Feral Park (51 page)

“Nonsense. We still have six days to find a way for the Misses Henshawe to attend, and besides, invitations have gone out and almost all of the responses of acceptance received. Some of the cards can hardly be read from the tears of joy and gratitude that have spilt upon them and run the ink! How can we say now that there is to be no ball, even if, God forbid, the Misses Henshawe are ultimately prohibited from attending? Can you not hear Mr. Alford, even at this very moment, giving a dance lesson to Miss Pints in the saloon? There are at least ten other lessons scheduled for this day alone—each for a guest whom we have invited to come and dance here.”

Anna gave Gemma a skeptical look. “And your advocacy for going ahead with it has absolutely nothing to do with your role as mistress of ceremonies upon the occasion?”

“What an utterly rude supposition!”

“I am sorry. I am so agitated I cannot stand it.” Anna thought of her absinthe sitting in a drawer in her bedroom. She thought she might go up and drink it at that instant, but it was not possible. Bella was speaking again about another matter of concern to add to the growing worry heap.

“I must tell you about something else; it concerns the eldest of the Alford brothers: Lieutenant Alford.” Anna and Gemma listened attentively as Bella related the following: having heard every thing from Nancy Henshawe about her sister Sophia’s trips under duress to the monkey parlour in London, and having heard, as well, that it was to be both Sophia
and
her younger sister Eliza who were to be taken that very morning for a final performance in monkey fur upon that London stage to take place the succeeding night, Lieutenant Alford vowed with strong oaths to stop the Quarrels carriage from ever leaving the parish, even if it required his committing a capital offence to make it so. “You see, his wrath over the doings of Mr. Quarrels and Sir Thomas and the Whitaker brothers became even stronger yesterday. There was a meeting between the constable and himself. It was a most uncomfortable interview for both men but it was the constable who finally won the hand, for he refused to find any fault in monkey parlours in general or in his own partially-owned parlour in particular. ‘There is no crime in it,’ says he, ‘and even the Prince Regent frequents them.’ Here, Lieutenant Alford was compelled to ask how it could
not
be a crime to put a woman to such mortifying shame. ‘But are the girls not paid?’ replied the constable with a stupid face. ‘Paid in the worst way!’ railed the lieutenant, who held his fist behind his back lest it fly and be the cause of his own arrest for striking an officer of the law. Here, then, is the rub, Misses: Lieutenant Alford has gone to post himself at the crossroads for the singular purpose of interrupting the Quarrels carriage and removing Misses Sophia and Eliza Henshawe from it. He intends to use a pistol if it be necessary to achieve his purpose!”

“My precious Lord!” cried Gemma with alarm. “We cannot merely sit here whilst the lieutenant puts himself in the way of such jeopardy. We must go to stop him, for he will surely be outnumbered by at least three. Does our cousin not take both a driver
and
a postillion with him to London? I also recollect that there is even a pugnacious boy who rides footboard to kick away the urchins when they try to hop aboard the carriage once it reaches London.”

Anna and Bella agreed with Gemma, and James was ordered to bring round the gig and off the three women went, squeezed into their two-wheeled coach-and-one, with Gemma at the reins, and the youngest mare at Feral Park—the fastest and most compliant—galloping at a racer’s pace down the road which wound its way to meet the turnpike to the north. Bella could not help herself and squealed with delight to fly with such speed, and Anna was more admiring of her sister’s charioting skills than ever before.

But, alas, they were too late.

This they learnt when forced to stop even before they had reached the turnpike. Lieutenant Alford was observed walking at a crippled gait alongside of Mr. Waitwaithe, the former being held up by an arm round the shoulder from the latter. The lieutenant was bleeding on one side of his head and his knees were buckling from the toll of the injury.

“What has happened?” called Anna from the gig. She jumped down before it had even been brought to full stop and rushed to the bleeding man and his companion. It was Mr. Waitwaithe who spoke for the other: “I was delivering a letter from Mr. Scourby to Grantley Court, on foot as is my choice on such a beautiful day, and there, not too many furlongs from where we now stand, I found Lieutenant Alford lying beside the road with half his head covered in blood as you can see. Please. We must take him to Mr. Jackson—the surgeon in Berryknell.”

As all were handing the nearly insensible lieutenant into the gig, Mr. Waitwaithe told Anna and Gemma and Bella what he was told by Lieutenant Alford, with the injured man adding a groggy bit here and there to complete the picture. Alford had waited for just below an hour at the crossroad where the Quarrels carriage was to join the turnpike that would take his captive passengers and himself to London. Finally it appeared and the lieutenant raised his pistol and shot into the air to stop it. The horses ramped and reared and well-nigh overturned the carriage, but within seconds it had come to a stop and the coachman was cursing the man he thought to be a highwayman except that he wore the jacket of an army lieutenant. From the carriage Quarrels was barking his indignation as well: “What is the bloody meaning of this?”

“I have come to rescue these two young ladies from your scabrous designs,” answered the lieutenant, putting his gun back into its sheath and approaching the carriage.

“I think not,” replied Mr. Quarrels, and with that, he took the whip from the driver and began to lash into Lieutenant Alford as if he were disciplining some beast of burden, shying from its duty. Sophia screamed horrors from her seat. Eliza screamed as well, but whilst alighting from the carriage and taking flight from it.”

“Alight? Took flight?” Anna was agape. “You mean that she left the scene altogether?”

Mr. Waitwaithe nodded. “As fast as she could run strait into the wood. Am I not correct on this account, Lieutenant?” Alford, now settled into his seat, nodded that every bit was true.

“The carriage went on its way, but the lieutenant was too injured either to pursue his assailant or to retrieve the terrified Miss Henshawe, for he could hardly see; the whipping, I fear, has damaged one of his eyes irreparably.”

“And a nasty injury it is,” said Bella as she began a delicate inspection of the wound, which was all pulp and blood where once a fine blue eye had been.

There was no time to lose, and so Gemma took the reins and Bella, who had erewhile been a nurse before joining her father in service to Moseley Manor, attended to the patient, and off the gig flew to the offices of Mr. Jackson, the surgeon.

When the dust had settled and all had grown quiet, Anna said to her residual companion, Mr. Waitwaithe, “I cannot believe that Mr. Quarrels would go on to London whilst young Eliza runs through the woods, half out of her mind.”

“Yet Alford said that Quarrels did not even glance again in that direction after Eliza had quit the scene, so it must now be up to us to go into the wood and retrieve her before she ventures too far within.”

Anna agreed, and the two set off to find the spot where Eliza had fled the Quarrels carriage (tracing the spoor of blood back to it), and there they would begin to call her name and stop and listen and call her name again as they took their steps into the dense forest.

For an hour this is exactly what they did; yet no response came forth—not even the tiniest peep—and the two deduced that Miss Henshawe had pushed herself so deep into the woods that a formal search would now be required. “Soon it will be dark, and if she is not found by then, circumstances will dictate that she pass the entire night here alone. It is a horrible thought!” said Anna with a shudder.

“The lieutenant should not have shot his gun or this would have not happened.”

“But then Eliza would have been made to do Mr. Quarrels’ goatish bidding upon that vile stage,” responded Anna with a desire to present the other side.

“But at least in that case there would be relative certainty that she would still be alive by to-morrow morning.”

Anna shuddered again. “Do you think that she will not survive the night?”

“I do not know. I am just a solicitor’s clerk. Perhaps it is time that we left this woods ourselves before the light is gone, so that we do not find ourselves in similar straits.” (Pointing.) “Is that not the way from which we came?”

“No,” said Anna. “I believe that we came from slightly left of that tree.” (Pointing in a different direction.) “Or perhaps even farther to the left still.”

“Do you not think it is to the right? I vaguely recall that small glade where the sun is sending its waning rays.”

“I do not recall it at all, Mr. Waitwaithe.”

There was a difference of opinion between the two as to which way to go. Mr. Waitwaithe’s way was essayed first and then when it seemed that there was no tree or plant or any thing that could be recollected, Anna’s way was tried, only to produce the same unpromising result.

It was concluded, as the sun dipped below the horizon and the forest began to darken, that the two were most certainly lost. It was concluded, as well, that they would, no doubt, like Eliza Henshawe, be forced to spend this night in the woods!

With the setting of the sun, darkness began to surround the two with heavy ebony hands. They walked a little this way, and then a little that, but did not venture far from where they had formerly stood to accept their fate. Nothing was said for a while. By and by Mr. Waitwaithe apologised for being a terrible trailsman and expressed the hope that they would chance upon Miss Henshawe or she would come to
them
and then the three could at least be lost together.

But Miss Henshawe did not appear, nor did she answer their final calls, and thoughts then turned to what was to be done until the morning. The nights had warmed considerably from the week before, so neither Anna nor Mr. Waitwaithe was destined to freeze, nor did they think that there existed within the wood any animals of prey about which they need be concerned. But there were still other creatures which occupied these woods of the twolegged variety: gipsies and poachers and those who kept themselves in similar secretive groups and did not suffer trespassers gladly.

“I suggest,” said Mr. Waitwaithe, “that we stop wandering about and fix ourselves to one spot. I suggest this very spot here. It is not a bad place to be. Here is a mossy pallet where we may reside comfortably for the night. If you wish to close your eyes, I will keep mine own open in vigilance.”

“Thank you, Mr. Waitwaithe. Your suggestion is sound.”

Nothing else was said for some time. Anna sat upon the moss, reconciled to her fate. She felt wretched, nonetheless, and itched from things she had brushed against in the wood, which had itch-leaves and nettles. Her feet hurt and she was not happy to think that on top of her own difficulties, poor Sophia would dance again in the monkey parlour in London whilst poor Eliza would sit somewhere in the woods on her own mossy pallet alone and frightened and praying in a pitiful mumble for the blessed arrival of morning light.

Eventually, Mr. Waitwaithe cleared his throat and said, “I regret that I have no food to offer you, Miss Peppercorn. I had an apple but I ate it already. I have not my gun, you see, to procure your supper in a hunter’s fashion, but it would be hard to shoot game in the dark, at all events.”

“Would that the trapman had taken some of those rabbits and had them brought hither. But no, I could not strangle a little cony nor could we eat it raw. It was foolish for me even to say it.”

There was another silence and then Mr. Waitwaithe said that, by-the-bye, he would try to bring the cabinet key to Feral Park the next day if Anna still wished it, and provided that they made their way out of the woods, for the next day was the best day to have her use it; this was the day when Mr. Scourby would for certain be entirely removed from the parish. Anna said that she did indeed still wish to use the key and thanked Mr. Waitwaithe again for providing her with the opportunity of looking inside her father’s secret, private cabinet.

Having concluded the discussion of the key and the cabinet, both fell silent.

Eventually Anna said that she would like to lie down and close her eyes, and Mr. Waitwaithe agreed to keep himself awake and serve as her protector. After tossing uncomfortably about and finding herself miserably stiff in the neck without her two requisite down-filled pillows, she asked a forward thing: she asked if she might cushion her head with Mr. Waitwaithe’s lap, which must at least be softer than the forest floor.

Mr. Waitwaithe raised no objection. Anna thought every good thing about her protector at that moment, even as she itched and throbbed.

As she was growing sleepy an owl hooted loudly and startled her, but then she collected herself and Mr. Waitwaithe petted her arm, and she reached over and touched his hand in an appreciative way. Then he lifted
her
hand to kiss it with tenderness, and then she kissed
his
hand with equal tenderness. Then he reached down and put his lips to her lips and kissed them fully, and she received the kiss welcomingly. Then she laced her fingers through his thick hair and pulled him down next to her, and he lay beside her as the two continued to kiss one another until he rolled on top of her and pressed himself against her with his kisses becoming hungrier and more needful. Then he began to unbutton all the buttons there were to Anna’s clothing and she began to unbutton all of his as well, and when every thing was unbuttoned and unfastened and untied and removed, and the two were pressed against one another flesh to flesh, Anna surrendered herself to Mr. Waitwaithe, and took him inside her, and when it was over she asked him in a breathy and contented voice if she was not a good substitute for the sleeping beauty of his fancy, and he answered in a sleepy and satisfied voice that she could
not
be a substitute for the one whom he dreamt about, because she was, in fact, the very opposite.