Once Again a Bride

Twenty-three



Alec had ridden desperately cross-country toward his aunt’s house. Fortunately, his hunter was used to rough footing and tricky jumps. Nonetheless, it was well after dark by the time he reached his goal, clattering into the stable yard with no effort at concealment. He left his horse and raced through the empty scullery and kitchen. He had taken to carrying a small lantern, as well as a pistol, in his saddlebag, because so often lately his rides extended into darkness, and the lantern had fitfully lit his way through the last miles. Now, on the main floor, it illuminated only sheeted furniture. Had Edward been mistaken? Had they not come here, after all? Apprehension pounded in his veins as he climbed the stairs and thrust open door after door along the dark corridor. Finally he discovered his aunt in a bedchamber near the end of the hall. She huddled in a chair with two servants bent over her. “Where is Charlotte?” he demanded.

The three women shrank back. Aunt Bella, pale and tired-looking, put a hand to her throat. “Ch-charlotte. What do you mean?” She made an effort to straighten. Her hands were visibly shaking. “She is in London. Is she not? I mean I suppose she is, though I have no way of telling…”

“I know you brought her here, Aunt. Edward told me.”

“Edward?” her voice quavered on the name.

“He called at her house, discovered the message you’d sent, and went looking for her at your place. He has a key, you know.” He held her eyes. “To your curiously empty house.” It was a calculated cruelty, but he was nearly mad with worry. Fear for Charlotte overrode every other feeling. “Take me to her. And if you have harmed her in any way, I swear I will…”

“I don’t know what you’re…” Aunt Bella began through trembling lips. But she couldn’t complete the sentence. Her face slowly sagged as the full weight of what he’d said sank in.

“She’s gone,” interposed the taller servant. When she spoke, Alec recognized her as the woman who’d cared for his grandmother in her later years. “She was here, but she ran away. We don’t know where she is now.”

“Out? Tonight? Alone?” The servant nodded. “Do you know what’s happening out there? Do you have any idea of the mood of the countryside?”

The older servant began wringing her hands. “I didn’t know nothing about it. I didn’t have nothing to do with it. I told them others…”

Alec spoke through clenched teeth. “If anything happens to Charlotte Wylde, you are to blame. And you may be sure that you will be brought to book. Which way did she go?”

The tall servant stepped forward, interposing herself between Alec and her mistress. He suddenly remembered her name—Martha. “We don’t know. My lady has not been well, you understand. She is in a delicate state…”

Alec gazed past her with contempt. “A ‘delicate state’ like my grandmother’s? I believe such states are self-induced. And if you think that is an excuse for this… outrage, you are dead wrong.” The three women simply stared at him, frightened, lost, blank. There was no help here, and no time. Alec turned on his heel and went back to his horse.

With the lantern to supplement the tiny sliver of moon, he rode to the end of the drive. Where would she go? One way led to the small village of South Wingfield; the other through a long stretch of agricultural land. Charlotte wouldn’t know that, of course. Which way would she have chosen? Surely she would stay on the roads, not attempt to walk cross-country. Alec peered in one direction, the other. How could he possibly find a lone woman in all this countryside? What if she’d fallen, been hurt? His heart seemed to turn over in his chest, and his mouth went dry at the thought. His pulse thundered against the sounds of the night.

Then and there, Alec realized he could not endure a world without Charlotte in it. If she was lost then… so was he. His doubts and denials flamed to ash. He could reject the words “falling in love” as much as he liked. She was meant to be his, and he hers, for all their lives.

***

Charlotte stumbled along the dark lane, ruts and bumps continually jarring her knees and threatening a fall. The sounds of the riot had faded behind her. She was somewhere beyond exhaustion now. It was all she could do to lift one foot, then another, totter a step, hold her balance, repeat. Once the anxiety roused by the milling, angry men had faded a little, her consciousness had contracted to a muddled blur. Thus, the cart loomed up out of the darkness ahead without warning. She hadn’t even heard the sound of hooves.

The person sitting beside the driver stood and raised a lantern, directing its beam right at Charlotte. It was a woman, which was a bit of a comfort. She put a hand up to shield her face.

“Miss Charlotte?”

She couldn’t believe her ears. Could the remains of the drug they’d given her be causing delusions?

“Miss Charlotte, it is you!”

“Lucy? What are you…? How did you…?”

“Ethan and me came to find you.”

The driver had already stopped the cart and jumped down. “Let me help you in, miss,” he said.

“Ethan?” Charlotte was too tired and too relieved to question this miracle. She staggered over to the cart and let him help her up, squeezing onto the seat next to her maid. “I have never been so glad to see anyone in my life.”

“You’re all right?” Lucy touched her shoulder worriedly.

“Now I am.” Or, almost. “There’s trouble in the village up ahead. Men with pikes and a gun.”

“What?” exclaimed Ethan.

Charlotte tried to collect her wits. “The leader shot someone in one of the houses. They’re headed for Nottingham to protest the lack of work.”

“Nottingham. That’s this road. We’ve got to get off it.” Ethan hesitated, frowning, then slapped the reins. “This way’s still closest,” he muttered to himself. “South Wingfield, South Wingfield, who do I know…? Close the lantern, Lucy.”

Lucy did as he said. Charlotte saw the glimmer of firelight behind a building ahead. She hadn’t gotten very far from the village. Ethan pulled up, stopping near a stone wall that did nothing to hide them.

The murmuring roar of the mob reached them. There were more shouts. It sounded like men arguing with each other. “On to Butterley,” a voice shouted.

“That’s the leader,” Charlotte said.

“Got to get out of sight,” said Ethan, again as if he were talking to himself. The leader’s voice repeated the command, sounding closer. Then Charlotte heard many footsteps, marching. “Right. The Finlays,” Ethan muttered. He slapped the reins and moved forward, turned the cart into a narrow lane between two houses, and then into a yard behind the closest one.

It was only just in time. The head of the mob came into view on the road they’d just left. “Don’t move,” whispered Ethan.

They sat still as statues while the marchers passed. Charlotte’s pulse beat in her throat. It seemed an eternity before the road was clear. “Get down, quiet like, and go to the back door,” murmured Ethan then. Charlotte and Lucy obeyed, scurrying to the house. Ethan tied up the horse, then joined then. He knocked lightly on the door. “Mrs. Finlay?” he said softly. “Sarah Finlay?”

There was no response. They all looked over their shoulders, fearing stragglers.

“Mrs. Finlay,” he repeated to the blank panels. “It’s Ethan Trask.”

There was a long moment’s silence, then the door opened. Only a hint of light showed. A figure loomed in the dim illumination and raised a club to strike.

***

The patter of hurrying footsteps brought Alec a moment’s wild hope. “Who’s that? Charlotte?” The sound stopped. Alec raised the lantern and shone it into the lane. “Who’s there? Show yourself.”

A burly fellow dressed like a laborer stepped slowly forward, holding his hands up to prove their emptiness.

“Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“I’m on my way home, sir,” the man answered, responding to Alec’s accent and commanding tone.

“Home from where at this hour?”

“I was just… out. Visiting, like.”

“Did you see a young woman anywhere along this road?”

“A woman? No, sir. I ain’t seen nobody since I left the…” His deep voice trembled and died away.

“What’s wrong? Is there some trouble?” What if Charlotte had run into another of the countrymen’s barricades? “I need you to tell me if there is. I am Alec Wylde. My land is nearby.”

The man’s head bobbed nervously. “Heerd tell of you, sir. A fine gentl’man, they say.”

“I’ve been doing my best to help the people hereabouts. Tell me what is happening.”

“I was… I didn’t mean nothing…” The big man shuddered, and his shoulders slumped. “They killed someone dead in South Wingfield, sir. I wouldn’t stay with them after that.”

“Who did?” Alec’s heart contracted painfully. “Who was killed?”

“I dunno, sir. Someone in a house. What I do know is they’ll swing for it. And I ain’t going to the gallows for somethin’ I had no part of. I didn’t sign on for killing.”

Charlotte would not have been in a village house, Alec told himself. “Who are ‘they’?”

“Men from the village and the countryside, sir. They’ve marched off to storm the Butterley ironworks or some such. Then on to Nottingham. Jere… someone told them they’d get beef and ale and weapons—money even—down there.”

“They’ll get soldiers and the noose,” replied Alec harshly. All his work and talk had gone for nothing then.

“’Speck you’re right. That’s why I left them when they turned off a little way back. I’m headed home, fast as I can go.” The big man shifted uneasily in the lantern light. “Will you tell the magistrate and all that I didn’t go with the others, and I didn’t hold with what they done back there, if they come to ask?”

Alec surveyed his anxious round face. “I will. What is your name?”

“Standish, sir. Bob Standish. Live up toward Wheatcroft.”

“Very well, Bob.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You’d best get back home.”

The man nodded and hurried past Alec’s horse and into the darkness beyond. He would know the country well enough to reach home in the night.

Alec sat still another moment. Clearly, it was his duty to go to South Wingfield and see about this shooting. If Charlotte had fled the other way… if he’d been certain of that, he would have consigned his duty to perdition. But he wasn’t. She might as easily have gone toward the village—and encountered the mob. His blood ran cold at the idea.

Flicking the reins of his tired mount, he got moving.

***

“Ethan?” said the looming black figure. “Ah, I’m crazed to open the door, I am.”

“Yes, ma’am. Ethan Trask, from over at Sir Alexander’s place? I’ve been here with my ma, years ago.”

“What in the Lord’s name are you doing out tonight? You weren’t mixed up with that gang of…?”

“No, ma’am. Trying to stay away from the troubles.” Ethan took the lantern from Lucy and opened it a hair, so that dim light fell over them. “Got ladies with me. It’s… it’s quite a tale.”

The club was lowered, and the figure stepped back. Charlotte saw that it was a broom held by a stocky village woman. Her face remained in shadow. The broom handle dropped farther. “Did those idiots hurt you?”

“No, we’re all right.” The noise of the mob had receded down the road. Ethan opened the lantern farther, and the woman looked them over. Charlotte couldn’t imagine what she thought of her dirty, bedraggled evening dress and disintegrating slippers, of her snarled hair. “Come inside.” She turned; they followed her into a neat cottage, a fire burning low in the stone hearth.

“I’ll just see to the horse first.” Ethan went out as their hostess lit a lamp. Wooden chairs stood on either side of the fireplace, and an iron pot hung over the coals. To one side of the room was a table piled with embroidery and fancywork, which no doubt represented her livelihood.

The village woman put her broom aside and turned, hands on hips. Her face was ruddy, with crinkles around the eyes that suggested she smiled more often than not. She wore a neat plain gown and white cap and might have been fifty.

“Do you mind if I sit down?” Charlotte didn’t think her legs would hold her any longer. She dropped into a chair without permission, then put her face in her hands. Lucy came over and rested a hand on her shoulder. The three women were still until Ethan came back, closed and barred the door. “All right,” said the village woman then, “whatever are you doing outside in the dark on this night of all nights?”

“It was in the nature of an emergency, ma’am,” replied Ethan.

“That I can believe.”

Charlotte raised her head. “I don’t even know where I am.”

“This be South Wingfield, miss—a law-abiding village until this night.”

“Those men…”

“Say fools, rather.” The woman sighed. “Though God knows they’ve been driven to it.” She shook her head. “No one will listen to them now.”

“We’re on the way to Sir Alexander’s house,” said Ethan. “But I reckon we can’t go until it’s light.”

She nodded. “There’ll be soldiers out as well. And they won’t be asking your business before they wade in.” She sighed and rubbed a hand over her forehead. “I fear they’ll all be hanged. And my nephew’s gone with them. He wouldn’t be told, knows it all at seventeen. Ah, Lord save them.” She walked over and sat heavily in the other chair.

She looked so tired and worried that Charlotte’s own problems receded. “Sir Alexander would help him,” she said, having no doubt, with all he had told her, that it was true.

The woman’s gaze was penetrating. “He does try; I’ve heard that.” Her hostess’s eyes ran over her gown again. “Excuse me, miss, but what are you doing here?”

Charlotte hesitated, not knowing what to say. Even now, she was reluctant to expose Lady Isabella to a stranger. Ethan and Lucy deferred to her for an answer.

The woman waited a moment, then leaned over the hearth. “Well, it’s none of my affair. And maybe I don’t even want to know. You’re welcome to rest here. And in the morning you can be on your way.” She took a ladle from a hook and stirred the iron pot. “Are you hungry? I’ve some soup.”

At the tantalizing odor stirred up, Charlotte’s stomach growled loudly. She hadn’t eaten in… she couldn’t remember when she’d last eaten.

The woman laughed. “Seems so.” She took a pottery mug from the mantel and ladled a thick broth into it. When she handed it over, Charlotte sagged with relief. Aching all over from her forced journey, her mind still less than sharp, she was in desperate need of a safe haven. She took the soup with grateful hands that shook only a little. “Thank you.” Slowly, she sipped. There was chicken and barley and carrots; it tasted heavenly.

“This is Mrs. Finlay,” Ethan said as she served the others. “Ma’am, this is Lucy, and… Miss Charlotte.” The woman nodded. Lucy dropped a small curtsy. Then, for a while, there was silence as the three of them drank their soup. The peace of the place started to spread through Charlotte, and her eyelids drooped. She swayed in the hard chair and wondered if she might ask to lie down.

The door rattled, then boomed under a pounding fist. Charlotte jerked and spilled the last of her soup on her knee. Ethan leapt to stand before the panels.

“Aunt Sarah! Open up!”

Their hostess sprang to her feet and quickly unbarred the door. A young man, barely more than a boy, stumbled through and pushed it closed behind him. Panting as if he’d been running, with a bloody scrape on his cheek, he slumped against it. He looked exhausted and afraid, and a razor-sharp scythe dangled from one of his hands. “Jim!” Sarah Finlay cried. “What’s happened to you?”

“We got down to Butterley all right,” he said. “But there weren’t nothing at the ironworks but the factory agent and some constables. Only a few men, but nobody dared face them down. Just like always, them as is on top stays there. Nothing’s changed. The rest headed for Ripley, but I’d had enough. I ran back cross-country and nearly broke a leg in the dark.”

“You did right,” said his aunt.

He looked up and noticed the others. The scythe came up. “Who’s that?”

“Just some folks getting away from all these… troubles.” Mrs. Finlay had taken up a damp cloth; gently, she swabbed his face.

“You let them in?” He squinted at Charlotte, taking in all the details of her bedraggled state, then examined Ethan, who topped him by a good six inches.

“Of course I did, Jim.”

“That one’s quality. Why should we lift a finger to help quality when they live high off our sweat?”

“That’s not the way I see it.” His aunt finished cleaning off his cheek. “Not so bad. Just a scratch,” she decided.

The sound of hoofbeats approached outside. Jim’s eyes widened, and in an instant he was across the room, one arm around Charlotte’s neck, the tip of the scythe at her throat. “Make a sound, and I swear I’ll cut you,” he whispered. Ethan took a step, and the boy glared at him. “I’ll do it!”

“Jim!”

“Quiet,” he hissed to his aunt. “If soldiers followed me from Butterley I’m for the gallows and no mistake.”

Sarah Finlay wrung her hands, distressed, uncertain. “You’ll not hurt anyone in my house,” she whispered.

Slowly, the hoofbeats passed by and faded. When all had been silent for several minutes, Jim’s grip relaxed. The scythe fell away. Ethan lunged and twisted it from the lad’s grasp. “We’ll have no more talk of cutting,” he said grimly. “You sit over there in the corner and keep still.”

Lucy ran to Charlotte, exclaiming over a few drops of blood shining red at her throat. “I’m all right,” Charlotte said. It was no more than half a lie.

***

Alec rode slowly on through the darkness. South Wingfield had been quiet, buttoned up tight, and he hadn’t wanted to knock on any doors, alarming people for no cause. The action had clearly passed on south, beyond his reach at the moment. He slumped in the saddle, rubbed tired eyes, and regretted this side excursion. The momentum of these endless days had carried him out of his way, when all he cared about now was Charlotte. He knew he could ride the roads and fields all night and never find her, but to give up was unthinkable. He would travel in expanding circles in the tangle of lanes surrounding around the Danforth house, and when day came he would continue. He would never stop until she was safe—and in his arms.