Rake with a Frozen Heart. Marguerite KayeЧитать онлайн книгу.
slipped through a side door into the kitchen garden and thence on to the gravelled path that led from the stables, without once allowing herself to look back. At the gates she turned on to the road that led to the village. A short distance further on, Henrietta sat down on an inviting tree trunk with her back to the road and indulged in a hearty bout of tears.
She was not given to self-pity, but at this moment she felt she was entitled to be just a little sorry for herself. Already she was regretting her impulsive behaviour. All very well to make her escape with some vague idea of clearing her name, but how, exactly, did she propose to do that?
The dispiriting truth was that she had no idea. ‘And now that I have run away, they will think it simply confirms my guilt,’ she said to her shoe. A large tear splashed on to the ground. ‘Stupid, stupid, stupid,’ she muttered, sniffing valiantly.
She had not a soul in the world to turn to. Her only relative, as far as she knew, was Mama’s sister; Henrietta could hardly turn up on the doorstep of an aunt whom she had never met and introduce herself as her long-lost niece and a fugitive from the law, to boot. Besides, there was the small matter of the rift between Mama and her sibling. They had not spoken for many years. No, that was not an option.
But she could not go back, either. She had been badly shaken by the ease with which her employer had accepted her guilt, and that, on top of Rafe St Alban’s scepticism, made her question whether anyone would take her side without proof. No, there was no going back. The only way was forwards. And the only path she could think of taking was to London. Such distinctive jewellery must be got rid of somehow and London was surely the place. She would head to the city. And once there she would—she would—Oh, she would think about that, once she was on her way.
What she needed to think about now was how to get there. Henrietta rummaged in her bandbox for her stocking purse and carefully counted out the total of her wealth, which came to the grand sum of eight shillings and sixpence. She gazed at the small mound of coins, wondering vaguely if it was enough to pay for a seat on the mail, realised she would be better keeping her money to pay for a room at an inn, returned them to the purse and got wearily to her feet. She could not remain on this tree trunk for ever. Picking up her bandbox, with the vague idea of obtaining a ride in the direction of the metropolis, she set off down the road towards the village.
The fields that bordered the wayside were freshly tilled and planted with hops and barley, sprouting green and lush. The hedgerows, where honeysuckle and clematis rioted among the briars of the blackberries, whose white flowers were not yet unfurled, provided her with occasional shade from the sun shining bright in the pale blue of the early summer sky. The landscape undulated gently. The air was rent with birdsong. It was a lovely day. A lovely day to be a fugitive from justice, she thought bitterly
For the first mile, she made good progress, her head full of fantastical schemes for the recovery of Lady Ipswich’s necklace. The illicit hours she had devoted to reading the novels of the Minerva Press had not been entirely wasted. Before long, however, reality intervened. The straps from her bandbox were cutting into her hand; her cloak, the only outerwear she possessed, was designed for the depths of winter, not to be combined with a woollen dress in early summer. Her face was decidedly red under her bonnet and she could not conceive how such a few necessities as she carried could come to weigh so much. A pretty copse, where foxgloves and the last of the bluebells made vivid splashes of colour, failed to fill her with admiration for the abundant joys of nature. She was not in the mood to appreciate rural perfection. In fact, it would not be inaccurate to say that Henrietta’s temper was sadly frayed.
By the time she finally approached her destination she was convinced she had a blister on her foot where a small pebble had lodged inside her shoe, her shoulders ached, her head thumped and she wanted nothing more than a cool drink and a rest in a darkened room.
The King George was a ramshackle inn situated at a crossroads on the outer reaches of Woodfield village. The weathered board, with its picture of the poor mad king, creaked on rusted hinges by the entrance to the yard, where a mangy dog lazily scratched its ear beside a bale of hay. Dubiously inspecting the huddle of badly maintained buildings that constituted the hostelry, Henrietta was regaled by a burst of hearty male laughter that echoed out from behind the shuttered windows. Not a place to trust the sheets, never mind the clientele, she concluded. Her heart sank.
The front door gave straight into the taproom, which she had not expected. The hushed silence that greeted her entrance proved that she had taken the patrons equally by surprise. For a moment, Henrietta, clutching her cloak around her, stared at the sea of faces in front of her like a small animal caught in a trap and the men stared back as if she were a creature fished from the deep. Her courage almost failed her.
When the landlord asked her gruffly what she wanted, her voice came out in a whisper. His answer was disappointing. The mail was not due until tomorrow. The accommodation coach was fully booked for the next two days. He looked at her curiously. Why hadn’t she thought to enquire ahead? Was her business in London urgent? If so, he could probably get her a ride with one of his customers as far as the first posting inn, where she could pick up the Bristol coach that evening.
Suddenly horribly aware that the less people who knew of her whereabouts, the better, Henrietta declined this invitation and informed the landlord that she had changed her mind. She was not going to London, she informed him. She was definitely not going to London.
With a mumbled apology, she retreated back out of the front door and found herself in the stable yard, where a racing carriage was tethered, the horses fidgeting nervously. There was no sign of the driver. The phaeton was painted dark glossy green, the spokes of its four high wheels trimmed with gold, but there were otherwise no distinguishing marks. No coat of arms. The horses were a perfectly matched pair of chestnuts. Such a fine equipage must surely be London-bound.
Henrietta eyed it nervously, a reckless idea forming in her head. The seat seemed a very long way from the ground. The rumble seat behind, upon which was stowed a portmanteau and a large blanket, was not much lower. The hood of the phaeton was raised, presumably because the owner anticipated rain. If he did not look at the rumble seat—and why would he?—then he would not see her. If she did not take this chance, who knew what other would present itself? The spectres of the Bow Street Runner and Maisy Masters’s tales of prison loomed before her. Without giving herself time to think further, Henrietta scrambled on to the rear seat of the carriage, clutching her bandbox. Crouching down as far as she could under the rumble seat itself, she pulled the blanket over her and waited.
She did not have to wait long. Just a few minutes later, she felt the carriage lurch as its driver climbed aboard and almost immediately urged the horses forwards. Only one person? Straining her ears, she could hear nothing above the jangle of the tack and the rumbling of the wheels. The carriage swung round past the front of the King George and headed at a trot out of the village. Sneaking a peak out of the blanket, she thought they were headed in the right direction, but could not be sure. As they hit a deep rut in the road, she only just stopped herself from crying out and clutched frantically at the edge of the rumble seat to stop herself from tumbling on to the road.
The driver loosened his hold on the reins and cracked the whip. The horses made short work of quitting the environs of Woodfield village. As they bowled along, Henrietta tried to subdue a rising panic. What had she done? She could not be at all sure they were headed towards London and had no idea at all who was driving her. He might be angry when he discovered her. He might simply abandon her in the middle of nowhere. Or worse! She did not want to think about what worse was. Oh God, she had been a complete idiot.
The carriage picked up speed. Hedgerows fragrant with rosehip and honeysuckle flew past in a blur as she peered out from under her blanket. Beyond, the landscape was vibrant with fields of swaying hops. She glimpsed an oast house, its conical roof so reminiscent of a witch’s hat. They passed through a village, no more than a cluster of thatched cottages surrounding a water mill. Then another. Farms. The occasional farmer’s cart rumbled past heading in the opposite direction. On a clear stretch of road, they overtook an accommodation coach with a burst of acceleration that had Henrietta grabbing on to the sides of the phaeton. The driver of the coach raised his whip in acknowledgement.
Jolted