassionate while meting out suitable punishment.

  But if someone—such as himself—were audacious enough to kiss her on her soft, sweet lips, how would she react? Would she then remain cool and collected? Was her serenity an indication that she was cold-blooded? Did her tranquility denote a lack of passion?

  He had not answered that question to his own satisfaction when Sweeney returned with the mended wheel and the news that the runaways were once again a good ten hours ahead of them.

  * * * *

  Alicia smoothed the bedcovers over her young visitor, who looked tired but thoroughly happy.

  “I have had the most wonderful day in my life,” Clara said, and from the stars in her eyes, Alicia was inclined to think she was not exaggerating. “I almost wish I were a boy so that I could always wear breeches.” A look of dismay crept over the girl’s face. “Oh, dear, I was supposed to keep that a secret.”

  “Well, then,” Alicia said gently, “we shall simply not tell Sybil that you—’peached’ I believe is the term—on her. Besides, I have known about the breeches from the first day Sybil wore them.”

  “And you did not take them away from her?”

  “I suppose I should have, but I remember all too well how bad I felt when my mother discovered I had been wearing a pair belonging to my brother. After she burned them and forbade me even to think of wearing breeches again, I made a firm resolution to give any daughters more freedom than I was allowed.”

  “Freedom—yes, I agree that is indeed wonderful. But do you know, I have quite changed my mind about wanting to be a boy, because boys cannot have babies, and the very best part of the day was when we went up to the nursery in the big house, and I got to hold Horatio. I have never before been around a little baby, you see, and I had no idea how truly sweet they are.”

  She continued to rattle on about dear little fingers and adorable little noses, but Alicia did not really pay attention to what the girl was saying. Clara had never been around a baby before? But according to Sybil’s letters, Clara was the eldest of a large family.

  Alicia could think of only one interpretation for the remark “Clara” had just made—and that explanation was too terrible to contemplate, Alicia could only pray she had been mistaken: That her memory was playing her false. That it was not Clara, but another of Sybil’s friends who had so many siblings.

  As soon as she finished tucking in both girls, Alicia hurried to her own room, where she opened the drawer of her dressing table and took out the bundle of letters her daughter had sent her from school. Quickly she began skimming them, looking for information about Clara’s siblings.

  Alicia did not need to read far. In her very first letter, Sybil had described all her new friends—including Clara, who had blonde hair, and Marigold, who had black hair.

  With a sinking heart, Alicia acknowledged that her daughter’s guest was undoubtedly the runaway, Marigold Kinderley, whose uncle was even at this moment engaged in a wild goose chase to Gretna Green, and that because Sybil had lied and told him Marigold had eloped with the dancing master.

  But had Sybil lied? With startling clarity Alicia heard her daughter’s exact words—”I did not actually see Marigold with my own eyes climbing into the chaise with the dancing master.”

  The implication was there, of course, that someone had seen Marigold do precisely that, but Sybil had not actually said that either. In fact, when Mr. Kinderley had asked her directly if she were telling him that Marigold had eloped to Scotland, Sybil had said no, she would never believe Marigold would do such a thing.

  Alicia could not hold back a smile at her daughter’s clever manipulation of the truth. To be sure, Mr. Kinderley would have been saved a long and fatiguing trip to Scotland if only Alicia had remembered her daughter’s natural aptitude as an actress and had questioned her more thoroughly.

  But on the other hand, Alicia could not completely put out of her mind the look on Marigold’s face this evening when she said today had been the best day of her life.

  Picking up her daughter’s letters, Alicia began to read them again, wanting to learn more about the girl who had come to visit. Upon arrival, Clara—or rather, Marigold—had been as pale and wan as a ghost, but already she was beginning to have some color in her cheeks. So much improvement after only a day and a half was truly remarkable.

  By the time Alicia finished reading all the letters, she had discovered that Mr. Kinderley was indeed a bachelor, but she was no longer interested in such things. She was so angry, she wished Mr. Kinderley were there with her: Not so that she could explore the intense attraction between them, but so she could give him a black eye. Of all the dismal excuses for a parent—or guardian, she amended—he was the worst she had ever encountered. It was no wonder Marigold was stuffing food into her mouth as if she were starving. That wretched man had kept her on a diet that would make anyone weak and invalidish!

  How would he like to eat nothing but that pap he was forcing his niece to eat? And not allowing her to participate in any of the activities at school, not even a leisurely walk in the park—bah, the man was a complete and total idiot.

  Alicia hoped the elegantly groomed Mr. Kinderley, who doubtless had ice water in his veins, was having a perfectly miserable journey, fraught with every possible delay, so that Marigold could enjoy a few more days of freedom before she was once more imprisoned by him.

  Wretched, wretched man! Alicia was so angry with him, she began to pace the room, wishing there were something she could do to force him to leave his niece in her care for the rest of the summer—wishing she had some right to dictate to him how he should act and what he should do and ... and ... oh, she was in such a rage that she wanted to scream loud enough for him to hear her in Scotland!

  * * * *

  Sweeney lowered the horse’s hoof to the ground. “I got the stone out, but I’m afraid he’s bruised the frog right and proper.”

  “How many miles to the next posting house?” Terence inquired, knowing that with the way his luck had been running, the coachman would not say it was only over the next hill.

  “About four miles, I calculate.”

  Four miles at a slow, limping walk. Undoubtedly a divine p
unishment for having rejoiced that they had gained a good two hours on the runaways.

  But there was nothing to be done. Sweeney climbed back into the phaeton, Terence flicked the reins, and they started off.

  At the rate things were going wrong, he would run out of things to worry about before ever they arrived at Gretna Green, he thought with a wry grin.

  * * * *

  Elizabeth, the Duchess of Colthurst, looked at her visitor in dismay. “But surely you intend to tell Mr. Kinderley the truth the moment he returns from Scotland,” she said.

  “No, I most certainly do not,” Alicia replied. “I shall concoct some lie—send him off on another wild goose chase. I have to.” Standing up, she began pacing back and forth. “I know it is wrong to tell a deliberate falsehood, but it would be even more wicked to allow that wretched man to ... to imprison that poor girl once again.”

  With a look of entreaty, Alicia dropped down onto the settee beside Elizabeth and took her hand. “Please, you must agree to help me. If you could only see how much the child has improved in just two days, you would do everything in your power to assist me.”

  “You are talking as if Terence is the veriest villain, but my husband has been friends with him for years, and I trust Darius’s judgment completely.”

  Standing up, Alicia once more began to pace back and forth, more distraught than Elizabeth had ever before seen her. In fact, now that she thought on it, Elizabeth realized she had never seen Alicia behave in any way other than completely calm and collected.

  How odd ... or rather, how intriguing. Could it be?

  “You know my views on child raising,” Alicia said, “and I know you adhere to the same philosophy I do, namely that children should not be hampered by unnecessary rules and restrictions.”

  “But my dear, you must admit that Marigold is a special case since she has a weak constitution.”

  “Balderdash! You would not say that if you could have seen her climbing a tree yesterday or trotting around the estate today on Pattycake’s back. And as for her delicate stomach, she has been eating more than any one of the boys—positively stuffing herself with every one of the foods that have always been forbidden to her, and she has displayed not the slightest bit of discomfort or distress. Do you wish to know what I think?”

  Elizabeth was under the impression that Alicia had made it very clear what she thought, but she nodded her head.

  “I think that people can make themselves sick by quacking themselves. By paying attention to every gurgle in their tummies or every twinge in a joint, they can convince themselves that they are in imminent danger of dying if they so much as set foot out of bed. And precisely because they believe themselves to be sick, they actually become so. Lady Arbuthnot is a case in point, and Squire Henley’s father is another example of that kind of idiocy.”

  “So you think Marigold has been playing the invalid so long she has made herself sick?” Elizabeth asked.

  “No, I do not think she has done any such thing. It is all the fault of that wretched man.” There was a fire and a fury in Alicia’s eyes that Elizabeth had never seen before. “I think every bit of this is her uncle’s fault—he is the one who insists upon treating her as an invalid. I would have more sympathy for Mr. Kinderley if he himself were a hypochondriac, but no, he has forced his niece to play that role. It is no wonder the poor child felt compelled to run away. She told me herself she is happier with us than she has ever been before in her life, and I am totally opposed to helping that wretched man find her again.”

  Looking up into her friend’s blazing eyes, Elizabeth had the strongest feeling that Alicia was more interested in “that wretched man” than she was admitting to herself. In all the years Elizabeth had known her, Alicia had never shown the slightest degree of interest in any other eligible bachelor.

  Perhaps it would not be so very bad to delay telling Terence where his niece was? Marigold was, after all, perfectly safe under Alicia’s watchful eye.

  But to send him off on another wild goose chase? No, that would definitely be a blunder. After all, one did not send a prospective bridegroom away from the prospective bride, not if one wished to foster a match between them.

  The only stumbling block, Elizabeth realized, was her husband. She could never, under any circumstances, bring herself to deliberately deceive Darius. But if she explained the whole situation to him, might she not convince him that it was in Terence’s best interests to be kept in ignorance of his niece’s whereabouts?

  * * * *

  The coach overturned in the roadway ahead of them was not, unfortunately, a green chaise with yellow wheels. It was also unfortunate that common decency and compassion demanded that Terence stop and render what assistance he could.

  “We’re but six hours behind the runaways,” Sweeney commented gloomily.

  “Even if we were to ignore these poor people and continue without stopping,” Terence said, tugging back on the reins, “there is no way we can catch up with Mr. Lucaster before he reaches the border.” Terence was amazed at his own calm acceptance of the inevitable. “That will not, however, prevent me from putting a bullet through that cursed dancing master’s black heart as soon as we catch up with him, whether he has married my niece or not. Well, perhaps I shall restrain myself a bit if, by some quirk, they have not said their vows. Yes, I rather think that if we discover that they are not yet married, I shall merely thrash him soundly.”

  * * * *

  That evening when they were preparing for bed, Elizabeth threw herself wholeheartedly into the attempt to persuade her husband to go along with her plans. She dragged out every argument she could think of to justify concealing the truth from Terence, ending with, “Do you not agree that Alicia would make your friend an absolutely splendid wife?”

  “If Terence were looking around for a wife, I am sure Alicia would catch his eye,” Darius replied, brushing Elizabeth’s hair. “But he has always seemed content to remain a bachelor, and I am not in favor of meddling in other people’s lives.”

  “Poppycock. You are presupposing that men are invariably able to recognize their own good fortune when it is staring them in the face. They are far more likely to whistle a lifetime of happiness down the wind than to behave sensibly and court the proper woman.”

  Given that Darius himself had never intended to marry, and yet he was now most happy and content to be a husband and father, Elizabeth doubted that he could now come up with a convincing argument in support of bachelorhood.

  “Very well,” Darius said, wrapping his arms around her and nuzzling her neck, “since one must always humor pregnant ladies, who are known to have the most absurd whims, I shall agree not to interfere in your scheme. Under one condition: When Terence returns from Scotland, if he does not appear to be suffering acute mental anguish, I shall remain silent for one week and one week only.”

  “Two weeks,” Elizabeth said promptly, turning in his arms so that she could kiss him.

  “One week,” her husband said firmly when he could again speak. Then he smiled and added, “But perhaps after one week I might be persuaded to reevaluate the situation before I peach on you two conniving, conspiring females.”

  * * * *

  It was almost noon of the third day when Terence finally crossed the River Sark and entered the village of Gretna Green. The only worry that he had been unable to push out of his mind for the last twenty-four hours was the fear that his pursuit of the runaway couple might not end here in this peaceful place—that having by now, no doubt, successfully married Marigold, Mr. Lucaster might have already carried her away, leaving Terence with all of Scotland and England to search.

  After inquiring in vain at several of the inns, Terence discovered his luck, which had been uniformly bad throughout the entire journey, had finally taken a turn for the better at the King’s Head. Not only had Mr. Lucaster chosen this most renowned inn for his wedding, but also for his nuptial night.

  “Your niece, you say? Came in a green chai
se with yellow wheels? I’m sorry to have to inform you that you are too late. I married them myself yesterday evening, and there is naught you can do to unhitch them. They’re upstairs in my second-best parlor right at this very moment, enjoying a light repast,” the host, a Mr. Robert Elliot, explained in a most congenial manner.

  Without deigning to answer the man, Terence took the stairs two at a time. Behind him, Mr. Elliot, who evidently had much experience with furious fathers, wrathful brothers, and enraged uncles, called out, “Third door on the left.”

  Throwing open the door so hard it crashed against the wall, Terence entered the second-best parlor. And immediately stopped dead in his tracks.

  The man who leaped to his feet and who now stood ashen-faced and trembling was obviously Mr. Lucaster since he exactly matched the description Terence had been given.

  The woman who scurried around to hide behind his narrow shoulders was not, however, a fourteen-year-old schoolgirl. She appeared to be in her late twenties, and she bore not the slightest resemblance to Marigold other than that they both had black hair.

  “W-what do you mean by barging in like this?” Mr. Lucaster said bravely. “This is a p-private parlor, and I have rented it for the entire day. Whoever you are, I m-must ask you to leave.”

  Terence had never before suffered from such mortification. For the first time in his life, he could feel his face grow hot and knew he was undoubtedly blushing bright red. If only there were some way to erase the last few minutes! But there was no way to undo what had been done.

  “Forgive me for the intrusion,” he said coolly, “but I was informed that you had run off with my niece.”

  “Do not listen to him, Philbert. He is not my uncle—indeed, I have never seen him before in my life,” the bride managed to squeak out.

  “My name is Kinderley,” Terence said, “and I am seeking my niece, Marigold, who is a student at Mrs. Wychombe’s Seminary. She has completely vanished, and one of her friends said she was seen climbing into a chaise in the company of the dancing master, Mr. Lucaster.”