Scandal's Daughter (36 page)

When she emerged from the wood, James surveyed her and nodded. “Good enough.” Actually, she was adorable, her round face peeking hopefully from the fur-trimmed hood like a Cornish piskie, but he would not tell her so. Her persistent doubt of his honesty rankled.

As they set off down the path to Cremyll, he jingled the borrowed coins in his pocket. “We’ll take the ferry to Plymouth and find a quiet inn. Then to a jeweller. We’ll buy a few necessaries—”

“Hairpins! A toothbrush!”

“—and take seats on the Mail.”

“The Mail?”

“The coaches which carry the Royal Mail also take passengers. It’s not the most comfortable way to travel, but we’ve endured a lot worse. It’s fast and it will save a lot of trouble.”

Cordelia frowned, obviously miffed. “What sort of trouble? What are the alternatives? You know England and I don’t but I should like at least to be consulted.”

James adopted his most patient air. “For one thing, the Mails are never held up by highwaymen because the guards are well armed and alert. As for alternatives, there’s the common stage coach. It’s cheaper, but slower and still less comfortable. Or we could hire a post-chaise, fast and private, but no more comfortable, and expensive.”

“Very expensive?”

“Very expensive, and few postilions are willing travel at night. To stay overnight at an inn is to risk meeting someone I know, which means we should have to hire an abigail for you.”

“An abigail! Why? I manage perfectly well without.”

“Because, my dear, you’re in England now. Being a virtuous young lady is not enough. The appearance of propriety is as important as the fact—if not more so!” he added sardonically.

She considered this in silence for several paces, then sighed. “I suppose so. If I had had a maid with me, Lady Millicent might have believed our story.

“Might.” He was still out of charity with his beautiful but cynical cousin. “At any rate, to find a maid or chaperon in Plymouth could delay us for days, and would involve us in all sorts of explanations. On the Mail we shan’t meet anyone who knows me, and as we shall travel through the night in company the question of impropriety does not arise.”

“We will still need some sort of story.”

“Any personal enquiries from strangers would be sheer impertinence, and I should treat them as such.” He spoke with hauteur, eliciting a glance of surprise from Cordelia. Lowering his tone, he added more prosaically, “The most we need let drop is that we are cousins and I am escorting you home after a visit to relatives.”

“Better relatives in Cornwall than in Sicily, I daresay!”

James grinned. “More credible, undoubtedly. When we reach Town we shall go to my uncle’s house and—”

“No. Whatever we tell or don’t tell our fellow-travellers, your actual relatives will require a proper explanation. I think it will be best if I go straight to Norfolk, alone.”

“Not so fast!” Infuriating as she could be, James was not about to let her out of his sight while she persisted in refusing to marry him. “Your father is very likely in London with the rest of the Polite World. You cannot wish to throw yourself on the mercy of a house full of servants who don’t know you.”

“Oh dear, I thought everything would be easy once I reached England.” Her voice quavered.

He wanted to take her in his arms and hug her and promise all would be well, but he had decided he must observe the strictest decorum now until they were safely wed. It might after all be possible to keep their travels secret from all but their closest relatives—at least until Millicent returned to England, and her malicious tongue would be silenced by finding them man and wife. He’d much prefer Cordelia to marry him by choice, not because she was compromised in the eyes of the world. Very soon now he would be able to prove to her that he was not the good-for-nothing vagabond she thought him.

“Once we reach London, everything will be easy,” he assured her. “I’ll take you to my uncle and aunt, and we’ll discover your father’s whereabouts. If he is not in Town, you shall write him a letter so that he has time to kill the fatted calf before I deliver you to his doorstep.”

She smiled at that. “Oh James, you cannot imagine how much I look forward to having a proper home!”

For once their plans proceeded smoothly. They were able to leave Plymouth that very evening, though James had to take an outside seat as far as Exeter. Cordelia marvelled at the splendid coach with its red wheels and undercarriage, maroon panels, and gold Royal arms, stars, and lettering. The public diligences she had seen on the Continent were always drab and generally dingy.

The four horses tossed their heads; the scarlet-coated guard, perched up behind atop the boot holding his mailbags, impatiently consulted his timepiece as the passengers took their places. The coachman gave James the coveted seat at his side on the box, to the loud envy of the two young squirelings off to see the world, or at least the sights of London.

Inside, Cordelia sat opposite an elderly couple who bade her good evening and then talked quietly together. Next to her was a middle-aged woman who merely nodded to her travelling companions as she took out knitting and embarked upon a muttered counting of stitches. This accomplished, the regular click of needles was periodically accompanied by such arcane mumbles as “Knit one, purl one, knit two together, slip one, pass the slipped stitch over.” A pink baby-jacket took shape.

None of the three showed any interest in Cordelia. While daylight lasted, she gazed out of the window at the passing scenery. The English countryside, fields and woods golden-green in the light of the evening sun, enchanted her. Fat cows in the meadows, neat villages of thatched cottages with gardens full of flowers, everything so peaceful and prosperous, surely nothing could go wrong here. How could Mama have borne to leave?

But Mama had only recollected constant dismal rain and biting winds.

Now and then the guard sounded his post-horn to warn the toll-gate keepers to open. The Royal Mail passed free and must not be held up. At the bustling inns where they briefly stopped every hour or so, fresh horses were always waiting. As dusk turned to dark, Cordelia dozed, her dreams punctuated by the
tantara
of the horn.

Then the young fellows on the roof began to sing. Their rollicking hunting songs celebrated the pursuit of the fox and the village maiden impartially. At first Cordelia heard James’s voice joining in the refrains, but as the songs grew less decent and more drunken, he dropped out. Soon the songs were interrupted by noisy squabbles about the words and tunes, until at last they fell blessedly silent. The coach rumbled on through the night. To the drumming of the horses’ hooves and the snoring of the old man opposite, Cordelia sank again into intermittent slumber, hoping James would stay awake enough not to tumble from his seat.

At Exeter, in the small hours of the morning, the knitter departed and James took her place.

“It’s getting chilly up there,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Those young rattlepates are drinking to stay warm. It wouldn’t surprise me a bit if one or both came to grief.”

“You are all right,” Cordelia murmured drowsily. “That’s all that matters. Besides, nothing dreadful can happen in England.”

When the next stop roused her, her head was pillowed on James’s shoulder. She was too sleepy and too comfortable to move.

The Mail stopped at Yeovil for breakfast. “Forty minutes,” cried the guard, “then we’re off, ready or not.”

“Breakfast is served, ladies an’ gemmun!” announced a waiter in a striped jacket with a white cloth over his arm. “This way, if you please.”

The elderly couple climbed stiffly out and hobbled towards the inn. As Cordelia followed, one of the young men from the roof seat clambered down with the clumsy caution of the tipsy. He blinked at her with red-rimmed eyes.

“Tally-ho! A wench! A wench!” he cried. Seizing her around the waist, he aimed a sloppy, spirit-laden kiss at her mouth.

James promptly grabbed him by the collar and the seat of his breeches and tossed him in the horse trough, where he floundered, spluttering. The ostlers leading away the horses turned to laugh and jeer, and other by-standers gathered around.

Cordelia wiped her mouth. About to thank James, she saw the elderly couple hurrying back, their faces horrified. For a moment she wondered at their distress over a minor, if disagreeable, incident. Then she recalled that she was in England. No respectable young woman would casually disregard such an assault upon her person.

“Oh!” she cried hastily in a feeble voice, “I fear I am going to swoon.” Checking that James was close enough to catch her, she raised the back of her hand to her forehead, closed her eyes, and crumpled into his arms.

“The brute!” said the old lady fiercely. “What modern manners are coming to I dare not contemplate. My dear sir, pray don’t stand there. Carry her into the inn, do. I have smelling salts in my reticule.”

James obeyed. The landlord had heard the commotion in his yard and bustled forward to hustle all four into a private parlour, apologizing for such dastardly goings-on on his premises.

“Forty minutes!” the guard called after them, “and not a moment longer.”

As James deposited Cordelia full length upon a cushioned wooden settle, she risked a peep up at him. His dark blue eyes were full of laughter. A giggle rose in her throat and she quickly closed her eyes again.

A moment later, pungent fumes filled her nostrils. Choking, she gasped for breath.

“There, she is coming round,” the old lady said with satisfaction. “Poor dear, she will wish to rest quietly, I daresay, after such a horrid shock. Do you gentlemen go and take your breakfast in the coffee-room and I will stay with her. Richard, my dear, pray send in tea and a little thin bread-and-butter. You will feel better, child, after a nice cup of tea.” She patted Cordelia’s hand.

Cordelia shot a look of appeal at James. Correctly interpreting, he said, “Do you not think, ma’am, that my cousin is in need of sustenance to fortify her nerves?”

“After such a dreadful ordeal? Why, I doubt she will be able to swallow a morsel, but I shall endeavour to persuade her that a mouthful of bread-and-butter will do her good.”

Gravely James thanked her, and left Cordelia to her tender mercies.

At least her presumed state of agitation preserved her from questions. Mrs. Piper—as she introduced herself—kindly seeking to distract Cordelia from her supposed vapours, rambled gently on about her own affairs. Her husband was a retired naval captain and they were going up to Town for a little holiday, to stay with old friends. Cordelia hoped Captain Piper was not subjecting James to a barrage of questions.

Though he deserved it, the wretch, leaving her here to starve!

“I’m ravenous!” she whispered as he supported her tottering steps out to the Mail coach. She covered her eyes with her hand at the sight of the shamefaced young squire already seated on the roof.

“You have been hungrier,” James said callously. “Remember Montenegro. I must say your fainting was most convincing. After all our adventures, I’d have wagered you didn’t know how to swoon.”

“I did quite well, did I not? I thought in the interests of decorum I ought to show some strong reaction.”

“Thank heaven you didn’t decide to throw a fit of hysterics,” he said with a grin.

He and the captain, on the most cordial terms, settled down to a game of travelling chess. Cordelia was charmed by the tiny, beautifully carved, ivory pieces, which had pegs that stuck into holes on the little folding board. James explained every move to her, thus averting general conversation. Mrs. Piper seemed quite content with some needlework.

At midday they stopped in Salisbury for luncheon, and Cordelia made up for her missed breakfast. Afterwards the captain dozed off, snoring softly, so they were all quiet so as not to disturb him. One way and another, despite their enforced intimacy, James and Cordelia managed to avoid telling the Pipers about themselves. Reaching London in the evening twilight, they parted with many expressions of good will, but no promises of future meetings.

The guard with his precious mailbags had already descended at the General Post Office in Lombard Street. As the Mail coach passengers alighted in the yard of the White Horse, a stage coach arrived with ten passengers on the roof and six within. Amid the bustle, no one paid the least heed to a dowdy couple in good but ill-fitting clothes. James hailed a hackney, told the jarvey to drive to Arlington Street, St. James’s, and handed Cordelia into the shabby carriage.

In a fever of nervous anticipation, Cordelia paid no heed to the busy crowds in the brightly lit city streets. What was she going to say to James’s aunt and uncle? What would they think of his turning up unannounced with an utterly unknown female in tow? Would they even let her stay at their house? However amiable, they would surely consider her a dreadfully encroaching creature.

Miserably she wished she had insisted on going straight to Norfolk, where she belonged.

Perhaps she could put up at an inn tonight, and tomorrow James could come to help her discover her father’s whereabouts. She turned to him to suggest it.

“James—”

“Cordelia,” he said at the same moment, tugging at his neckcloth as if it was trying to strangle him. “Er...” he continued with unwonted hesitancy, “I...um...I daresay I ought to warn you.”

Her heart sank. “Warn me?”

“I...well, the fact is my uncle is the Marquis of Wyvancourt. And...well, I’m afraid I’m his heir.”

“You’re what?” said Cordelia, incredulous. “You mean you are going to be a marquis one day? I suppose you will tell me next that you really were abroad on a secret mission for the government!”

“As a matter of fact,” James said apologetically, “yes.”

Chapter 32

Far above Cordelia, the ceiling sported plaster garlands painted a delicate green, and bunches of gilt grapes. She turned her head. The walls of her bedchamber were hung with shimmering green silk. The elegant bow-fronted chest-of-drawers, the huge wardrobe, the dressing table, cheval glass, wash-stand, all gleamed from much polishing. A tall vase of yellow iris graced the small writing table.