Those Endearing Young Charms (7 page)

When she finally slowed, she realized the road was gradually petering out into a grassy track.

She came to a five-barred gate with a thick thorn hedge on either side. Exhausted and unable to go any further, she sank down on a wet tussock of grass and huddled inside her cloak.

After a few moments, the icy cold began to seep into her very bones.

Emily got to her feet, wondering what to do. She did not want to retrace her steps for fear of meeting the dog or, worse -- her husband. Stiffly and painfully, she put one sore foot on the first rung of the gate and began to climb.

* * * *

When the earl of Devenham entered the bedroom and found it empty, his first thought was that his bride had gone out to the Jericho at the back of the inn, being too timid to use the chamberpot.

After a quarter of an hour had passed, he went in search of her, and, not finding her anywhere about the inn, came to the logical conclusion that she had run away.

His pride reeled under this fresh blow. She had looked so very pretty during supper with the candlelight gilding her hair that he had quite persuaded himself she had deliberately stolen a march on her sister by marrying him herself.

To reinforce that idea, there was her behavior at the wedding. And since he was not given to much self-hate, he could hardly be blamed for thinking that he must have _some_ attraction. He was hardly the kind of man who would drive a young girl to sacrifice herself because the idea of her sister's marriage to him was so repugnant.

He only had had his title and fortune for a short time, but already he had noticed all the alchemy wrought by fortune and title.

In fact, ever since the Ansteys' harsh rejection of his suit those ten years ago, he had not really had to suffer any great humiliations. He was adored by his men. He was accounted a prime favorite with the ladies, and the Duke of Wellington had called him the best dancer in the army -- high praise indeed, since the Iron Duke dearly loved his officers to be able to dance well. He had enjoyed the intermittent favors of a mistress. Mrs. Cordelia Haddington had been pleased to welcome him into her bedchamber and into her expert and clever hands every time he returned to London on leave.

But the bed was empty. Emily was gone, her nightdress and nightcap still laid out on the bed.

Having realized this humiliating fact, his first desire was to go straight to bed and forget about the whole thing. His second, to rouse the inn and the countryside and get out men and dogs to join him in the search.

His third was to try to find her himself.

He went downstairs, roused the landlord, and asked if he could borrow a lantern, saying that something of value had dropped from the carriage and that he was going out on foot to look for it.

He refused the landlord's offer of servants to help him in the search. The landlord, he knew, put his lordship's refusal of help down to the eccentric ways of the Quality. The earl felt he could bear that.

What he was damned if he would stand for, until it became inevitable, was the scandal and laughter that would be caused when it became known that his young bride had run off on her wedding night, rather than suffer his lovemaking.

The earl's harsh countenance, albeit a handsome one, had, until that night, been misleading. Although he had acquired an autocratic manner and social veneer, there were still remnants of that eager young captain he had once been. But Emily's flight had effectively squashed the last grain of romanticism and love in his character -- or so he felt. It was as if his outer casing were moving inward until his whole body felt like a stone. The only fires that burned in him as he set out into the mist were the fires of anger.

Once clear of the inn, he diligently searched the mud of the roadway until he found what he was looking for, the marks of a pair of small, slippered feet.

He followed them carefully and patiently, forcing himself not to hurry in case he lost the track, cursing the clammy heaviness of the mist.

He almost lost the tracks at the turning in the road, but he finally picked up the trail again. A little way down a side road, the dog that had frightened Emily made a rush for his boots.

The earl stood stock-still. "Go away, you miserable cur," he said evenly, "or I'll kick you to death."

The dog bared its teeth in a yellow, ingratiating leer and slunk off into the bushes.

The earl held the lantern high, noticing that the footsteps in the mud were deeply indented at the toe.

The dog must have frightened Emily and she must have started to run.

"Good," he thought nastily. "Serves her right, the ungrateful jade."

He carefully made his way along the road, following the erratic trail of footsteps which went at some points from one side of the road to the other.

He came to the five-barred gate. Again, he held the lantern high, and then, with an exclamation of impatience, shone the light over the gate, noticing that the footsteps went straight out across the ploughed field on the other side.

He swung himself lightly over the gate. He was halfway across the field when he came upon one of Emily's slippers. He picked it up. It was a poor, tattered, muddy wreck and there was a faint trace of blood in the silk.

"She must be demented," he muttered, completely unable to understand why he had engendered such mad terror in anyone.

At the far end of the field, tussocky dry grass led into a pine wood. He searched this way and that for some clue as to which direction she had taken. He did not want to call out for fear she would go into hiding. His boots making no sound on the floor of pine needles in the wood, he continued to search, noticing that the mist had thinned and that faint silver moonlight was beginning to penetrate the wood.

He found her in a little glade.

He stood very still at the edge, thinking that she looked like a princess in a fairy tale.

She was lying in the grass with one arm thrown out. The moonlight illuminated the moving and shifting mist and her hair, cascading about her face, had turned to silver.

Then he noticed the way the rough grass sparkled like marcasite under the moon.

Frost.

He found himself wondering in a numb, detached kind of way whether she was dead.

The earl walked lightly across the glade and knelt down beside Emily. She was fast asleep with exhaustion. He was moved to a feeling of pity, but hard on the heels of his pity came the thought, If she has contracted the ague, then she might die and I will be free.

But that unworthy thought went as quickly as it had come.

He bent and picked her up in his arms. She opened her eyes and let out a low moan of terror.

"It is I," he said grimly. "Devenham."

Emily struggled weakly in his arms, but he paid no attention. He strode back the way he had come, the lantern dangling from one hand, as he cradled Emily's body in his arms. He did not need to use a lantern to light the way. The mist had lifted and, besides, he felt he knew every inch of the muddy track by heart.

Emily was asleep again. Again he felt pity for her, but fought it down. His sole aim was to get her into the inn without being observed.

Emily found herself being shaken roughly awake. They were outside the arch leading to the inn courtyard.

"Stand there," said the earl, "until I return for you. If you run away again, I will find you and _beat_

you. Do I make myself plain?"

Emily nodded, her eyes wide with fear.

"Good!"

He strode off into the courtyard. Emily leaned her head against the rough stone wall. Her body felt strange and light, and the sounds from the inn seemed to reach her ears from over a very long distance.

The earl came back. In his hand he held a rough sack.

"Climb in," he ordered.

"Why?" said Emily, in sudden terror. "I know! You are going to throw me in the river."

"Much as I would like to," he said between his teeth, "I am not. In order to avoid scandal, I told the landlord that I had gone out to search for something that had dropped from the carriage. You are that something. Get in this sack immediately and do not utter one word until I get you upstairs."

He looked stern and forbidding, and, in any case, Emily felt too weak to protest further.

She climbed into the sack. He tied the string at the top and heaved her onto his back. Emily could hardly breathe. The sack had contained grain of some sort, and little particles of dry chaff went up her nose with every breath she drew.

She was bumped against his back as he strode across the inn courtyard.

"Evening, my lord," came the landlord's voice. "Found what you were looking for?"

"Yes, thank you." The earl's voice. "I hope I did not waken you."

"No, my lord. Expecting the mail coach any moment. No sleep for me this night. Allow me to carry that."

"No, no. I am well able to handle it."

"Lucky it waren't stolen, my lord. I call to mind..."

The earl dumped the sack on the floor. Emily suddenly knew she was going to sneeze. The landlord's voice droned on and on, somewhere above her head. Emily tried not to think about sneezing; she tried pinching the bridge of her nose. It was no use. The sneeze was coming. Ah ... Ah ... _Ah ...

oooof!_ The earl had kicked the sack, and his foot had caught her on the side of the head. It had the effect of stifling the sneeze at birth. The kick had been no more than a nudge, but Emily began to think the earl really meant to kill her. If you tied your wife up in a sack and then kicked her in the head, it followed that your feelings toward said wife were not of the sweetest.

At last, she felt herself being lifted up again.

"Looks uncommon like a dead pig you've got in there, m'lord," said the landlord.

"How very clever of you," came the earl's voice. "That is exactly what it is. I never go on any of my honeymoons without a dead pig."

"Eh? Ah, my lord. I was near taking you serious-like. That's a good 'un. I'll tell missus. I never goes on my honeymoon without a dead pig!"

His laughter followed them up the stairs. The earl opened the bedroom door and let out a sigh of relief. He opened the sack and released Emily by simply dragging the sack along the floor until it was clear of her.

"We will go into this matter in the morning, my lady _wife,_" he said. "We are going to bed. Do not look so stricken. I have no intention of touching you."

Emily quailed before the blazing contempt in his eyes. She picked up her nightgown and cap and headed for the parlor door, meaning to change in the privacy of the other room.

He caught her by the hair and jerked her about. "Oh, no, you don't," he grated. "Stand still."

He took her cloak from her shoulders and threw it on a chair. He twisted her about and deftly untied the tapes at the back of her dress and the tapes at her waist. He removed her corset _elastique_ and contemptuously pinged it across the room. She clutched desperately at her shift, but he said coldly, "It either goes over you head or is ripped from your body. Take your pick, madam."

All at once, too tired, too numb with cold to feel ashamed, she raised her arms meekly above her head. He crumpled the shift into a ball, and then dropped her nightgown over her head.

"Sit down by the fire."

Emily sat down while he shoveled coals on the fire. He then carried over a water can and basin, slid off her torn stockings, and bathed her feet. It was all done deftly and impersonally.

He then picked her up, carried her to the bed, and tucked her in.

As he began taking off his own clothes, she turned and buried her suddenly hot face in the pillow.

The terror of what he was about to do to her would, she was sure, effectively keep her awake, but her eyelids drooped and a welcome darkness engulfed her.

The earl climbed into bed and jerked the curtains closed. He lay with his hands behind his head, staring up at the canopy, which was gleaming red from the leaping flames of the fire.

Tomorrow, he would decide what to do with her. She moved in her sleep, murmured something, and then rolled over until she was lying pressed against the length of his body. She smelled faintly of soap and rose water and pine.

She did not wake up when he pushed her roughly away.

* * * *

What do you do on the first day of your marriage when that marriage has not been consummated? Emily awoke in all the intimacy of the inn bedchamber. For one blissful moment, she thought she was at home.

Then a faint sigh beside her brought her back to reality with a thud. Without even looking at her husband, she scrambled nervously from the bed, drawing the curtains tightly around the bed in case he should wake up and watch her dressing. She gave herself a perfunctory wash and scrambled into her clothes.

Her first thought was to go out for a walk so as to escape the embarrassment of facing him when he woke up. But her second, saner thought was that he would probably be in a towering rage if he found her missing again. She dressed and, since he was still asleep, she began to wish she had made a more thorough toilet. Her stomach gave a faint protesting growl. Somewhere below, someone was grilling kidneys and frying bacon. It was agony sitting here waiting for him to wake up. Should she go into the parlor and order breakfast? Or ring for breakfast?

They talked incessantly at local assemblies about the enviable freedom of married women, thought Emily. Sitting here too frightened to move until the lord and master decided to wake up could hardly be called freedom. Emily looked longingly at the bellpull on the wall. One jerk of it and a little bell on the kitchen wall downstairs would ring; some blessed servant would arrive, and in that way he would wake up and she would not be alone with him.

Emily became very angry with herself for being so timid. A married lady would probably call her maid and go about things as usual. But not on the first morning of her honeymoon, said a treacherous voice in Emily's brain. So the obvious solution to the immediate problem was to wake him up. Perhaps he was already awake, lying behind those bed curtains, staring up at the canopy and working out plans of revenge.