Sally James (5 page)

She nodded eagerly. “Where shall I meet you? As today?”

“If that is the best place, where we are not likely to be seen.”

They talked more of their plans, and he tried to describe the journey they would take. She listened enthralled, and when finally he left her, he was convinced he was right. He sent her away from the beach before his boatman arrived, and was silent on the return journey, apart from satisfying the boatman’s ill-concealed curiosity by briefly describing the island and the house that was on it, but saying he had seen no one and had taken care not to be observed himself. He seemed to have lost interest.

Chapter Four

The next morning Denzil made his preparations. Calling for writing materials he wrote letters with detailed instructions to his groom valet and steward, then directed the innkeeper’s son where to take them.

“It is over twenty miles. Can you ride if I give you money for a horse?” The lad nodded eagerly. “Then hire one as soon as you reach the post road. I have told my groom to look after you, and you will be able to guide him back here tomorrow.”

The boy departed, and Denzil had to await as patiently as he could for the arrival of his post chaise the following day. His groom, George, an elderly retainer who had taught him to ride and drive, was full of reproaches.

“You could have let us know, Sir Denzil, that you were alive! Everyone at Trewyn has been in the dismals since the storm. We had convinced ourselves you were drowned!”

“Am I never to be permitted to disappear on an adventure for a few days without my nursemaids searching for me?” Denzil enquired, laughing ruefully. “Take the horses in, they will catch cold while you stand here berating me!”

George sniffed, and led the horses round to the small stable at the back of the inn, but since Denzil followed him, he maintained a steady stream of recriminations.

“Mr Sugden was most put out you ordered him to go ahead to London in the carriage,” he remarked, a hint of satisfaction creeping into his tone as he recalled the disquiet the valet had expressed on receiving these instructions.

Denzil laughed. “He can thank his stars I did not require him to share the chaise. Two will be enough on these roads.”

“Then you have a passenger?” George looked disapproving.

“Not what you think, you old scandal monger! I am taking you along for propriety’s sake, otherwise I would have made do with post boys, so count yourself fortunate. And no more of your lip, or I might change my mind and to hell with conventions!”

George sniffed even more loudly and turned his disapproval elsewhere. “These stables are not at all what your horses are used to,” he said witheringly.

“They can rough it for two nights. I want them rested tomorrow, for they will have to do their best the following day, for I mean to do a double stage to Bodmin. Dickon is there with the bays?” George nodded gloomily. “Good, then we can be sure of good cattle for the next stage at least, and Dickon can bring them after us. George, when you have finished rubbing these down, get yourself a drink and come up to my room. I cannot talk here.”

Mollified that his adored master was going to confide in him, George did as Denzil had suggested, and was soon perched on a stool in Denzil’s room. Briefly Denzil explained what had occurred, and whatever might have been the old man’s thoughts, he did not demur.

“Tomorrow we will walk over the headland, and I will show you where I mean to land. We will find the nearest place you can wait with the chaise.”

“How shall you get the boat back to the village?” asked the practical George.

“I have arranged with the fellow who took me before to hire his boat for the day. I shall send a message from the next village that he will find it on the beach here. I am paying him well enough for the trifling inconvenience.”

They selected a suitable spot the next day, and on the fourth morning after he had parted from Miranda, Denzil set sail once more for the island. George was left to settle the shot with the innkeeper, wrangling over the charge for the oats the horses had been provided with, and set off with considerable misgivings for the rendezvous. He did not know what to expect, and was half fearful his master had been taken in by some designing female, though he had thought he was too downy a one for that. For an instant he wondered if this was a tale to cover an elopement, but again dismissed the idea. He could conceive of no circumstances in which his master would be an unacceptable suitor. He considered briefly the idea that his master was planning an abduction, but shook his head. That did not seem likely either.

* * * *

Denzil had arrived at the island to find Miranda waiting impatiently on the beach. She had a bundle of clothes tied in a cloak, and was dressed as he had first seen her, in her tunic.

“I thought you would forget, I was so afraid!” she exclaimed as he carried her through the shallow water into the boat.

“Do you not trust me?” he asked gently as he rowed away from the shore.

“I could not believe it was not a dream,” she said apologetically.

“It is decidedly real.”

“I hope you do not object that I wore my tunic? I realise it is unsuitable for the mainland and to mix with other people, and I have another gown to change into, but I dared not wear anything unusual today, and I thought in any case it would be easier if we have cliffs to climb.”

He reassured her, and she chatted away happily. He watched her discreetly for signs of madness, until she disarmed him completely by laughing up at him.

“Please, Sir Denzil, you have been so insistent that you have convinced me I am sane, so pray do not change your own mind now!”

He laughed a little shamefacedly. “I have not, Miranda. But I must always be concerned just a little, for after all I am hazarding my own very small knowledge of you against that of your guardians,” he replied seriously. “I fear, not on my own account, but that if I have made a dreadful mistake, you will be the one to suffer.”

“Never! I have thought and thought these last few days, since I met you, and I am convinced I am not mad, whatever Miss Brockton says. Even if I am like to go mad, I have been so happy these last few days it would be worth it!”

“There is little chance of that,” he said firmly, and occupied himself with distracting her mind from such thoughts on the rest of the short sail to the mainland. Reaching it, they waded ashore, and Miranda insisted on helping Denzil to pull the boat well out of the water and anchor it as firmly as possible to a rock.

Then they set out to walk to where George waited with the horses.

George was standing beside the leading pair staring ostentatiously ahead when Denzil helped Miranda climb over the high stone wall that edged the lane. He resisted the urge to turn and look at her until she exclaimed, “Those must be horses! Oh, but they are far more beautiful than I had ever imagined from the pictures I have seen!”

She walked to the front of the equipage, and gently reached out a hand to touch the neck of the nearest horse, and George almost forgot his dignity and whistled in surprise. He recalled himself just in time, but thought enviously that his master was as good a picker of females as of horseflesh! How true was this tale he was rescuing her from imprisonment on the island? Denzil had not confided in George that Miranda had thought she was mad, and had warned her not to mention it to anyone.

“We need not start them thinking that way, and then we shall prove our point more effectively,” he had said, and she had smiled and agreed.

Denzil met George’s eye and read his thoughts. A twinkle of amusement showed for a moment in his own eyes, and then he followed Miranda to introduce her to the horses, showing her how to hold a lump of sugar for them. When she had patted all four of them, he suggested they ought to leave. George averted his gaze as Miranda, after considering the chaise for a moment, disdained Denzil’s hand and scrambled up into the seat, revealing far too much leg through the slits in her tunic in the process. George sniffed, and then as Denzil sprang into the seat beside Miranda, had to abandon his dignity and scramble onto the leading horse as Denzil gave the order to start.

He halted the chaise as soon as they reached the shelter of a small wood, and told Miranda she must change her tunic. She rummaged in her bundle, and then pulled out a simple grey walking dress.

“This is the nearest I could bring that would be suitable for driving,” she apologised. “I hope it will do.”

Denzil reassured her, then helped her down from the chaise so that she could change amongst the trees.

When she reappeared he was amazed at how, whenever he saw her, she seemed more beautiful. This time the grey emphasised her colouring, the brilliant blue of her eyes and the red of her lips, while her ethereally fair curls haloed her face. He had with him a spare valise, and Miranda transferred her belongings into this. Then she was prepared to encounter the innkeepers and servants, and the other travellers they would meet on the journey to London.

She was very shy at first when they paused at inns for refreshment, but she speedily learned how matters were ordered, and Denzil could relax and confidently send her off with the maids who looked after her in the knowledge she would be treated as a wealthy, but ordinary traveller.

After the first day she soon overcame her diffidence, and chatted happily to anyone with whom she came into contact. George soon became her devoted slave, and though he occasionally wondered at the strange goings-on, he usually calmly decided to thank his good fortune he was taking part in them, and to leave explanations to those who cared about it.

* * * *

For Miranda, the journey was over far too quickly, even though it occupied several days. She was entranced at everything she saw, and Denzil was fascinated observing her delight in ordinary things.

One of the first things they had discussed was what name she should use.

“Miranda de Lisle,” Denzil had suggested, and she had clapped her hands and laughed at the suggestion. “You must have a second name, and what more appropriate? Besides, if there are questions about your family, and they are bound to arise, we can pretend that your father was an émigré.”

“How then are we to explain my being with you?” she asked. “I had thought I might pretend to be your sister?”

“No!” he replied rather sharply, then hurried on to explain. “It is well known that I have but one sister. I fear all our family connections are too well known for you to be passed off as a cousin either. But you shall be my ward.”

There had been a disgusted snort from George, for this exchange had taken place while they were waiting for a change of horses. “And you scarce thirty yourself, Sir Denzil! Likely!”

“Keep your opinions to yourself, George! Why should I not have a ward? Miranda’s father was a recluse who never went into society. He was an émigré from France, and when her mother died he put her into my care. He lived near Trewyn, and knew no one else,” he added reasonably as George preserved an ominous silence, and Miranda giggled.

“I can almost believe it,” she said dreamily. “But I do not speak French well enough, I am sure.”

“Oh, your father never spoke it, he was so disgusted with his fellow countrymen after the revolution,” Denzil improvised, warming to his theme. “In fact,” he had added to Miranda quietly when they were once more on their way and George out of earshot, “if we do not find your family, it will serve well enough to explain your lack of dowry, as well as of relatives. Of course we would have to tell the truth to anyone you wished to marry, but not to anyone else apart from Judith and her husband.”

She had muttered something unintelligible at that, but refused to repeat it, and for the rest of the journey, when there were no new sights to be explained and exclaimed over, they beguiled the time inventing suitable stories of Miranda’s family and her life until now.

“We will say you have been at home with a governess since your father’s death, otherwise you would have to be in black gloves, and that would be limiting. Now it is time for you to come to town, and my sister will superintend your coming out.”

“Will your sister do this for a complete stranger, with such a strange tale? I fear she will not like it,” Miranda said dubiously.

“Judith will be delighted. She is but two years older than I and her sons are all away at school. She has three, the most engaging scamps. Her daughter is far too young to be a companion, and she will love to have you. You can depend on her for everything. She knows precisely what will suit, and will see to your wardrobe, enjoying herself vastly, no doubt, for clothes are her main extravagance. Though from what I have seen so far,” he added reflectively, “she will have little to teach you, for your taste is excellent.”

“Shall I be able to ride?” she asked eagerly, and he promised to give her instruction himself.

“And Judith will see that you learn to dance, and all the other necessary accomplishments. Can you sing or play an instrument?”

“We had a harpsichord and I taught myself to play a little. I do not know if I can sing. Anna did sometimes, when I was small, but after she said I had grown out of nursery rhymes no one ever sang on the island.”

He pursed his lips, more pleased every day that he had stolen this nymph away from her prison. There was never any indication she was anything but normal, and his anger at the people who had treated her so barbarously grew steadily more intense.

* * * *

They came into London late one afternoon, and Miranda gazed in awe at the magnificent buildings. She scarcely realised when the chaise stopped, having been fascinated by the many vehicles in the streets, the people, rich and poor, who thronged the way.

“This is my sister’s house, Miranda.”

She stared, and looked wildly at him for a moment.

“I am frightened,” she admitted in a small voice.

“There is no call to be.” He helped her down and took down her valise, while George went to the horses’ heads.

“She may be away from home,” Miranda said hopefully, dreading the meeting that was to come.