Springtime Pleasures (30 page)

The reply he received was brisk and sharp. “Nonsense,” his aunt said. “You are not a coward, my dear, but a man plagued by false guilt. A sense of duty is all well and fine, if you don’t let it lead you astray.”

He threw her a glance over his shoulder. “As you think mine has done.”

She was watching him with her shrewd crocodile’s eyes. “Let us say it has led you on a detour. Fortunately for you, Scotland is not quite out of the world.” A smile curved her thin lips. “I have a nice little property down at the Dorset coast,” she said conversationally. “When our poor king started to visit Weymouth for his health back in the ’80s or ’90s, the court followed suit, and hangers-on like Burnell did, too. I never could understand why he chose Endsleigh Hall of all places, as the house did not suit his disposition at all. It was clearly built for a large family and was meant for relaxation rather than for entertaining. It is a charming house, even if I could never see it as such, and it deserves to be happy once more. The estate is a good one; it brings in at least six or seven thousand a year, I should think.” Her smile deepened. “I am of a mind to give it to you as a wedding present.”

Griff’s mouth fell open. This would be a beyond generous gift; one that would give him a comfortable independence. No wonder, then, that he could not help gaping at his aunt like a fish on dry land.

Laughing, she stood, suddenly as lithe as a young girl once more. “I shall speak to my man of business post-haste so everything is ready for you when you return from Scotland.” Her eyes twinkled. “I believe they have most convenient wedding customs up in the north.”

“They… they have.” By Jupiter, they
had
. Rapidly he began to calculate how many days, how many hours…
If
she would have him…

Aunt Burnell laughed again. “Don’t look like that, my boy. When you meet Miss Stanton again, you can grovel at her feet. I am sure she will be much impressed by such an excess of adoration. I expect to be invited to Endsleigh upon my return from the Continent.”

“So you are leaving?”

With quick strokes, she smoothed out her skirts. “I am, and as her godmother I will invite your sister to join me.” She threw him a sidelong glance. “We cannot have her grow mouldy under your parents’ roof, you know!”

Griff took a deep breath. For the first time in months—nay, in years—the world looked like a fine place full of sunshine once more, where happiness was more than just a distant dream. Suddenly, the world was full of possibilities, not just for himself, but also for Izzie.

He felt a smile spread across his face. “I think it is a most splendid idea,” he said.

Chapter 19

in which our hero is nearly finished off

by Robinson Crusoe

For the determined and desperate lover, the turnpike road system and the mail coaches, exempt from tolls, presented themselves as the most marvellous of inventions as they made travel to the north of the country fast and efficient, if a little uncomfortable. But nothing could beat those coaches for speed, and thus, on the stroke of eight that same day, Griffin found himself in the belly of that powerful beast of the Great North Road, the mail coach, as it flew off into the night to get letters, parcels, and passengers delivered to Edinburgh.

Fifty-odd hours later he emerged from the same mail coach, his bones thoroughly rattled and shaken. Still, the prospect that greeted him—Edinburgh Castle perching on its craggy rock like a brown hen on her nest—cheered him to no end. His body might be tired, but as it was only midday, he pressed on. The time for rest would come later—when he had found her, when he had had her answer. And dear God, please, when she was back in his arms, where she belonged and where she fitted as if God had fashioned her with Griff in mind as her mate.

So he borrowed a horse and a pair of saddlebags and bought a map and in a trice was on the road again. It took him half a day to reach Ardochlan—who would have thought that Scotland possessed so many small roads and so few road signs? Or perhaps it was because by then he was so tired, his mind whirled like a merry-go-round

Griff gritted his teeth and pressed on. His body might betray him, but he could not stop now. He
had
to see her, to speak to her, hold her in his arms once more.

If she let him. Please, God, if she let him.

More by chance than anything else, he finally found Ardochlan. By then he was covered with the dust and grime of the road, his clothes rumpled, and his hat—his hat he had forgotten on the mail coach.

Damn.

He hadn’t changed his clothes in three days.

He hadn’t shaved in three days, and itching stubble covered his face.

He supposed he looked as bedraggled as he ever had.

And he probably smelled, too.

Indeed, if any of his London acquaintances could see him right now, they would probably perish from the shock of it.

As it was, he looked enough of a fright to make the villagers stop and stare at him. The first man he asked for directions, an elderly, wizened individual, looked him up and down, shook his head, then proceeded to spit in the dirt in front of Griff’s grubby boots and walk away.

Splendid.

Griff asked two women next, hoping the sight of him might evoke pity in their feminine hearts (what he could see of himself certainly evoked pity in
his
heart, and would evoke pure horror in poor Bing’s heart).

But whatever it was that Griff’s appearance evoked in the hearts of the two village matrons, it was not pity.

They eyed him suspiciously, then one of them said something to the other in a language he didn’t understand—surely that wasn’t English?

The two women looked at each other, looked back at him—and burst out laughing. Finally, one of them addressed him in that language he didn’t understand, and pointed over his left shoulder. So he supposed he was given directions, after all. He certainly
hoped
he was been given directions.

“Thank you, ma’am. Most obliged,” he said, and sketched them a bow—which made them burst into another round of chuckles.

Still chuckling and chortling, they walked away from him, from time to time throwing him a look over their shoulders.

Griff looked at his horse. “Did
you
understand what they just said?”

The horse snorted and nibbled on his shoulder.

“Ah well,” Griff said. With some effort, he swung himself up into the saddle. “Let’s see whether they have given us the right directions.”

He rode in the direction the woman had indicated. And indeed, a short distance from the village, he spotted a large brick house.

He rode up to what turned out a rather rusty gate and then through to the house itself. He stopped opposite a dented brass plate.
St. Cuthbert’s Academy for Young Ladies
, it read.

Thank God,
thought Griff.
Thank God.
He could hardly believe he had finally made it to Charlie’s St. Cuthbert’s. He slid out of the saddle, and nearly stumbled when his feet hit the ground.

Steady, old boy. Steady.

Clutching the reins of his horse, he read the plate again in case his tired mind had played a trick on him.

But it hadn’t.

It
hadn’t
.

A wave of sudden emotion clogged up Griff’s throat, and he had to close his eyes for a moment. He had made it.

He was so intent on the task before him that he never heard the rustling in the bushes behind him.

Nor the excited whispers of girlish voices.

He stepped up to the front door and had just rung the bell when all hell broke loose behind him.

High-pitched, ear-piercing shrieks and yelling, the sound of running feet.

“What the—”

Before he had a chance to fully turn around, something was thrown over his head, and the world went dim and dusty.

He sneezed.

A musty-smelling sack.

“I’ll be—” He struggled but somebody quickly wound rope around his torso and pulled tight, trapping his arms underneath the sack.

“Bloody—”

His horse whinnied.

Another rope was wound around his ankles.

“Hey!” He turned this way and that, trying to evade the myriad small hands that were grabbing at him. They pushed and shoved and he fell, helpless, into what felt like a wheelbarrow.

“What about the horse?” he could hear a little girl’s voice ask.

“There was no mention of a horse in the book, was there?” another little girl’s voice replied. “Then we don’t need a horse.”

Little girls?

Griff struggled to sit up, well aware of the ridiculous figure he must cut. “Will you let me go!” he roared—though his voice was sadly muffled by the sack over his head.

“Stuff it!” yet another little girl said curtly, then a weight cannoned into his body. With a grunt, he fell back into the wheelbarrow, banging his head against hard wood.

Spots danced in front of his eyes.

Something—someone—sat on his chest like a nightmarish demon.

“Go go go!” it shouted in its little-girl voice, and the wheelbarrow heaved and shifted, and then was moving, faster and faster, away from the house.

~*~

There was a knock at the door, and Miss Pinkerton entered Charlie’s new bedroom cum study. “My dear, did you just hear the bell?”

Charlie looked up from the books and papers that lay strewn across her desk. She was preparing her very first lesson—Miss Pinkerton had very kindly offered to let her take over the lessons in French and needlework for the youngest pupils.

“I haven’t heard anything,” she said. “Do I talk French throughout the lesson and assume the girls will understand me?”

“Oh yes, yes. You know how our girls are. They find out things so very quickly,” Miss Pinkerton said absentmindedly, while she looked around the room as if the person who had rung the bell might be hiding underneath the bed. “I distinctly heard the bell,” she murmured. “Really, I could have sworn…” Shaking her head, she went over to the window.

Charlie turned her attention back on her notes. Tomorrow she would take over the first French lesson. Such a huge responsibility! Such a—

“My dear?” Miss Pinkerton’s voice cut into her reveries. “There is a horse grazing on our lawn. Most peculiar, I say!”

“A horse?” The French lesson momentarily forgotten, Charlie got up and walked to the window.

“Indeed.” Miss Pinkerton lifted the quizzer she wore on a ribbon around her neck and peered through it. “It wears a saddle. But I can’t see a rider.”

Charlie looked past the school mistress’s shoulder. There was indeed a riderless horse on the lawn. “Oh dear.”

“That is
exactly
what I thought. Most peculiar. What
can
these girls be up to now?”

“The twelve- to thirteen-year-olds have just read ‘Tam o’ Shanter,’ I believe,” Charlie offered after a moment’s thought.

Miss Pinkerton shook her head. “They would have needed the horse for that.”

Another knock on the door. As the two women turned, they found Mr Bernstone looking into the room. “Miss Pinkerton, Miss Stanton, I perceive you have already spotted the horse on the lawn.”

The school mistress nodded vigorously. “Indeed, we have. But it is the saddle that worries me.”

Mr Bernstone cleared his throat.

“Indeed.”

“Oh Miss Pinkerton,
there
you are!” The two elderly Dooey sisters bustled into the room. “Have you seen?” Miss Dooey began.

“The horse?” Miss Eliza finished the sentence. “Quite astonishing!”

“Most extraordinary!” her sister added. “Whoever would do such a thing? Leave a horse on our lawn!”

Charlie glanced again at the horse in question. Nobody would leave a horse grazing with the saddle still on. “What did the girls read last week, Miss Eliza?” she asked. “Except for ‘Tam o’ Shanter’?”

The round, kindly woman turned to her and blinked. “Why, the older ones read
The Blossoms of Morality
—most insightful for young ladies—and the little ones read
Robinson Crusoe
. A most instructive book,
Robinson Crusoe
. So many lessons that can be drawn from it. Surely you remember, my dear?”

“Oh,” Charlie said. “Yes, I do remember.”

~*~

The wheelbarrow finally and mercifully came to a stop, but not before all of Griff’s bones had been rattled around his body. He groaned.

There was a high-pitched scream. “OOOOOH! You’ve found one!”

Excited girlish chatter broke out around him, and more than once a small finger poked his arms or dug between his ribs.

“…so clever…”

“Do you think he will
do
?”

“…come from?”

The weight on his chest crowed, “Isn’t it spiffing? Just when we need somebody to eat, he turns up!”

To eat?

“Wha—” Griff began.

Somebody poked him in the side. “But there is no fat. I’m not sure he will do at all.”

“Rubbish,” the weight on his chest retorted, and finally got off him. “He will do splendidly. Here, help me.”

By now, Griff had found his wits again, and roared, “What do you think you—”

The wheelbarrow was overturned, and with a painful grunt he landed on rough ground… pebbles. He tried to sit up, but already multiple small hands were grabbing at him, lifting him.

“A pole! You’re sooo clever!” one of the girls exclaimed.

“And Marianne’s dolls,” another said, slightly breathlessly.

Once again, he was dumped on the ground. Groaning, he tried to roll away, when he was dragged upright and stood with his back against what felt like a wooden pole. In vain, he struggled to shake the little monsters off, but with his legs and arms tied, there was not much he could do.

“Keep him
still
!” somebody said, as rope was tied around his legs and his torso, tying him against the pole.

“What about the sack?”

“There is no mention of a sack in the book, is there?”

“Well, look it up, then.”

Paper rustled. “Hm, hm, hm. I took my Perspective-Glass and went up to the Side of the Hill, blah-dah, and found quickly, by my Glass, that there were one and twenty Savages, three Prisoners—”

“And we have those, too!”