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An expression of deep foreboding crept across the young man’s face, but Delagarde hid a grin and went into the hall. A fright would do him no harm—even though he had undoubtedly been dragooned into his shocking conduct by Maidie. Let it be a lesson to him not to hang about eccentric heiresses.
It did not take Delagarde long to find the landlady and send her up to Maidie’s room with a curt message. In a very short space of time, she came running down the stairs. She stopped short at sight of him standing in the hall, and eyed him in silence for a moment.
The sight of her held him equally silent. Whether it was an effect of the dimly lit hall, he did not know. But she looked pale and drawn, and he thought he detected a distinct unhappiness in her features. Something gave in his chest. He had no chance to think about it, for Maidie spoke at last—dully, without expression.
“What have you done to Sholto?”
Delagarde drew a breath, and found it ragged. “Nothing at all. Unless you blame me for his choking on his drink when he saw me.”
Concern entered her eyes, and turning, she went into the coffee room. Following, Delagarde saw the youth had risen, and as she reached him, Maidie took his hand and held it between both her own. “Are you all right, Sholto? Did he frighten you?”
The boy flushed. “No, I—that is—” He seemed to pull himself together a little. “His lordship has been most—most understanding.”
Maidie did not look at Delagarde. She reached up and held the back of one hand to the young man’s cheek. “I am truly sorry, dear Sholto. I should not have led you into this. Can you forgive me?”
“No, no—I mean—only too happy!” He seized her hand and held it rather tightly, casting an apprehensive though challenging glance at Delagarde. “Lady Mary, I will come with you, if you still wish it. Only—only I don’t think you should, you know.” He swallowed. “It ain’t the thing.”
“No, I know it is not.”
Her smile, Delagarde thought, was a little tremulous. A shiver went through him, as of an ill wind. This was not the Maidie he knew. The life seemed quite to have gone out of her. She had not at all the appearance of a female frustrated in an elopement. She was—yes, passionless.
Delagarde was beset by a feeling of unreality. In a situation which would have thrown most young ladies into hysterics, Maidie behaved in a prosaic fashion distinctly out of place. Instead of upbraiding the marplot who had interrupted her flight, and declaring her intention of flouting him at the first opportunity—a reaction Delagarde had every reason to anticipate—she politely requested him to wait while she arranged for the disposal of her erstwhile suitor.
“I have paid for the hire of the chaise, Sholto, so you may use it to have yourself driven back to town,” she told him kindly, adding in a motherly way, “I think you should set forward at once. It will be better to wake in your own bed, and then the events of today will seem very much like a horrid dream and you may readily forget them.”
Not content with this recommendation, she sent Delagarde to request the landlord to have the horses put to upon the hired vehicle, and herself helped Sholto into his coat, pressed his hat and gloves upon him, and went out to see him into the coach.
From the doorway of the inn, a bemused Delagarde watched her wave Lugton off, and stand for a moment in the inn yard as the chaise bowled away down the road. Then she turned and came up to Delagarde, still speaking in that toneless voice.
“Are you tired? Do you wish to take some refreshment before we go?”
“Do you?”
“I will drink a glass of wine, perhaps, if you are having something.”
She might have been on a morning call. Feeling baffled, Delagarde bowed her back into the inn, and ordered wine and cakes for Maidie, and ale with a sandwich for himself. He was tired, but there could be no question of remaining here for the night, with Maidie unchaperoned. He had as well have left her here with Lugton as stay with her himself.
“I will fetch my things,” she said, and went on up the stairs.
By the time she returned, burdened with a small portmanteau and a hooded travelling cloak, the refreshments were on the table. Delagarde put down his tankard and rose, relieving her of the portmanteau. He surveyed her narrowly in the light of the two extra candelabra which the landlord had thoughtfully provided and placed on the mantelpiece. Maidie looked paler than ever, and the oddest sensation struck Delagarde when he noted her reddened eyelids and realised she had been crying. His heart seemed to wish to rise up and choke him, and it was a moment or two before he could command himself sufficiently to hand her to a seat at the table.
They sat in silence for a while. Maidie sipped at her wine, and crumbled a cake in her fingers, her gaze averted from Delagarde’s. He did not know if she was even aware of his steady regard, and at length he could no longer tolerate her seeming indifference.
“For pity’s sake, Maidie!” She jumped slightly, and looked across at him. “Reproach me! Revile me, if you will—scream, cry! But say something.”
He was treated to her wide-eyed look. “What should I say? Thank you for rescuing me from my own folly? I am sure that is what you believe you have done.”
Delagarde felt his chest go hollow. “Are you telling me I have not?” He drew a breath. “Are you in love with the fellow?”
A tiny smile appeared fleetingly upon her lips. “With Sholto? Oh, Laurie, really!”
Relief made him want to laugh out, but he bit it back, saying with a faintly mocking air, “I am glad your heart is not broken.”
Maidie made a queer little noise, like a gasping sob, and put a hand to her mouth. She regained control swiftly, seizing her wineglass and sipping at its contents with dedicated concentration.
Delagarde caught it all with a growing feeling of dismay. He stared at her, wondering whether or not to voice the thought in his mind. But he found he could not. She was in love! Hopelessly, it would seem. If not with Lugton, then with whom? Not—surely not with Wiveliscombe? Tightness gripped his chest, and he dwelled with savage satisfaction upon a vision of his hands about that gentleman’s throat.
Just then Maidie looked at him again. “Should we not be setting off?”
