Chapter Eighteen

Virginia’s heart was smarting. The knowledge that Lord Strangeways could so easily turn against her after their intimate moment that morning hurt in a way that was quite different from her other hurts. As awful as losing her parents had been, she had never been betrayed before.

To think that she had thought she might actually have been falling in love with the viscount. How could he so easily cast her in the role of spy? How could she have allowed such a man to kiss her, to very nearly steal her heart? Even now, she couldn’t forget the warmth of desire she had known that morning.

It must be different for men. Perhaps for them, physical desire could be walled off from other feelings. Maybe for them, there was no deep emotional component such as the one she felt. If there had been like emotions on Lord Strangeways’s part, would he have been so quick to judge her? She thought not.

Remembering their conversation of that morning, however, she had a qualm. Had she not implied that she would choose her country over him? Being a man and able to shut his feelings off separately from his actions, had he thought her to be the same—kissing him when she had no further relationship in mind? Did he actually think her a wanton?

From his perspective she could see that she had certainly acted the part: kissing him passionately and then telling him she was going to return home to America, not marry an English aristocrat. Why had she acted in that way? And if she had spoken the truth, why had his betrayal hurt so much?

There was only one answer. She had come to care for the viscount far more than she realized. He had swept her off her feet since that first dance. And even when her memory of it was gone, he proceeded to reach past her American prejudices as she lay ill at Southbrooke.

The feelings had been tantalizing, every one of them preparing her for what had taken place in the park that morning. To her, Anthony Gibson, Viscount Strangeways, had been a man she could love, not merely an Englishman. But she had run from him that afternoon just as surely as she had run from Sagethorn and Lord Wellingham.

Now, as her instinct to run from danger and hurt waned, Virginia slowly began to wonder if she had made a huge mistake. Dorset was a very long way, George had said. Had she just jumped out of one mess into another? Surely spending several days traveling with him, even though they were in an open curricle, would compromise her reputation. There would be nights at inns!

In her anxiety to take refuge with her uncle, it never occurred to her that Dorset could be so far away or that it didn’t matter whether the Honorable George was honorable or not. In society’s eyes she would be ruined.

Her companion had been uncharacteristically silent. Glancing at his face, she knew him well enough to read his look of complete satisfaction. George Tisdale knew exactly what he was doing.

“I have changed my mind,” she said. “I didn’t understand at the outset that Dorset was so far away. I’m sorry to have put you at such an inconvenience, but I think we should go back.”

“You just realized that all of London thinks we have run off together by now? It is too late, my dear Virginia.”

“You knew,” she said, trying to rein in her anger. “You could have told me at the outset how far away Dorset is. It’s what a gentleman would have done.”

He said nothing, just kept driving the pair of blacks that pulled them.

“Stop at once!” she said.

When he ignored her, she seized the reins from his hands and pulled them back. “Whoa, there,” she said, her voice strong and steady. Before he could stop her, she leapt from the curricle.

They had been passing through a small town with a few dwellings and candles burning in the windows. She tripped up the brick walk to a small home as she heard George calling out to her. Fortunately there was no place to hitch the horses and they were restive, as though they sensed something amiss. Unless he wanted to lose his horses, he had no choice but to stay in the curricle.

The walls of the cottage were covered with ivy that drooped over the portico. Using a brass knocker, Virginia summoned whoever was inside.

A small woman dressed in black with a white pinafore apron carrying a beeswax candle answered. “Yes, miss? May I help you? Are you lost?”

“Yes,” Virginia said. “Can you tell me how far it is to Dorset?”

The woman’s nearly invisible eyebrows shot up. “Dorset? Oh, miss, you are not on the road to Dorset. This is the Great North Road.”

Virginia froze. What? In addition to everything else, George has kidnapped me? He is not even taking me to my uncle?

Her mind raced ahead, trying to decide how she could escape from this disaster. In a moment, she gave her name and asked the woman if she could come in and speak to her mistress.

“I’ll get her for you,” she said. “She has just finished dining. Follow me.”

To Virginia’s great satisfaction, the heavy door was closed and bolted behind her.

They entered a blue-and-white parlor at the front of the house. Virginia strode about the room nervously and peeked out the window. George had evidently found a hitching rail and was leading his horses there.

Impatient, she took in her surroundings. What type of woman lived here? Whoever it was appeared well-to-do. The room was papered with blue stripes, and the furniture was covered in a matching striped pattern. From what she could see the floors were highly polished, and the room smelled of lemon and beeswax.

In moments, a tiny woman dressed all in white entered the room. Even her hair was white, dressed high on her head with a single ringlet over her shoulder. “Millicent says you have lost your way.” Her voice was light and gentle as she sat down. “Suppose you tell me about it?”

Virginia made a split-second decision to trust the woman. “I am Miss Virginia Livingstone. My aunt’s nephew was supposed to be taking me to my uncle in Dorset,” she said, seating herself on the blue-and-white-striped couch. “He appears to be kidnapping me, since your housekeeper tells me we are on the Great North Road.”

There was heavy pounding on the front door. “Oh, my dear!” the lady squeaked, her hands flying in agitation. “Bette! You are not to answer the door!” A tiny white ball of Yorkie puppy came running into the room and jumped up on his mistress. “You are being absconded with! This person is clearly taking you to Gretna Green!”

“Gretna Green?” echoed Virginia. The woman had spoken the words with contagious alarm.

“Have you never heard of Gretna Green, dear? It is in Scotland.”

“I am an American. I have lived in England only a few weeks. Why would George take me to this place?”

“To be married ‘over the anvil,’ dear. It is where couples fly to when they are eloping.”

“Over the anvil?” Virginia was even more puzzled. “A blacksmith’s anvil? How bizarre! I don’t understand.”

“In Scotland the laws are terribly heathen. For some reason that has never been clear to me, a blacksmith can marry you, and you need not have any proof of age or parental permission. Just making the long journey will compromise you. This George must think you will be anxious to be legally married by the time you get there.”

Horror passed through her, and she jumped up. “Well, I will not! I will not marry him. He is a thorough rascal for thinking he can get away with this. How far must I go to rent a post chaise to take me to London? I have money, thankfully.”

“It is not far, but you cannot travel alone,” the lady said. “I am Mrs. Landscombe, a nice, respectable widow. I will go with you. But first, I am certain you must be starving. Come with me, and Millicent will bring you a bowl of broth and some bread and cheese.”

The Yorkie flew through the house and barked for all the world as though he intended to protect his mistress from any evildoing with every bit of his tiny might. It was so comic that Virginia almost laughed in spite of her worries.

 

Virginia didn’t know what she would do if she didn’t follow the lady’s advice. “You are terribly kind, but I can’t allow you to go out at this time of night.”

“Never mind, dear. I have a pistol, and I know how to use it. We shall be safe. Now, just you eat. We must be back in London by morning. And dear me, I must get you a warmer shawl.”

The broth and bread were delicious, and Virginia ate ravenously. The pounding on the door had finally ceased. Virginia heard the equipage drive off.

Mrs. Landscombe entered the room, a wool Liberty shawl over her arm. “Here, dear, this is just what you need for a cool spring night like this.”

“Do you have a wagon or a carriage?” Virginia asked.

“I have a little cart and a sweet pony I take to the village to do my shopping. It will be sufficient to get us to the posting house. The horrible George has moved on, by the way. Let us hope he does not spread stories.”

After dining and attiring herself in the shawl the size of a small blanket, Virginia and her diminutive rescuer left for the posting house.

“I should like to hear your story, my dear,” Mrs. Landscombe said. “How does a young American lady arrive in England during wartime?”

She shared an abbreviated version of her story and added, “My uncle is at his estate in Dorset. That is where I was going.”

“This George sounds thoroughly abominable. Do you have someone in London who can take up cudgels against him?”

She recalled that George was not her only problem. There was the business that had made her leave London. Did society now think her a spy? Where was she to go? She didn’t want to return to her aunt’s house, as Lady Ogletree had most likely been complicit in George’s plan. It had been very clear that she was pushing for a union between them.

But there was one household where she thought she might be welcome.

“I have two very kind friends who will take me in,” she said, telling Mrs. Landscombe about Lady Clarice and Miss Braithwaite.

When they arrived at the posting house, a prosperous-looking inn with a yard full of carriages and horses, Mrs. Landscombe instructed her to go inside and get warm while she made the arrangements to rent a conveyance.

Once inside the inn, she sought a private parlor but left the door open for Mrs. Landscombe. As she warmed gloved hands at the fire, to her shock and surprise, she heard a familiar voice.

Lord Strangeways? Here? What on earth was he doing at this posting house?

Moving near the door, she listened.

“I am inquiring after a young lady who has been taken against her will,” he was saying. “Her aunt is of the opinion that the lady is being forced to elope to Scotland.”

His words stunned her. Her aunt had sent the viscount? Stifling her desire to fly across the room to him, she remembered in time that the viscount was probably looking for her in order to arrest her. Though she wished he truly was sent by her aunt to rescue her, she was afraid he was here for the latter purpose.

How she hoped Lady Clarice and Miss Braithwaite would be willing to give her shelter! If they didn’t she would simply have to acquire a horse and some boy’s clothing and make her way to Dorset on her own.

She kept out of sight, and soon the viscount left the inn. How had he known which road to take? Virginia tried to puzzle it out. Perhaps Lord Wellingham was on the Dorset road and Sir Bertie was going yet another direction.

She sat before the fire. Seeing him had been difficult, and her hands were shaking. Her heart was sore, her head hurt, and she realized she was thoroughly miserable.

Then Mrs. Landscombe came through the door to the parlor, and Virginia forced a smile to her face.

“I managed to rent a fast chaise,” Mrs. Landscombe said. “With luck we will arrive around two in the morning if we start now. Are you ready to go?”

“Yes,” Virginia said, pulling herself out of the chair. “You are so kind to me.”

“This is the least I can do. You poor thing. What a sad welcome you have had to our country!”

The journey in the post chaise was more comfortable than the curricle had been, and they had four horses instead of two, making it a faster trip. She thanked Providence all the way back to London that it had thrown her in the way of kind Mrs. Landscombe.

“Tell me about yourself, ma’am,” Virginia invited. “How long have you been widowed?”

The lady replied that it had been many years, and she had come to live on the outskirts of her village in order to be closer to brother and sister-in-law. Her brother was a vicar and very kind. She didn’t discuss her financial situation, but Virginia thought it must be adequate in order for the lady to have an independent residence. Knowing this wasn’t always the case for widowed women, she was happy for Mrs. Landscombe.

She listened to tales of the woman’s children, who also lived nearby. Her daughter was married to a baronet and had three daughters, all in London for the Season. One son was her brother’s curate, and another was a solicitor in a neighboring village.

The widow asked Virginia about America and expressed sadness at the loss of her parents and her home. “I hope you will find a fine Englishman and settle down happily. This will just be a bump in the road, my dear.”

Virginia had not the energy to protest and counter with her own plans to return to America. She merely smiled a tired smile and soon fell asleep against the squabs.

She woke when the horses slowed, signaling their entrance into London. Relieved, she told her rescuer that they could dismiss the post chaise at an inn and find a hansom cab that would know the address of Lady Clarice. She knew it only as Blossom House, near Green Park.

When this was accomplished, Mrs. Landscombe still showed no signs of fatigue. “I am actually quite thrilled to be in London,” she said. “This is an adventure for me.”

When they pulled into the district, candles still glowed in many a dwelling. This was the Season, of course, and the ton were still enjoying their entertainments. Virginia had forgotten this and hoped that their odd hour of arrival would not be too inconvenient for the ladies of Blossom House. They had traveled faster than anticipated, and it was only one in the morning.

Pursley answered the door, looking over the guests with no surprise.

“Miss Livingstone, you are here to see Lady Clarice?”

“Or Miss Braithwaite, if either of them is still awake. It is in the nature of an emergency.”

“Miss Braithwaite has just returned home. I believe she has not retired yet. Will you follow me?”

“This lady is my friend Mrs. Landscombe,” Virginia said.

They entered a red saloon, and Pursley lit the candles. To her surprise the motif was entirely Chinese.

“Oh, my,” murmured Mrs. Landscombe.

When the butler left them, Virginia whispered, “These ladies are exceptionally kind but a tad eccentric.”

Miss Braithwaite came bustling in, her iron-gray sausage ringlets bouncing. She carried Mr. Hale under an arm. The little dog started wiggling to be set down as soon as he saw his rescuer.

Virginia knelt to receive him. Wagging his tail frantically, he jumped into her arms. While dealing with doggie kisses, she introduced Mrs. Landscombe to Miss Braithwaite.

“Now, my dear Miss Livingstone, what brings you to Blossom House at this hour?”

“I’m afraid I was kidnapped by the horrible George Tisdale. He was supposed to take me to my uncle’s, but knowing I didn’t know the roads around here, he was carrying me off to Gretna Green.”

Miss Braithwaite’s eyebrows lowered in a scowl, and Mr. Hale growled low in his throat.

“The cad!” exclaimed the lady.

“Fortunately I managed to escape, and Mrs. Landscombe, whom I must count as my angel, was kind enough to escort me back to London in a rented post chaise.”

“We are, of course, happy to have you, but what of your aunt?”

Brushing aside the words she had overheard Lord Strangeways speak in the pub, Virginia said, “I am afraid she might have been complicit with the Horrible George. It has become clear that she wants us to marry.”

“My dear!” exclaimed Miss Braithwaite. “This is too bad!”

Virginia stroked Mr. Hale’s silky ears. “There is more.” She swallowed and lifted her chin. “I must tell you that Lord Strangeways and Lord Wellingham both believe me to be a spy. I swear to you that I am not.”

Mrs. Landscombe sat a little straighter in her chair. “You did not tell me that! What a terrible coil, to be sure!”

Virginia told them about the egregious Mr. Sagethorn’s attempt to recruit her. “I am convinced he has stolen secret documents from Lord Wellingham, but both men think I am guilty. That is why I was originally going to my uncle.”

“This is quite a tale,” said Miss Braithwaite. “I must say, you have been treated very shabbily, Miss Livingstone. I regret it from the bottom of my heart. We must see what we can do to repair your reputation.”

Virginia drooped. “I am terribly tired. Must we talk about this now?”

As though she hadn’t heard her, Miss Braithwaite went on. “I think the duchess’s literary luncheon tomorrow should do very well. It will show people you have not eloped, and the duchess’s championing of you will suit you very well.” She tossed her head emphatically. “I feel I must take Tony over my knee! What nonsense is he thinking?”

The lady stood. “Now you ladies must retire and get some sleep so you are ready for tomorrow. Mrs. Landscombe, allow me to say that you are a brick.”

“I am appalled by the way this poor lady has been treated!” her rescuer said. “I am so glad it was my cottage door upon which she knocked.”

Their gracious hostess led them to rooms that were already lit by fires, with warming pans heating, and ordered hot milk with honey.

Virginia’s anxiety began to wane as she realized she was in the best of hands. As she fell asleep at last, she sent a prayer of thanks heavenward.