Come Be My Love Page 32

  I had to return to the church, to explain. Perhaps another dress could be found, something from my trousseau at home. The wedding would have to be delayed. It was already de­layed, for I could hear the strains of "O Perfect Love" being repeated again. Above me, in seeming competition, the free song of the birds rang out.

  I knew I had to go back and yet I did not move. I stood listening, waiting for I know not what before gathering my soiled skirts and crumpled train and starting out at a steady walk, which became a jog and then a run. Faster and faster I ran, away from St. Mary's and the strains of "O Perfect Love," away from the gathered throng, away from my home and everyone I knew.

  I ran until, out of breath, I could run no more. Then I slowed to a walk. A stray dog of indeterminate origin had joined me in my flight. He bounced along at my side in great enjoyment at the adventure.

  The sun rose higher and higher in the sparkling clear sky, yet there was no responding clarity in my heart as I walked on, my hand on the dog's head for comfort, afraid to think of the mad act I had just committed. I could never be forgiven— never, never.

  I gave a sudden scream, momentarily frightening the dog, as the heel of one of my thin satin slippers caught in a hole in the path, throwing me forward into a patch of stinging nettles.

  I cried out, my hands, arms and face badly stung by the leaves, but worse yet was the pain in my foot, which I had badly wrenched in the fall.

  Strange though it was, I felt glad of the pain. It seemed justified because of the wrong I had committed against my parents, against Geoffrey and his family. The pain also made me realize that I was still alive, for until that moment I had been in a daze. At that moment, too, I realized how utterly exhausted I was. Standing was painful, and I threw myself down into the thick, green grass, dotted with marjoram and wild pansies, which grew along the hedgerows. The cool green­ness was balm to my throbbing skin. I closed my eyes and attempted to overcome the guilt I felt at the scene I had left behind. Sleep came to my rescue, the sleep that had eluded me throughout the night; it came over me as a blessed mantle of peace. The dog snuggled down at my side, providing warmth and comfort as I slept.

  Twilight was approaching by the time I awoke. I lay still, the memory of what had happened slowly coming back to me, but I tried desperately to put it from my mind as I took stock of my circumstances. The stinging from the nettles had sub­sided, but my foot was painfully sore and swollen. I could not walk far. There were no nearby cottages, but sitting up, I could see what had to be the road to Marlborough, across the meadow. I would make for that and wait for some passing conveyance to take me—where I did not know except I could do nothing until my foot was attended to.

  Dragging it behind me, relying on my good foot and steadying myself first with the dog who had stayed with me and then with the aid of a stout stick he found for me, I limped and struggled across the meadow. What an odd sight I must have made in my now-filthy wedding dress, the dog at my side. I could hear Alice sniff, "Made a mess of yourself again, Miss Alex." I had indeed made a mess of myself—of everything.

  It was slow progress for the pain was excruciating. Several times I stumbled and fell. A farm cart passed, then a carriage before I reached the road, but neither heard my cries for help.

  By the time I got there, dusk had fallen. Few people would pass once night fell. Disconsolately I sat down by the roadside, glad of the company of the dog.

  "My Bucephalus!" I named him after Alexander's charger, wishing he might carry me away. He was hardly large enough for that, but I don't know how I could have survived without his friendly, good-natured presence.

  It was only when I had given up hope of finding help and had started to make a bed for the night beside the hedge that I heard the clatter of horses' hooves on the roadway. I heard them long before a light from the front of the carriage rounded the bend in the road.

  Gathering all my strength, I stood up and limped to the centre of the road. The horses came towards me at a frighten­ing rate. I was terrified they would run over me. Wildly I waved what was left of my tattered train, no longer white but still it stood out in the gathering dust. That and my furious cries must have reached the horses, for they became alarmed and skittish. I heard the coachman swearing at them. I could not move to get out of their path, and when I was sure that the carriage must pass over me, the horses reared wildly to a stop not a foot away.

  The coachman, still swearing madly, took up the lamp as he clambered from his seat. He held it high above his head so that I could see him as clearly as he could see me. Looking into his face, I gave a cry of terror. "No, oh no! Not you!"

  The last thing I saw as my surroundings faded into obliv­ion was the grinning, misshapen face of the little man who had followed me all over London, the servant of Sir Clarence Wilmott.

  XXXIII

  In the dark, rhythmic rumbling of the coach as it sped through the night, I regained consciousness. I was held close against the chest of a man. I felt the wool of his coat beneath my cheek. His arms around me supported my bruised and battered body, shielding it from the worst of the jolts as the horses raced along the rutted road. I was no longer cold, for over me had been placed a great coat or cloak, while close to me was the warmth and comfort of the one holding me. It was only when I realized who the one must be who held me in such close embrace that involuntarily I stiffened, at which he stroked my hair.

  "Don't move; you're quite safe. We'll soon have a doctor to care for that foot of yours. Just lie still."

  "Darius! Is it really you?"

  "Of course it's me. Who did you think it was?"

  "But that man—the coachman—I know him. He followed me in London—he is in the employ of Wilmott. Or did I just imagine I saw his face? It's all been such a nightmare."

  "Ritchie, I must admit, is not the handsomest of men, but he is reliable and very resourceful, as a rule, though he admit­ted to me that you and Tim bested him."

  "You mean he worked for you all along?"

  "I know he didn't admit it to you because I had in­structed him not to. My only reason for having him follow you was that I feared for your safety, yet I knew you would resent what you would only construe as interference."

  "Oh, Darius, I was awfully stubborn over that whole matter. I've wanted to thank you, to tell you I was sorry for my refusal to believe you. You warned me of what would happen if that book appeared."

  Impulsively I hugged him and he held me close. From the floor of the carriage came a growl and a short bark.

  "Bucephalus! I'd almost forgotten him, but he has prac­tically saved my life today. Thank you for bringing him, too."

  "It wasn't so much a case of bringing him; he wasn't to be left behind."

  "I feel so safe with both of you."

  But the mood of satisfaction dispelled as the remem­brance of that morning came back to me.

  "I did a mad thing, Darius; but of course you must know."

  "I gather that everything at St. Mary's may not have gone exactly as rehearsed."

  "But you know it did not—you were there."

  "No—no, I wasn't. I didn't attend," he replied shortly.

  "But I thought you told me—"

  "I know. I said that I would, but I didn't."

  "Something prevented you from going?"

  "Yes, something prevented me. And you—don't tell me just cause was found that the marriage should not take place."

  "The truth of the matter is that something prevented me from attending also. Oh, I got to the church with father all right, but before the ceremony was to begin, I felt terribly sick."

  "Just as you did when you were a bridesmaid."

  "Yes, exactly so. I had to leave the church. I didn't go back."

  "Weddings must not agree with you."

  "I fear not."

  There was a long pause before he asked thoughtfully, "Tell me, why did you agree to marry Geoffrey? It didn't make any sense. You are so very different from him in every way. And, too, you h
ave told me more than once that you never wish to marry."

  "In turn I might ask why you challenged Wilmott to a duel. There was no sense to that, either."

  "Perhaps not, though I fail to see the connexion."

  "That duel could have ruined you, and for what? I went to Geoffrey when you refused to listen to reason. Wilmott was his friend. I thought he could persuade him to apologize. Geoffrey asked me to marry him, and I agreed."

  "It was a condition."

  "It wasn't exactly put in that way."

  "Nevertheless, it was. So you agreed to marry him for my sake."

  "I didn't keep my promise. I broke it in the most awful way imaginable, in front of everyone we knew. And father and mother—for the first time I came to believe they loved me; now I've hurt and embarrassed them and I'll never be able to make amends. Wisdom, for me at least, does not appear to come with age."

  "Alex, Alex! There are times when your wisdom astounds me. I've told you how much I've learned from you. You are loyal and true and very wise, yet at the same time you are the same girl who used to play with her brother in the stream that divides my home from yours. Do you remember those days?"

  "I never forget them—and poor Sylvester."

  "But I meant your brother, Paul."

  "Sylvester was his frog."

  "Now that I had forgotten."

  "You called me a saviour of frogs and infuriated Thomas by telling him to take me for an example."

  "I see I haven't your memory for life's more memorable moments."

  My laugh turned into a cry as the carriage lurched at a particularly rough part of the road, jolting my injured foot.

  "Go easy, Ritchie!" Darius called out. "Let us reach the doctor with no more injuries than have already been suffered."

  "Yes, me lud," Ritchie replied, and we continued at a fast but steadier pace.

  Darius held me close, and I curled up against him, safe and secure. I began to relax and feel sleepy until I thought of the scene that must be taking place at home at that moment.

  "They'll never forgive me, Darius, never."

  "You don't know that to be so; for myself I doubt it. You said yourself that you've only just realized they care for you. I suspected that for a long time, though I know there were many things on which you did not agree. But rest now; it will all work out, and for the best, you'll see. For now, rest."

  And I did, in my tattered and soiled wedding dress, wrapped in his arms, gladness in my heart that the arms that enclosed me that night were his.

  My foot, the doctor found, was sprained, not broken. With the supportive bandage he applied, it felt much easier. His wife was applied to for a change of clothing. I don't know what she must have thought of the state of my dress or, more particularly, of the kind of dress that it was, but nothing was said and we parted on the best of terms after refreshments, which I set upon with the greatest relish.

  Everything was going to be all right, just as Darius had said it would, just as it was meant to be. I was sorry for the harm I had done to Geoffrey and the hurt I might have caused his family and mine, but my present happiness far outweighed that sorrow.

  "Where are we going?" I asked as we started out again.

  "I have been turning over in my mind what is for the best, and with your approval, I shall take you to Althea Brent­wood. She is an understanding lady. There you can decide what it is you want to do—that is, if you agree?"

  "Yes, yes. Of course."

  I had forgotten all about Althea Brentwood. But how could I—she and Darius were to marry. How stupid that I had not thought of it. Abruptly my newfound contentment de­serted me. Fitfully I dozed throughout the remainder of the journey; though Darius continued to hold me, no longer did I feel the satisfaction nor the right to that place in his arms.

  Lady Brentwood received me kindly—more kindly than I expected or, perhaps, deserved. She had a room prepared for me; she even arranged to accommodate Bucephalus in her elegant Orchard Street home. If there had been animosity be­tween us in the past, she said nothing of it. She was all graciousness, but then she could afford to be, for she had what she had always wanted—Darius.

  A wardrobe of clothes appeared so readily that one might have thought she had anticipated my arrival, and her physi­cian called to examine my foot and announce that I was heal­ing rapidly. I was, in fact, treated by her with such generosity that I hated myself for the resentment that rose in my heart whenever I thought of her marriage.

  Tim came immediately, informed of my whereabouts by Darius, strangely unlike the boy I knew in smart broadcloth coat, crisp white cravat, shining leather boots. "I'll never be able to thank you enough for wot you—for all you done for me."

  "It's Lord Bladen who deserves your thanks, Tim."

  "Yes, but you see, none of it would've 'appened—hap­pened—without you. 'E—he keeps telling me that, and it is so. I do thank you, Miss Cox-Neville."

  "Beautifully put, Tim, but I hope you won't worry so much about your manners that you allow that natural warmth of yours to become hidden behind them."

  "Not on yer life!" He winked, and then I knew it was my Tim.

  "I'm so very proud of you, of the way you've adapted to your schooling—everything. You'll always be very special to me."

  "And you to me; Lord Bladen, too. Is 'e—he here today?" "No. I haven't seen him since—since my arrival."

  "Spect 'e's—he's busy. He's a busy gentleman, though 'e always takes time to talk to me and explain things."

  "I expect he is busy."

  I saw nothing more of Darius, a fact that both distressed and relieved me. I wanted to talk to him, but not there, not under Lady Brentwood's roof where I felt constrained, for they were, after all, betrothed.

  Sydney Smith, who was in London, called the next day. "Miss Cox-Neville still, unless you have adopted some other enticing name.'" His lips twitched in that roguish manner so peculiarly his own whenever he was teasing, and he constantly teased.

  "I shall keep this name forever, though I shall write as Arabella Marlowe."

  "So you have foresworn the married state—a pity. And where shall you live?"

  He had touched on a matter of concern to me. Kind as she was, I could not stay with Lady Brentwood, indeed, though she spoke little of Darius, the knowledge that they were soon to be man and wife daunted me.

  "Will you return to Wiltshire?" Sydney asked.

  "No, I cannot do that."

  "Perhaps a change of air in the north is what you require. Mrs. Smith and I would be delighted to see you at Foston."

  "You extend an enticing invitation, Mr. Smith." Foston in Yorkshire was not far from Northumberland. I would be close to Paul. I could deliver in person the bank draft I had had prepared as a present for him and Dolores, my money being my own once more. I was quite decided on the visit by the time Lady Brentwood came in, followed by the maid and the silver tea tray.

  Sydney Smith greeted her with, "I am told by that pro­verbial little bird from whom one hears everything but who is so rarely seen that you, dear lady, are to marry."

  "You, Sydney, hear everything before anyone else."

  "I must admit I used to think that England had only two amusements—vice and religion—but I must amend that to three, for where should we be without gossip? And when is that happy event to take place?"

  "Quite soon, I think. We have both been married before, and, indeed, we have known one another for so long that there is scarcely any point to delay the ceremony now that we are quite decided upon our course."

  "I wish you happy, Lady Brentwood. My usual advice is never to gamble in the game of life—be content to play for sixpences. Miss Cox-Neville has decided that she considers marriage too high a stake for her to risk. I must commend her decision, particularly in view of the young man with whom she intended to embark on the choppy sea of matrimony; but in your case it is different; the gentleman is worthy of the play."

  "Please, Sydney, I beg you, neither sing his praises
nor preach me a sermon."

  "My dear madam, there is not the least use in preaching to anyone unless I chance to catch them ill, and your counte­nance says everything to the contrary. You're positively burst­ing with health and happiness. I am going to take Miss Cox-Neville back to Foston with me and instruct Mrs. Smith to feed her until she glows in just the same manner."

  "You're going to Yorkshire?" Lady Brentwood ques­tioned.

  "Yes, I am decided on it."

  "I had hoped you would stay for my wedding."

  "No, that I cannot, for you leave imminently, do you not, Mr. Smith?"

  Sydney Smith would, I was sure, have arranged his plans to accede to Lady Brentwood's wishes, but some note of plead­ing in my voice or in my eyes made him reply.

  "I leave London at nine o'clock in the morning, and I'm afraid I can never cure myself of punctuality."

  "I shall be ready."

  "I am sorry you leave so soon, for you are most welcome to remain here. It is true I have many arrangements to make, but you need not feel you intrude. In fact, I wish you would attend the ceremony."

  "I dislike weddings," I said abruptly, and immediately I was ashamed at my lack of magnanimity. "I do wish you happy, though, truly I do."

  "All in all, life has been good to me. I trust it will be equally good to you."

  I watched as she poured the tea with such grace, such charm. Life had been good to her; she had won what she had always wanted. I had no right to cast a pall on her happiness. I would be glad to leave London.

  XXXIV

  I waited for my humour to improve at Foston. Sydney was kindness itself, Mrs. Smith was a dear and I got along admirably with their daughter, Emily, but my thoughts returned constantly to Orchard Street. I wish I could say they did so because of my new friendship with Althea, but it was rather because now I knew he must be there, now they must be married, now on their way to Italy, for though nothing had been