Regency Bride: Hattie Wilkinson Meets Her Match / An Ideal Husband?

Chapter Seven

Walking away from Kit was the right thing to do, Hattie thought as she strode away from where he stood. To stay would mean giving in to temptation and starting to believe that there was something between them. She had nearly cried when he told her the story about the jumping-jack and then he became so cold, practically accusing her of trying to interfere. And then he’d made the suggestion and it changed everything. She was not going to tumble into bed with him. Ever.

Hattie pushed past the gawkers around the find-a-penny man and the farmers and their wives outside the exotic curiosity stall. She resisted the temptation to turn around and see where Kit was.

A gypsy cart had become stuck in the middle of a boggy bit. Hattie attempted to squeeze around the back, ignoring the gypsy woman who offered to read the pretty lady’s fortune. When she was a little girl, Mrs Hampstead used to tell stories about how gypsies spirited people away, over and over again because Stephanie loved being scared. Even now, Hattie was not entirely comfortable around them. They were harmless for the most part and a simple ‘no’ generally sufficed.

A gypsy man with a scarlet bandana and a gold earring loomed up in front of her, asking if she wanted a bit of lucky heather.

Hattie shook her head ‘no’, picked up and hurried off in the opposite direction.

By the time she’d recovered her composure, she realised that she was in completely the wrong place, close to the rough end of the fair where the cockfighting and bear-baiting happened, with no easy or straightforward way to get to where Stephanie had set up camp.

She wished she had taken Kit’s offer to escort her back but that would have only prolonged the agony. It was over and done. She could go back to her dull, unexciting life.

‘Hey, watch where you are going.’ a man shouted at her and she managed to duck before she was hit by a large metal trap.

‘That was far from my fault,’ Hattie muttered and turned down another row of stalls. These were devoted to all manner of farm equipment. She turned another way and heard the cries of a cockfight. She could never understand why anyone would think such a thing was entertainment.

She rubbed her hand over her face. Several painted women sauntered passed, with swinging hips and fixed expressions. The distinct odour of stale alcohol choked the air.

Hattie picked up her skirts and began to hurry towards the ale tent. It was early enough so there should not be too great of a problem. But once there, she’d get her bearings. Stephanie was going to be annoyed. She could handle Stephanie, but she knew if anything had happened to Livvy or Portia, she’d never forgive herself.

What could she have been thinking about, going off with Kit like that? She’d abandoned Livvy for nothing but her own pleasure. Hattie quickened her steps. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. Her boots seemed to pound out the words. Hattie reached for a handkerchief and covered her nostrils.

‘What’s your hurry, my dear?’ A rough hand grabbed her elbow. Her captor sported a purple scar stretching from the corner of his right eye to his nose. Two more men stood behind him, egging him on. ‘We can have some sport with this one.’

‘I am not your dear.’ Hattie drew herself up to her full height and gave her most imperious stare. The last thing she wanted to show was fear, particularly not to a man who looked the worst for drink. It was all a misunderstanding. ‘Unhand me and allow me to go about my business unhampered.’

‘Pardon me for breathing.’ His hand loosened. He said something in an undertone to his loathsome companions.

A nervous trembling filled Hattie’s limbs. It was that easy. Mrs Reynaud was right. A positive attitude could work miracles. Her virtue was her shield.

She started to move on, slowly and sedately, but purposefully. The men were drunk. They’d leave her alone. Once she’d returned to Stephanie, she was never going to hanker after travelling or adventures again.

‘Give us a kiss. Proud lady.’ Another hand caught her upper arm. The stench of sour ale and tobacco filled her nostrils. This time she was pulled back against his fat chest.

‘Let me go.’

Kit let Hattie walk away into the crowd. It had all gone wrong when she’d mentioned the name Reynaud. Stupid, really. There were hundreds of people with that name. It wasn’t Hattie’s fault that his mother had abandoned him for a Frenchman named Jacques Reynaud. The woman in question was probably another innocent caught up in the mess his mother had left behind.

He’d taken the crude and insulting way out, using his seductive voice to make suggestions, making her unsure. He’d known that she’d leave. Coward that he was. And all because of a name from the past that should no longer have any power. He was a man, not a youth who had been teased endlessly about his mother and her morals. Disgust filled him. He knew the proper way to act in society. But it was better this way. Their friendship had to end before … before he started to care.

He curled his hand about the jumping-jack and regarded the various faces of the farm labourers and other men. The noise from the ale tent had increased. Hattie might think that she didn’t need his help, but he was not about to abandon her. Not when it was his fault to begin with.

He watched her take a wrong turning and then followed a few paces behind. Once she was back with her family, he’d relax and she’d cease to be his problem.

He lost sight of her when she rounded the gypsy caravan. Kit went down one aisle and then another, but nowhere did he see Hattie’s back. He started to circle around towards the ale tent, ignoring the shorter route by the cock and bear pits. Hattie with her strict sensibilities would never go there.

Let me go.

Her voice floated on the air.

Kit broke into a run. Near the cockpit, he saw her, surrounded by a group of farmhands who were the worse for wear with drink. Several of them gave coarse laughs and called out obscene suggestions.

Hattie’s hand beat against the largest one’s chest. Her straw bonnet had slipped off her head and lay abandoned in the mud. Kit cursed. Her predicament was all his fault.

He knew the dangers that a fair could bring and he’d been the one to allow her to wander about on her own. His mistake and he always owned up.

He glanced around. Four against one. The odds were not good, but he refused to stand by. Going and fetching the parish constable was not an option. But if he started something, others would join in and lend a hand.

‘Unhand that lady!’

‘Mind your business. We are having a bit of sport.’

Kit clenched his fists. His eyes flickered from face to face, memorising their features. He’d lost count of how many fights he’d experienced, but he knew how to fight and he was sober. ‘I doubt that is possible. She is with me. I look after my own. Unless you want to be seriously injured or worse, let her go now.’

The mountain of a man loosened his grip on Hattie. The primitive urge to tear him limb from limb filled Kit. He struggled to keep his temper. Cool and collected won fights—giving in to anger resulted in errors. He’d learnt that back at Eton when he’d tried to defend his mother’s name.

‘Who will stop me? You? On your own? I have won my last six bouts in the ring.’

A would-be pugilist who had had far too much to drink. Kit stifled a laugh. It was going to be easier than he thought.

‘It is a serious mistake to doubt my ability. My pugilist ability is renowned in London. Ask at any pub about Kit Foxton and see what they say.’

The mountain scratched his nose. ‘It ain’t known up here.’

‘We could have a bare-knuckle fight if you wish, but allow the lady to go about her business,’ Kit said in a deadly voice.

‘And you think to come from London and tell us our ways.’

‘You should respect your betters.’ The blood pumped through Kit’s veins. He looked forward to the fight. To do something. ‘Shall we have at it, here and now?’

The mountain shoved Hattie away from him. Kit breathed again. ‘If you wish.’

‘Kit …’ Hattie was suddenly very afraid ‘… he has a knife.’

‘Go, Hattie. Get help. This shouldn’t take long.’ He turned his head slightly and felt the first punch graze his temple. ‘You shouldn’t have done that. I don’t mind a fair fight, but not an unfair one. We start when we start and not before.’

He landed a punch squarely in the fat farmhand’s middle, brought his knee up and connected again. The man countered with a wild stab, but the knife missed by a hairbreadth. Kit punched again, harder, and the man collapsed on the ground. When the man was down on the ground, Kit stamped on his wrist and the knife dropped from his grip. Kit kicked the knife away.

‘Playing with knives can get you hurt.’ Kit picked him up by the lapels. ‘Are you ready to begin our fight?’

The man grunted and wildly flailed his arms. Kit landed a blow on the man’s jaw. The man gurgled slightly and lay back. Kit lowered him to the ground. It was easier than he thought. Kit dusted down his breeches and turned his back on the prone man. ‘Does anyone else have a quarrel with me?’

The three men looked at each other and began to back away. Cowards.

Kit gave them a look of utter contempt. ‘Next time, give the ladies more respect.’

‘I ain’t finished yet, Londoner.’ A fist came out of nowhere, landing in the middle of Kit’s back.

Kit crouched and began to fight in earnest as blow after blow rained down on his head. Somewhere in the distance, he heard the sound of a parish constable’s whistle.

The world turned black at the edges and a sharp pain went into his jaw, swiftly followed by a pain to the back of his head.

‘All my fault, Hattie, I didn’t mean to frighten you,’ he murmured. The world went black.

Hattie swallowed the scream and rushed over to where Kit lay in the dirt, heedless of the way her skirt swept into the thick mud, ready to defend him, now that he was defenceless.

She put her hand on his chest. He was still breathing. The attackers had either run off at the sound of the whistle or lay on the ground, groaning. The fight was over. Kit had won, but at what cost? He couldn’t be seriously hurt because of her folly, could he?

Hattie offered a silent prayer. She didn’t care what happened to her reputation or anything else as long as Kit was all right. This entire mess had happened because of her pride and her fear. She knew where the blame lay and she wanted to make amends. A shiver went through her.

‘Come on. Kit,’ she said. ‘We need to get you to the doctor.’

Kit mumbled incoherently and failed to rise.

‘Here now, what is going on?’ a burly parish constable demanded, bustling up. He gave another loud toot on his whistle. He started in surprise. ‘Mrs Wilkinson, what are you doing here? Messed up in this nonsense? It isn’t a sight for a lady such as yourself. Where is your family? Someone should be looking after you. It ain’t safe around here. Here is where the gaming happens. And the cockfighting. Your brother-in-law should have known better.’

Hattie heaved a sigh of relief. Mr Jessop was the parish constable for St Michael’s, rather than being from one of the other parishes. It made things much easier. She stood up and faced him.

‘I made a mistake and turned the wrong way. Thankfully, my guardian angel was looking after me and sent a protector.’

‘Where is he?’

‘There on the ground. Sir Christopher Foxton.’

Mr Jessop gaped. ‘Sir Christopher Foxton? He is involved? This is bad, very bad.’

Hattie noticed the other men turn white and start to edge away. A group of farmhands stood solidly behind Mr Jessop, preventing them from leaving.

‘These men attacked me and Sir Christopher defended my honour, Mr Jessop. What you see is the aftermath of battle, which I am delighted to say Sir Christopher won.’ Hattie rapidly explained the situation, giving an account that was accurate in all the particulars but skated over some of the details. There was no need to tell the constable about the quarrel which preceded the event. All he had to know was that Sir Christopher had defended her honour with great vigour.

‘In broad daylight?’ The parish constable’s eyes widened. He drew himself up. ‘What is the world coming to? You should have stayed to the main part of the fair, Mrs Wilkinson.’

‘They were insensible with drink.’ Hattie pressed her hands together and tried to keep her limbs from trembling. ‘It is lucky Sir Christopher happened by when he did.’

‘Do you wish to press charges?’

Hattie regarded the patch of spreading red on Kit’s chest and the way his face was swelling. A primitive urge to see the men hanged filled her. She pushed it away. ‘You must do as you see fit, Mr Jessop. It was a fight, but it is also the day of Stagshaw fair. You will have to speak with Sir Christopher when he is in a better state.’

‘I see, Mrs Wilkinson. No doubt there will be a few sore heads in the morning. A spell cooling off over in Hexham gaol will do them good.’

‘I wish to get medical help for Sir Christopher before anything else happens. Sir Christopher’s well-being is the most important thing.’

Kit mumbled something. Hattie bent down. ‘What is it you want to say?’

His fingers curled about hers. ‘Don’t leave me,’ he murmured in a broken whisper. ‘Please stay … please, I beg you.’

Hattie’s heart flipped over. She smoothed a lock of hair from his forehead. He’d risked his life for her. All this had happened because she had decided to take offence at his flirtatious comments, comments which were not meant to be taken literally. She had behaved worse than an aged maiden aunt. He wasn’t asking her to stay for ever, just until he recovered. ‘Yes, I’ll look after you. I promise. I’ve no intention of leaving you.’

He gave a crooked smile and closed his eyes. ‘Good.’

She held his hand, waiting until he became calm and his breathing regular. After what Kit had said, her decision was surprisingly easy. It didn’t matter that Stephanie would be terribly shocked. Stephanie would get over it. One simply did not turn one’s back on someone who had risked his life for her.

‘His lordship can’t stay here,’ Mr Jessop said. ‘It’s not right.’

‘I will take Sir Christopher back to the Dower House where he can be properly nursed.’ Hattie stood up. ‘I would appreciate the doctor arriving there as soon as possible. I will want several stout men to help me to get him into the governess cart.’

‘Back to your house, ma’am? Are you sure that is wise?’

‘I pay my debts, Mr Jessop, and I owe this man a huge debt. You send Dr Gormley to me once he has been found.’

‘It is fair day, Mrs Wilkinson.’ Mr Jessop rocked back on his heels.

‘You may try the ale tent or, failing that, machinery exhibition. The good doctor is as fond of inventions as the next man.’

Hattie waited, trying to keep her gaze steady. Surely Mr Jessop was going to assist her, rather than throwing up roadblocks?

Mr Jessop nodded and gave the orders. ‘It is my profound regret that this happened. We run a clean fair. It must be ten years since anything of significance has happened.’

‘I know you do. It wasn’t your fault.’ Hattie bent down and shook Kit’s shoulder. ‘Kit, can you walk or do you need to be carried?’

‘Give me your shoulder, Hattie, and I’ll walk. I can do anything if you help me. I can do more things if you’d kiss me.’ The words were a bit slurred and Hattie wondered if he’d hit his head in the fight. The Kit she was used to would never say such a thing.

Mr Jessop, she noticed, had studiously averted his eyes. So much for her hope to keep anything with Sir Christopher private—the gossip would be all over the fair within minutes. ‘If you are sure you don’t need us for anything else, I will get him back to my house. I believe he has hit his head.’

‘I’ll help you, ma’am, in case he falls like,’ a thin farmer said. ‘Way aye, I saw the whole thing and one of them brought a walking stick down on his head. ‘Tweren’t right, that. The man’s a hero. It weren’t many men who’d do something like that.’

‘We will haul this lot up in front of the magistrates come Monday morning,’ Mr Jessop declared.

‘I will be happy to give evidence,’ the farmer said. ‘And me lad as well.’

Hattie felt the tears well up. She hadn’t expected any assistance and now it seemed people were queuing up to support her.

‘Let me know if his condition worsens,’ Mr Jessop called out as she started the slow march towards her governess cart with Kit’s heavy weight leaning on her shoulder.

‘Obviously.’

Was what she was doing the right thing? Hattie gave a small shudder when she thought about Stephanie, but that couldn’t be helped. She’d given Kit her word and she intended on keeping it. They were friends.

Please let him be all right. That was all that mattered.

Chapter Eight

Kit woke with a start from confused dreams about Hattie, his uncle and various jumping-jacks. A single candle shone by the bed and there was an engraving of some biblical scene hanging on the opposite wall. The room was small and austere, a sickroom and utterly unfamiliar.

His entire body ached and his right eye was swollen shut. And he was dressed in a voluminous nightshirt, unlike the sort he normally wore. His head ached like the very devil.

He searched his mind, trying to figure out how he’d arrived here. The events of the afternoon came flooding back. As far as bright ideas went, taking on four men was not one of his better ones. But try as he might, between landing the first punch and to just now, his mind was a blank.

He put a hand to the back of his head, probing. A huge pain shot through him, blinding in its intensity. He’d obviously banged his head. But beyond a few aches and pains, he would survive. There was no reason to stay here, helpless and at the mercy of some unknown quack.

He swung his feet over the side of the bed and started to push his protesting body to a stand.

‘Oh, no, you don’t. You are to stay in bed and get well.’ Cool hands pushed him back down on to crisp linen sheets. He turned his head in case his fevered mind had conjured her up.

The candlelight made her blonde hair shine and highlighted the hollow at the base of her throat. An angel. No, an angel would not wear a sprigged muslin. An angel would be dressed in flowing robes. It was Hattie in the flesh and blood. Her sewing had fallen to the floor as she stood to enforce her command. The sheer domesticity of the scene made him want to weep.

He rubbed his left eye and tried to open his right to make sure he wasn’t dreaming. He could not remember the last time when someone volunteered to look after him. Since an early age, it had always been someone who was paid and done out of duty, rather than for any other reason. A sense of great humbleness filled Kit. Hattie had done this for him.

‘Where am I?’

‘At my house.’

‘Your house?’ Kit searched his mind, but the big black well prevented him. ‘What am I doing here? The last thing I remember is getting into a fight with a stubborn drunk.’

‘You are to stay in bed until the doctor says that you can rise.’ She crossed her arms and glared at him. ‘I’d be grateful if you obliged me in this if nothing else.’

He tried to catch her hand before remembering how she’d walked away from him and settled for clutching the sheet instead. He refused to beg. He had deliberately driven her away.

‘Hattie? Why am I here? How? You live miles away from Stagshaw. The last thing I recall is the fight near the cockpit. And that drunk with his paws on you.’

‘Not too far.’ She turned her face from him, revealing her slender neck. ‘I had them bring you to my house. It seemed the best place. A bit closer than Southview. I was being practical after … after the fight. You couldn’t be left on your own, waiting for the doctor to show up.’

‘I thank you.’

‘It was the least I could do in the circumstances. I’d do it for any wretch who risked their neck to save me.’