Chapter 26
Nicholas ran lightly up the steps to his front door, the marriage license in his pocket and a whistle on his lips.
“These were delivered while you were out, sir,” his butler told him, presenting two letters. “By hand.”
Nicholas took them. He recognized the handwriting on one of them: Gerald.
He opened Gerald’s letter as he headed for his study, tearing the paper slightly, unfolding it one-handed as he reached for the brandy decanter.
He poured himself a glass and read the note, grunting when he reached the end. The living at Halvergate was his to dispose of if he wished. An apology, Gerald? If so, it was perfectly timed.
Nicholas put Gerald’s letter aside and opened the second one, taking slightly more care, managing not to rip it. He raised the brandy glass to his mouth and read the first lines.
Nicholas,
Harriet has run off to Chippenham to apply for a position as a lady’s companion.
Nicholas put the brandy glass down. He read swiftly. “Frye!” he shouted, striding from the study. “When was this letter delivered?” He thrust it at the man.
“About an hour ago, sir.”
An hour. Nicholas reread the final line. I’m departing London immediately and have hopes of catching her by Marlborough, Isabella had written.
“Have my curricle brought around,” Nicholas said, refolding the letter. “At once!”
* * *
By the time Isabella reached Hungerford, she was a mere half hour behind the Bristol stagecoach. One of the serving maids at the inn confirmed that Harriet had been aboard. “Little thing with brown hair?” she said, wiping her hands on her apron. “Looked as if she’d been crying.” Harriet had purchased a glass of lemonade, but declined the ham sandwiches offered by the establishment.
Isabella glanced up at the sky. Clouds were gathering on the horizon. She wrapped her traveling cloak more tightly around her and climbed back into the carriage.
By Froxfield, they had gained further on the stage. The clouds had gained, too, massing darkly, their bellies almost resting on the ground.
“It left fifteen minutes ago?” Isabella asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” the ostler said.
A long blast on a horn sounded, signaling a traveler wanting a change of horses. “’Scuse me, ma’am,” the ostler said, and hurried off.
A curricle clattered into the yard, its horses streaked with sweat. Isabella’s heart leapt. “Nicholas!”
Major Reynolds thrust the reins at his groom and jumped down, his driving coat flaring, the many capes fluttering like little wings. “I thought I’d have caught up to you before this,” he said, reaching for her hands. “You must have been springing your horses.”
“I have been,” Isabella said, returning the pressure of his fingers. “We’re only fifteen minutes behind them.”
“Do you wish to ride with me?”
Isabella glanced at the sky, at the rain misting the horizon. “Yes.”
She gave orders to her coachman while fresh horses were harnessed to the curricle, and climbed up into the seat vacated by Major Reynolds’ groom.
The ostler stood away from the horses’ heads and deftly caught the coin Major Reynolds tossed him.
“So Harriet wants to be a lady’s companion?” the major said as he negotiated the turn onto the main street.
“No, not at all.”
“Then why . . . ?”
“It’s a Noble Sacrifice. She thinks she’s a burden to me.” Isabella pursed her lips thoughtfully. “But I think a great deal of it has to do with us. You and me.”
The major overtook a wagon. “Us?”
“Our attachment. Harriet felt the awkwardness of Saturday quite acutely.”
“Saturday?” He huffed a laugh. “Yes, it was more than a little awkward.”
The major kept a sedate pace until they were out of Froxfield, then he let the horses have their heads. Hedgerows and ditches flashed past. Air scented with the smells of the countryside—grass, manure, woodsmoke—tugged at her bonnet. Isabella put a firm hand on it. The major snatched a glance at her, and grinned. “Feels a bit like a French farce, doesn’t it?”
Isabella choked back a laugh at this unexpected humor. “A French farce?”
“Can’t you imagine it at the theater? Everyone chasing each other across the stage?” He sent her another swift, grinning glance. “We have almost a full cast of characters. The damsel in distress, the cruel guardian, the loathsome suitor, the dashing hero waiting in the wings for his cue.”
“Earnest hero,” Isabella said. “Not dashing. Mr. Fernyhough is an earnest hero.”
“Earnest hero, then,” Major Reynolds said, feathering the reins as the curricle swept around a bend.
“What’s my r?le?” Isabella asked him, amused.
“It’s a puzzle. I’m not quite sure what Botticelli’s Venus is doing in a French farce.” He cast her another grin. “Perhaps you’re meant to tame the loathsome suitor’s ogreish heart?”
Isabella’s own heart skipped a beat. I love this man.
A long stretch of road opened before them. Half a mile ahead was another coach. “Ah,” the major said. “This looks promising.”
Isabella held onto her bonnet as Major Reynolds urged the horses in a ground-eating gallop. The distant vehicle resolved itself into a large, top-heavy coach, moving with sluggish speed, and then, as they drew closer, into the Bristol stagecoach, piled with luggage and with three miserable passengers hunched on the outside seats.
Major Reynolds drew alongside and shouted at the coachman to stop. The man stared steadfastly ahead, ignoring him.
The major muttered under his breath. The curricle surged past the swaying coach and swung in front of it. Major Reynolds slowed his horses to a trot, keeping the curricle firmly in the middle of the road, with no room to pass.
Isabella clutched her bonnet even more tightly as the stagecoach loomed behind them. Noise enveloped her—the thunder of hooves and wheels, the shouted voices of men—and then the stagecoach slowed, too.
Major Reynolds brought his horses to a walk, and then a halt. “Here,” he said, thrusting the reins at her. “Hold them.”
Isabella did, twisting in the seat to watch as the major strode back to the coach. He overrode the coachman’s indignant voice. “Looking for a runaway,” he said curtly, and wrenched open the heavy door.
The reins tugged in her hand as one of the horses pulled at its bit. Isabella glanced at it, and then back at the stagecoach. Major Reynolds was closing the door. His expression was frowning. He spoke with the driver. Isabella couldn’t hear the words, but from his gestures he was describing Harriet.
The coachman shook his head. His answer was brief.
“Where is she?” Isabella asked as Major Reynolds climbed up into the curricle and reclaimed the reins.
“She got off at Froxfield,” he said, guiding the curricle to the side of the road. The stagecoach rolled past, the outside passengers craning their necks to look at them.
“Froxfield? But she was booked to Chippenham. Why on earth would she get off early?”
“She was in conversation with a man. Not a passenger; a man who was at the inn. And she got off the stagecoach and asked for her luggage.”
“A man?” Alarm leapt in Isabella’s chest.
“Yes,” the major said grimly, turning the horses. “We’d better get back to Froxfield. Fast.”
Isabella glanced at his face, and past him to the undulating hills. They weren’t far from where Harriet had grown up. “Perhaps Colonel Durham? Did the coachman say how old—”
“A young man.”
“Did . . . did he say whether Harriet knew him?”
“He said that she was upset. Crying.”
“Oh.”
They drove in tense silence, pausing only to redirect her carriage when they met it. “Back to Froxfield,” Major Reynolds instructed her coachman, not waiting to give an explanation.
Froxfield came into view. Isabella kept her eyes anxiously on the church spires, watching them grow nearer. At the inn, she scrambled down from the curricle before it came to a complete halt. She ran across the courtyard and pushed open the door, almost knocking over the innkeeper. “A girl,” she said breathlessly. “A girl got off the stage. About half an hour ago. She met with a man.” She was conscious of Major Reynolds behind her, blocking the doorway, huge in his driving coat. “Do you know where they are?”
“They’re in the parlor, ma’am.” The innkeeper gestured down the corridor. “But—”
Nicholas pushed past them both. His footsteps rang on the flagstones. He wrenched open the door to the parlor and stepped inside.
“Excuse me,” Isabella said, and hurried after him. “Harriet—”
She halted in the doorway, taking in the scene: the small parlor with a sofa and two armchairs and a little oak side table, the man standing silhouetted against the window, his face freckled and earnest, his mouth half-open in shock, Harriet shrinking back on the sofa, a handkerchief clutched in her hand, and Major Reynolds standing in the center of the parlor. He was a tall man, and in this low-ceilinged room seemed even taller. A giant, in that many-caped driving coat. An ogre. He stood silently, not moving, and yet he filled the room with his rage. The sense of threat was so palpable that she understood Harriet’s cringing terror.
“Mr. Fernyhough,” Isabella said, stepping into the room. She closed the door on the innkeeper. “How very glad I am to see you.”
The major’s head swung around. His expression relaxed slightly. “Mr. Fernyhough?”
“Yes.” Isabella smiled at the young man. She held out her hand. “How do you do?”
Mr. Fernyhough glanced at Major Reynolds, swallowed, straightened his spine, and pushed away from the window. He skirted the major warily.
I don’t blame you,Isabella thought, as Mr. Fernyhough bowed over her hand. I would be frightened of him, too. How did Nicholas do it? There had been no shouting, no bluster, and yet he was clearly and quite unmistakably dangerous. “What are you doing here?”
Mr. Fernyhough glanced nervously at Major Reynolds again. “Harriet... that is to say, Miss Durham wrote to tell me that she was leaving London to seek employment in Chippenham.” His chin rose. The look he sent Major Reynolds was slightly defiant. “So I came to stop her.”
“How very good of you,” Isabella said warmly. She looked at Harriet, huddled on the sofa. The girl looked pale enough to faint. “Shall we partake of refreshments while we talk? Nicholas, if you wouldn’t mind asking the innkeeper?”
Major Reynolds gave a short nod. With him gone, the level of tension in the room dropped markedly.
Isabella untied the ribbons securing her bonnet and removed it. She placed it on the little oak table and laid her gloves alongside. “Harriet, my dear,” she said, going to sit beside the girl. “There was no need in the least for you to leave.”
“I couldn’t stay, ma’am,” she whispered. “I just couldn’t.”
Major Reynolds reentered the parlor. His expression was mild, but both Harriet and Mr. Fernyhough flinched slightly. Isabella lost her smile. Can’t they see past the scar?
Harriet’s gaze darted to the major’s ruined cheek and fell. She stared down at her handkerchief.
“Mr. Fernyhough,” the major said, with a gesture at the door. “A word in private, if you don’t mind.”
Mr. Fernyhough swallowed audibly. “Of course, sir.”
Harriet began to sob as the door shut behind the men. “He’ll kill him—”
“Of course he won’t!” Isabella said. She took a deep breath and made herself smile at the girl. “My dear, while I appreciate that you left my house with the best of intentions, I must tell you that it was completely unnecessary.”
“I’ve been such a nuisance for you,” Harriet said, weeping despairingly into her handkerchief.
“Nonsense,” Isabella said. “My cousin has greatly enjoyed your company, and as I told you earlier, I’m indebted to you; I wouldn’t have met Nicholas otherwise.”
But these words didn’t stem the flow of Harriet’s tears.
How do I stop her crying?Isabella thought helplessly. To her relief the door opened again. Mr. Fernyhough stood on the threshold. His expression made her look at him more closely. Joy? She glanced enquiringly at Major Reynolds, standing behind him in the doorway.
“Harriet,” Mr. Fernyhough said, stepping into the parlor. “There’s no need to cry.”
Harriet gulped and stopped sobbing.
“I think we can safely leave Miss Durham in Mr. Fernyhough’s company,” the major said, with a faint smile. He held out his hand to Isabella.
Isabella rose gratefully. She let Major Reynolds take her hand and draw her out into the corridor. “What...?” she asked, glancing back at the parlor as the major closed the door.
“Mr. Fernyhough has something of a private nature to say to Miss Durham.” The major led her down the corridor to the coffee room. It was empty.
“But what—?”
“I believe he’s asking her to marry him.” Major Reynolds escorted her to a cushioned bench beneath the window. Rain streaked the tiny panes.
“Marry?” Isabella said, sitting. “But he’s beholden to Colonel Durham.”
“Not any longer.” The major felt in a pocket, and pulled out a letter. “The earnest hero has received his cue and will be sweeping the heroine off to Gretna Green later this month.”
Isabella unfolded the letter and read swiftly. “A living in Norfolk?” She glanced up at him. “Oh, Nicholas!”
“What did I tell you?” he said. “A French farce. The hero and heroine have their happy ending and the curtain can now fall.” He reached into his pocket again and handed her another letter. “This is our happy ending,” he said softly.
Isabella unfolded the second letter—and discovered that it wasn’t a letter at all, but a marriage license with the Archbishop of Canterbury’s seal affixed to it. For a moment she couldn’t breathe. Her gaze flew to him. “Nicholas...”
Major Reynolds sat beside her on the bench and drew her into his arms. “Sometimes the villain gets to live happily ever after, too.”
“You’re not a villain!”
He grinned at her. “It’s generally my r?le in plays.”
“You might be Harriet’s villain,” Isabella told him, clutching the marriage license tightly, “but you’re my hero.”
The major laughed, and dipped his head and kissed her. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” She breathed in his scent—dusty roads and horses—and then said fondly, “Ogre.”
“The luckiest ogre in England,” he said, and kissed her again.
* * *