Just a Marriage of Convenience with the Duke by Hazel Linwood
Chapter 20
“Who’s there?” Bridget whispered, trying to sound far braver than she felt as she huddled into a ball.
The figure with the candle entered the room and closed the door behind them. Bridget sat up quickly and scooted away, pressing herself against the wall.
“Do naw be frightened,” the person said in a voice that was clearly not a man’s, despite the heavy dress of their clothes. “And don’t let ‘em hear ya.”
Bridget peered closer and repeated her question. “Who are you?”
The woman set the candle down on the table and for a moment, Bridget looked around the sparse room. In the light, she recognized the driver of Lord Haskin’s carriage.
“I am a person with a mission, but ya had to go and put a delay in things,” the driver said, though she did not sound upset.
“I don’t understand,” Bridget began, still reeling from all that had happened.
“And there’s no need of it,” the driver said, ending Bridget’s questions. “I pilfered this other key from down the stairs, and I have to get it back afore anyone knows ‘tis gone, so you must be hurryin’ now.”
This mysterious person reached outside the door for a parcel and dropped it on the bed. “Quick now, change outta yer gown an’ into these clothes. Apologies, but ‘tis all I could find out here for ya to wear.”
“Where am I going?” Bridget asked, already standing up and unfolding the bundle of clothes.
“Anywhere ya like,” the driver said. “I cannaw take you away from here without bein’ spotted, so yer on yer own. But head back towards London and keep outta sight. If his mighty lordship orders me to go back and look for ya, I’ll try an’ let out a whistle if we’re comin’ yer way so ya can hide yerself somewhere ‘til we pass.”
Bridget sighed gratefully, the relief she felt making her almost dizzy. Here was this kind stranger—albeit someone unexpected, and she desperately wanted to ask how this woman came to be the carriage driver—helping her when no one else in her life had been able to do so. It was a heady feeling to finally find someone compassionate enough to intervene.
The woman turned around as Bridget undressed then hurried into the man’s clothes. They were comically large on her, but that only helped with the appearance of being cast-off clothes that a poor laborer had managed to scrape together. A man’s cap completed the look and helped to hide her long curls.
“There’s this then,” the driver said after looking over Bridget’s attire. The woman blew out the candle, and Bridget jumped when she felt the woman’s fingertips brushing against her face in the darkness, gently at first then more coarsely as she went on.
“What’s this?” Bridget asked, trying to sound polite despite having a stranger nearly accosting her.
“Just some soot from the fire and some char from the wick,” the driver explained. “Twill help keep your skin from lookin’ thoroughly scrubbed.”
“Ah yes, I hadn’t thought of that,” Bridget confessed, grateful again for this stranger’s wisdom.
“Now keep quiet as ya follow me down, ya do naw wanna go wakin’ the earl,” the woman instructed as she opened the door.
A gray light of morning filled the staircase from the windows at the top of the wall. The driver crept down first, her finger pressed to her lips as though Bridget might need reminding. Bridget only nodded, painfully aware that any sound might rouse Lord Haskins and put an end to her hopes of escape.
At the bottom of the stairs, the driver opened the door to the main room where people had already gathered for a meal. They were an unusual mix of people, some fine and some tattered, all dining together as was the custom in many roadside inns.
How odd, not a single soul is ‘better’ than anyone else in this place, Bridget thought, wondering for a brief moment about her life. Yet every belly is hungry, every bowl contains the same stew to nourish them.
“Best hurry now,” the driver urged. “Keep yerself hid as best ya can but go!”
“I cannot thank you enough,” Bridget said, hurrying out the door and looking back only long enough to express her gratitude.
Once outdoors, Bridget fought the urge to run as fast as she could, but she knew that would draw attention to her. Even in her disguise, she feared someone might recognize her or take note of her then inform the earl. The too-long legs of her trousers dragged along the ground as she stepped, and again she had to remind herself she was no longer wearing dainty slippers that could not withstand the muck. She trudged along the way the boys in her school walked, their heads down and their shoulders burdened with the weight of their cares, sinking to their ankles in the mud because there was no way to avoid it where they lived.
I wonder should I find a constable, Bridget thought for a moment. Surely a man of the courts would not permit Lord Haskins to take me away if I do not wish to go.
She looked about but did not see any signs on the squat village buildings that indicated where she might find one, or even where she might locate the gaol. Just as she thought she might inquire at one of the doors near her, a noise stopped her cold.
Bridget had only made it some distance away from the inn when she heard the sound of shouting coming from within. Behind her, the doors opened, and a number of patrons poured out, some manner of chaos ensuing. She decided that it would be an excellent reason to put even more distance between herself and this small village, then broke out into a run.
Too soon, Bridget was forced to slow her pace, the cumbersome clothing and her own lack of stamina preventing her from keeping on. She could scarcely see the inn from this distance due to the rise in the road, though, and felt it safe to press on at a rapid walk. Still, she kept moving forward in an effort to find a safer place to tread out of the open.
As she hurried on, Bridget’s thoughts turned to Patrick and his promise to save her. Would he be looking for her now that she had not returned home during the night? Surely, he must assume the worst, and assume that she spent last evening with Haskins. He would want nothing more to do with her, of that she was certain.
Still, Bridget couldn’t help but feel a flutter of hope that he might come to rescue her. Even if he no longer wished to marry her himself, he might still prove faithful in saving her from a terrible marriage. She could return to her father’s house and keep to herself, being the motherly figure that was missing from Harriet’s life. Perhaps when Harriet wed—assuming she could still marry well after all of this scandal was put behind them—Bridget might be permitted to live with her sister as the spinster aunt to Harriet’s children.
The thought was a physical pain stabbing Bridget through the heart.
All she had ever wanted was a simple life of caring for others, first the students in her school and then her own family when the time came. Instead, one painful event after another had robbed her of those hopes. Her mother’s death, her father’s business woes, and now this horrid man giving chase… all of these things had stolen what joy she’d managed to find in life.
But that was a worry for another time, she decided as she continued along the worn wagon path, careful to avoid lifting her feet too far lest her shoes come off. The rise and fall of the rolling hills gave Bridget ample view of the village behind her, affording her the knowledge that no one was following her just yet.
* * *
“Your Grace, we have ridden for hours,” the constable said, his head lolling to the side. “No one would blame you for stopping to rest, and the horses are already weary.”
“I cannot. If the horse gives out, I will walk until I find a farm willing to sell me a fresh one,” Patrick said with stern resolve, the party’s horses already slowed to a trot. “Haskins’ horses must be equally tired, more so since they are pulling the weight of a carriage. They must have stopped somewhere nearby to let them rest or exchange them.”
“But Your Grace, there are any number of roads they could have taken from London,” the constable protested. “We simply cannot know which one they have taken.”
“I do,” Patrick argued, his gaze affixed ahead of him. “Haskins will undoubtedly look to hide away at his estate two days from here. This is the most direct route he could take to Scotland that carries him near enough to ride to his home as well.”
“That is very smart of you, Your Grace,” the constable agreed. “Would you have any interest in helping our lawmen with the resolving of crimes?”
Patrick chuckled, but only for a moment. “I should think not, I’m sure I don’t have the stomach for it that you lot do. Once Lady Bridget is safe with me and Lord Haskins is in irons where he belongs, I should like nothing more than to never have to think of a horrible situation such as this again.”
They pressed on; Patrick fortified by the image of Lady Bridget’s face in his mind. Every time he concentrated too hard on the memory of her, though, her beautiful visage and ready smile were replaced by the sight of her at the ball, her stricken face only moments from tears.
I will find you, Bridget, Patrick repeated as the miles went on. And I will marry you.
On the road ahead of them, Lord Repington appeared with the two constables who’d ridden with him. Patrick could see their hopeful faces in the light from their lanterns and he felt the pang of sympathy for the old man’s eventual disappointment.
“Any word from them?” the old earl asked.
“None, I’m afraid. But due to the location of his estate, I feel very sure that they would have taken this road,” Patrick explained. Looking to the two constables with Lord Repington, he added, “Just to be certain, the pair of you should take the other two main roads. That way, we’ll have three of the possible routes covered.”
The other two men veered away to take their alternate paths, leaving Patrick to urge his horse on. It was some time before he and the other men came to a farmhouse, a weary-looking old farmer already tending to his chores in front.
“Good sir, I must beg of you an urgent matter,” Patrick began, climbing down from the saddle and approaching the old man where he sat sharpening a tool. “I’m traveling on gravely serious business and our horses are tired. Do you know where I can swap them for a fresh set for a matter of days? Upon my return here, I will gladly replace them and compensate their owner handsomely.”
The farmer looked up at Patrick, then looked around the group. At the sight of the constables and the bedraggled animals, he nodded.
“Aye then, take me own horses. Plowin’s all done anyway,” the man replied. “Just put yers in the barn there and trade for the ones ya want.”
“Thank you, sir!” Patrick gushed, glad to have stumbled upon such a helpful soul. “As promised, I will return for them as soon as I can and will pay you for your trouble.”
Patrick led his horse to the barn and beckoned for the others to follow. Inside the dark, stone structure, his heart sank. The sight of four overworked and underfed beasts greeted him.
“Your Grace, we won’t make it to Nottingham on these sad animals, let alone Scotland,” one of the constables said in a low voice.
“We must,” Patrick finally said. “We have no other choice. Put our horses in the stalls and saddle these while I leave the farmer some funds to pay for better feed.”
Patrick went out and made the transaction with the farmer while Lord Repington and the constables readied the horses for their ride. Within a few minutes, the four were once again on the road north, intent on rescuing Bridget.
The poor horses were unaccustomed to being ridden, though the farmer assured him they took to the saddle well. Soon enough, though, the creatures found their stride and began to enjoy the chance to move about without the burden of a wagon or plow.
“Lockhart, do you think we should send the constables ahead to alert the mayors of these towns about Lord Haskins?” Lord Repington asked, an unmistakable hint of hope in his voice. “Perhaps if they knew to be watchful, they could apprehend him as he arrived.”
“That is an excellent idea,” Patrick said, his eyes bright. “I am both ashamed and relieved that I’ve never been in this position and therefore do not know the best way to go about it.”
On Patrick’s orders, the constables hurried on ahead leaving the two men who were left behind to worry about the success of their campaign.
“I have not yet had the chance to tell you how sorry I am,” Lord Repington began as they continued on. “I was a fool to think Lord Haskins would uphold his end of things. I should have known that any man who resorts to blackmail to get his way will prove to be a traitor somehow.”
“I may not agree with what you did, but then again, I’ve never faced such a dilemma myself,” Patrick acknowledged. “To be honest, if I had simply let Lady Bridget go when the new contract was formed, we would not be riding after her at this moment. She might be displeased, but at least she would be safe. I bear all the responsibility and blame should something happen to her.”
“Then let us ride on so that neither of us has any cause for grief,” Lord Repington said as lightly as he could given the nature of their journey.
