Love & Folly (32 page)

"Only under your influence," she said darkly.

"You were the one who proposed marriage."

That was true--one of her great triumphs. Emily savoured the moment in her mind.

"Do you regret your choice?"

Her eyes flew to his. He was in earnest.

"Not for a minute."

"Nor do I. Ever."

A vast happiness stilled Emily's tongue. They rode side by side in silence.

Finally Richard said, "So, you see, I'm inclined to trust your choices."

Emily smiled at him. "And I yours. Shall I be frank?"

"Please do!"

"I'd like some time to think--about Hazeldell and Hampshire."

"The will cannot be proved in less than a sixmonth. You've plenty of time."

"But where shall we live meanwhile?"

He started to say something, but bit off the words. "I've an idea about that but I must take advice
before I mention it."

Tom,
she thought.
Of course. Perhaps there's a house in Chacton we could let on a short
lease.

"Shall we try to catch up with our accomplices?"

"Lord, yes. Poor Lady Jean." As they set their horses to a canter, Emily reflected guiltily that the
unhappy child had behaved very well throughout the entire trying episode.

Emily greatly preferred Maggie, who was cheerful and helped with the children, to her
melancholy twin, but she couldn't help sympathising with the young lovers. However, they were
very
young lovers and a few years' waiting would prove their attachment. She had waited three
years for Richard, after all.

By the time she reached the Brecon stables, Jean had begun to think again. The speed with which
Clanross effected Owen's escape had left her numb.

She watched Johnny dismount and help Maggie from Joybell's saddle, then climbed down herself
with Jem Fosse's help. Jem had been her ally in the past, but he was Clanross's servant. Everyone was
against her. Except Polly.

An idea surfaced. Polly's cooperation could be purchased, not with money but with intrigue. Life
in service bored Polly. She wanted romance, adventure. She had served as Owen's messenger eagerly and
taken very little by way of payment.

Well, Owen was gone. There were no messages to be sent. Watching her sister feed Joybell an
apple, Jean felt a sudden rush of inspiration. Good, biddable Maggie, Maggie whom everyone trusted.
Maggie could leave the house, and even, perhaps, the grounds without arousing suspicion. Maggie and
Polly.

Before she reached her solitary bedchamber Jean's plan had come into full flower. Determination
buoyed her steps. Life surged in her veins. She felt so transformed she was sure Elizabeth would smell a rat
when she announced she did not mean to come down to dinner, but Elizabeth merely nodded
understandingly. Everyone was terribly understanding.

Polly entered the room with hot water as Jean was sending Lisette away to help Maggie dress for
dinner. When Lisette left, she closed the door with neat precision.

Jean saw that Polly's eyes were red with weeping, and felt a stab of fear. Had Elizabeth uncovered
Polly's role in the exchange of clandestine messages? "What is it?"

"Mr. Davies is gone, so they say," Polly mourned.

"No one is supposed to know!"

"That man from London won't find out." The sky had clouded over again and it was quite dark.
Sniffing sadly, Polly lit a branch of candles. "Nobody would betray a Brecon man to one of them
Runners."

"Are you sure?" The Brecon servants, now Jean came to think of it, usually knew
everything.

"Certainly. Mr. Sims made off this afternoon in the gig, clever as paint, and no one peached. I
dessay Mr. Davies is safe aboard ship by now."

That was unduly optimistic. However, Jean's heart lightened. "Did you see Mr. Davies before he
left?"

"Only at church, me lady." She gave a gentle sob that would have been appropriate if Owen had
died. "Such a handsome man as he was and so kind."

"I must go to him," Jean interrupted. "I must follow him to Bristol, Polly. They cannot separate
us."

Polly's eyes widened.

"And you shall help me."

Polly's face paled but her eyes lit as they did when she was carrying secrets. "I couldn't, me lady.
I'd be found out. Smollet would sack me for sure, and me dad'd beat me purple." Her father was a
gamekeeper for the estate, rather an idle one since Clanross did not hunt. Her mother was dead.

"You won't be found out. You shall come with me--to Upper Canada."

"Lord a mercy!" Polly's eyes glittered.

The promise was rather grandiose. Jean had the remains of her quarterly allowance--generous as
pin money but perhaps inadequate to buying passage for two on a ship bound for Quebec. However,
Clanross had supplied Owen with moneys for the journey. The trick was to reach Bristol before the packet
sailed on Wednesday.

Jean drew a breath. "Do you want to come? It will be hard, I daresay, and dangerous."

"Oh, yes," Polly breathed.

"Splendid. When my sister has gone down to dinner, the first thing you must do is bring me
Maggie's habit and a pair of scissors. And tomorrow morning, at first light, we shall make our
escape."

"That Lisette'll take Lady Margaret's habit away to brush it."

Jean's heart sank. "Do you know where?"

"A course."

"Then when Lisette has finished and gone down to the servants' hall, you must bring me the habit.
I can wear my own hat and boots, and you shall cut my hair."

Polly's eyes narrowed. "So's you'll look like your sister?"

Jean nodded.

"What if Lady Margaret or Lady Clanross come after dinner to see how you go on?"

Jean hadn't thought of that. Two heads were definitely better than one. "Then I'll cut it myself
when they've all gone to sleep."

Polly pursed her lips. "And when I bring up the water in the morning--"

"That will be too late. You must come to me at first light. Bring your cloak and bonnet, and we'll
slip out to the stables before the. others rise."

"I dunno, me lady. His lordship's off for Lunnon in the morning." The queen's trial would
commence on Thursday.

"Blast, then we'll have to wait a day. Owen's ship sails with the tide Wednesday... Stay! How far
is it to Bristol?"

"I dunno, me lady. Two days' ride?" The clock on the mantle chimed. "Lord a mercy, I mun' see
to Mrs. Falk!"

"Then come back to me when they've gone down to dinner," Jean said imperiously. "I shall work
this out yet."

In the interests of verisimilitude, Jean washed and donned her night rail and robe. Then she sat at
her dressing table and brooded.

A footman brought in a tray of choice delicacies. He looked as if he might offer his sympathy,
given the chance, but Jean decided one ally was enough. Trying to look melancholy, she waved him away
and tucked into the meal.

Maggie was not an early riser most days. Clanross would leave early. Why should not Jean, in
disguise, see him off, then go for a quiet ride? Breakfast with Clanross would be a test. Then, in Maggie's
character, she could ride off, escorted by Polly, to do what? Aha, Mrs. Pollard. Maggie had always had a
kindness for old Mrs. Pollard. Really, it was a good plan and would work very well, unless Maggie should
be so perverse as to rise early. Surely she would not.

An hour later Polly scratched at the door and entered with the scissors and Maggie's habit.

Jean waved at the wardrobe. "Hang it there, Polly. We go tomorrow!"

"Lord a mercy," said Polly.

* * * *

Jean was visited that evening by Elizabeth and Maggie. Elizabeth spoke gravely about Jean's secret
correspondence with Owen and sympathetically about one's feelings on being separated from one's friends.
Friends!

Before Jean burst into an ill-considered defence of her devotion to Owen, Maggie entered.
Presently Elizabeth left. She had not made a serious effort to find out which of the servants had carried
Owen's letters. That was fortunate. Jean had never been able to withstand Lizzie when her elder sister was
really determined.

Jean and Maggie talked, or rather Maggie talked. She even wept a little, and she offered to spend
the night with Jean if that would be of comfort.

Jean felt the tears sting her own eyes. It might be years before she saw her twin again. She wanted
to pour out her feelings, take Maggie into her confidence, but she knew she must not. At last her silence
drove Maggie off, but not before Maggie kissed her. Jean clung to Maggie and wept, but she did not give
way to betraying speech.

Alone at last, Jean took her bedside candle back to the' dressing room and found the scissors. Two
snips persuaded her that the cutting of hair was a rare and difficult art.

She packed a cloak bag with such items as she thought might be useful, and tucked a string of
pearls and Clanross's brooch into her purse. When she had laid out the purse, boots, and riding hat, Jean
hopped into bed and composed herself to sleep. Sleep did not come.

She thought of Owen, alone and dreaming of her. She thought of Upper Canada, turning over in
her mind such facts as had come her way. Very cold winters, very large mosquitoes. She had no desire to
see an Iroquois warrior but she thought she might like to see the Great Falls of the Niagara.

Maggie appeared in her mind's eye, and Elizabeth. She wept a little. Still, the time came when a
woman had to leave her family and cleave to a man. It said so in the prayer book. She was ready to cleave.
Owen had taught her to despise the trivialities of rank, to value ideas of real worth. She would go with him
to the wilderness and he would write an epic so powerful it would set London on its ear. The king would
beg him to return.

Birds chirruped in the bushes before she drowsed off.

"Me lady!"

Jean started awake. Polly was shaking her shoulder. "What time is it?"

"Gone seven, me lady. You did say first light."

Jean scrambled from the bed. "I overslept myself. How could I?"

"They're up."

"Who?"

"His lordship," Polly said tersely, "the colonel and his lady, and Mr. Dyott. Her ladyship's up but
she won't come down until nine."

"Maggie?"

"Not yet."

Jean gulped. Her hair was cut, her bridges burnt. She splashed cold water on her face, gave her
teeth a hasty scrub, and scrambled into her undergarments. Maggie's habit fit perfectly, of course. Jean did
not like the frogging. She sat to pull on her boots.

"Let me help you..."

"Did you say Johnny was up?"

"Yes, me lady. They're at breakfast now. Cook's grumbling." Cook thought persons of quality
should not take solid nourishment before ten o'clock.

Jean groaned. "If Johnny's up I daren't go into the breakfast room. He'd know me in an
instant."

Polly brought her hat and gloves. "We could go out to the stables and hide in that nook behind
the tack room till it's safe."

Polly was a superior accomplice, no doubt of it. Jean eyed her gratefully from under the brim of
her riding hat. "Yes, the stables will be safe enough. Clanross means to take the curricle, and Jem will drive
it to the front entrance for him."

"Peter," Polly blushed, "that's the new undergroom, he'd saddle Lady Margaret's horse for
you."

Jean was conscience-stricken. Polly and Peter had been walking out together. "You won't want to
leave Peter!"

"Ah, he's a good enough lad, but I don't mean to wed him. Shall I ask him?"

Jean contemplated Maggie's Joybell. A worse slug did not inhabit the stables. "Would he pole up
the old gig for us, do you think? You can't want to ride pillion on Joybell."

Polly nodded and poked her head out the door. "Do be quick, me lady!"

Jean grabbed her purse and the cloak bag.

Polly led her through passages Jean did not know existed. From time to time they halted as voices
neared and passed, but no one saw them. At last they emerged from a dark corridor that smelt of cheese.
The stables, unfamiliar in the early light, lay beyond a stiff hedge and a brick courtyard.

Polly found Peter as soon as Jem had left with the curricle. When Jean, trying to sound like
Maggie, asked him to pole up the old gig, he looked doubtful.

"I dunno, me lady. Mr. Fosse didn't give no orders. " Jem was Mr. Fosse now, a dignity her old
ally had achieved when Clanross made him head groom.

Jean gritted her teeth. "Mr. Fosse couldn't know. Mrs. Pollard is ill. Polly and I mean to take
her..."

Her mind groped feverishly. "Uh, take her these fresh linens and a potion Miss Bluestone
recommends." She indicated the cloak bag. "Do hurry, Peter. She's in pain."

Peter allowed that he was sorry to hear it, his granny would be sorry to hear it, too, being a good
friend of Mrs. Pollard from way back, and wasn't it hard how old folks suffered. However, he did move
slowly toward the stalls. Jean began to hope.

Half an hour later they were off. In fact they followed in the wake of Clanross's curricle. Jean held
the bay in check until she could see the last of the well-wishers had gone into the house, then she set off
down the carriageway at a smart trot, Polly twittering beside her.

They reached the gate house. Jean, in her Maggie-role, smiled at the lodge-keeper, whose
breakfast they had clearly interrupted. She saw that the curricle had passed from view. Clanross's team,
though not so swift as the pair Sims was driving to Bristol, moved faster than the sedate bay Peter had
chosen to draw the gig. The bay was definitely a Maggie-horse.

Jean feathered a corner neatly and entered the single street along which the trim cottages of Earl's
Brecon had been built. She trotted the bay past the church and the rectory, eyes straight ahead, slowed for a
cart near the inn, and caught sight of old Mrs. Pollard tending to her flowers. Mrs. Pollard gave her a
cheery wave.

Jean waggled the whip in response. She hoped the news of Mrs. Pollard's miraculous recovery
would take some hours to reach Brecon.