Джорджетт Хейер - The Masqueraders

“Unhand my sister, sir!” cried he in a wonderful fury.

Miss Merriot was thrust off. “God’s Life, ’twas herself — ” began Mr Markham, but got no further. His chin came into sudden contact with Mr Merriot’s sword hilt, nicely delivered, and Mr Markham fell heavily all amongst the table legs.

“Oh, neatly done, s’faith!” vowed Miss Merriot. “Down like an ox, as I live! Set the coach forward, Peter, and you, child, upstairs with you to my chamber.”

Miss Letty’s hand was caught in a firm clasp. Quite bewildered she was swirled away by the competent Miss Merriot.

Miss Merriot’s brother put up his sword, and went out into the court. John seemed to rise up out of the gloom to meet him. “All well, sir?”

Mr Merriot nodded. “Where’s the dear gentleman’s chaise, John?”

John jerked a thumb over his shoulder.

“Horses put to?” inquired Mr Merriot.

“Ay, they’re ready to be off. The men are in the taproom — it’s dry they are after the great fire. There’s an ostler to the horses’ heads.”

“I don’t want that ostler there,” said Mr Merriot. “Drive the chaise past Stilton, John, and hide it somewhere where the gentleman won’t find it too soon.”

“Hide a chaise and horses, is it?” John growled.

“It is, John,” said Mr Merriot serenely. “Tell that ostler that I want a horse saddled on the instant. One of our own, if need be. I shall set the dear gentleman after you, John. God speed you.”

“Ah, it’s a mad couple you are!” said John, but he moved away to where the lights of the chaise shone. Mr Merriot heard him give the order to the ostler, and offer to hold the horses’ heads. He heard the ostler run off towards the stables and himself turned back into the coffee-room smiling placidly.

Miss Merriot had come downstairs again and was standing by the fallen Mr Markham calmly surveying him. “Well, child, is it done?” she asked.

The clatter of horses and the rumble of wheels on the cobbles answered her. John was off; they heard the chaise roll away down the road to London. Miss Merriot laughed and dropped her brother a mock curtsey. “My compliments, child. It’s you have the head, indeed. Now what to do for the poor gentleman? Water, my Peter, and a napkin. Observe me all solicitude.” She sank down on to the floor, and lifted Mr Markham’s head into her lap. Mr Merriot was chuckling again as he handed her the water, and a napkin.

The landlord came hurrying in, and stared in horror at what he saw. “Sir — madam! The gentleman’s coach is off! Oh law, madam! The gentleman!”

“Off is it?” Mr Merriot was interested. “Tut, tut! And the lady in it, belike?”

The landlord’s jaw dropped. “Ay, that would be it! But what’s come to the gentleman, sir? Good lord, sir, never say — ”

“The poor gentleman!” said Miss Merriot, holding a wet napkin to Mr. Markham’s brow. “’Twas the drink turned the head on his shoulders, I dare swear. An accident, host. I believe he won’t die of it.”

“A warning to all abductors,” said Mr Merriot piously.

A gleam of understanding shot into the landlord’s eyes. “Sir, he’ll be raving mad when he comes to.”

“A warning to you, good fellow, not to be by,” said Mr Merriot.

There was significance in Mr Merriot’s voice. It occurred to mine host that the less he knew of the matter the better it might be for himself, on all sides. He went out discreetly what time Mr Markham gave vent to a faint groan.

Mr Markham came slowly back to consciousness, and opened heavy eyes. He did not at once remember much, but he was aware of a swollen jaw-bone which hurt him. A cool hand was placed on his brow, and something wet was laid on his sore chin. He rolled his eyes upwards, groaning, and saw a fair face bent over him, framed in golden ringlets. He stared up at it, trying to collect his bemused wits, and vaguely it seemed to him that he had seen that face before, with its fine, rather ironical blue eyes, and its curiously square chin. He blinked, and frowned in the effort to pull himself together, and saw the delicate mouth smile.

“Thank God you are better!” came a cooing voice. “I have been in an agony! Dear sir, pray lie still; ’twas a cruel blow, and oh the misunderstanding! Peter, a glass of wine for the gentleman! There, sir, let me but raise your head.”

Mr Markham allowed it, perforce, and sipped at the wine held to his lips. Some of the mists were clearing from his brain. He raised himself on his elbow, and looked round.

“Oh, you are much better!” cooed the voice. “But gently, sir. Don’t, I implore you, overtax your strength.”

Mr Markham’s gaze came to rest on a flowered waistcoat. He put a hand to his head, and his eyes travelled slowly up the waistcoat to Mr Merriot’s grave face. Mr Merriot was on one knee, glass of wine in hand; Mr Merriot looked all concern.

Recollection came.

“Burn it, you’re the fellow — ” Mr Markham’s hand went to his jaw; he glared at Peter Merriot. “Did you — By God, sir, did you — ?”

“Let me help you to a chair, sir,” said Mr Merriot gently. “In truth you are shaken, and no wonder. Sir, I cannot sufficiently beg your pardon.”

Mr Markham was on his feet now, dizzy and bewildered. “Was it you knocked me down, sir? Answer me that!” he panted.

“Alas, sir, I did!” said Mr Merriot. “I came in to find my sister struggling, as I thought, in your arms. Can you blame me, sir? My action was the impulse of the moment.”

Mr Markham was put into a chair. He fought for words, a hand still held to his jaw. “Struggling? she flung herself at me in a swoon!” he burst out.

Miss Merriot was kneeling at his feet, napkin in hand. Mr Markham thrust it aside with an impotent snarl. “You have the right to be angry, sir,” sighed Miss Merriot. “’Twas all my folly, but oh sir, when the bustle started, and they were crying fire without I scarce knew what I did!” Her fair head was bent in modest confusion. Mr Markham did not heed her.

“Blame you? blame you? Yes, sir, I can!” he said wrathfully. “A damnable little puppy to — to — ” Words failed him; he sat nursing his jaw and fuming.

Mr Merriot said haughtily — “You’re heated sir, and I believe excusably. I don’t heed what you say therefore. I have asked your pardon for a mistake — understandable, I contend — that I made.”

“Puppy!” snapped Mr Markham, and drank off the rest of the wine in the glass. It seemed to restore him. He got up unsteadily and his hot gaze swept round again. “Letty!” he shot out. “Where is the girl?”

“Dear sir, indeed you are not yourself yet!” Miss Merriot laid a soothing hand on his arm. “There is no girl here save myself.”

She was shaken off. “No girl, you say?” roared Mr Markham, and went blundering towards the room across the passage. “Letty!” he shouted. “Letty, I say! Hell and damnation, her cloak’s gone!” He came back, his face dark with rage and suspicion, and caught at Mr Merriot’s straight shoulder. “Out with it! Where is she? Where have you hidden her? You don’t trick me, my fine sir!”

Miss Merriot, hovering watchfully, cast herself between them, and clung to her brother. “No, no!” she cried. “No swords, I do beseech you. Sir, you are raving! There is no girl here that I have seen.”

Mr Merriot put his sister aside. “But wait!” he said slowly. “As I remember there was a lady in the room as I came in. A child with black hair. My sister was overwrought, sir, and maybe forgets. Yes, there was a lady.” He looked round as though he expected to see her lurking in some corner.

“Damme, it won’t serve!” cried out the infuriated Mr Markham, and went striding off to the door that led into the taproom, calling loudly for the landlord.

Mine host came quickly, with an uneasy look in his face. In answer to Mr Markham’s furious query he said nervously that in the scare of the fire someone had driven off with his worship’s chaise, and he doubted but that the lady was in it.

Mr Markham swung round to face Peter Merriot again, and there came a red light into his eyes, while his hand fumbled at his sword hilt. “Ah, you’re in this!” he snarled.

Mr Merriot paused in the act of taking snuff. “Your pardon, sir?” he asked in some surprise. “A lady gone off in your post-chaise, and myself in it? I don’t understand you, sir. Who is the lady, and why should she go off so? Why, it’s churlish of her, I protest.”

Mr Markham seemed undecided. “It’s no business of yours,” he said savagely. “But if I find ’twas you did it — Which way did the chaise go?”

“To-towards London, sir,” nervously answered mine host. “But ’tis only what Tom says. I didn’t see myself, and indeed, sir — ”

Mr Markham said something between his teeth at which mine host cast a horrified glance at Miss Merriot. The lady appeared to be unmoved. “Saddle me a horse at once! Where’s my hat?”

Light dawned on Mr Merriot. “Egad, it’s a runaway, Kate. Faith, sir, it seems my — er — impetuosity was indeed ill-timed. A horse, of course! You should be up with the chaise soon enough. A horse for the gentleman!” Mr Merriot swept out into the court, bearing mine host before him.

“It’s ready saddled, sir, but Tom says the gentleman ordered it half an hour since,” said the puzzled landlord.

“Saddled and ready, eh? Then see it brought round to the door, for the gentleman’s in a hurry.”

“Yes, sir, but how came it that the horse was bespoke when the gentleman was a-laying like one dead?”

“Bespoke? A ruse, man, a ruse, and your man in madam’s pay very like. Best keep your mouth shut. Ah, behold the bereft gentleman!”

Mr Markham came stamping out with his hat rammed over his nose, and managed to hoist himself into the saddle with the assistance of two scared ostlers. He gathered the bridle up, and turned to glare down upon Mr Merriot. “I’ll settle with you later,” he promised ferociously, and setting spurs to his horse dashed off into the darkness.

Miss Merriot came out to lay a hand on her brother’s shoulder. “The dear gentleman!” she remarked. “Very well, child, but what next?”

Brother and sister went back into the coffee-room. As they entered by one door a little figure tiptoed in at the other, and stood poised on one toe as if for flight. “Has he gone?” breathed Miss Letitia.

It was Peter Merriot who went forward and took the lady’s hand. “Why, yes, child, gone for the moment,” he said, and led her to the fire.

She raised a pair of big pansy-brown eyes. “Oh, thank you, sir!” she said. “And you too, dear madam.”

Miss Merriot flushed slightly, whereat the humorous look came into Peter’s eye again. He looked down at Miss Letty gravely enough, and pulled a chair forward. “Sit down, madam, and let us have the story, if you please. I should desire to know how we may serve you.”

“You have served me,” vowed the lady, clasping her hands in her lap. “My story is all folly, sir — wicked folly rising out of the most dreadful persecution.”

“You shock me, madam.”

Miss Merriot came to the fire, and sat down beside the little lady, who promptly caught her hand and kissed it. “I don’t know what I should have done without you!” she said fervently. “For I had quite made up my mind I didn’t want to go to Gretna Green at all. You see, I had never seen him in his cups before. It was a terrible awakening. He became altered altogether once we were out of London, and — and I was afraid — a little.” She looked up blushing. “At home when I saw him he was so different, you see.”

“Do I understand, my dear, that you consented to elope with the gentleman?” inquired Miss Merriot.

The black curls were nodded vigorously. “I thought it would be so romantic,” sighed Letty. She brightened. “And so it was, when you hit him,” she added, turning to Peter. “It was positively marvellous!”

“Did you elope with him for the romance of it?” asked Mr Merriot, amused.

“That, and because of my papa,” said Letty. “And because of being bored. Oh, have you never known, ma’am, what it is to be cooped up, and kept so close that you are ready to die of boredom?”

“In truth, I’ve led something of a rover’s life,” said Miss Merriot. “But continue, child.”

“I am an heiress,” announced Letty in tones the most lugubrious.

“My felicitations, ma’am,” bowed Mr Merriot.

“Felicitations! I wish I were a pauper, sir! If a man comes to the house my papa must needs imagine he is after my money. He said that of Gregory Markham. And indeed I think he was right,” she said reflectively. “Ma’am, I think fathers are — are the veriest plague.”