Rebel Heiress (6 page)

‘The greys are well enough,' said Henrietta. ‘Frightened, of course, but none the worse. But I fear you are hurt.'

He put his hand to his head. ‘A mere scratch. Nothing to signify. But I think I owe you more than an apology. You have saved my life, or I am very much mistaken.'

‘Oh, I do not think so,' said Henrietta, ‘the greys were
calm enough. But I am afraid I was compelled to cut your reins to free you, which I am sure is what you will not at all like.'

‘You are quite right.' He made a wry face. ‘I do not. And it will teach me not to be such a cowhanded fool. If I had come down the hill at a proper pace instead of letting them out, I would have been able to stop when I saw that young fool was driving the coach. But — I was in a hurry. There is a boat sails tomorrow —'

He was interrupted by a shout from the coach; the countryman's angry face appeared for a moment at the window, then vanished again like a jack-in-the-box. ‘I suppose we had better go to the assistance of these good people.' The injured man rose to his feet.' But first allow me to introduce myself: Charles Rivers, your most obliged servant.' He made her a courtly, if slightly dishevelled, bow.

‘And I am Henrietta Marchmont,' she said, ‘and you are quite right, we really must try to get them out. I am afraid that poor clergyman will be quite flattened by now.'

A confused and exhausting few minutes followed, but at last, by their united efforts, they managed to get the upper door of the coach open and help its bruised and furious passengers to crawl out. The young squire, too, had come to himself unaided and had come around the coach to face the vituperations of its passengers.

‘Yes,' said Charles Rivers thoughtfully, ‘that is all very well and I agree with everything they say, but we must be thinking what's best to be done. I am afraid neither my curricle nor the coach can be moved. Someone will have to ride for assistance. I would go willingly, but…'

It was perfectly evident that he was in no state to ride, and after some discussion, the coachman set out to ride back to the nearest village and summon help. The passengers resigned themselves in their various ways to the long wait before them. The clergyman settled down under the hedge with his Bible. The woman in red began for the third time to tell the young squire what she thought of him. The countryman fell asleep.

Rivers took Henrietta's arm. ‘Come,' he said, ‘we have something of a wait before us. Let us find somewhere a little more peaceful.'

He led her, unresisting, though a gate into a rolling field where sheep grazed peacefully in the warm sun. ‘This is better.' He took off his blue greatcoat and spread it on the grass
in the shelter of the hedge. ‘We can sit here and rest in the sun while you tell me what an American girl is doing in this hostile country.'

‘Oh,' She sank gratefully down on the coat. ‘How did you know?'

He laughed. ‘I trust you will not be affronted if I tell you that your accent is as unmistakable as it is delightful. Surely it must have been recognised before.'

‘To tell truth, I am only just landed in England, so there has hardly been time, but I did wonder if the other people in the coach were not looking at me a little askance. That large woman in red kept making remarks about enemies in our midst.'

‘Never mind; you have successfully established yourself as a heroine now, and I am sure they will sink the enemy in that. Not, I trust, that it will in fact come to war between our two countries.'

‘But' — she felt it was time to protest — ‘I am not an enemy; I am as English as you are — or almost.'

‘Almost?' He looked at her quizzically.

‘Well, my mother, it is true, was an American, but my father is English.'

‘Is he so? I had wondered — forgive me if I seem impertinent — but you did say your name was Marchmont?'

‘Yes. Oh! Can it be that you know my father?'

‘If he is Lord Marchmont, I must certainly do. I am but now come from his house in town.'

‘Have you really? Is he there? Is he well? Tell me everything about him. What is he like? Am I like him? Will he be pleased to see me, do you think?'

He laughed at the rapid flood of questions. ‘Where would you have me begin: He is there, certainly, since Parliament is sitting, and well enough, save for a few twinges of the gout — and to tell truth he is seldom without those. As to being like him, no, I would hardly say that. His best friends would scarcely describe Lord Marchmont as a dark-haired beauty.' And then, as she blushed with pleasure for the compliment. ‘But, Miss Marchmont, again I must risk seeming impertinent. I am but newly come from Marchmont House, as I said, and I heard no word of his expecting you. Indeed, to deal plainly with you, I did not even know that you existed.'

‘No wonder for that,' said Henrietta, feeling better every moment. ‘No more does my father.' And she went on, sitting
there in the warm spring sunshine, to tell him her whole story. He made an admirable audience, interjecting just the right amount of question and comment, and she found herself wonderfully at her ease, sitting there among buttercups and talking to this complete stranger about Aunt Abigail and then about the voyage, Captain Gilbert and his officers.

He laughed with her at her descriptions of the lessons in deportment. ‘Not but what you will live to be grateful to them, I am sure. You will find the London world a strange and formidable one, and I am afraid there will be many people who will make it their business to find fault with Lord Marchmont's American daughter. I must tell you, you may well find your father First Minister when you reach London.'

‘My father First Minister? But what has happened to Mr. Perceval?'

‘He was assassinated a few weeks ago in the lobby of the House of Commons.'

‘Good heavens! What a shocking thing. And you say my father may succeed him in office?'

‘It might well be. There were all kinds of rumours going about town when I left. If the Regent does not take this chance to send for his old friends the Whigs, it seems most likely that he will send for your father, who has long been Perceval's right hand. And if, indeed, Lord Marchmont is to be First Minister — why, it will behoove you to walk warily and give people no handle to abuse him with talk of an enemy in his house. But your own good sense will be your guide, I am sure, and, of course, you will have a most admirable adviser and friend in your stepmother.'

‘In whom?'

‘Why, your stepmother, Lady Marchmont. Did you not know that your father had married again?'

‘Indeed I did not. Why, this is famous news. Tell me all about her! To think that I am to have a mother at last!'

‘Well, as to that' — doubtfully — ‘I am not sure that Lady Marchmont will be exactly a mother to you, but a sister and a dear companion, that I am sure she will be.'

‘Oh, she is young then. Better and better. But has she no children of her own?'

‘Not of Lord Marchmont's. She has one son, by a previous marriage, Cedric Beaufrage.'

Again Henrietta exclaimed with delight: ‘A mother and a
brother at one swoop; how lucky I am! But tell me about them; shall I like them? And — oh dear' — she looked down at her crumpled gown — ‘will they like me, do you think? Are they very fashionable? Is she a patroness of Almack's and he a pink of the
ton
? But I am being absurd; if Lady Marchmont is so young, then of course her son is but a boy. Does he go to Eton? Shall I be able to go to Montem? I have always wished for a younger brother.' She paused for breath and found that his blue eyes were regarding her quizzically, but surely with something like embarrassment.

‘I have misled you, I fear,' he said. ‘It is true that Lady Marchmont is the most beautiful, the gayest, the wittiest creature you can imagine, and very much in the swim of society, but her son is, as a matter of fact, grown up and very much a young man of the town. I hope you will like him well enough' — he did not sound at all sure of it — ‘but as for her, there can be no question. You will love her the minute you see her. Who, indeed, could help it? Ah, Miss Marchmont, how I envy you. If only I could accompany you to London, which, indeed, I have left most reluctantly.' He stopped. ‘Shame on me to say so, for I am on my way to rejoin my regiment in the Peninsula. I beg you will not repeat it.'

‘Of course I will not. But is this the first time you have served abroad?'

‘No, indeed. I was with Graham at Walcheren — and a deuced mismanaged affair that was — and again in Cádiz, but a plaguey wound I got at Barrosa has kept me at home ever since — that and the lack of a commission. But I have that at last, and your father to thank for it.'

There was something she did not quite understand in his voice as he said this. In fact, ever since her father and stepmother had been mentioned, she had felt that she was only understanding the surface meaning of what he was saying. It was a relief to be on more certain ground.

‘Will you be serving under Wellington, then? Oh, how I envy you. If I had only been a boy, I should have gone into the army.'

He laughed. ‘And been ready to fight against us by this. God knows how this wretched American war will affect the course of events in Europe if it does break out. They say that already the Peer is complaining that he does not receive the drafts he needs.'

‘The Peer? Who is that?'

‘Why, Wellington. The Iron General. His setdowns are enough to make a man shoot himself, they say. I am to serve on his staff.' The blue eyes flashed. ‘He shall have no chance to set
me
down. I mean to come back a colonel, at least. Then we shall see …' He stopped, as if conscious that he had said more than he intended, then continued on a lighter note. ‘What a strange conversation! Here we are, just met, and talking about our lives and plans as if we were old and dear friends. Well' — his smile sent a little tingle of pure pleasure throbbing down her spine — ‘you have saved my life today. That makes us dear friends, does it not? But here comes help at last. You will understand now why I am so eager to be on my way. There is a ship sails tomorrow for Lisbon. If I do not catch her, I may miss much of the summer's campaigning. Who knows? Wellington might be in France before I caught up with him. If I had not been in so great a hurry, I would not now be indebted to you for my life. Lucky for me that you know horses or I think my commission would have been void almost as soon as signed.' Rising to his feet, he reached down a warm hand to help her up, and once again she felt that extraordinary thrill of pure excitement, a kind of madness throbbing through her veins. Angrily, too, she felt herself blushing, but, if he saw, he gave no sign of it, picking up his greatcoat and taking her arm to lead her back to the road. ‘Let us see how those good people are contriving for our repair. Perhaps a financial inducement might urge them on. Do you find, in America, that the lower classes react better to ha'pence than to kicks?'

His curricle, it turned out, was but slightly damaged, and was soon ready to take the road again, but repairing the coach was to be a longer business. When he was ready to start, Rivers came over to take his leave of Henrietta, who was standing somewhat forlornly at the side of the road. ‘I need not wish you success,' he said, ‘for I know what a warm welcome you will receive in London. Who knows? When we next meet, you will most likely be the toast of the town, and I, I hope, a colonel.' He pressed her hand. ‘Give my grateful duties to your father, and tell Lady Marchmont' — he hesitated — ‘tell her I have not forgotten.' And with that he swung himself up into his curricle and was away.

Henrietta stood for a moment looking down at the hand that still seemed to feel the warmth of his touch. Everything was
changed. Everything was different. She had a young and beautiful stepmother and a full-grown stepbrother. This was surely matter for rejoicing. But why was it that after her talk with Charles Rivers, her father, who should surely have seemed more approachable, had become somehow infinitely remote and formidable? And what, she kept wondering, was it that Rivers had not forgotten? But the coach was ready at last and its weary passengers took their seats with relief, and a good deal of grumbling. Henrietta was dismayed to learn that the accident had cost them so much time they would be one more night on the journey. How was she to manage for money? She must eat, however frugally. None of her fellow passengers seemed sympathetic enough to be asked for a loan. Indeed, their first suspicion of her as a stranger had obviously been exacerbated by Rivers' attentions. The woman in red now made frequent and grating references to ‘some people with ideas above their stations'.

Only too aware of her own travel-stained appearance, Henrietta hardly blamed her, but this undercurrent of ill will towards her made any request for aid impossible. No, she would just have to manage as best she might. At least she had learned from Rivers that Marchmont House was within walking distance of the London inn where the coach stopped. She therefore decided to spend the small sum she had been reserving for London expenses and trust to luck that she would be able to leave her boxes at the coaching inn and make her way on foot to her father's house. If he was out, surely either Lady Marchmont or her son would receive her. It was, at any rate, the greatest comfort to know that they were in town.

When the coach finally rattled on to the first pavingstones of London early on a fine Friday morning, Henrietta had a grumbling headache from lack of food, and nothing in her pocket. Leaning dizzily back into the corner that the woman in red had vacated the evening before, she thought wryly of how often she had imagined this moment. The streets of London, the sights and cries she had so often read about — it was around her at last, the noise, the bustle, the confusion of the greatest city in the world. And all she wanted to do was lie back and shut her eyes. She hardly opened them when they crossed the Thames, and only managed to rouse herself when a bustle among the other passengers warned her that they were nearing their destination. Then, with a hand that would not stop shaking, she
smoothed her braided hair and shook out the folds of her dress, which, alas, was almost beyond shaking. The coachman, when she had asked him, when they stopped for dinner, to get out her box from the boot so that she could change into her carefully hoarded best, had made it all too clear that this could only be done for a consideration. For a moment, confronted by his cockney churlishness, she had hated England and wished herself back home — but what was home?