Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
T he world shot by in a chaotic gasp. Daphne was aware of strangely disconnected things—the yelps of surprise and outrage from the audience, her mother sobbing, Anna shouting her name at the top of her lungs. She also heard the rector cry out, “Somebody stop that girl!” probably out of shock.
And then, to her bewilderment, she heard the man she had almost married speak up, drowning out the rector.
“Let her go if she wishes.”
And then Daphne was out of the church, and the air was so fresh and clean that she wanted to laugh or cry or sing or do it all at once.
She couldn’t, of course, on account of having her escape to effect first of all.
Skidding to a halt in the courtyard, Daphne glanced this way and that, panting for breath.
I’m not going to have to marry him, she kept thinking, over and over again. I’m free. I’m free.
Emily might not be entirely free, not yet, but one thing is clear—there’ll be no wedding happening today.
I’ve bought us time, at the very least.
The rain had slowed to a drizzle, plastering her veil to her face. Suddenly furious, Daphne tore the wretched thing off. It floated to the ground beside her and was immediately absorbed into a large, muddy puddle.
And then she saw what she was looking for—a lone horse, not hitched up to a cart or carriage. It was a plain brown mare, with a well-polished saddle, tied to a railing and left to stand in the rain by a thoughtless owner.
Hiking up her skirts, Daphne hurried towards it. The horse watched her approach with disinterest. It was saddled up and ready to go, and she hauled herself neatly onto its back without the need for a mounting block.
It’s been ages since I had a proper horse ride, she thought, swinging her other leg over the saddle. It was not, of course, a lady’s saddle. Daphne knew how to ride side-saddle, naturally. Emily always rode side-saddle, very demurely.
Daphne could not stand it. It was uncomfortable, she would feel unbalanced, and she couldn’t go nearly as fast as she would like.
Octavia had given up trying to convince her otherwise.
People were beginning to filter out of the church, talking loudly amongst themselves, clearly reeling from what they had just witnessed.
A runaway bride! How exciting. One of them pointed in Daphne’s direction. Biting back a curse she’d overheard from one of the grooms and had been dying to use ever since, she kicked her heels against the horse’s flanks and they took off.
The horse must have had a good deal of pent-up energy because it shot forward, the scenery flashing past in a blur. The church was left behind in a trice. She tried, and failed, to guide the horse onto the road, but it tugged its head free and plunged into the forest.
Yelping, Daphne bent forward over the horse’s neck to avoid being whipped in the face by branches as they shot by. She tore off her spectacles, and the world surged back into focus. She had meant to hold onto them, to return them to Emily as soon as she could, but the horse suddenly leaped over a fallen tree, and the spectacles flew out of her hands and fell somewhere in the undergrowth. Lost, of course.
Where are we going?
She began to panic.
Perhaps it was her imagination, but Daphne was sure she could hear the thud of horses’ hooves behind her. Was she being pursued?
Ridiculous though it was, Daphne had a sudden, horrifying vision of being dragged bodily back to the church, where the Duke waited for her.
Gritting her teeth, she leaned forward. The horse took this as a hint to gallop faster and increased its speed.
Daphne lost track of time very quickly. They plunged in and out of the forest, sometimes crossing fields and rolling hills. The rain drizzled on for an hour or two, and then abruptly grew heavier, until her hair grew bedraggled over her shoulders and her wet dress began to chafe her skin.
Where am I? Which direction did I ride in?
Now that the initial panic had eased off, the first real twinges of worry began to set in. Daphne reined the horse into a little clearing and glanced around her.
Well, I have no idea where I am. And on the day I leave my compass at home, too!
The compass had been a present from her father many years ago. Daphne had a compass, and Emily had a spyglass. Emily’s spyglass was pristine, well-polished, and displayed atop a selection of astronomy texts in her room.
Daphne’s compass was dented, scratched, and generally well-used, with odd quirks like a few grains of sand beneath the glass cover, and she had no idea how they had worked inside. She used it almost daily, taking it out and looking at it even when she knew exactly where she was. It was a stark contrast to Emily’s obsessive, vigorous maintenance of her gift, and it nicely highlighted the difference between the twins.
The compass was, if Daphne remembered correctly, in a specially sewn pocket in her bridesmaid dress.
Which, of course, Emily was wearing.
She bit back a sigh.
“Better retrace my steps, then.”
By her estimation, it was somewhere in the middle of the afternoon, as the wedding had been scheduled for midday. By now, Daphne was sore, her back and legs aching painfully, and the bones in her corset were digging into her sides. She did not relish the prospect of a painful, wet ride back, but really, there was nothing for it.
She steered the horse towards home.
Abruptly, a crack of lightning split the sky, the iron-grey clouds looming darker than ever. A roll of thunder followed straight after, loud and close enough to rattle her teeth.
The horse screamed, flinging itself onto its hind legs. Daphne yelped, grabbing for the bridle, but the leather was slippery, and her hands were numb and wet. She lost her grip, tumbling backward out of the saddle just as the horse lurched forward.
Thump.
She hit the ground hard enough to knock the breath from her body. The horse galloped away, its ears pressed back against its head, and disappeared into the forest.
Daphne lay there for a moment, spreadeagled on her back. The squelchy, muddy ground beneath her was soaking her dress, and rainwater pelted down on her from above.
I think it would be best all around if I were just struck by lightning. Right now. Boom.
She lay there for a few minutes more. Lightning jolted down a second time, but this time the thunder took a count of five seconds to come. The storm was moving away.
It seemed she was not going to be struck by lightning right away.
Daphne heaved herself into a sitting position, not daring to look at her once-ice-blue gown. It was, of course, soaked with mud, torn in several places, and essentially good for nothing but rags.
She put her hands on her hips and whistled for the horse. Belatedly, she remembered that it was not her precious Gulliver she had been riding, but a strange horse, one that probably did not come when it was whistled at.
Well, now what?
Retracing her steps was out of the question, of course. A ride of several hours, while uncomfortable before, was now clearly impossible. Glancing around, Daphne saw nothing but more trees. No paths, no roads, no dwellings.
Just before despair set in, however, she spotted something else. A fence, well-built, sturdy, and fairly modern, weaving through the trees.
A fence means farms and fields, which likely means houses. And, of course, roads. Perhaps I might find a stagecoach to take me back to town.
She had no money for a stagecoach, of course, but it was better not to think of that. She would cross that bridge when she came to it.
With her first step forward, Daphne noticed to her chagrin that she had somehow twisted her ankle in her fall, in addition to the many new bruises and cuts she had acquired. It was not broken, or even badly sprained, which was fortunate, but now every second step hurt.
Just a little further, she told herself, even though she had no idea whether it was much further or not, or even where she was going.
Climbing the fence was a tricky business. There was an ominous tearing sound from her skirts, but she ignored it.
She trudged onwards, hoping to come across some cozy little farm cottage. After only a few minutes, she spotted a little folly peering out of a clearing. Brightening, she hurried towards it.
I’ll be out of the rain, at least.
The folly was made in the Grecian style, circular, with a few artfully weathered pillars and a domed roof, half-covered in moss. She stepped out of the rain with a sigh of relief and set out wringing out her hair and skirts.
In the silence that followed, Daphne distinctly heard a long, miserable sniff. She froze.
“Ahem!”
There was no answer to her questioning cough.
She peered around a pillar. “Is anybody there? Show yourself!”
There was a shuffling sound and another half-smothered sniff.
Daphne inched forward, peering around the next pillar.
“I warn you,” she said, hoping to sound confident and unafraid, “my sister and I often engaged in fisticuffs, before she decided it was not ladylike. I was rather good at it!”
A small figure appeared from behind the pillar in front of her, making her jump. It was a young boy of about eight or nine, his face blotchy and red. He sniffed disdainfully.
“Is that supposed to scare me?” he demanded. “Telling me that you used to play fisticuffs with your sister?”
Daphne put her hands on her hips. “It was all I could come up with on such short notice.”
“Well, you might want to think up something better next time. If I were a robber or a murderer, I would have split my sides laughing at that.”
She snorted. “I’ll bear that in mind. And who are you, if you don’t mind my asking? And what are you doing here, all by yourself, in the rain?”
The boy dragged a long, pointed glance over her bedraggled frame, lingering on the pool of water growing around her feet. She tried unsuccessfully to pull her wet hair up from her neck.
“I was caught in the storm,” she said, a trifle defensively.
The boy sniffed. “My name is Alex. I came out here because I like it here, and I wanted to be by myself.”
“Why were you crying?”
He wiped his nose with the back of his hand. “I was not crying.”
Daphne decided not to push the issue. “Well, my name is Daphne. I have a niece only a few years younger than you, and it would upset me very much if I saw her all by herself in such weather, and in such distress.”
“I’m not in distress,” Alex muttered, somewhat half-heartedly.
“I see.”
Daphne eyed the boy closely. He was dressed well, his clothes only a little damp, and had black curls all over his head and large deep blue eyes. He was the sort of sweet-looking, little boy that artists liked to depict as cherubs and small angels, or rosy-cheeked, angelic children of indeterminate gender.
At least, they would have, were he not in the middle of crying his eyes out, with snot running liberally down his face. Daphne wished she had a handkerchief to offer him. He dragged his sleeve across his nose, and she winced.
He glowered at her. “I lost my handkerchief.”
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t tut and sigh. Tell me what is wrong, and I’ll talk to you frankly about it.”
Alex eyed her suspiciously. “Like a grownup?”
Daphne inclined her head. “Like a grownup.”
He sniffed. “Very well. If you must know, it is my father. I am the greatest disappointment in his life, and he takes no trouble to hide it.”
Daphne flinched. “I’m sure that can’t be true.”
“I’m sure you don’t know my father. He hates me.”
She bit her lip, trying to think of something to say.
Alex moved over to the back of the stone structure and sat down on the ground, his back against the wall. Drawing his knees up to his chest, he wrapped his arms around them and perched his chin on top. Suddenly, he looked simultaneously much older and much younger than his eight years.
She sighed and moved over to sit beside him.
“My father made a great many mistakes in his life,” she said, after a pause. “He did things he should not have done. He hurt me and my sisters, and my mother, too. He was only human, and humans do make mistakes, whether they want to or not. But despite it all, he loved us. He loved us so much, and we loved him.”
Alex stuck out his lip petulantly. “Well, that’s all very well for you, but my father is different.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. He’s cruel.”
Daphne flinched a little at that word. “Cruel?” she repeated carefully. “What do you mean by that?”
She glanced over his small frame, looking for bruises or scrapes, signs that he was underfed or abused in some way.
Alex caught her eye and sighed theatrically. “He doesn’t hurt me if that’s what you mean. At least, he doesn’t hit me, or cane me, or anything like that. He’s never done that.”
Daphne relaxed a little. “Well, I’m glad to hear that. But then what do you mean by cruel ?”
Alex shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. It’s too much to explain. But let me assure you that I quite hate him, and he hates me.”
Daphne nibbled on her lip, trying to come up with something clever to say. It was no good assuring Alex that his father really did love him when she didn’t know the man in question. He might be a monster, cold and heartless like so many of the ton.
Daphne personally knew many gentlemen who truly believed that their children had nothing to do with them, and never bothered themselves with parenting in any way, leaving it entirely to the ladies. And sometimes the ladies did not bother, either.
And then, of course, when their children grew up wild and cold, they had the audacity to be baffled and wonder what they had done to deserve it.
No, she had better keep her mouth shut until she understood the situation.
Not that I will be staying here long enough to understand the situation, she reminded herself.
“Well, I’m sorry for it,” she said, at last. “Families can be tricky.”
Alex snorted. “You can say that again. And then there’s Grandmama, always poking her nose in and telling tales. She seems to have a knack for making everything worse.”
“My sister is a little like that,” Daphne agreed. “My older sister, that is. She’s married and has children, and rather believes that she knows everything. It’s irritating that she is so frequently right.”
Alex nodded in agreement.
They sat there in silence for a few more minutes, until the rain appeared to ease off a little more.
“I suppose I should go home,” Alex muttered. “They’ll all be out, looking for me.”
“Is your home nearby?”
“Yes, fairly close.”
“Well then.” Daphne got to her feet, brushed off her damp palms, and extended one hand towards the boy. “I shall take you home, to make sure you get home safe.”
Alex flushed. “You don’t have to do that. I’m not a baby.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I hoped to ask for a favor in return. Would your family mind if I stayed the night? As you can see, I’m rather wet and very far from home myself. Could I trespass on your hospitality? You seem like a proper gentleman, and I am sure that I can trust you.”
Alex brightened at that, taking her hand and getting to his feet.
“I think they wouldn’t mind you staying. We have plenty of space. Oh, and by the way, I ought to let you know that I am not blind, and despite all the dirt, it’s pretty clear that you’re a bride.”
Daphne reddened. “Yes, I know I look quite a sight. I’m hoping your kind family will offer a change of clothes.”
“I’m sure they will. But don’t worry, I am not going to ask any questions about your wedding day, as Papa always told me that it’s impolite to ask uncomfortable questions.”
“A wise man,” Daphne agreed.
She shook out her skirts—damp and filthy—and together they picked their way down the hill, sticking to the tree line.
The path was difficult, the ground slippery and steep. Daphne was so absorbed in watching where to put her feet that she did not look where she was going. More accurately, she did not look at what was happening at the bottom of the hill.
“They’re looking for me,” Alex whispered.
She glanced up, and her gaze sharpened.
At the bottom of the slope, alongside the house they were approaching, a dozen or so people were milling around in the gardens, torches and candles glimmering in the gloom.
At her side, Alex sucked in a sharp breath. “There’s Papa! He’s come to look for me!”
Daphne saw at once who Alex was talking about. A tall, stocky man was striding up the hill towards them, holding up a lantern. The buttery yellow light flickered across his face, revealing a square, sharp jaw and a grim expression. He was a powerfully built man, as far as Daphne could tell, making even Emily’s duke seem a little weak. He had a strong profile and heavy, dark eyebrows hanging over his eyes.
He did not seem happy in the slightest.
He had certainly spotted them, too.
Alex released Daphne’s hand and began hurrying towards the man.
“Papa, Papa!” he called. “Here, Papa!”