Tarnished, Tempted and Tamed. Mary Brendan
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earlier question.
‘What of it?’ Luke asked, turning from the mirror.
‘Will you stay permanently in town for the Season?’ Luke had a vast acreage in Essex. Becky guessed he had a chère amie in the countryside to keep him company on his long absences from her bed. But a fat-ankled milkmaid didn’t bother her, either.
‘Perhaps... Why do you ask?’
‘Harriet Ponting has arrived in town with her mother.’
‘And?’ Luke’s expression remained impassive as he straightened his shirt cuffs.
‘Oh, you know what’s expected of you!’ Becky cried, covering her pretty features with her palms. ‘Her mama has been spreading rumours for ages that you are ready to pay court again to her eldest daughter.’
‘Is that right?’ Luke murmured distantly, with an expression that Becky, peeking behind her fingers at him, recognised. He was letting her know that any marriage plans he had were none of her concern and he was displeased that she’d raised the topic.
‘I’m going to settle the shot... Pack your things, sweet, we’re leaving...’
Becky watched him exit the room, a sulky twist to her lips. In her opinion it was her concern. She might not be genteel, like Harriet, but she had plenty to offer a gentleman as his wife. Becky wanted to join the number of other ambitious courtesans who had dragged themselves up by their bootstraps to marry rich and influential men and bear them legitimate heirs. Harriet Ponting had already turned Luke down once and didn’t deserve another chance at being Luke’s wife, Becky thought.
* * *
‘Oh, it’s too much to bear!’
‘Now, now, calm yourself, my dear,’ Peter Jackson soothed his wife. He drew her closer to him beneath the tree so they might get some better shelter from the driving rain.
Fiona had huddled with the Beresford sisters beneath the dripping skeleton of another oak, but as a loud clap of thunder sounded she glanced up warily, through rain-clumped lashes, at groaning overhead branches.
‘Perhaps we might be safer out in the open,’ Fiona said, pulling the hood of her cloak further forward to protect her face.
‘But we will look like drowned rats,’ Ruth and Valerie Beresford chorused, shrinking back to the bole of the tree.
‘Better that than get struck by lightning,’ Fiona pointed out.
She suddenly made a dash towards the coach, which was tilting precariously to one side. The driver and groom were making a valiant attempt to repair the broken front axle, while hampered by the violent elements. The storm had seemed to spring up from nowhere just as they hit a particularly isolated stretch of road. Toby Williams put down his hammer as Fiona stopped by his side. Wearily the coach driver pushed to his feet and patted at the nearest horse, murmuring comfortingly to the sodden beast. The team had bowed their heads beneath an onslaught that was sending rivulets of water dripping down their flanks and manes.
‘It’s no use, miss, I’ll have to return to the Fallow Buck and get help. It’s beyond my skill to get this accursed thing again up and running.’ The driver indicated his young apprentice. ‘Bert here will stay by you all. He can take my blunderbuss for protection. I think you will all be safe enough in the coach—it’s stuck firm in the mud so shouldn’t tip over. You can’t remain out in the open or you’ll catch your deaths—’
‘Do you think Bert might need the blunderbuss?’ Fiona interrupted, suppressing her alarm. The lad had not looked too happy on hearing he was about to be abandoned by his senior and put in charge of protecting the coach’s drenched, vexed passengers. Never had Fiona felt quite so out of her depth amongst these country folk and the eerie alien environment they inhabited. She’d only rarely in her life travelled outside London and its bustling, clamorous streets. Then it had been to stay with friends who lived in a quaint cottage in a Hertfordshire village. She wondered if in these parts ferocious animals living in the woods might prey on them, so asked the driver though fearful of his answer.
‘Well...you never know, better to be safe than sorry,’ Toby Williams prevaricated. He knew very well that any predatory vermin were human, not animal. The Collins gang infested the area from Kent to Cornwall, all along the coast. That group of marauding criminals would think it their lucky day if they stumbled across a party of defenceless people. Jeremiah Collins would relieve them all of their valuables, and the ladies of their virtue, if what Toby had heard about the vile blackguard was accurate.
What really worried Toby though was that his apprentice, Bert, might be relieved of his life. The lad was only eighteen, but already had a wife and child relying on him. Collins was suspected of murdering a Revenue Man in Rye, but he was a wily individual and had been on the run, keeping one step ahead of the law for more than a year.
It was said that Jem Collins felt he had nothing to lose. He knew the noose awaited him and so was on a spree to create havoc and rake in as much profit as he could before judgement day came, as it must in the end.
‘I’ll tell the others to return to the coach,’ Fiona spluttered through the icy rain pounding her face. As she bolted back towards the copse it ran through her mind that the little group would be bitterly disappointed—as was she—to hear the vehicle couldn’t be repaired so they could get quickly under way.
* * *
‘Shall we keep our spirits up by playing a game? We could sing a song?’ Fiona suggested in desperation as the weather outside continued to batter and shake the coach. Despite the drumming of the rain on the roof Fiona could hear Valerie Beresford snuffling in one corner of the vehicle. In the other, Mrs Jackson was crying with more abandon while her husband patted alternately at her hands and her shoulders to try to quieten her.
‘Well...this is an adventure...’ Ruth Beresford said and gave Fiona a nervous grin.
‘Indeed...and one I’d sooner not have experienced.’ Fiona sighed wryly. She was determined to keep buoyant. She was the youngest woman in the party so should be the strongest, mentally and physically, she’d reasoned. She lifted a corner of the leather blind at the window and peered at poor Bert marching forlornly to and fro, the blunderbuss up in readiness to be aimed. It was getting dark and Fiona feared that before too long nightfall would overcome them, hampering their rescue team and also throwing her companions further into the doldrums.
‘How much longer will that wretched man be?’ Mrs Jackson wailed. ‘I’m frozen stiff and will catch my death of a cold.’
‘Hush, my dear, I’m sure Toby is doing his best. He will be back before you know it.’ Mr Jackson again rubbed his wife’s sleeve in comfort. When he turned a glance on Fiona his expression showed his deep concern. His wife was likely to take a chill from the soaking, as she regularly suffered from such ailments, but it was the vulnerability of their predicament that was frightening the life out of the farmer.
Beneath his breath he was castigating himself for not bringing along a weapon of his own. But he’d taken this route in the past and was aware that Toby Williams always kept a couple of loaded guns on the vehicle as protection for himself and his passengers. An hour or more ago, Toby had unharnessed the youngest horse and taken his pistol with him as his own protection on his gallop back to the Fallow Buck. So now they had just a young apprentice and a single weapon to protect them all.
‘A rider is coming!’ Bert had whipped open the coach door to yell that news over the cacophony of wind and rain.
‘Close it before we are awash in here, you stupid boy,’ Mrs Jackson screeched, beating away a torrent of raindrops with her hands.
Mr Jackson had grown pale at the news of a stranger approaching, but said manfully, ‘Let me sit at the front, by the door.’ He surged forward, pushing his wife’s quivering figure behind him. ‘Hold up that gun, young man,’ he ordered Bert. ‘I take it you’re familiar with how to use it and reload it if the need arises?’
Bert wobbled