Page 43 of The Cornish Bride

Chapter Nineteen

Oliver was snoring. Ysella pulled the bedclothes over her head and tried to shut the sound out, but failed. Papa used to snore in the drawing room of an evening, or in his study, when he was in his cups, and after all that wine followed by the brandy, Oliver had definitely followed in Papa’s footsteps. Which was a tiny bit disappointing in someone you thought loved you.

Unable to sleep, uncomfortable and sore in a place she hadn’t realized could be so battered, and far too aware of the proximity of Oliver’s naked body, Ysella cried quietly into her pillow. Was this how all girls felt on their wedding night? Not that this was her wedding night at all. She had the increasingly terrifying suspicion that she’d done a very silly thing in letting Oliver have his way with her before their wedding. And his words after he’d finished had added another layer of misgiving. Perhaps he was right though. Perhaps giving herself to him had been the thing to do to prevent Kit from undoing everything. It was certainly far too late to go back on this now. Anything other than marriage to Oliver would ruin her in the eyes of society, possibly in the eyes of her family as well.

From outside somewhere she heard a clock striking. Midnight. Was she never going to get any sleep? She wiped her eyes with one hand and tried closing them. But that only brought up images of Mama and home and little George. Would Morvoren be terribly upset that she’d left? She’d certainly be shocked at what she’d just done. Images of her own comfortable bedroom, of Lochinvar snug in his stable eating his hay, of Kit standing by the library fire, and rather absurdly, and for no reason she could put her finger on, of Sam in his office, flashed through her head. Images of safe normality. She gripped the pillow until her knuckles whitened. No, she did not feel either normal or safe here.

*

At cockcrow, Kitand Sam were in the stableyard mounting their horses, food for the journey provided by the innkeeper and packed in Sam’s saddlebags. They clattered out onto the as yet quiet St Giles and set off heading north towards the Banbury road. At least the rain had stopped and, in the east, a watery sun was rising over the hills. Abelard and Hercules seemed none the worse for their fifty-mile ride yesterday, snatching excitedly at their bits and skittering across the cobbled road like a pair of two-year-old racehorses.

“They can’t be far ahead of us,” Kit said. They’d discussed riding on in the darkness last night, having decided that the runaways couldn’t be more than thirty miles ahead of them. However, thirty miles on tired horses would have taken them until after midnight, and they had no way of knowing where Oliver would have decided to spend the night. As they couldn’t have gone banging on every inn door they came to and rousing who knew how many innocent people from their beds in the early hours, with reluctance, they’d had to wait until first light.

Once out of the city, they pressed their horses hard, cantering wherever they could, but the road was not good. Spring should have been well established by now, but this year winter was hanging on by its icy, wet claws, and potholes caused by the weather wouldn’t be filled until the weather looked up. But that would slow down the gig Oliver was driving more than it would two riders, and Sam had high hopes of gaining ground on Featherstone. However, he’d not allowed for the time it took to stop at every hostelry along their route and ask if Featherstone and Ysella were in residence. As Kit pointed out, slow as it made them, anything was better than overtaking them by negligence.

At just before ten o’clock in the morning, they rode up Banbury’s high street, passing the famous Banbury Cross of nursery rhyme fame. With a heavy heart, Sam saw just how many hostelries they would have to approach before they could move on.

“Largest ones first,” Kit said, with a long sigh. “I don’t think even that cad will have taken my sister to a common inn.”

Sam wasn’t so sure. At the first inn they came to, they left their horses in the stables with instructions to the grooms to unsaddle and rub them down. Then they strode inside the inn and approached the landlord, a skinny fellow in a long apron who was supervising the cleaning of the taproom as the hour was still early to be expecting customers.

“Good day to you, my man,” Kit said, laying his hat and gloves on the wooden bar. “We’re in search of a man driving a gig. Tall, dark haired, a bit of a dandy, with the bearing of a soldier about him. He has a young woman with him. Slight, dark haired, and very pretty. Have you seen these two at all?”

The landlord’s eyes shifted from Kit’s face to Sam’s, and he fidgeted with unease. “Aye,” he mumbled. “I might have done. What’s it to you, I have to ask, before I give out information on my customers? They seemed as nice a married couple as any I get here.”

Sam shut his eyes for a moment. Had he just heard the man correctly?

“A married couple?” Kit exploded. “Tell me they didn’t share a room?”

The landlord’s hands gripped a corner of his apron. He must know already from their faces that whatever his guests had been up to, it wasn’t anything good. “I’m sorry to say, they did.” He eyed Kit up and down, assessing his status. “Milord.”

“Are they still here?” Sam blurted out, his hand going to his hip, almost as though he expected to find a weapon there. But they’d left their pistols stowed in their saddlebags.

The landlord shook his head. “They left about an hour and a half ago. Heading north.” The wariness in his eyes deepened. “I’d no way of telling they weren’t what they said they were.” He’d taken on an apologetic tone, no doubt fearing blame being apportioned in his direction.

Sam couldn’t keep quiet. “How did she seem? This morning? Was she… happy?”

The landlord shrugged. “My wife saw her more than I did. She went in to help her dress as the young lady had no maid with her. I’ll fetch her for you. Agnes!” A shout brought a stout matron at least twice her skinny husband’s width into the taproom with such alacrity that surely she must have been listening at the door.

“Young Mrs. Wainwright, this morning, how did she seem to you when you helped her dress?”

Mrs. Wainwright?Sam bristled with fury, his fists balling by his sides. Oh, to give that despicable man a good hiding. He’d pull his cork, plant him a facer, rearrange his physiog, break every bone in his wicked, lust-filled body. He’d make it so the man could never seduce a girl again. He’d…

Agnes, a redoubtable woman with her gray hair scraped back into a tight bun and topped with a small lacy mob cap, set her hands on her hips and looked from Kit to Sam and then back again, interrupting Sam’s increasingly violent thoughts. “Runaway, is she?”

Kit nodded.

“Under age and eloping?”

Sam’s turn to nod.

“Well, you’re too late.”

“What d’you mean?” Kit asked.

The woman shook her head. “Quiet and kind of withdrawn, she were this morning, when I went in to help her. Mr. Wainwright, he’d gone down to take breakfast in the taproom. Got an eye for the ladies, that one. Caught him pressing my girl Meg up against the scullery door, his hand up her dress. Soon stopped him doin’ that. Not that Meg minded any. She’s a soft spot for a pretty face, and that Mr. Wainwright’s got one for sure.”

If Sam had his way, he wouldn’t be keeping that pretty face for much longer.