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‘Then I will be expected to make calls on the various ladies who live near there.’ Lottie folded her hands in her lap with maddening complacency. ‘It will be expected. You will have to go calling with me. There must be someone I know from Newcastle who could smooth our way…’
‘No one of any consequence lives near.’ Tristan paused. ‘It will not be expected. It is the country, not the town.’
‘Aunt Alice and Cousin Frances are bound to know several.’ Lottie waved a dismissive hand. ‘Aunt Alice knows positively everyone in the Tyne Valley. She can offer introductions. It may be the country, but there is always somebody. Calling and socialising is what makes the world go around.’ Lottie sat up straighter. She shook out the folds of her dress. ‘It is the lifeblood of the community. I plan to play my part as your wife. I will show them the right and proper way to behave.’
‘I have been on the Continent for years. And as your cousin quite rightly pointed out to you, I led a somewhat scandalous life in my youth.’ Tristan struggled to maintain his temper. He would give her one more chance. ‘I am uncertain how many might wish to acknowledge me.’
‘Oh. How truly thoughtless and terrible of me.’ Lottie sat back against the hard seat and her face crumpled. She reached out and touched his hand. ‘No doubt we shall meet them in due course and convince them of our worthiness to be befriended.’
‘It may take some time.’
‘But working together, we will convince them in the end. For our children’s sake.’ Her cheek flushed scarlet. ‘You have proved your worth to me. You have saved me from ruin.’
‘It was something any gentleman would have done.’ Tristan shifted slightly. His plan would be harsh, but it should work. She had a good heart.
Lottie drew a shaking breath. Why was he making it so difficult? Tears pricked at her eyelids. He had to understand what she was attempting to do and why. He had to accept her apology. She would try much harder in the future, truly she would, but right now she needed reassurance— reassurance he appeared reluctant to give.
‘Not anyone. I can name a half-dozen officers who would not have done what you did. They would have left me to my fate.’
‘I kissed you. It very nearly went much further, Lottie.’
‘You saved me from a life of cats and skirts being subtly drawn away. I do not think I would care for being my mother’s companion either—fetching and carrying all the time. We would have driven each other mad within a fortnight.’
She stuffed her hand against her mouth and looked out of the window at the grey landscape. Yesterday on the train coming to Gilsland Spa everything had seemed so fresh and new. She had never imagined that she would be sitting here, facing an almost complete stranger on her way to be married.
‘Yes, in due course, we will encounter the neighbours.’ Tristan reached forward and caught her hand with his, interlaced his fingers with hers. The slight pressure sent tremors along her arm. ‘Try to sleep now, Lottie. It has been a long day and we won’t be in Gretna Green for a few more hours.’
‘As long as that?’
‘Would it be easier if I came over and sat next to you? You may put your head on my shoulder.’
He moved over and sat by her. The pressure of his leg against hers somehow made everything appear better. He wasn’t angry with her. He did not blame her for what happened. It was not what either of them had anticipated, but she would do her best. Surely being married to him would be pleasant. A great wave of tiredness washed over her. It seemed liked for ever since she had kissed Aunt Alice and Cousin Frances goodbye. What would Frances say when she learnt her cousin had married the notorious Tristan Dyvelston? She gave a small sleepy smile and settled her back more firmly against the seat. There was at least that.
‘I will close my eyes for a moment. It is really quite pleasant to be able to lean against someone. Comforting.’
His arm came around her and held her. ‘It will work, Lottie. You must see that.’
The sun had risen and the road teemed with carts, carriages and various livestock by the time the carriage reached the outskirts of Gretna Green. Tristan’s muscles ached from the journey and his arm had gone to sleep. However, Lottie had snuggled close. Her warm body touched his. He looked to where her red lips had parted, soft and inviting. Her lavender scent rose around like a perfumed cloud.
It had taken a vast reserve of Tristan’s self-restraint not to pull her more firmly into his arms and make love to her in the carriage.
He forced his body to wait, to remember that she was a virgin and unused to such things. He would have the rest of his life to get to know her.
But first he had to be certain of why she had married him so quickly, why she had agreed to his suggestion. Did she know his true identity? Had she seen this as her only remaining chance to fulfil her mother’s expectations and marry a title? He was under no illusions how powerful an incentive such expectations could be, but he wanted to know that she had married for the man, not the status. He had to know.
The carriage slowed down to a crawl and the noise of the town resounded in the enclosed space. They had arrived in Gretna Green and Tristan knew he had to act, he could no longer afford to sit and cradle his wife-to-be. He gently eased the sleeping Lottie from his shoulder and banged on the roof with his cane. Instantly the carriage halted. Tristan stepped out and closed the door behind him.
‘Market day, my lord,’ the coachman said, coming down to stand beside him. ‘There are drovers and farmers all along the road. I am thankful today is not a hiring fair as the town must heave then.’
‘I can see the carts and the cattle. The drover’s bellowing echoes off the carriage walls.’ Tristan stretched, trying to clear his mind. Today he needed all his wits about him.
‘Where are we headed for, my lord? The headless cross? A quick marriage and then back to London?’
The coachman’s voice jerked Tristan fully awake. ‘Robinson, we had words earlier.’
The burly coach driver’s cheek tinged pink. ‘That we did, sir. I had forgotten. I don’t understand the ways of the aristos, that I don’t.’
‘You are not paid to.’
‘But what do you want me to do now?’ Robinson rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Are you going to marry her, like? You can always send her home.’
‘Of course I am. I am going to marry the girl, and I am going to tame her.’ Tristan glanced over to where Lottie softly slumbered, her red mouth now pouting slightly and her golden curls tumbled about her face. He had to admire her irrepressible spirit. ‘I have to know, Robinson. I have seen too many women forced into marriages against their will. I have seen what it does to them, what it does to their husbands. She must want to marry me for me.’
Robinson gave a long whistle. ‘It never did your uncle any good.’
Tristan’s jaw tightened. ‘That marriage brought misery to everyone.’
‘What am I to do, sir? I mean, it is not right leaving you alone like this here. The London dockyards are refined compared to this place.’
‘You are to put us down, that inn will do.’ Tristan pointed towards the disreputable-looking coaching inn. ‘Then take the carriage back to London. Wait for my word. We will take the train to Hexham. I have sent word to Mrs Elton at the hall. There will be a cart for us at the station.’
‘As you say…sir.’ Robinson’s voice betrayed his uneasiness.
‘You need not worry. I am well used to looking after myself.’ Tristan reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out several notes and handed them to Robinson. ‘These will see you to London.’
‘And beyond.’ The man gave a soft whistle.
‘I want you to leave directly, Robinson. No hanging about.’ Tristan looked pointedly at Lottie. Lottie stirred slightly in her sleep and murmured something indistinct.
Robinson ran his finger around his collar.
‘It is the part of the plan I am uneasy about, sir. The lady is Quality. You can see it from the cut of her clothes and the way she speaks. She could be in danger.’
‘Nothing is going to happen, Robinson. I promise that.’
‘It is not you that I am worried about. It is that lass. How will she react? Someone ought to watch over her, like.’ Robinson assumed a pious expression that was at odds with his former occupation as a boxer.
‘Hopefully, she will reject temptation and obey my instructions, but if not, her lessons in life and treating people properly begin now. The ride in the carriage convinced me of it.’
‘If that is what you want.’ Robinson resumed his place, grumbling about the swells and their peculiar ideas.
Tristan stepped back into the carriage and smoothed a damp curl from her forehead as the wheels began turning again. ‘Time to wake up, Lottie. We are nearly there. See. It’s the headless cross.’
She wrinkled her nose and pushed at his hand.
‘It is far too early for such things, Cousin Frances.’ Her eyes flew open and widened at the sight of her hand clutching his. Her cheeks took on an even rosier hue. And she rapidly dropped his hand. ‘Oh. It’s you.’
She sat up and began to rearrange her dress and bonnet.
‘Did you have a pleasant slumber?’ Tristan asked.
‘I fear I fell asleep on you. Our limbs became entangled and I may have mussed up your shirtfront. You should have woken me. It was presumptuous of me.’ She clasped her hands together. ‘Do say that you forgive me. Please do.’
‘We will be married today, Lottie. Man and wife. No one will say a word if you fall asleep on my shoulder.’
‘I suppose not.’ She bent her head so that all he could see was the crown of her straw bonnet and its elaborate blue ribbon. ‘I keep forgetting. It is all very sudden. It is the best thing. I know it is the best thing.’
‘Good.’ Tristan lifted her chin so he looked her in the face. For an instant he drank in her luminous beauty. Then he hardened his heart. He wanted her beauty to be more than skin deep. He wanted her to want him for more than a title and his worldly goods. He had to carry out his experiment. He had to show her that there was more to life than social calls and pincushions. Life was to be lived, and not reflected in a Claude glass. ‘I want you to stay here while I procure us a room.’
‘Here? In this carriage? On my own?’ The words came out as a squeak. Her eyes widened and she clutched her reticule to her chest. ‘I have never been left in a coaching yard on my own before.’
‘You will be quite safe in the coaching yard…as long as you remain there. No one will harm you. Your dress is of a certain quality.’ Tristan forced himself to walk away from her, not to take her by the arm and lead her to another inn. He had to do it, for the sake of their future.
Chapter Five
Lottie watched Tristan walk away from her. She half- raised a hand to beg him to stay or at least to take her with him, but he never glanced back. She gazed about the coaching yard where several drovers discussed cattle in heavy Scots accents. The smell of manure and sweat seeped into the carriage. Lottie put her handkerchief over her nose and hoped the inn would be better than its yard. ‘This is a fine mess you have landed yourself in, Lottie Charlton. What happens to you now? Why did you let him go like that?’
‘You will have to get out, miss.’ The large coachman with the broken nose opened the carriage door. ‘Orders is orders. It ain’t my business to contradict Lord Thorngrafton. He says to me, leave when you get to Gretna Green.’
Lottie blinked. ‘Excuse me? Why? Mr Dyvelston is getting a room. Surely you may wait a few moments. I wish to stay in the carriage, away from the gaze of ordinary bystanders. It wouldn’t be proper for me to wait in the yard on my own.’
‘I am only a coachman. I know nothing about the ways of gentlefolk.’
‘Your master will understand if you wait. You must wait.’ Lottie tried to give her words all the imperiousness of her mother, but she heard the undercurrent of desperation.
‘I need to leave.’ The coachman’s countenance took on a mulish expression. ‘My…master said that I needed to be in London with all speed once I had brought you to Gretna Green. He didn’t say nothing about waiting until that there gentleman procured a room. He told me, go once you get to Gretna Green.’
‘Can’t you wait until Mr Dyvelston returns? Please? For my sake?’ Lottie pressed her handkerchief more firmly to her mouth and willed Tristan to return. Her whole body tensed as she peered out of the carriage door into the crowded yard: drovers, farmhands and the odd woman, but no broad shoulders encased in a fine frock coat. Her insides shook at being cast amongst those people. ‘I beg you to reconsider.’
The big man shook his head. ‘It wouldn’t be proper, like. I have me orders. I like my job, miss. I won’t jeopardise it for no one.’
‘Why not? Mr Dyvelston charged you to look after me. I am sure he did. You cannot intend to leave me here with those ruffians.’ Lottie bit her lip, aware that the words had come out more harshly than she had intended. But he had to understand that she had been cosseted and looked after. She was of gentle birth.
‘No, he didn’t, like.’ The coachman lifted a bag from the back and set it down on the muddy cobblestones. ‘This is all there is, miss. I am sure he will return in a few moments. If you please, miss. I am on my way to London to wait for Lord Thorngrafton’s instructions. It is a week’s journey in good weather and I’d like to get on my way.’
‘But you have been driving through the night. Surely you will need time to rest. Mr Dyvelston will return in a few moments.’ Lottie clasped her hands together. ‘I beg you. Have mercy.’
‘That is true and you should be safe in that time. I want to be well into England afore I do that. If you please, miss….’
Lottie looked at the single bag. Her mother had said that she would send her things on. It appeared that Tristan had not bothered to pack a trunk or even a bag. She reached down and picked the satchel up. The yard blurred for a moment, but she stiffened her back. Regained her composure. She would be fine. Tristan would return before she knew it. She held out her hand and the coachman helped her from the carriage. ‘Thank you. It is very kind of you.’
She reached into her reticule and drew out a halfpenny. ‘This is for you.’
‘It’s all right, miss, Lord Thorngrafton pays me well, so he does. Best of luck.’ The coachman twisted his hat. ‘Begging your pardon, but this here is from Lord Thorngrafton… in case you change your mind. In case…’
Lottie regarded the bank note with a sinking heart. Lord Thorngrafton must believe that Tristan was planning to abandon her. ‘Don’t you trust Mr Dyvelston?’
‘I trust him all right, but…just the same. Best to be prepared, miss.’
‘I couldn’t, really.’ Lottie turned her face into her handkerchief.
‘Take it, miss, for my sake. Lord Thorngrafton has a right temper if his will is crossed.’
Her throat closed. She had wronged Lord Thorngrafton last November. He had thought about her comfort and had not been sure of his cousin. He had sought to protect her. She fingered the note and placed it in her reticule. ‘You must thank Lord Thorngrafton for me. I will thank him myself when I can.’
‘As you wish, miss. God speed.’ The coachman touched his hat and went back to his place.
He snapped the reins and the carriage started to move. It made its way through the jumble of carts and horses, rolling away from her. A single tear ran down her cheek, but she pushed it away with impatient fingers.
Lottie stood there, her head held high and her fingers clutching her satchel and reticule in the centre of the yard, aware that people were looking at her and her much creased clothes. Aware that she had rapidly become an object of interest and curiosity. Lottie tightened her grip. She refused to stand there, being gaped at like some spectacle in a diorama or other cheap entertainment. She had to act.
She walked towards the inn and peeked into the public room, hoping to discover the familiar shape of Tristan’s shoulders or his top hat floating above the crowd. The entire room appeared full of farmers, day labourers and drovers. High-pitched female laughter came from a dimly lit corner where Lottie could just make out a flurry of petticoats and entangled limbs. She stared for a heartbeat at the brazenness of it. The stench was worse than the yard. Lottie gave a soft cry and buried her face more firmly in the handkerchief.
‘Is there something you want, dearie?’ an old crone asked, leering at her with a one-toothed smile. ‘Sell your ear bobs, or your pretty hair? I pay top price for golden curls like yours.’
‘Not my hair. Not my ear bobs.’ Lottie blanched and rapidly made her way back into the coaching yard. She heard the crone’s laughter chasing her as she went.
Lottie paused by the stable entrance and tried to get her breath as she scanned the yard for any sign of Tristan. But it remained stubbornly free of her future husband. She closed her eyes and wished. Opened them. Nothing. The sun beat down on her bonnet and her shift stuck to her back. Maybe Lord Thorngrafton’s surmise was correct and Tristan did not intend to come back for her. He had only taken her here to abandon her to her fate. He would then claim she had run away and he’d be free to live his dissolute life.
Abandoned at the altar to a life of sin.
Cousin Frances had taken great pleasure in describing several Minerva Press novels where this was a main feature. The villain lures the heroine with blandishments, only to abandon her after he has had his wicked way with her, forcing her into a Life of Degradation…if it were not for the hero.
Lottie gave a tremulous smile. She had to think logically. Tristan had not had his wicked way with her, beyond the kiss they had shared on the terrace. If he had been planning to abandon her, he would have done so then, instead of taking her here. She had to be logical, and not give way to panic.
A sob built in her throat and she muffled it with the handkerchief. She refused to give way to wailing here despite the longing in her breast. She scrubbed her eyes with the now-crumpled handkerchief, replaced it in her reticule and took a fresh one as she made a slow circuit of the yard. When she returned to the stables, there was still no sign of Tristan. It was as if he had vanished.
Had something happened? Had some evil befallen him? An ice-cold hand went around her heart.
She counted to thirty and then thirty once more. Looked again hard at the door Tristan had disappeared through. Tristan failed to appear.
She bit her lips and attempted to think clearly as a pain pounded against her eyeballs. Something had happened to Tristan. She had to find where he had gone and determine if he did intend to marry her. She would search for him, all day and night if she had to, and, if he remained lost, she would return to Newcastle, much chastened, hoping for charity. She would use Lord Thorngrafton’s money to purchase her train fare back to Newcastle. The first thing she would do when she did arrive home would be to raid her savings and send the money back to Lord Thorngrafton. It would be the polite thing to do, and she would not mention the scoundrel-like behaviour of his cousin.
Henry and her mother might not be pleased to see her, but they would not turn her from their door. She was certain of that. She was part of their family, in spite of everything.
She cringed, thinking of the words Henry would use, and how Mama would cry and how Lucy would look and sigh. Behind her skirts, everyone would whisper that she had deserved it, that pride came before a fall.
Emma Stanton had had it lucky, looking after her mother. Lottie caught her lip between her teeth. She wished she had never made fun of her last Christmas. Social success was such a transitory thing. Maybe Emma would be kind and send a list of books for her to read in her exile.
But somewhere deep inside her, a little voice told her that Tristan would look after her. She had to trust him. He had no reason to abandon her like this.
‘Where is the market?’ she asked an elderly lady with a well-lived-in face. ‘I wish to find a constable. I have lost someone. He needs to be returned to me.’
The lady appeared surprised to be addressed. ‘Lost someone? A man? Mother Hetts is good at finding men for pretty doves.’
‘Yes, my fiancé appears to have gone missing.’ Lottie was unable to prevent the slight catch in her throat. She swallowed hard before she continued in a steadier voice, ‘It is imperative I find him. I am worried that something might have happened to him. It is unlike him to leave me for so long and in a place like this.’
‘Men are like that, pet. They come. They go. You will find another soon.’ The woman’s eyes roamed over Lottie’s dress. ‘Particularly in them there togs.’
‘I don’t want another. I want to find my fiancé, Tristan Dyvelston. I thought the parish constable might be able to help.’
‘His box is that way. But you won’t be catching him in his box today, mind. Market day, me pet.’ The old woman’s eyes grew crafty. ‘Of course, I could be wrong. It might be best to check. Make sure you take the third turn on your right. It will take you straight there. Otherwise it is a long ways around and there are bad folks about.’
‘Thank you, thank you.’ Lottie pressed the woman’s hand. ‘I really appreciate your kindness. I am sure I will find him now.’
‘I hope you do, pet. There are them that don’t.’ The woman smiled, a cruel smile. ‘You can always come back and finds me. I will offer you a good home. You come back here and tell that there landlord Mother Hetts will give you a place to rest your pretty golden head.’
Lottie stepped over a pile of muck and turned her back on the woman and crowded yard, hurrying away from that evil place as quickly as she could. She would not think about ‘them that don’t’ and ‘a good home’. She could do this. She was capable. It would be no worse than going for a walk in Haydon Bridge. She would find the constable and explain. He could discover Tristan’s whereabouts while she waited. She would be safe.
The market-day crowd jostled her, but she kept on walking, relieved to be taking action instead of standing there panicking. She released her breath and tried to ignore the stares, acutely aware that her paisley dress was more fit for carriages than walking. Several women wrapped in woollen shawls and carrying baskets stared at her and put their heads together, whispering and pointing.
A carriage with a young girl and her mother in it swept past, splashing mud on the hem of her gown. Lottie gave a small cry and jumped back. Then she stooped and tried to wipe it off as men stopped and stared. A man said something unintelligble, but Lottie shook her head. She glanced back over her shoulder towards the inn, but it had been swallowed up by the crowd. She couldn’t go back and she had no guarantee that Tristan would even be looking for her. Once she found a constable, things could be put right. All this unpleasantness would be a bad dream.
Several of the market goers jostled her. Lottie continued on, holding her reticule close, trying not to think about the beggars and thieves. She saw the opening, more of an alleyway than a street. She hesitated, then chided herself for being a ninny. The elderly woman had been quite specific with her directions. She plunged into the narrow street. It was imperative that she find the constable as quickly as possible.