The Temptation of Torilla (6 page)

Then, as it was impossible to pass and it seemed unlikely that anyone intended to clear up the mess, he handed his reins to his groom.

Without haste he stepped down onto the road and walked up to the combatants, his voice clear and authoritative cutting across their furious interchange.

“Go to the heads of your horses, you fools!”

Both the gentleman who owned the chaise and the coachman turned to stare at him in astonishment.

“Your horses!” the Marquis called out again and surprisingly they obeyed him.

He then turned to the men who had been scrambling down from the roof of the coach and pointed to those who had their heads out of the windows being unable to alight owing to the angle at which it lay.

“Get everyone out!” the Marquis ordered. “Then you can right this vehicle, unless you intend to stay here for the rest of the night.”

There was a sharpness in his tone that galvanised the men into activity.

A fat farmer’s wife was helped out first, crying as she did so,

“Me chickens – me poor little chickens – they be all crushed!”

She insisted on her rescuers taking from her first a basket in which remained a few of the day old chicks she was doubtless taking to market.

As she reached the ground, she declared stridently,

“’Tis a disgrace the way these coachmen drive! Sommat should be done about it – that it should!”

“I agree with you, ma’am,” the Marquis said.

Then, as the woman went on worrying about her chickens, he turned his attention to an elderly gentleman who, quivering with anger as he was assisted from the coach, was swearing that every bone in his body was broken.

He was followed by three more men, then last of all the Marquis saw a little oval face with two large frightened eyes framed by a somewhat battered bonnet.

Torilla stepped out so lightly that she hardly touched the hands of the two men who were only too anxious to help her. Then, as she reached the road, she looked up and saw the Marquis.

Her eyes widened and the colour rose in her pale cheeks as he swept his high-crowned hat from his head, saying,

“We meet again, Miss Clifford!”

It seemed as if she had no words to answer him and after looking at her beneath lazy eyelids he returned to the task of sorting out the accident.

The horses in the chaise were now under control and in a somewhat peremptory manner he told the middle-aged owner of them to be on his way.

“I intend to sue the company for the damage that has been done to my vehicle,” the gentleman grunted angrily.

“I doubt if you will receive any compensation,” the Marquis replied. “But you can always try.”

“The driver is drunk – that is perfectly obvious,” the gentleman averred.

“They invariably are,” the Marquis answered and walked away, obviously bored with the subject.

Now that one side of the road was clear, the Marquis could proceed on his way. But first he set the men who had been on the coach to work pushing and pulling the unwieldy vehicle back onto the highway.

“Drive more carefully in future,” the Marquis ordered the coachman.

The man was crimson in the face and there was some truth in the accusation that, even if he was not drunk, he had certainly imbibed more freely than was wise.

To mitigate the severity of his words, the Marquis gave the driver a guinea and he was instantly all smiles and pleasantries.

The coach was righted, most of the chickens had been collected and returned to their coop, the sheep still bleating plaintively was placed the right way up on the roof and the passengers began to take their places.

The Marquis walked to where Torilla was standing a little apart from the others.

“Do you know where you are staying tonight?” he asked.

“At an inn called
The George and Dragon,”
she replied.

“Then I will take you there, for it is where I am bound myself,” the Marquis offered.

She looked away from him towards the coach, then back again.

“I – would like that – but – ”

“There are no ‘buts’,” the Marquis interrupted. “My groom is a very effective chaperone and you will be there quicker and far more comfortably than if you wait for old grumble-boots!”

She smiled and would have bent down to pick up her valise, which she had beside her on the grass verge.

“Leave it,” the Marquis ordered.

He helped her into the phaeton and went round the other side where Jim jumped down to hand him the reins.

The groom picked up the valise and climbed onto the seat behind the hood and then they were off, driving smoothly with a speed that soon left the scene of the accident far behind.

The Marquis did not speak and after they had driven a little way Torilla glanced at him from under her eyelashes.

He was not only very impressive, she thought, but very handsome. At the same time he was rather frightening.

Perhaps it was the proud manner in which he held his head and the expression on his face that was almost disdainful, as if everything and everybody was beneath him.

His features were classical but there were lines running from his nose to the side of his mouth which she thought were the marks of cynicism – or was it boredom?

She felt suddenly very young and very inexperienced and almost wished she was travelling in the coach rather than with a stranger.

Then he turned to smile at her and quite unreasonably she felt that the sun had come out.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

“Your horses are magnificent, sir!” she replied.

“I am glad you should think so.”

“They are finer than any I have ever seen, except perhaps for those you drove yesterday.”

The Marquis looked at her in surprise and she explained,

“I love horses. While we were waiting this morning for the coach, I looked into the stables at the inn and a groom told me that four superb chestnuts belonged to – Sir Alexander Abdy.”

She paused before she asked,

“That is you, is it not, sir?”

“That is my name,” the Marquis agreed.

“Then I would like to – thank you again,” she said in a low voice.

“Forget it,” the Marquis said briefly. “There is no need to talk or even to think of anything that is no longer of any consequence. I would like, however, to know who you are.”

“I am Torilla Clifford,” she answered.

“Torilla,” the Marquis repeated. ‘I don’t think I have ever heard that name before. It becomes you.”

He saw that even at such a very mild compliment the colour rose in her face and he told himself he must be careful not to frighten her as she had been scared already.

He was not used to the company of young girls, but he sensed that Torilla was rather exceptional and not only in her looks.

He had not been mistaken when he had thought last night that not only was she very lovely but there was something sensitive about her.

It was an attribute he had found singularly lacking among the daughters of the aristocracy who had been pressed upon him on his journey North.

He talked about his horses, where he had bought them and their breeding. He realised that Torilla, unlike most women, was not pretending, but was in fact vitally interested in everything he said.

She also asked him some intelligent questions, which told him that she not only loved horses but also had studied racing form. He began to wonder who she was and where she came from.

He was not to know that the Earl of Fernleigh had a racing stable and that Beryl and Torilla as children vied with the stable boys in picking the winners of every important race.

It was not long before
The George and Dragon,
an ancient Posting House with a history of highwaymen, came into sight.

“As we are both staying here,” the Marquis said, “I should be honoured, Miss Clifford, if you would dine with me this evening.”

She looked at him with what he knew was surprise and he added,

“I have a private room and I am quite certain that the dinner provided for me will be very much better than the menu selected for the stagecoach passengers.”

“That would not be difficult, judging by last night’s meal,” Torilla smiled.

“Then you will dine with me?”

She looked at him and there was a worried look in her blue eyes.

“It would not be – wrong?”

“Wrong?” he questioned.

“I – I am travelling – alone,” she said, “and I don’t know – if it would be correct for me to – accept the invitation of someone to whom I have not been – introduced.”

She spoke hesitantly and gave him a glance as if she was afraid that he might laugh at her.

But the Marquis replied quite gravely,

“I think, considering the unusual circumstances in which we met, we may consider ourselves introduced, Miss Clifford. Moreover, if you are with me, there will be no chance of your being subjected to the odious attentions of anyone who might be dining in the coffee room.”

He saw a little shiver go through her as she recalled what had happened last night and she said quickly,

“I would much – rather be with – you.”

“Then that is settled!” the Marquis said. “I am afraid I keep late hours and so I shall not dine until half after seven. But that will give you time to rest.”

“Thank you. Thank you – very much!” Torilla said in a breathless little voice.

They drove into the courtyard of
The George and Dragon
and, as the landlord hurried forward, the Marquis explained Torilla’s presence.

“There has been an accident to the stagecoach about five miles away from here,” he said. “I have brought Miss Clifford, who is one of the passengers, with me. Kindly see she has a comfortable room to herself.”

“Just as you say, sir,” the innkeeper replied, bowing obsequiously not only to the Marquis but also to Torilla.

She was taken upstairs and given, she was quite sure, a far more comfortable room than was usually accorded to stagecoach passengers.

‘He is very kind,’ she told herself as, doing what the Marquis had suggested, she undressed and lay down on the bed.

She was so tired after such a frightening night that she fell asleep and was only awakened when the maid brought her a can of hot water at seven o’clock.

Torilla got up quickly, washed and put on a different gown from the one she had worn for travelling.

It was another cheap muslin dress which had been made by Abby and was certainly not the sort of evening gown, she thought, that Sir Alexander would expect a guest of his to wear.

Abby had put a little frill of crisp white muslin around the neck and had arranged it with narrow blue ribbons with similar frills at the wrists to match.

The gown itself was pale blue and Torilla had in fact packed it for the journey, because it was old and she was certain it would not be smart enough to wear at Fernleigh Park.

She wished now that she had one of her mother’s gowns to wear, then she told herself she was being absurd.

Sir Alexander was obviously very grand and had only invited her to dinner because he was kind and he understood how frightened she had been the night before.

He would certainly not notice what anyone as insignificant as herself wore and she only hoped she would not prove, as Abby had warned her, a bore by talking about the things that did not appeal to him.

‘I must be very careful to keep to subjects he may be interested in,’ she told herself.

She knew already that one thing they had in common was horses.

She brushed her fair hair until it shone, then she went down the stairs to find the landlord waiting for her.

“You are dining with Sir Alexander Abdy, I believe, ma’am,” he said.

Without waiting for Torilla to answer him, he went ahead of her and opened a door at the far end of the passage.

Torilla entered the room rather shyly.

It was not large, but at a quick glance she saw it was comfortable and attractive with an oak-beamed ceiling and walls decorated with ancient oak panelling.

There was a large open fireplace with a log fire.

A round table, covered with a spotless linen cloth, was set for two and there were several bottles of wine in a large ice bucket.

Torilla had expected her host to look impressive since she had already been overwhelmed by the fit of his whipcord riding coat, the intricate folds of his cravat and the angle at which he wore his high-crowned hat on his dark hair.

But she had never known that any man could look as magnificent as the Marquis did in his evening clothes and for a moment she could only stare at him in admiration.

Then, remembering her manners, she curtsied, the Marquis bowed and indicated a chair by the fireside.

“Come and sit down, Miss Clifford. I hope you feel rested.”

“I fell asleep,” Torilla confessed.

“Then you will be looking forward to your dinner as much as I am,” the Marquis said. “May I offer you a glass of Madeira?”

“I have not – drunk anything for – two years,” Torilla replied.

At home in Hertfordshire she had occasionally been allowed a few sips of Madeira from her mother’s glass.

“Then I will give you very little,” the Marquis smiled.

He handed her a glass as he spoke and Torilla, sipping the rich wine, felt that it took her back to happy golden days when there had been none of the pinching and saving that there was at Barrowfield.

Then her father and mother always drank wine at dinner and there had been plump chickens, well-roasted pigeons and large joints of beef to eat.

Torilla told herself that she must obey Abby and not keep thinking of what lay behind her.

But as the landlord with two mob-capped maids brought in what seemed to her a gigantic meal, she could not help remembering the children with their hollow cheeks and hungry eyes.

Resolutely she put such memories from her and enjoyed each dish that was offered, even though she could eat very little in comparison with her host.

“Tell me about yourself,” the Marquis said as they were sampling a fine turbot that the innkeeper assured them was as fresh as if it had just jumped out of the sea.

“I would much rather talk about your horses, sir,” Torilla answered. “You said you had racehorses. Are you entering for any of the Classics this year?”