The Road to Gretna (5 page)

When they came to the Haycock, an attractive building of golden stone with open galleries around a courtyard, Jason was tempted to wait to see if Miss Bryant would stop there after all. Though he resisted the temptation, he was far from dissatisfied when Henrietta declared that Lily needed a break from the stuffy coach. They were just past the inn, crossing the ancient stone bridge over the Nene when she made this announcement. Beyond the river, another eight arches marched across a water meadow, becoming lower as the ground sloped upwards.

“That is the very place,” she cried. “Is it not delightful?”

“There are cows,” he warned.

“Oh pooh, who cares for silly cows? Lily will like to play in the long grass.”

“As long as you keep her away from the river, my dear.”

Jason instructed the coachman to pull over at the end of the bridge. He handed Henrietta and Cora over a stile into the meadow, but didn’t accompany them. Instead he strolled back along the bridge, glancing over the parapet at the girls now and then. If Miss Bryant passed, he couldn’t possibly miss her. If she didn’t, then he’d have to decide whether to try to persuade Henrietta to go back to the Haycock for refreshment.

He walked as far as the river, stood for a minute or two enjoying the scent of meadowsweet wafted on the breeze, then returned towards the carriage. In the field below, Henrietta was picking flowers, and the unfortunate Cora appeared to be pursuing a tumbling ball of white fluff.

Hearing a rumble of wheels behind him, he looked back and saw the doctor’s chariot at the far end of the bridge. At that moment Henrietta screamed.

Jason was a good twenty feet above the level of the meadow. He ran to where the height difference was a mere dozen feet, scrambled onto the parapet, lowered himself, hanging by his hands, and dropped. As he raced through the lush green grass, he tried to make out what had happened. The cows, though their curiosity was aroused by the commotion, were moving slowly and were still at a distance from where Henrietta stood wailing, her hands clasped in an attitude of supplication. At her feet Cora crouched.

The maid must have hurt herself, or suddenly been taken ill, though why that should wring a piercing scream from her mistress was beyond Jason’s imagination. Then Cora reached out a tentative hand and he saw Lily, her tail switching in excitement, poised to pounce on something in the grass.

“Oh, Jason!” Henrietta flung herself into his arms. “She has caught something. A little animal. Do something!”

Cora grabbed. The kitten was too quick for her, seizing the little blackish creature in her mouth and shaking it. Its splayed feet stuck out, scrabbling desperately.

“A mole.” He set Henrietta aside and managed to catch hold of Lily, who severely scratched his wrist in the process. She refused to relinquish her prey. “Hold her while I rescue it,” he ordered Cora, holding out the kitten.

“I ain’t never seen one o’ them afore,” protested the London-bred abigail, backing away.

Henrietta, too, moved to a safe distance, and then realized that they were now surrounded by fascinated cows. Once again she set up a wail—of terror rather than horror, he noted cynically.

“They won’t hurt you, Henrietta,” said a calm voice behind him. “They are just curious. Shoo, shoo!”

The cows were already moving back, beginning to graze again, as he swung round and smiled at Miss Bryant in relief.

“You will hold this monster while I release the mole, will you not?” he requested.

“So that is what happened! I quite thought Henrietta was taken by a mantrap, the way you o’erleapt the wall to speed to her aid.” She cocked her head consideringly, and he realized she was hatless. Her coronet of coppery braids, with the soft curls escaping at the sides, gleamed though the sun was hidden by an overcast sky. “I believe I had rather you held the cat while I deal with the mole,” she went on. “You are already in control of her limbs, so you may be able to keep her from scratching me.”

Without much difficulty she pried the kitten’s jaws open and took the squeaking mole gently in her hand.

Thoroughly indignant, Lily bit her other hand.

“Ouch! The beastly thing’s teeth went right through my glove."

“Be sure you wash it thoroughly,” Jason advised, handing the squirming kitten to Cora. “A cat’s bite can turn nasty.”

“So can a scratch, if its claws are dirty,” she pointed out, stroking the mole’s black velvet back with one finger. “Your wrist is bleeding.”

“Oh Jason!’ Henrietta clung to his arm. “Let me bind it for you. Cora, my handkerchief.”

“It’s in the carriage, miss. You had it soaked with lavender water, remember? Acos of the cheese.”

Jason pulled a large handkerchief from his coat pocket, removed his glove, and permitted Henrietta to tie the square of white linen in a lumpy knot round his wrist. Over her head, he exchanged a quizzical look with Miss Bryant as she glanced up from examining her captive.

“I believe the poor thing is not badly hurt. I shall let it go, but for heaven’s sake keep a firm hold on the cat, Cora.” Moving a few steps away, she carefully placed the mole on the ground, hidden in a patch of long grass.

“Will you let me see how much damage Lily has done to your hand, ma’am?” he requested.

She stripped off her brown cotton glove, so much more practical for travelling than Henrietta’s already soiled white kid. Two crimson drops welled from the edge of her palm.

“Ooh,” gasped Henrietta. “What a naughty horrid thing she is. She has never bitten me so bad.” She turned away to scold her pet.

“She really sank her fangs into you,” said Jason, taking the injured hand in his to examine it more closely.

“It is nothing; she’s only a kitten.” She pulled her hand away. “Angus will clean it properly, I’m sure. After all, what is the use of eloping with a doctor if he cannot even treat a cat’s bite?”

She sounded slightly breathless, and he realized that she was blushing. “No doubt he will do all that is necessary,” he agreed gravely.

“I must not keep him waiting when it is I who am always complaining about how slowly we move.”

“Thank you for your invaluable assistance, ma’am.”

“It was nothing.” She hastened back across the meadow towards the end of the bridge.

The devil! he thought. Surely the practical Miss Penelope Bryant hadn’t fallen for what a flirtatious debutante had once described as his fatal charm?

He would have to be careful if they met again. He liked her too well to want to see her hurt, and they were both engaged—however unofficially—to be wed.

No, he was flattering himself. She loved her Scotsman, so he could enjoy her lively sense of humour without a qualm.

* * * *

Lord Kilmore was far too attractive for comfort, thought Penny as she climbed the stile. She must do her best to avoid him in future. He would never take a second look at her, even if they were both free, which they were not.

Angus handed her into the chariot in a disapproving silence.

“What was all that there fuss about?” asked Mrs. Ratchett. “The young lady weren’t hurt, seemingly?”

“No, she was upset because her kitten caught a mole.” She explained how she had helped to rescue the little creature.

“I ‘spect the cat were hungry,” Mrs. Ratchett said accusingly. “‘Wilt thou hunt the prey for the lion? or fill the appetite of the young lions?’ I’m that sharp-set meself.”

“It’s not very far to Stamford,” said Penny, suddenly unutterably weary. The day seemed endless.

Angus reached for her hand and she realized she hadn’t put on her glove. “You are bleeding, Penelope. You were bitten? I’ll wash it in tincture of iodine when we reach Stamford.”

“Thank you, Angus. I was sure you’d have your medical bag with you. Lord Kilmore was badly scratched. Perhaps you had better look at his wrist, too.”

“I had intended to stop at the George. We willna be noticed there, ye ken, for 'tis an exceedingly busy inn. They claim to serve twenty stage coaches in each direction each day.”

“Oh please, I’m too tired to face a lot of hustle and bustle. Please, let us go to the Bull and Swan. His lordship said it is quiet.”

“'Tis no wonder you are tired, my dear, for we have covered nigh on eighty miles already. Very well, I shall tell the postilion to go to the Bull and Swan.”

“‘There the weary be at rest,’” announced Mrs. Ratchett.

So much for avoiding Lord Kilmore, Penny thought wryly. She didn’t really want to, after all. The curious tingling which had rushed through her when he took her ungloved hand in his must have been caused by the kitten’s bite, combined with fatigue—or perhaps by the pleasure of escaping briefly from the irksome confinement of the chariot, for Angus’s equally solicitous touch had no such effect.

Surely she could enjoy the all-too-short moments of his lordship’s invigorating company without falling into sentimental nonsense. There was no room in her life for romantic dreams.

Her eyelids drooped and she dozed, only to dream that Cousin Bartholomew was pursuing her, astride a huge white kitten with her uncle’s face, carrying a black doctor’s bag in its toothy mouth.

She woke when the chariot slowed to descend the hill into Stamford. Decidedly hungry by now, she looked out eagerly at the pale grey stone facades on either side of the narrow street. One building, with three gables, was wreathed in a white-flowered vine from which protruded an inn sign: a fearsome black bull charged with upraised tail and lowered horns at an imperturbable swan floating on an unconvincing patch of water. The chariot swung right, through a low passage under the third gable, and came to a halt in a cobbled yard.

Penny stepped down and was turning to help Angus extract Mrs. Ratchett from the chariot when the familiar maroon and gold of Lord Kilmore’s carriage followed them under the arch. The coachman pulled up behind them. At once all the ostlers and waiters who had been converging on them diverted course to surround this richer prize.

Lord Kilmore sprang down. “A private parlour,” he ordered, “and a substantial luncheon as soon as may be.” With quick strides he crossed to Penny’s side. “Miss, er, Cox, Mr. Cox, I trust that we are by now well enough acquainted for you to accept an invitation to join Miss White and me. We shall be glad of your company."

Sensing a refusal rising to Angus’s lips, Penny said quickly, “We shall be delighted, sir. I hope you will allow Angus to examine your frightful injury.”

His lips quirked, but he said with apparent gravity, “I shall certainly place my faith in the medical profession in the expectation of a full recovery. I am much relieved to find that you have not bled to death, ma’am, since last we met.”

“It was touch and go for a while, my lord, but I should never have forgiven myself for succumbing, since Dr. Knox’s reputation must inevitably have suffered severe damage.”

“Fustian,” said Angus shortly, "the wound is not serious and will come to nothing if properly cleansed.” He turned back to Mrs. Ratchett, who stood poised in the door of the chariot, which tilted beneath her weight.

“Fustian or no,” said Lord Kilmore softly, offering Penny his arm and leading her towards his carriage, “I promise you the ferocious beast that savaged us has been properly chastised. Henrietta has been scolding Lily for her brutality without pause ever since you rescued the mole.”

“I would wager,” she said, laughing, “that your ears were more punished by the scolding than was Lily!”

His grin was a rueful agreement.

CHAPTER FIVE

In the private parlour, the table was already spread with a white cloth. Waiters in short, striped coats dashed in and out. Savoury smells arose from the covered dishes they brought, and Penny’s mouth began to water. She remembered that nervousness had destroyed her appetite at last night’s dinner, as well as at breakfast this morning. Quickly she took off her hat and pelisse. Her russet-brown cambric gown was sadly creased, but there was nothing she could do about it.

Before they sat down to eat, Angus sent for a basin of warm water and bathed Penny’s bite and the baron’s scratches. Muttering his astonishment that such a wee beastie could inflict so much damage, he swabbed them with a stinging brown liquid which stained their skin.

“A new antiseptic,” he announced. “Edinburgh is always in the forefront.”

Lord Kilmore expressed his grave appreciation of the wonders of modern medicine—but too soon, for Angus found a thorn in his hand.

“Ah yes,” said his lordship, “those particular scratches are from a rose-bush.”

“A rose thorn can fester as badly as a cat’s scratch,” Angus declared. “I shall extract it.”

Modern medicine had not invented an easy way to remove a thorn from human flesh. Angus put on his spectacles and poked and probed with a large needle, appearing in Penny’s view to take undue pleasure in the painful process. Lord Kilmore endured with barely a wince, basking in Henrietta’s admiration.

“You are so brave, Jason. I cannot bear to have a splinter pulled,” she cooed.

Catching Penny’s derisive glance, he admitted, “It’s not my favourite occupation. You have it, doctor? So tiny a thing to cause such agony!”

Angus applied more tincture of iodine and at last they sat down to dinner. Lord Kilmore took the head of the table, seating Henrietta on one side of him and Penny on the other, with Angus beside her. Mrs. Ratchett and Cora sat at the other end, a little removed from their employers.

“What about your coachman?” Penny asked as one waiter ladled out a rich beef broth with barley, and another rapidly reduced a crisp-crusted loaf to perfect, even slices. “He must be hungriest of all.”

“Mullins will be more comfortable and as well or better fed in the taproom,” his lordship assured her. “I don’t let my servants starve, I promise you, any more than you do.” He threw a significant glance at Mrs. Ratchett, who had rejected soup in favour of a heaped plateful of more solid victuals.

Penny chuckled, and Henrietta looked puzzled. “I’m sure no one would wish their servants to starve,” she said, adding plaintively, “Jason, I do not care for this soup. There is too much pepper in it.”