Page 39 of The Cornish Bride

Chapter Seventeen

The mizzerly rain was still falling when Sam and Kit arrived in the stableyard to find James holding the reins of Abelard and Hercules. Abelard, Kit’s rangy black thoroughbred, swished his tail and stamped his feet in impatience, not having been out with his master since Morvoren fell ill. The bay, Hercules, Sam’s no less handsome, but far less fiery beast, turned pricked ears towards his master.

A second groom was fastening Kit’s and Sam’s saddlebags to the saddles.

Sam took Hercules’s reins and swung himself up into the saddle, and groped for the stirrup with his right foot. Kit leapt onto Abelard and turned towards the clocktower archway. Side-by-side, they rode out into the mist-shrouded park.

“We’ll have to go into Marlborough first,” Kit said as they cantered down the drive, their horses’ hooves crunching on the gravel. “To check if Featherstone left yesterday as well.” He wiped a hand across his face to get rid of the film of rain. “It’s always possible that Ysella might be there with him, although I doubt it. I fear I’m right in my surmise. She’s run off with him. Or rather, he’s run off with her. If that’s true, then she’s more stupid than I thought her.”

Sam held his tongue, despite hating to hear his beloved called stupid. Kit was right. Ysella, if not stupid herself, had done a very stupid thing. He itched to get straight off after her, rather than waste time chasing around Marlborough, but at least there they might be able to discover what sort of vehicle Featherstone had at his disposal.

However, the runaways must be miles away by now, and with every moment getting further away, so time was of the essence. And what was more, every minute he and Kit delayed brought Ysella closer to having to spend the night with the cad. Sam’s stomach, which had been knotted since he’d heard the news, seemed intent on inducing him to throw up the remains of his breakfast, but he managed to hold it in.

Marlborough lay some eight miles distant along not so good roads that always made any journey by carriage take longer than it should. On horseback, able to canter along the muddy verges and avoid the worst of the winter’s potholes, Sam and Kit made it to the town in under an hour.

They trotted down the wide, cobbled main street towards the Castle Inn at the far end. This hostelry did not resemble the average posting inn at all, having once belonged to, and been lived in, by the Earl of Hertford. Consequently, it possessed the façade of a minor stately home, with magnificent red-brick wings to either side of an imposing pillared portico.

Having left their horses with grooms in the stableyard, Sam and Kit strode through the inn’s wide front doors in search of someone to interrogate. There they found the inn’s proprietor, as stately as his hostelry, directing the polishing of glasses by a trio of young potboys.

“Good morning,” Kit said, an edge of irritation in his voice. “Do you have a Captain Featherstone staying in your establishment?”

The proprietor, a tubby fellow sporting a pristine white apron, made a measured bow. “My Lord Ormonde. What a pleasure it is to see you grace the walls of my humble establishment.” He spoke with a care that indicated he’d learned his pronunciation late in life.

Greasy fellow, fawning over Kit because he was one of the local gentry. Sam scowled, tapping his riding whip against his leg hard enough to hurt. Could the man not answer a straightforward question? He longed to take the fellow by the collar and shake the information out of him.

“Featherstone. Is he here?” Kit snapped, all niceties thrown to the wind.

The proprietor, a trifle crestfallen that this was all Lord Ormonde should want, shook his head. “I’m afraid your lordship has missed him. He left yesterday in rather a hurry.” Behind him the three boys had taken advantage of his lack of attention, and were listening open mouthed and not doing any polishing.

“When?” Sam asked, unable to resist the temptation to interrupt.

“Yes. When?” Kit repeated, taking a threatening step closer to the proprietor, who backed up a hasty step.

The poor man almost cowered, his pomposity fled. Nothing overt had been said, but Kit’s demeanor oozed anger. It seemed to at last dawn on the proprietor of The Castle that Kit and Sam weren’t looking for the captain out of a desire for friendship. “Yesterday evening,” he managed, his hands gripping the edge of the bar. “He was after trading his high-blooded galloper in for a gig and a roadster. A fine animal he had, that he’d ridden down from London, and why he’d want to swap it for something he couldn’t ride, I don’t know.” He hesitated, then added, as if in an afterthought, “Milord.” And a little, obsequious bow.

“And did he get what he wanted?”

The landlord nodded. “I believe so, Milord.”

Sam’s heart sank further into his boots, if that were possible. Featherstone had secured a vehicle he could carry Ysella away in and had what…? He glanced at his fob watch… a good twelve hour start on them.

Kit turned back towards the doors, the man forgotten, throwing his last comment over his shoulder as he reached for the door handle. “Thank you for your information.”

He and Sam returned to the stables almost in a run. “Damn the man’s eyes,” Kit said as they retrieved their horses. “They could be as much as fifty miles ahead of us by now. If not more.”

Sam set his foot in his stirrup and swung himself up into the saddle. “His one horse won’t be able to keep up that sort of pace for twenty-four hours, and he’ll have had to negotiate some bad patches of road after all this rain. He’ll have had to stop to rest it, water it, feed it. And Ysella will have needed rest stops as well. It may not be that bad.” Or it might be worse. Sam couldn’t bring himself to say that.

“The only route they can have taken is north to Gretna Green,” Kit said as they rode out of the stableyard. “We have to catch them before they get there. I won’t stand by and see her married to a fortune hunter and a cad.” He glanced at Sam. “For preference we have to catch them before she’s forced to pass the night in his company.”

Sam’s gut tightened. “Surely, as a gentleman, he’ll procure her a room on her own?” A faint hope. He didn’t for a minute believe his own words.

“A gentleman?” Kit spat. “You think a gentleman would run off with a girl barely out of the schoolroom? To seize her inheritance?” He spurred Abelard on. “We have to hurry.”

*

At much thesame time as Kit and Sam were setting out on their rescue mission, the object of their pursuit was sitting in the White Hart Inn on the road north nibbling at a luncheon snack of soup and bread with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. Unlike Captain Oliver Featherstone, who had tucked in with great gusto to a loaded plate of roast beef, potatoes and some indeterminate green vegetable.

Ysella pushed her spoon around the bowl of greasy soup, the lump in her throat preventing her from swallowing anything. After Oliver had helped her into the gig he’d exchanged his flashy riding horse for, she’d settled back under the blanket he’d provided and determined she would enjoy their escapade and view it as an exciting adventure. But, in a gig, the potholes couldn’t be avoided, and the drizzle that had begun at first light had invaded every part of her clothing, creeping under the blanket and chilling her hands and feet to blocks of ice. She’d suggested to Oliver that they should get out and walk in order to warm themselves up a little, but he’d pooh-poohed the idea with a dismissive laugh and she’d not dared suggest it again.