Chapter Twenty-One
“Hurry up!” the young lady urged, tugging at her reluctant companion’s sleeve with urgent fingers. “We shall miss the coach entirely if you continue to dawdle.”
Her friend hesitated, eyes flicking over the scattered travellers and porters leaning against rough-hewn beams. “I… I am not certain we ought to go through with it. Mrs. Graham will be in a dreadful state when she discovers our absence.”
“Oh, pooh,” came the flippant reply. “Who cares what that old biddy thinks?” With a ruthless tug, she dragged her friend across the loose gravel to where the post coach waited, its horses stamping impatiently outside the inn’s broad, weathered doors.
“There, you see! It has only just pulled in. We have time yet to buy our tickets. You did remember your pin money, did you not?”
“Yes,” came the reluctant reply, as she cast anxious glances about the yard, silently willing some passerby to remark upon them, to raise an eyebrow or ask their business, anything to bring this foolish scheme to a halt before they found themselves on the road to Scotland with a man her friend had never spoken of until this past week.
How could she possibly know him well enough to make such a drastic, life-altering decision?
But the yard bustled with busyness, drivers loading trunks, post boys shouting for change, no one sparing them a glance, and before long, they were wedged into a rattling carriage full of strangers, the road to London unspooling beneath them, Bromley still ahead.
Three hours of coarse dust settling in their throats and relentless jolting left them stiff and dishevelled, and both girls emerged stiff-limbed from the carriage and waited while the driver wrestled their portmanteaus from the boot with a grunt.
They straightened themselves as best they could and went inside, making for the tap room, where they hoped to find the eager bridegroom already at his post, waiting for their arrival.
“Carter!” The young lady’s voice rang out like a bell as she rushed forward, both hands outstretched, cheeks flushed with excitement. Her friend trailed behind, head bowed, fingertips brushing the weathered oak of the table.
“My love.” He received her with a kiss to the cheek. “This is the friend you mentioned?”
“The very same,” she declared, with a triumphant turn. “I could not have managed it without her. She has been absolutely indispensable.”
“Your friend is familiar to me. I met her in Hertfordshire.” He guided his intended towards a table, then turned back and offered her companion an exaggerated bow. “Miss Lydia. A pleasure to see you again.”
“Captain Carter.” Her nod was slight, her tone formal.
Her heart beat painfully in her chest as she recalled their last meeting at Mr. Bingley’s ball, where she had clung to him like a limpet, uncaring how she appeared to him and other guests.
“I confess I did not know you were Miss Watting’s particular friend.
When last I had news of you, there was talk of an attachment to Miss Mary King of Meryton. ”
She noted a nearly imperceptible paling of his complexion, but he rallied enough to reply with apparent humility.
“Miss King’s uncle was called suddenly to Liverpool and wished her to accompany him. The separation gave us both occasions to reflect, and we concluded that we had been rather hasty. Should we ever find ourselves in company again, we are agreed to meet as nothing more than common acquaintances.”
Lydia’s brow lifted in silent scepticism.
She had learned much more than the gentleman cared to reveal in a letter from Maria Lucas, which had painted a very different picture.
Whispers of dubious behaviour, and an heiress whisked off to protect her inheritance, abounded in and around Meryton.
She stole a glance at Miss Watting, chattering away at Carter’s elbow, blissfully unaware.
The girl had twenty thousand pounds and the singular misfortune of being unable to keep quiet about it as her tongue wagged more than an excitable puppy, a combination that had evidently not escaped Captain Carter’s notice. The girl could not help herself.
And here was Lydia, dragged into this reckless venture, with one flimsy plan and no reliable means of executing it.
She pressed her lips together. She was as vulnerable as her friend, having had no time to make extensive plans, as Miss Watting had declared she would travel alone if Lydia did not accompany her.
Dear Lord in Heaven, how stupid could one girl be?
Lydia paused in thought, recalling her own rash conduct last autumn, and resolved to extend some grace to her foolish friend.
After all, there was a time when she herself might have dashed off to Scotland without a logical thought in her head.
Suppose Captain Carter was to learn of her father’s recent elevation to the peerage, and that her own marriage portion substantially outshone Miss Watting’s?
How swiftly would his ardent protestations fade under the glare of a richer prospect?
As Lydia toyed with a plan to outmanoeuvre the captain in her friend’s defense, a familiar voice rang out behind them. “Lady Lydia! What brings you to Bromley?”
She turned to find her cousin, Mr. William Collins, standing under the low archway, his stout figure neatly clad in a dark green coat, standing beside his gracious wife, Charlotte.
“Lady Lydia?” repeated Carter and Miss Watting in unison.
With a light laugh, Lydia answered, “Papa insisted my title remain concealed, so the headmistress was instructed to call me Miss Lydia.” She beckoned the Collinses nearer with an airy wave.
“How delighted I am to see you both! Mr. Collins, Mrs. Collins, permit me to introduce Miss Priscilla Watting, and, of course, you already know Captain Carter.”
“A pleasure,” Charlotte said courteously to Miss Watting before Mr. Collins could begin one of his lengthy orations. “But pray, how come you to Bromley?” she enquired of Lydia.
“Miss Watting and I are enroute to town,” Lydia explained, and gave Charlotte a careful wink, assuming Maria had made her older sister aware of Carter’s scandalous reputation.
“On disembarking, we were pleased to discover Captain Carter already here. As for his destination, well, we have not yet had the pleasure of a proper conversation to ascertain it.”
Priscilla’s brow furrowed. “I shall travel with Captain Carter when he departs,” she declared in a tone of puzzled resolve. “Surely you knew this, Lydia.”
“Now, Priscilla,” Lydia chided in measured tones, “you must not presume that a young lady may journey unaccompanied with a gentleman. Consider the damage to your reputation and your two younger sisters. Their prospects would be blighted, and your mother nearly undone by grief.”
“Why did you say nothing before we left the school?” she asked, a tremor of hurt in her voice.
“You gave me no opportunity,” Lydia replied, lowering her voice, so only Priscilla could hear. “I stayed close by to protect you.”
Priscilla shot her a questioning look. “And if your friends had not come across us?”
Lydia smiled with feigned innocence. “I might have slipped a measured drop of laudanum into your teacup, escorted you to a private chamber at the inn, and dispatched an express to my father.”
Miss Watting’s eyes widened. “You carry laudanum?”
Lydia shrugged as though discussing shawls or gloves. “I tucked a small vial in my reticule. If all else failed, I would have dosed your companion instead.”
Priscilla took a step forward, placing a trembling hand upon Lydia’s arm. “I appreciate your concern, but Carter and I are in love. I long to be his wife.”
Lydia turned her gaze to Carter, whose face remained impassive in the flickering light. Summoning her most even tone, she asked, “Captain Carter, how do you propose to support your future wife on a mere militia officer’s stipend?”
He cleared his throat. “We shall manage quite well on the interest from my beloved’s dowry,” he said, giving Miss Watting a soft, self-deprecating smile. “We have already discussed the kind of house we might lease, and the number of servants required to live a comfortable life.”
“You presume her father will release her marriage portion without question,” Lydia said coolly.
“Of course, he will,” Carter insisted. “He will want his daughter cared for financially.”
“Without a marriage settlement, no father is obliged to part with a penny of his daughter’s dowry,” Lydia countered.
“You do not know what you speak of,” Carter snapped, his patience clearly running thin. “You are nothing but a silly, ignorant flirt.”
A hush fell. Lydia met his glare with carefully controlled composure.
“I may have been foolish when we last met, Captain Carter, but I distinctly recall my father warning that should I hare off to Scotland with a ne’er-do-well, I would never see so much as a farthing of my marriage portion.
There is no guarantee Miss Watting’s father does not hold the same view. ”
“Dearest,” Miss Watting said softly, laying a gloved hand on Carter’s forearm, “perhaps we should seek my father’s consent. I know he will love you as much as I do.”
“We leave for Scotland,” Carter declared, his jaw set in stubborn resolve. “As soon as the innkeeper readies a basket of provisions.”
“But—” Miss Watting began, her lips trembling.
“No, Priscilla,” he cut in. “We depart immediately.”
Charlotte bent close to Mr. Collins and whispered a few hurried words in his ear.
His eyes went wide, his jaw slackened, then snapped shut.
With a curt nod, he excused himself and strode towards the registration desk.
Lydia watched as he exchanged words with the innkeeper, who cast a furtive glance at their party before nodding assent, as Mr. Collins quit the room.
Lydia dared to hope her cousin sought discreet assistance. Captain Carter was clearly no gentleman, and dear Priscilla had left herself vulnerable to extortion and a hasty marriage.