Once Again a Bride (24 page)

At the end of the drive, she had to decide which way to turn. She debated briefly, afraid her choice would be just the wrong one, and eventually chose to go back the way they’d come. At least that led to the London road, at some point. She couldn’t recall the whole of the route.

The day was waning. Charlotte slipped along the side of the country lane, ready to hide if she heard anyone approaching. Seeing her walking in her now filthy evening dress and slippers, her hair crushed by days in a chaise, people might easily believe she was mad. She didn’t want to risk any encounter so close to Lady Isabella’s home. But for a long while, she saw no one; the countryside was curiously empty.

The sun approached the horizon. Shadows slanted across the rutted lane. What would she do once it was full dark, Charlotte wondered? The June night wouldn’t be too cold. She could spend the night in a field, she supposed—but it was a daunting prospect.

She heard the rattle of cart wheels approaching, then the clop of hooves. For a moment, she froze. This could be rescue, or servants of Lady Isabella’s returning to the house. She must have more than one old woman taking care of the place. If they’d been given the story of her madness… She couldn’t think. Her head felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton wool. If she asked for help, surely… She remembered the sullen faces and hostile eyes of countrymen they’d passed on the road. Sir Alexander had said Derbyshire was on the edge of violence. She couldn’t risk it.

Charlotte plunged off the hard-packed ruts and into the fringe of weedy growth beside the lane. There was a clump of small trees not too far away. She ran. If she could just reach… her foot caught in the hem of her gown, and she went down with a thump that sounded like a thunderclap in her ears. Heart pounding, she curled small among the weeds and held her breath. The hoofbeats came closer; the rattle of the cart seemed almost on top of her. And then it passed and went on along the lane, back the way she had come.

Charlotte lay there, waiting for her pulse to slow, her hands to stop trembling. Then she stumbled up and began walking once again.

***

“Can’t we go any faster?” Lucy asked. The old cart Ethan had borrowed from Sir Alexander’s stables seemed to crawl along the lane. It was nearly dark, another day passing, and they hadn’t done a thing but wear themselves out traveling.

“I’d be going faster if I’d ridden,” he complained.

“And how would you take Miss Charlotte away if you was on horseback?” Lucy countered. “Throw her across your saddle like some lunatic in an old tale?” He had no reply to that, because she was right.

“You should have stayed at the house,” Ethan grumbled instead. “I don’t like the feel of the countryside. Tempers are up. Something’s in the wind.”

“I wasn’t going to be left there amongst a lot of strangers.” And if Ethan couldn’t see why, he was no better than a numbskull, Lucy thought. It had been bad enough walking up to that grand estate smudged and rumpled from the long journey, having traveled for days alone with him. How was she going to explain that kind of scandalous goings-on, if she was left there, when the housemaids and all started eyeing her and whispering? She couldn’t tell them about Miss Charlotte; she’d never betray her mistress by gossiping about her. So what was she to say? And all the while knowing that Ethan’s family was part of the staff, and people who’d known him all his life. She might get on the wrong side of his father—or worse, his mother. And then how could she live right next to them if they were married? Couldn’t he see that she mustn’t be plopped down there like a parcel with no explanation? It was clear as clear, but not to him seemingly.

Gates loomed in the growing darkness. “This is it,” said Ethan. He turned the cart and headed down the drive.

Lucy clenched her hands in her lap. She imagined a grand butler ordering them from the door, or a high-nosed housekeeper having them thrown out of the house by a group of hulking footmen. Ethan was big, but he was just one man. And she didn’t want him hurt. But they had to find Miss Charlotte. Her stomach churned with nerves.

They drove right up to the place. Strangely, the building was dark except for one lighted window on the second floor. Ethan directed the horse around to the back premises and pulled up near the stables. “We’ll have to leave her standing,” he muttered as they climbed down. He looped the reins over a post.

The back door wasn’t locked. Nobody locked their doors in the country. They slipped inside a dark corridor. “Have you been here before?” Lucy whispered.

“No. The family don’t visit here much.”

They groped their way to the kitchen. It was spooky how empty the house felt. Ethan circled the room and found an oil lamp, which he lit after another hunt. Aided by its wavering light, they walked quietly up the stairs. “Where is everybody?” Lucy whispered.

“Reckon they closed the house when they went up to London. There ought to be some servants, though. It’s right odd.”

It was more than that, Lucy thought. Her anxiety grew.

In the upper corridor they followed the light to the room she’d seen from outside. Its door was half open. Ethan hesitated briefly, then pushed it wide and stepped in. Lucy followed right on his heels.

From a huge four-poster bed, Lady Isabella shrieked like a train whistle. A big woman standing right next to her whirled and faced them. “Who are you? What are you doing in this house?”

“We’ve come for Mrs. Wylde,” Ethan said. His voice didn’t shake at all, Lucy thought admiringly.

“I don’t know what you’re…” the big woman began.

“We know you’ve got her,” Lucy interrupted. “We had the note. And we didn’t believe it for a minute!”

“Get them away from me! Get them away from me!” cried Lady Isabella. She brushed at her arms as if flicking dust from her nightdress.

“You are trespassing,” her servant tried.

“You’d best send for a magistrate then,” Ethan answered. “Because we’re going to keep right on doing it.” He stepped farther into the room. Lucy liked how he loomed over them.

“Martha!” Lady Isabella sounded fretful now. “Why are these
people
in my bedchamber? Can’t you understand the simplest order? Am I always to be disregarded and harassed?”

A look of resignation, or maybe defeat, settled on the woman’s sharp features. “Come with me, then,” she said.

She led them out of the room, Lady Isabella’s cries of “Martha!” echoing behind them, and up to the top floor of the house. There by the light of the oil lamp, she unlocked an unpainted door and threw it open. “Take her and welcome,” she said. “I can’t stand this any longer.”

Lucy hurried forward. Ethan waited by the door, making sure she’d have no chance to slam it on them, and held the lamp high. Its light fell on a mean little room with a shabby bedstead. A wizened woman lay curled upon it, drowsing. “What’s this supposed to be then?” demanded Ethan.

The old woman sat up, then cowered back as Martha strode in. “What the… where’s the girl?”

The crone crouched even lower. “She said she’d bring the law down on us. I’m not being taken by the law, I’m not! I haven’t done nothing.”

“She should have been sleeping,” Martha muttered. “How did she…?”

“Where did she go?” Lucy asked.

“How’d I know?” the old woman replied. “She locked me in here and went off.”

“You old fool,” said Martha.

“I ain’t such a fool as you, getting yourself into trouble for the likes of…” Martha raised a hand, and the ancient woman fell silent.

Ethan turned away. “Come on. She must be walking.”

“In the dark?”

“We’ll find her.” He hesitated, then turned back to address Martha. “You keep any horses?” At the sullen shake of her head, he added, “You’d best hope the young lady is all right. Because if she ain’t…”

Lucy clutched his arm as pictures of various disasters crowded her mind. “Let’s go!”

***

Charlotte crouched in deep shadow by the wall of a stone cottage. Up ahead, the flickering orange light of torches outlined the buildings of a village. The sight had been hopeful at first; she’d expected to find someone she could ask for aid and had hurried on. But then she’d heard the shouting, and the low growl of male voices in response, and slipped into hiding. She peered carefully around the corner of the cottage. At least fifty men milled about the village center. Some of them carried long pikes; others held the torches that threw warm light on angry faces and shaken fists. Charlotte leaned against the stone wall in exhaustion. It seemed she’d left Lady Isabella’s prison only to fall into the midst of a riot.

One man stood on a step or box, head and shoulders above the others, a black silhouette against the flames. He brandished a gun as he spoke, his voice raised to carry. “Men of Derbyshire, how long are we going to watch our children cry with hunger? Or our wives weep with fear?”

There were more growls of agreement, but one voice shouted, “Who’re you to stand up there above us, Jeremiah Brandeth?”

The speaker turned in the direction of the questioner. “Not above you, brother. I’m just like you, a stocking knitter who can’t find work because of the damned machines, with a wife and two children to keep. I’m willing to work. Are you?”

This brought a much stronger roar of approval. Pikes were waved in the air.

“We want our rightful work and a chance to do it, that’s all. And this government ought to know it. We’ll march down to Nottingham, we will, and show ’em they need to listen to their own people.”

There were mutters in response to this proposal. Charlotte heard some reluctance, mentions of the army riding men down. She remembered that Alec had deplored the brutality in the suppression of protests in Nottinghamshire not long ago.

“We’ll stop in at the ironworks down Butterley way,” the speaker added. “There’s weapons there for the taking. Let anybody try to stop us, we’ll give him a taste of this.” He waved the gun over his head. “And there’s bread and beef and ale waiting in Nottingham. Cash money, too, for any man who comes. We’ll take over the damned army barracks. The whole country is ready to rise and join us. There’s sixteen thousand just waiting to march on to Newark!”

Another man began pounding on the door of a house behind the speaker. “Open up, Mary Hepworth!” he shouted. “Every house is required by the revolutionary committee to provide a man and a gun.”

“Get away with you!” screeched a female voice from within. “Criminals! You’re a disgrace to Derbyshire.”

Someone threw a stone and broke a window in the house. The man on the box continued to wave his gun, and all at once it fired through the shattered glass. Charlotte couldn’t tell if he’d aimed, or if it had simply gone off in his hand. But a cry rang out from within the house, followed by the female voice shouting, “You devil, you’ve killed Bill!”

Some of the men in the crowd fell back, murmuring. A good portion looked as if they might leave at this development. A few at the edges did fade into the darkness. “Stand where you are,” cried the shooter. “I’ll shoot any man who turns tail now. By God, I will.”

Horrified, Charlotte shrank into the deepest shadow. She hadn’t expected it would come to this, not murderous violence. She turned and fled silently back the way she had come.

Alec had ridden desperately cross-country toward his aunt’s house. Fortunately, his hunter was used to rough footing and tricky jumps. Nonetheless, it was well after dark by the time he reached his goal, clattering into the stable yard with no effort at concealment. He left his horse and raced through the empty scullery and kitchen. He had taken to carrying a small lantern, as well as a pistol, in his saddlebag, because so often lately his rides extended into darkness, and the lantern had fitfully lit his way through the last miles. Now, on the main floor, it illuminated only sheeted furniture. Had Edward been mistaken? Had they not come here, after all? Apprehension pounded in his veins as he climbed the stairs and thrust open door after door along the dark corridor. Finally he discovered his aunt in a bedchamber near the end of the hall. She huddled in a chair with two servants bent over her. “Where is Charlotte?” he demanded.

The three women shrank back. Aunt Bella, pale and tired-looking, put a hand to her throat. “Ch-charlotte. What do you mean?” She made an effort to straighten. Her hands were visibly shaking. “She is in London. Is she not? I mean I suppose she is, though I have no way of telling…”

“I know you brought her here, Aunt. Edward told me.”

“Edward?” her voice quavered on the name.

“He called at her house, discovered the message you’d sent, and went looking for her at your place. He has a key, you know.” He held her eyes. “To your curiously empty house.” It was a calculated cruelty, but he was nearly mad with worry. Fear for Charlotte overrode every other feeling. “Take me to her. And if you have harmed her in any way, I swear I will…”

“I don’t know what you’re…” Aunt Bella began through trembling lips. But she couldn’t complete the sentence. Her face slowly sagged as the full weight of what he’d said sank in.

“She’s gone,” interposed the taller servant. When she spoke, Alec recognized her as the woman who’d cared for his grandmother in her later years. “She was here, but she ran away. We don’t know where she is now.”

“Out? Tonight? Alone?” The servant nodded. “Do you know what’s happening out there? Do you have any idea of the mood of the countryside?”

The older servant began wringing her hands. “I didn’t know nothing about it. I didn’t have nothing to do with it. I told them others…”

Alec spoke through clenched teeth. “If anything happens to Charlotte Wylde, you are to blame. And you may be sure that you will be brought to book. Which way did she go?”

The tall servant stepped forward, interposing herself between Alec and her mistress. He suddenly remembered her name—Martha. “We don’t know. My lady has not been well, you understand. She is in a delicate state…”

Alec gazed past her with contempt. “A ‘delicate state’ like my grandmother’s? I believe such states are self-induced. And if you think that is an excuse for this… outrage, you are dead wrong.” The three women simply stared at him, frightened, lost, blank. There was no help here, and no time. Alec turned on his heel and went back to his horse.

With the lantern to supplement the tiny sliver of moon, he rode to the end of the drive. Where would she go? One way led to the small village of South Wingfield; the other through a long stretch of agricultural land. Charlotte wouldn’t know that, of course. Which way would she have chosen? Surely she would stay on the roads, not attempt to walk cross-country. Alec peered in one direction, the other. How could he possibly find a lone woman in all this countryside? What if she’d fallen, been hurt? His heart seemed to turn over in his chest, and his mouth went dry at the thought. His pulse thundered against the sounds of the night.

Then and there, Alec realized he could not endure a world without Charlotte in it. If she was lost then… so was he. His doubts and denials flamed to ash. He could reject the words “falling in love” as much as he liked. She was meant to be his, and he hers, for all their lives.

***

Charlotte stumbled along the dark lane, ruts and bumps continually jarring her knees and threatening a fall. The sounds of the riot had faded behind her. She was somewhere beyond exhaustion now. It was all she could do to lift one foot, then another, totter a step, hold her balance, repeat. Once the anxiety roused by the milling, angry men had faded a little, her consciousness had contracted to a muddled blur. Thus, the cart loomed up out of the darkness ahead without warning. She hadn’t even heard the sound of hooves.

The person sitting beside the driver stood and raised a lantern, directing its beam right at Charlotte. It was a woman, which was a bit of a comfort. She put a hand up to shield her face.

“Miss Charlotte?”

She couldn’t believe her ears. Could the remains of the drug they’d given her be causing delusions?

“Miss Charlotte, it is you!”

“Lucy? What are you…? How did you…?”

“Ethan and me came to find you.”

The driver had already stopped the cart and jumped down. “Let me help you in, miss,” he said.

“Ethan?” Charlotte was too tired and too relieved to question this miracle. She staggered over to the cart and let him help her up, squeezing onto the seat next to her maid. “I have never been so glad to see anyone in my life.”

“You’re all right?” Lucy touched her shoulder worriedly.

“Now I am.” Or, almost. “There’s trouble in the village up ahead. Men with pikes and a gun.”

“What?” exclaimed Ethan.

Charlotte tried to collect her wits. “The leader shot someone in one of the houses. They’re headed for Nottingham to protest the lack of work.”

“Nottingham. That’s this road. We’ve got to get off it.” Ethan hesitated, frowning, then slapped the reins. “This way’s still closest,” he muttered to himself. “South Wingfield, South Wingfield, who do I know…? Close the lantern, Lucy.”

Lucy did as he said. Charlotte saw the glimmer of firelight behind a building ahead. She hadn’t gotten very far from the village. Ethan pulled up, stopping near a stone wall that did nothing to hide them.

The murmuring roar of the mob reached them. There were more shouts. It sounded like men arguing with each other. “On to Butterley,” a voice shouted.

“That’s the leader,” Charlotte said.

“Got to get out of sight,” said Ethan, again as if he were talking to himself. The leader’s voice repeated the command, sounding closer. Then Charlotte heard many footsteps, marching. “Right. The Finlays,” Ethan muttered. He slapped the reins and moved forward, turned the cart into a narrow lane between two houses, and then into a yard behind the closest one.

It was only just in time. The head of the mob came into view on the road they’d just left. “Don’t move,” whispered Ethan.

They sat still as statues while the marchers passed. Charlotte’s pulse beat in her throat. It seemed an eternity before the road was clear. “Get down, quiet like, and go to the back door,” murmured Ethan then. Charlotte and Lucy obeyed, scurrying to the house. Ethan tied up the horse, then joined then. He knocked lightly on the door. “Mrs. Finlay?” he said softly. “Sarah Finlay?”

There was no response. They all looked over their shoulders, fearing stragglers.

“Mrs. Finlay,” he repeated to the blank panels. “It’s Ethan Trask.”

There was a long moment’s silence, then the door opened. Only a hint of light showed. A figure loomed in the dim illumination and raised a club to strike.

***

The patter of hurrying footsteps brought Alec a moment’s wild hope. “Who’s that? Charlotte?” The sound stopped. Alec raised the lantern and shone it into the lane. “Who’s there? Show yourself.”

A burly fellow dressed like a laborer stepped slowly forward, holding his hands up to prove their emptiness.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“I’m on my way home, sir,” the man answered, responding to Alec’s accent and commanding tone.

“Home from where at this hour?”

“I was just… out. Visiting, like.”

“Did you see a young woman anywhere along this road?”

“A woman? No, sir. I ain’t seen nobody since I left the…” His deep voice trembled and died away.

“What’s wrong? Is there some trouble?” What if Charlotte had run into another of the countrymen’s barricades? “I need you to tell me if there is. I am Alec Wylde. My land is nearby.”

The man’s head bobbed nervously. “Heerd tell of you, sir. A fine gentl’man, they say.”

“I’ve been doing my best to help the people hereabouts. Tell me what is happening.”

“I was… I didn’t mean nothing…” The big man shuddered, and his shoulders slumped. “They killed someone dead in South Wingfield, sir. I wouldn’t stay with them after that.”

“Who did?” Alec’s heart contracted painfully. “Who was killed?”

“I dunno, sir. Someone in a house. What I do know is they’ll swing for it. And I ain’t going to the gallows for somethin’ I had no part of. I didn’t sign on for killing.”

Charlotte would not have been in a village house, Alec told himself. “Who are ‘they’?”

“Men from the village and the countryside, sir. They’ve marched off to storm the Butterley ironworks or some such. Then on to Nottingham. Jere… someone told them they’d get beef and ale and weapons—money even—down there.”

“They’ll get soldiers and the noose,” replied Alec harshly. All his work and talk had gone for nothing then.

“’Speck you’re right. That’s why I left them when they turned off a little way back. I’m headed home, fast as I can go.” The big man shifted uneasily in the lantern light. “Will you tell the magistrate and all that I didn’t go with the others, and I didn’t hold with what they done back there, if they come to ask?”

Alec surveyed his anxious round face. “I will. What is your name?”

“Standish, sir. Bob Standish. Live up toward Wheatcroft.”

“Very well, Bob.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You’d best get back home.”

The man nodded and hurried past Alec’s horse and into the darkness beyond. He would know the country well enough to reach home in the night.

Alec sat still another moment. Clearly, it was his duty to go to South Wingfield and see about this shooting. If Charlotte had fled the other way… if he’d been certain of that, he would have consigned his duty to perdition. But he wasn’t. She might as easily have gone toward the village—and encountered the mob. His blood ran cold at the idea.

Flicking the reins of his tired mount, he got moving.

***

“Ethan?” said the looming black figure. “Ah, I’m crazed to open the door, I am.”

“Yes, ma’am. Ethan Trask, from over at Sir Alexander’s place? I’ve been here with my ma, years ago.”

“What in the Lord’s name are you doing out tonight? You weren’t mixed up with that gang of…?”

“No, ma’am. Trying to stay away from the troubles.” Ethan took the lantern from Lucy and opened it a hair, so that dim light fell over them. “Got ladies with me. It’s… it’s quite a tale.”

The club was lowered, and the figure stepped back. Charlotte saw that it was a broom held by a stocky village woman. Her face remained in shadow. The broom handle dropped farther. “Did those idiots hurt you?”

“No, we’re all right.” The noise of the mob had receded down the road. Ethan opened the lantern farther, and the woman looked them over. Charlotte couldn’t imagine what she thought of her dirty, bedraggled evening dress and disintegrating slippers, of her snarled hair. “Come inside.” She turned; they followed her into a neat cottage, a fire burning low in the stone hearth.

“I’ll just see to the horse first.” Ethan went out as their hostess lit a lamp. Wooden chairs stood on either side of the fireplace, and an iron pot hung over the coals. To one side of the room was a table piled with embroidery and fancywork, which no doubt represented her livelihood.

The village woman put her broom aside and turned, hands on hips. Her face was ruddy, with crinkles around the eyes that suggested she smiled more often than not. She wore a neat plain gown and white cap and might have been fifty.

“Do you mind if I sit down?” Charlotte didn’t think her legs would hold her any longer. She dropped into a chair without permission, then put her face in her hands. Lucy came over and rested a hand on her shoulder. The three women were still until Ethan came back, closed and barred the door. “All right,” said the village woman then, “whatever are you doing outside in the dark on this night of all nights?”

“It was in the nature of an emergency, ma’am,” replied Ethan.

“That I can believe.”

Charlotte raised her head. “I don’t even know where I am.”

“This be South Wingfield, miss—a law-abiding village until this night.”

“Those men…”

“Say fools, rather.” The woman sighed. “Though God knows they’ve been driven to it.” She shook her head. “No one will listen to them now.”

“We’re on the way to Sir Alexander’s house,” said Ethan. “But I reckon we can’t go until it’s light.”

She nodded. “There’ll be soldiers out as well. And they won’t be asking your business before they wade in.” She sighed and rubbed a hand over her forehead. “I fear they’ll all be hanged. And my nephew’s gone with them. He wouldn’t be told, knows it all at seventeen. Ah, Lord save them.” She walked over and sat heavily in the other chair.

She looked so tired and worried that Charlotte’s own problems receded. “Sir Alexander would help him,” she said, having no doubt, with all he had told her, that it was true.

The woman’s gaze was penetrating. “He does try; I’ve heard that.” Her hostess’s eyes ran over her gown again. “Excuse me, miss, but what are you doing here?”

Charlotte hesitated, not knowing what to say. Even now, she was reluctant to expose Lady Isabella to a stranger. Ethan and Lucy deferred to her for an answer.

The woman waited a moment, then leaned over the hearth. “Well, it’s none of my affair. And maybe I don’t even want to know. You’re welcome to rest here. And in the morning you can be on your way.” She took a ladle from a hook and stirred the iron pot. “Are you hungry? I’ve some soup.”

At the tantalizing odor stirred up, Charlotte’s stomach growled loudly. She hadn’t eaten in… she couldn’t remember when she’d last eaten.

The woman laughed. “Seems so.” She took a pottery mug from the mantel and ladled a thick broth into it. When she handed it over, Charlotte sagged with relief. Aching all over from her forced journey, her mind still less than sharp, she was in desperate need of a safe haven. She took the soup with grateful hands that shook only a little. “Thank you.” Slowly, she sipped. There was chicken and barley and carrots; it tasted heavenly.