Chapter 3
Drat it all!
Marianne wished very much that she possessed a vocabulary with harsher language.
How handy it would be just now! Sadly, her upbringing had instilled in her nothing more diabolical than a few drats and the occasional good heavens.
Even the stray thought of a coarse or vulgar word could not come to her, despite her current measure of frustration.
Honestly though, if she had a working fluency in less proper speech, she would have been silently raving in that language.
Mr. Gisborn had not brought along the usual four-seater Locksley landau with the familiar driver in green livery.
No, Mr. Gisborn and Mr. Reeve had arrived to collect the ladies in something new—two things new.
They each drove a shining new curricle with dashing matched teams! Quite proud of them, too, they seemed.
Meg had oooed and aaahed over them and Marianne pretended to appreciate their sleek craftsmanship and the fine horseflesh, but in fact all she could concentrate on was the fact that she would be riding alone with Mr. Gisborn.
Instead of a pleasant drive with both couples chatting peaceably in one carriage, Marianne would be subjected to an afternoon occupying Mr. Gisborn all on her own.
This could only mean one thing: he would have ample opportunity for proposing. And she would be expected to give him an answer! Oh, but she was not at all ready for that.
She dawdled as long as she could, going back into the house for her gloves, then changing her bonnet, then claiming she needed to collect her quiver and bow in case they thought to do some archery along the way.
The others were quite frustrated with her, but she did not give up.
She posted her letter as slowly as was humanly possible, and even invented the need to visit a shop for a packet of pins, but finally she could not avoid the inevitable.
Their errands in Nottingham were done and the gentlemen drove them out of the safety of the bustling town and out into the quiet—and lonely—countryside.
With the sun in the sky and no one but grazing sheep to overhear their conversation, Marianne nattered on about the weather, about a recent book she had read, about anything she could think of.
After a while, she was running out of benign prattle and worried that at any moment Mr. Gisborn might shift to more personal topics.
They rode in the open air, the fine leather hood of the curricle folded down on such a nice day as this.
Marianne kept peering over it, watching Mr. Reeve’s carriage as it lagged farther and farther behind them.
Occasionally she called out to Meg, acting as if they were indeed a party of four rather than two separate couples.
Mr. Reeve responded by slowing his horses even more, allowing quite a gap to build between them.
Not what Marianne had wanted, though Meg didn’t seem to mind.
The road was nearly empty today; they had passed but one coach on their way.
As it rumbled along, back toward the town, Marianne realized they were getting farther and farther away from a secure situation.
With Mr. Reeve lagging behind and Mr. Gisborn so very closeby, Marianne’s nerves began to worry.
Ah, but then she had an idea; the perfect way to avoid a proposal! She knew exactly how to distract Mr. Gisborn and to keep the two carriages together. She would make a proposal of her own!
“Oh, with both of you driving such fine carriages, I know what we should do,” she cried suddenly. “Let’s have a race!”
Mr. Gisborn was immediately intrigued. “A race?”
“Of course! Your curricle is so fine, and your horses quite fresh, why not put them to the test? See, the road here is wide and there’s no one else to obscure the way. A race would be just the thing!”
He couldn’t deny his obvious interest in her suggestion and quickly slowed his horse to allow Mr. Reeve to catch them up.
The other gentleman was as ready for a go as Mr. Gisborn.
They discussed the possible course and agreed the race would go all the way through the forest to Greenwood Manor, which had been their ultimate destination, where they would have a picnic.
Marianne was quite pleased with herself for her clever plan.
For now, at least, she would not have to answer any life-altering questions.
The men guided their teams into position. Meg’s wide eyes showed nervousness and seemed quite unsure of this notion. Marianne felt a moment of regret; she had forgotten that Meg was far less adventurous than she was. Perhaps it had been unfair to suggest a race.
It was too late for regret, however. Mr. Gisborn gave Mr. Reeve the rights to call “go!” and the burly sheriff did so in a booming voice. The horses flinched, then leaped into action. Both curricles lurched forward in a rattling cloud of dust.
Ah, but Marianne did love a good race! She leaned forward, watching Mr. Gisborn’s hands on the reins and noting that he was, indeed, a passable driver.
She would have perhaps given the horses a bit more encouragement, but Papa had always told her she was too reckless.
It had not stopped him from allowing her to drive his carriage upon occasion, though.
How she missed her father and freedom that being his daughter had often allowed her.
They clattered along and Marianne grinned as the wind whipped at her bonnet and bits of dirt flung up onto her skirts. Her heart pounded with the thrill of speed and she watched hedges whiz by. Mr. Gisborn’s carriage sped forward, passing Mr. Reeve and barreling down the slight grade of a hill.
At the bottom of the hill the road broke into a fork.
One fork went off to follow the banks of the River Trent.
The other fork veered away into the trees, trailing into the forest until it quickly disappeared.
The carriage barely altered its hurried pace as Mr. Gisborn selected that fork, angling away from the river and racing into the shadowy embrace of Sherwood.
Mr. Reeve’s carriage, she noted, was not going nearly as fast as theirs. Nor did he follow them into the trees. Instead, his carriage veered the other direction, taking the fork that would lead along the river.
Almost instantly Marianne felt the first pangs of worry. Perhaps this race had not been such a brilliant idea, after all! Instead of removing Mr. Gisborn’s window of opportunity, she had helped to fling it open wide.
She made an involuntary gasp as she realized her own folly. Mr. Gisborn took this as a sign that she needed his comfort. He quickly slowed his horses and wrapped his arm around her shoulder, bringing her far too close to his side.
“Have I frightened you, my dear?” he asked.
“Not at all,” she replied quickly even as alarms rang loudly inside her head. “I was just wondering why we have gone this way and Mr. Reeve has gone the other. How can it be a race if we are on different courses?”
He leaned toward her with a darkly mischievous grin. “That would depend on the goal of the race, my dear.”
She pulled nervously away, glancing over her shoulder and hoping to see Meg—or anyone—coming along the road behind them. She did not. No living creatures besides the birds in the trees and an occasional squirrel rustling in the leaves. The curricle rolled to a stop.
Oh, but she was painfully alone with the man now and he had a certain look about him. A look that made her feel a bit like a silly moth who had fluttered too close to the spider’s web and been caught in it.
He was going to propose! She could just feel it, could practically hear him utter the words. Worse, she could practically hear her response. She was expected to say yes.
Well, she was not caught yet. She would not have to give answer if he never had the chance to ask the question! She simply needed to be resourceful…
“I say, what is that over there?” she asked suddenly, pointing off into the forest.
“What? Where?” he questioned, obediently looking in the direction she indicated.
“Well, it’s a… er, I believe it’s a bird. Yes, I saw a bird.”
Drat. That wasn’t very resourceful at all. How on earth did she expect seeing a simple bird—in a forest, no less—to distract the man? Her brain raced to come up with something better.
“There are many birds here in Sherwood,” he said and turned his sly glances back onto her. “None of them sing nearly as sweetly as you, though, Miss Maidland.”
Drat and drat! Things were getting worse. She’d gone and supplied him with material for boldface flattery. She must think of something to get his mind off of this.
“But I saw a very young bird!” she exclaimed quickly. “I tiny bird. A hatchling! It fell from its nest, poor little thing. We’ve got to help it. Please, Mr. Gisborn, you must go and do something.”
“I must?”
“But who else?”
“I know nothing of birds, Miss Maidland.”
“But surely you can help the poor thing… for me, at least?”
She may not have been skilled in fabricating a very good excuse to get him out of the carriage, but she certainly knew how to flutter her eyelashes and pout.
Her stepmother had been an expert at such manipulations.
Marianne had never expected to stoop to such tactics, but the moment seemed dire enough.
She batted and blinked and let her lower lip tremble just the tiniest bit.
“Oh, very well. I will rescue the bird.”
And as simple as that, he left her. He climbed out of the carriage and started into the brush. She tried to maintain her expression and not show too much sense of victory.
“Over that way!” she directed. “A bit farther into the forest… yes, a few more steps to your left. No, maybe it was to your right. Beyond that tree, I believe.”
“Which tree, Miss Maidland?”
“Er, that one. The thick one with all the leaves on it.”
He grumbled as shrubs nicked at his coat. “This one, my dear?”
“No, that one… with the branches.”
“It is a forest, Miss Maidland. All the trees have branches and leaves on them.”
She continued guiding him toward her fictional baby bird and he continued to comply. But of course he was not finding anything. Soon he would simply give up and come back to the carriage. She’d be alone with him once more and he would be free to propose.
This silly distraction had gained her nothing at all. She needed something more drastic—something that would give him reason to forget proposing altogether. Perhaps she might swoon? No, that would put her in an even more vulnerable position.
What on earth could she do? If she completely alienated him then perhaps he would turn Mr. Reeve against Meg—the two men did seem quite devoted to each other. How could she put him off without interrupting their regular outings? Meg deserved some hope for happiness, even if it was with Mr. Reeve.
Obviously, Marianne would do the only thing she could do. Surely if she exposed herself to some horrible trauma Mr. Gisborn wouldn’t force a proposal on her, but he could hardly be upset with her, either. There seemed only one solution.
Clearly what Marianne needed just now was a terrifying run-away carriage.
It was a rash, hasty plan, but of course she didn’t pause to rethink it. One quick, subtle slap with the reins and the quiet horses were jolted out of resting and into sudden movement. Young and healthy, they responded with even more vigor than she hoped.
“Help! Help!” Marianne cried as the carriage lurched forward.
Her shrill voice panicked the horses and they stepped up their pace.
She gave them ample rein, bouncing in her seat and flailing her arms for good measure.
It all added to their fright and they very nearly broke into full gallop, storming down the roadway and leaving Mr. Gisborn to call out helplessly from behind.
The pace was invigorating, and Marianne urged them on. The forest closed in and they rounded a bend. Mr. Gisborn was nearly out of earshot now, but Marianne kept up her desperate cries for help, just to continue the illusion. The horses ran on, deeper into the woods.
Of course she wouldn’t let them run forever.
This was merely to buy her some time—time to breathe a bit and appear too upset to hear that fateful question.
Surely once she stopped the horses and Mr. Gisborn did find them again, he would think nothing if she claimed a nervous disorder and demanded to be taken home straightaway.
It might even take days before she was ready for visitors.
By then, who knew? Perhaps Mr. Reeve would be safely in love with Meg and his would be the accepted proposal.
That was too far ahead to accurately predict. For now, all she knew was that she had succeeded in thwarting any proposal from Mr. Gisborn today. That was what mattered.
She would simply drive the horses for another half mile, or so, before—
A man suddenly fell out of the trees! No, it was more likely that he jumped.
He leaped down, onto the horses, grasping at their harness and thrashing around until somehow, he ended up between them, barely staying upright.
His feet danced over the dusty road as he struggled to keep pace with the horses, pulling at the straps and somehow managing to stay atop and not trampled to death.
The horses balked and shied, but the man’s sudden arrival had put an end to their headlong race.
They pulled up to an obedient halt. Marianne, of course, was thrown forward.
She slid from her seat and tumbled into a heap on the floor.
Fumbling to right herself, her hands came upon her bow and several arrows that had fallen beside her.
On instinct, she grasped her bow up with one hand and snagged an arrow with the other.
Wild thoughts of highwaymen and footpads ran through her mind; she’d heard these sorts had been active in Sherwood recently.
What had she been thinking to go off on her own this way?
She must be a full mile from Mr. Gisborn by now, or perhaps even more.
Well, if this man was intent on doing harm, she’d just have to defend herself.
In one fluid movement, she hiked up her skirts, pulled herself to her feet, and nocked an arrow into place. The bow felt friendly in her fist as she drew the string taut. Wedging her knee against the fine leather dashboard, she found a solid stance even as the curricle still rocked from its ordeal.
She held her bow deadly still, arrow trained on her accoster. If he made one threatening move toward her, he would be a dead man. She would not hesitate to…
And then recognition dawned. For both of them, it seemed. He spoke her name aloud even as she breathed his in stunned disbelief.
“Robert Locksley? But you’re dead!”