Love in Hiding

CHAPTER ONE ~ 1786The stagecoach had made good time since it left the Posting inn at Hartley Wintney. The horses were fresh and, as if they were anxious to make up for the irritating delays that had made the coach nearly three hours late, they moved at a spanking pace along the narrow twisting lanes that led towards Blackwater in Surrey. But if the horses were fresh, the coachman was the opposite. The ale at the inn had been strong and he had been kept awake the night before with a nagging tooth. He yawned loudly, making his companion on the box, a thin, nervous little man with spectacles, look up at him apprehensively. He yawned again and did not seem to notice the sharp corner ahead until they were almost on top of it and then, as the horses still travelling too fast seemed to become aware of a bend in the road, a curricle travelling at quite a formidable speed came into view. There was a flash of yellow-and-black wheels, a glimpse of a pair of perfectly matched chestnuts, a gentleman wearing a beaver hat at a jaunty angle holding the ribbons and another equally smart seated beside him. Then the thin man in spectacles let out a cry of sheer terror. The coachman tugged at the reins, but it was too late. The horses swerved sharply, suddenly aware of the danger. Then, by a superb piece of driving, the curricle, scraping the wheel of the coach, got past. But after seeming for a moment to rock like a clumsy wooden ark, the coach crashed against the bank of the road and partially overturned, the horses plunging and rearing. For a moment there was pandemonium. A woman screamed, violent oaths were shouted, some in fear and some in anger, and then a voice, cold, contemptuous and authoritative, seemed to restore sanity. “Get to your horses’ heads, you fools!” The coachman scrambled to his feet followed by the groom who appeared from the ditch with a bemused expression on his face as if he had been asleep before this had happened. The thin traveller in spectacles climbed down onto the road. “This is m-monstrous, m-monstrous!” he squealed in a quavering voice to the driver of the curricle. “I agree with you, sir,” the gentleman answered. “Your driver is either a knave or a lunatic to approach a corner at such a speed. But no good will be served at this stage by recriminations. I suggest you assist the inside passengers to extricate themselves.” The traveller, who was about to say a great deal more, obviously lost his nerve. He bit back the words that seemed to tremble on his lips and turned, as he was bid, towards the coach. The horses were being held and now that the moment of panic was past it was obvious that things were not as desperate as they had seemed in the first moment of the accident. The coach lay a little drunkenly against the raised bank and it appeared that the nearside wheel was damaged. Otherwise the disaster seemed slight. It was then that through the lowered window a vision appeared and a soft little voice asked rather breathlessly, “What has – happened?” The face was entrancing. Small and heart-shaped it possessed a tiny tip-tilted nose, a full red mouth and two large blue eyes. These were all framed by a profusion of gold curls that had escaped from a chip straw bonnet which in the confusion had fallen onto her shoulders. “Allow me, madam.” Another voice spoke now and a young gentleman who had been the passenger in the curricle, gorgeously attired in skin-tight buckskin breeches and a dazzling blue satin coat, climbed down and hurrying forward swept his high-crowned hat from his head. “Oh, wait a minute,” the vision said as he put out a hand to open the door. “We are in a vast confusion.” She disappeared from the window and then, as the young gentleman, pulling with all his strength, managed to open the door, it was to find himself assisting another lady to alight. Fat, buxom, with a red face and brown eyes swimming with tears, she heaved herself with some difficulty down onto the roadway, exclaiming as she did so, “Lawks amercy! I never did trust these darned coaches and I never shall.” The young gallant supported her arm, but it was obvious from his glances over her shoulder into the interior of the coach that he was more concerned to see the vision again than in proffering his help from a humane point of view. The gentleman, who had driven the curricle and ordered the coachman to the horses’ heads, sat watching with the faintest smile on his lips and a quizzical look in his dark hard eyes. The vision reappeared. “Are you all right?” she asked anxiously, speaking not to the gallant waiting with an outstretched hand to assist her to alight but to the stout woman now standing in the roadway. “Quite all right, thank you, dearie. Although I’m as sure as I’m standin’ here that every bone in my body is bruised or broken.” The vision laughed and then, taking the hand that was proffered to her, seemed to float onto the ground as lightly as a piece of thistledown. “Are you certain you are not hurt, madam?” the gallant asked, holding her hand a little longer than was necessary. “Oh, quite, I thank you,” she replied. “But I am afraid that the other traveller with us is badly bruised. We all seemed to fall on top of him.” She turned back and smiled at an elderly man who must have been a Schoolmaster and who was descending with a little carpet bag in his hand. “’Tis lucky we are alive, that’s what I say!” the stout woman asserted. “We were travellin’ too fast and nobody’s goin’ to tell me that we weren’t.” “You are undoubtedly correct, madam,” the gentleman in the curricle agreed. “And I beg of you to say so when you reach London. Your coachman was entirely at fault.” “And how am I to be sure that you were not to blame as well, sir?” the lady asked, obviously determined not to be browbeaten and have other people’s opinions thrust upon her. “We had best introduce ourselves,” the young gallant who had assisted her from the coach said with his eyes on the vision. “I am Sir Harry Carrington at your service, ladies, and this is the Marquis of Stade, one of the most noted whips in the country.” The stout lady dropped a curtsey. “I’m sure, my Lord, no offence was meant.” “And your name?” the young gallant asked the vision eagerly. “My name is Gretna – ” she began, only to be interrupted by the stout woman. “My name is Merryweather, if it pleases your Lordship. Mrs. Merryweather of Brambridge Farm near Winchester and this is my niece who is travellin’ to London with me. And now, if you gentlemen will excuse us, we had best find our way to the nearest village and wait there until the wheel of the coach is repaired.” “Oh, but you cannot do that,” Sir Harry exclaimed. “We must find you somewhere more congenial to rest must we not, Julien?” He turned to the Marquis, an eager look on his face, and the Marquis, still with that cynical twist of his lips, replied suavely, “Indubitably. If the ladies will permit me to drive them to Stade Hall, which is only a few miles from here, I will instruct my own blacksmith to see to the repair of the wheel.” “That’s ever so kind of your Lordship,” Mrs. Merryweather said, “but my niece and I will manage well enough in the inn.” “Oh, but – why?” her niece asked. “I think we should accept such a kind invitation. It may be some hours before the coach is ready to proceed.” “That is very sensible of you,” Sir Harry approved. The Marquis waved his whip in the direction of the two other travellers who had been listening to this exchange of pleasantries. “If you gentlemen care to walk half a mile down the road, you will find a small hostelry. Tell the landlord I sent you and he will do his best for you.” “Thank you, my Lord.” The elderly Schoolmaster and the thin man in spectacles accepted the suggestion, although they looked a little enviously at the two ladies being helped up into the curricle. It was hard to think that the two could be in any way related. Mrs. Merryweather, with her large bulging figure and fat red face, looked a typical farmer’s wife, while the slender girl following her with her lovely wild rose complexion and spun-gold hair seemed to belong to another world. But there was no mistaking the poverty of her plain gown or the severity of the untrimmed bonnet with its cheap ribbons, which she now hastily pulled over her curls. Perhaps she was going to London to seek a position as a housemaid, Sir Harry mused to himself. Or maybe she would find employment as a Governess. Whatever it might be, it was a damned shame that anyone so pretty should have to earn her own living. The curricle, which had obviously been built for speed, was not a particularly suitable vehicle for ladies. Mrs. Merryweather then refused to climb up onto the box beside his Lordship. “I’ll sit behind,” she said, “and Gretna will sit beside me. You gentlemen are best in front where you were when you overturned us.” “Now, now, Mrs. Merryweather!” Sir Harry admonished. “You must not say that. It was your coachman who overturned you and not us.” “Well, that’s as maybe,” Mrs. Merryweather retorted. “Anyway, sir, that’s the way we’ll sit.” Sir Harry was obliged to acquiesce. He had obviously had ideas of putting her on the box beside the Marquis and sitting with her niece at the back. But Mrs. Merryweather was too firm for him and he was forced to do as she wished only turning round endeavouring to see the pretty heart-shaped face that was almost obscured from him by the ugly bonnet. Gretna tried to say something to Mrs. Merryweather, but she put her fingers to her lips and she lapsed into silence content to watch the countryside as they hurried back along the road that they had just come down. After perhaps a mile the curricle turned through some fine ornamental gates into a drive bordered with oak trees. Sitting where she was, Gretna did not see Stade Hall until they had passed through a second pair of gates, which led into a courtyard and swung round in front of the wide stone steps that led to the front door. Then she gave a little gasp of surprise at the magnificence of it. There was no doubt about it at all, it was a very beautiful house set like a jewel in green parkland with great trees shading a small herd of speckled deer. There was a lake, shimmering golden in the evening sun, and smooth lawns that reached down to the edge of the lake. She had, however, little time to look around her before a footman with powdered hair and claret and gold livery, was assisting her to alight and she and Mrs. Merryweather were led by Sir Harry into a huge porticoed hall. “You will wish some refreshment, I am sure,” he said eagerly. “Do you not agree, Julien? They must be very shaken by the accident.” “Wine and biscuits are to be served immediately in the salon,” the Marquis ordered the butler in what seemed to Gretna to be an uncompromising autocratic voice, as if he was not particularly pleased at the idea. “And now, ladies,” he added, “I am sure you would like my housekeeper to show you to a bedchamber where you can wash and tidy yourselves.” “We should be glad of that, my Lord,” Mrs. Merryweather answered. She curtseyed and Gretna followed her example. And then they walked up the broad staircase to where at the top a housekeeper in rustling black satin stood waiting for them with folded hands. She seemed to take in Mrs. Merryweather’s status at a glance and with a slight sniff, as if to wait on such a person was beneath heir dignity, she led the way to a large bedroom. “The chambermaids will bring you hot water and anything else you may require,” she said and then withdrew leaving them alone. Mrs. Merryweather looked around her. “Lord love us, what a room!” she said. “’Tis many years since I have seen the like. Those tapestries are worth a fortune if they are worth a penny.”