Death at Dawn - Caro Peacock [127]
‘No, you’re not safe yet,’ I said, bending to pick up the extinguished lamp. ‘You’re not safe until you’re miles away and married.’
The phaeton was visible now, backed into a gateway with its one surviving lamp lit and a groom holding the two horses. Philip carried her into it and sat beside her with his arm round her. The groom jumped on to the box and turned the horses. As the phaeton began to move, Celia turned round.
‘Elizabeth –’ (So she still hadn’t heard me) ‘– I’ll always be so very, very grateful to you. I’ll send for you when we have a house, I promise.’
‘I doubt it very much,’ I said. ‘On both counts.’
But I said it to the back of the departing phaeton.
Amos Legge slipped off the cob and stood beside me.
‘Where we going now, miss?’
‘Up to the house.’
Looking back, it hurts me to think I didn’t even thank him.
‘Give you a leg up on Rancie, if you like. There’s a saddle on her.’
‘Better not, thank you.’
Riding astride in skirts and petticoats was not a comfortable prospect. So we both stayed on foot and went slowly up the lane in the dusk, he and the cob leading the way. At a bend, I glanced down to the main road and saw the single light of the phaeton speeding through the dark, probably at a canter. Somewhere, at first light, her conscientious Philip would have a clergyman waiting in a suitably private chapel and whatever happened her name wouldn’t be Mandeville any more.
‘Mr Legge,’ I said into the dusk between us, ‘there’s something important I want to say to you.’
‘Yes, miss.’
The cob plodded on.
‘If anything happens to me, please keep Rancie. Or if you can’t keep her, find someone who’ll treat her well.’
We took another few paces while he considered.
‘What are you thinking might happen to you, miss?’
‘I don’t know. But my mind would be easier if you’d promise.’
Another few paces.
‘If it makes your mind easier, yes.’
We went on up the road between clouds of white cow parsley flowers that seemed to glow with their own light against the dark hedges. Rancie walked easily and delicately, occasionally nuzzling my shoulder. We were almost at the point where the back road joined the carriage drive when she stopped suddenly, raised her head and flared her nostrils.
‘What’s wrong, Rancie?’
The cob stopped too and whinnied. There were lanterns up ahead, two or three of them, and silhouettes behind. Then voices calling out to us, sharp and angry.
‘Who are you? Stop where you are.’
And a sharper voice above the rest, ‘Celia, is that you?’
I said softly to Amos Legge, ‘Do you happen to have a pistol with you?’
‘They don’t mean us any harm, miss. It’s the other lady they’re looking for.’
‘Do you have a pistol? If you have, please lend it to me.’
It was a real hope. A man who travelled might carry one to keep off highwaymen. In my mood, it seemed downright unreasonable of Amos not to have one. I suppose my voice was sharp, because he tried to soothe me.
‘No, miss. In any case, there’s no call for one.’
The cob was scared by now and wouldn’t budge, so we stayed where we were as the lamps came towards us. There were five men. When one of them turned his lamp sideways, throwing light on the rest of the group, I could see that three of them looked like grooms or coachmen, one was the man who called himself Trumper, and the man leading them was Celia’s brother, Stephen. He was hatless, still dressed in the dark cut-away coat, trousers and light pumps he’d worn for the ball. His face was furious.
‘Turn the light on them,’ he snapped at one of the grooms. Then, seeing Amos Legge, ‘Who the hell are you? What are you doing here?’
Amos Legge said nothing.
‘Helping the man who’s got your sister,’ Trumper suggested.
‘Is that true?’
Stephen Mandeville took a step towards Legge, who didn’t move an inch.
‘I asked you a question?’
When Legge still didn’t reply he raised an arm as if to punch him in the face. Legge simply took hold of the arm and pushed it aside as if it had been no more than a tree branch in the way.
‘Take hold of him,’ Mandeville