The Corinthian

Chapter 11

They stood staring at one another. The gentleman found his voice first, but only to repeat in accents of still deeper amazement: “Pen! Pen Creed?”

“Yes, indeed I am!” Pen assured him, keeping the table between them.

His fists unclenched. “But—but what are you doing here? And in those clothes? I don’t understand!”

“Well, it’s rather a long story,” Pen said.

He seemed slightly dazed. He ran his hand through his hair, in a gesture she knew well, and said: “But Major Daubenay—Sir Richard Wyndham—”

“They are both part of the story,” replied Pen. She had been looking keenly at him, and thinking that he had not greatly changed, and she added: “I should have known you anywhere! Have I altered so much?”

“Yes. At least, I don’t know. It’s your hair, I suppose, cut short like that, and—and those clothes!”

He sounded shocked, which made her think that perhaps he had changed a little. “Well, I truly am Pen Creed,” she said.

“Yes, I see that you are, now that I have had time to look at you. But I cannot understand it! I could not help hearing some of what was said, though I tried not to—until I heard Miss Daubenay’s name!”

“Please, Piers, don’t fly into a rage again!” Pen said rather nervously, for she distinctly heard his teeth grind together. “I can explain everything!”

“I do not know whether I am on my head or my heels!” he complained. “You have been imposing on her! How could you do such a thing? Why did you?”

“I haven’t!” said Pen. “And I must say, I do think you might be a little more glad to see me!”

“Of course I am glad! But to come here masquerading as a boy, and playing pranks on a defenceless—That was why she failed last night!”

“No, it wasn’t! She saw the stammering-man killed, and ran away, you stupid creature!”

“How do you know?” he asked suspiciously.

“I was there, of course.”

“With her?”

“Yes, but—”

“You have been imposing on her!”

“I tell you it’s no such thing! I met her by the merest chance.”

“Tell me this!” commanded Piers. “Does she know that you are a girl?”

“No, but—”

“I knew it!” he declared. “And I distinctly heard the Major say that she had met you in Bath! I don’t know why you did it, but it is the most damnable trick in the world! And Lydia—deceiving me—encouraging your advances—oh, my eyes are open now!”

“If you say another word, I shall box your ears!” said Pen indignantly. “I would not have believed you could have grown into such a stupid, tiresome creature! I never met Lydia Daubenay in my life until last night, and if you don’t believe me you may go and ask her!”

He looked rather taken aback, and said in an uncertain tone: “But if you did not know her, how came you to be with her in the wood last night?”

“That was chance. The silly little thing swooned, and I—”

“She is not a silly little thing!” interrupted Piers, firing up.

“Yes, she is, very silly. For what must she do, upon reaching home, but tell her Papa that it was not you she had gone to meet, but me!”

This announcement surprised him. His bewildered grey eyes sought enlightenment in Pen’s face; he said with a rueful grin: “Oh Pen, do sit down and explain! You never could tell a story so that one could make head or tail of it!”

She came away from the table, and sat down on the window-seat. After a pained glance at her attire, Piers seated himself beside her. Each took critical stock of the other, but whereas Pen looked Piers frankly over, he surveyed her rather shyly, and showed a tendency to avert his gaze when it encountered hers.

He was a well-favoured young man, not precisely handsome, but with a pleasant face, a good pair of shoulders, and easy, open manners. Since he was four years her senior, he had always seemed to her, in the old days, very large, far more experienced than herself, and quite worthy of being looked up to. She was conscious, as she sat beside him on the window-seat, of a faint feeling of disappointment. He seemed to her little more than a boy, and instead of assuming his old mastery in his dealings with her, he was obviously shy, and unable to think of anything to say. Their initial encounter had of course been unfortunate, but Pen thought that he might, upon discovering her identity, have exhibited more pleasure at meeting her again. She felt forlorn all at once, as though a door had been shut in her face. A vague suspicion that what was behind the shut door was not what she had imagined only made her the more melancholy. To hide it, she said brightly: “It is such an age since I saw you, and there is so much to say! I don’t know where to begin!”

He smiled, but there was a pucker between his brows. “Yes, indeed, but it seems so strange! Why did she say she had gone out to meet you, I wonder?”

It was apparent to Pen that Miss Daubenay possessed his thoughts to the exclusion of everyone else. Repressing a strong desire to favour him with her opinion of that young lady, she recounted as briefly as she could what had passed between her and Lydia in the orchard. Any expectation she might have had of his viewing his betrothed’s conduct in the same light as she did was banished by his exclaiming rapturously: “She is such an innocent little thing! It is just like her to have said that! I see it all now!”

This was too much for Pen. “Well, I think it was a ridiculous thing to have said.”

“You see, she knows nothing of the world, Pen,” he said earnestly. “Then, too, she is impulsive! Do you know, she always makes me think of a bird?”

“A goose, I suppose,” said Pen somewhat tartly.

“I meant a wild bird,” he replied, with dignity. “A fluttering, timid, little—”

“She didn’t seem to me very timid,” Pen interrupted. “In fact, I thought she was extremely bold to ask a perfectly strange young man to pretend to be in love with her.”

“You don’t understand her. She is so trusting! She needs someone to take care of her. We have loved one another ever since our first meeting. We should have been married by now if my father had not picked a foolish quarrel with the Major. Pen, you cannot think what our sufferings have been! There seems to be no end to them! We shall never induce our fathers to consent to our marriage, never!”

He sank his head in his hands with a groan, but Pen said briskly: “Well, you will have to marry without their consent. Only you both of you seem to be so poor-spirited that you will do nothing but moan, and meet in woods! Why don’t you elope?”

“Elope! You don’t know what you are saying, Pen! How could I ask that fragile little thing to do anything of the sort? The impropriety, too! I am persuaded she would shrink from the very thought of it!”

“Yes, she did,” agreed Pen. “She said she would not be able to have attendants, or a lace veil.”

“You see, she has been very strictly reared—has led the most sheltered life! Besides, why should she not have a lace veil, and—and those things which females set store by?”

“For my part,” Pen said, “I would not care a fig for such fripperies if I loved a man!”

“Oh, you are different!” said Piers. “You were always more like a boy than a girl. Just look at you now! Why are you masquerading as a boy? It seems to me most peculiar, and not quite the thing, you know.”

“There were circumstances which—which made it necessary,” said Pen rather stiffly. “I had to escape from my aunt’s house.”

“Well, I still don’t see why—”

“Because I was forced to climb out of a window!” snapped Pen. “Moreover, I could not travel all by myself as a female, could I?”

“No, I suppose you could not. Only you should not be travelling by yourself at all. What a madcap you are!” A thought occurred to him; he glanced down at Pen with a sudden frown. “But you were with Sir Richard Wyndham when I came in, and you seemed to be on mighty close terms with him, too! For heaven’s sake, Pen, what are you about? How do you come to be in his company?”

The interview with her old playmate seemed to be fraught not only with disappointment, but with unforeseen difficulties as well. Pen could not but realize that Mr Luttrell was not in sympathy with her. “Oh, that—that is too long a story to tell!” she replied evasively. “There were reasons why I wished to come home again, and—and Sir Richard would not permit me to go alone.”

“But, Pen!” He sounded horrified. “You are surely not travelling with him?”

His tone swept away adventure, and invested her exploit instead with the stigma of impropriety. She coloured hotly, and was searching her mind for an explanation that would satisfy Piers when the door opened, and Sir Richard came into the room.

One glance at Mr Luttrell’s rigidly disapproving countenance; one glimpse of Pen’s scarlet cheeks and over-bright eyes, were enough to give Sir Richard a very fair notion of what had been taking place in the parlour. He closed the door, saying in his pleasant drawl: “Ah, good-morning, Mr Luttrell! I trust the—er—surprising events of last night did not rob you of sleep?”

A sigh of relief escaped Pen. With Sir Richard’s entrance the reeling world seemed, miraculously, to have righted itself. She left the window-seat, and went instinctively towards him. “Sir, Piers says—Piers thinks—” She stopped, and raised a hand to her burning cheek.

Sir Richard looked at Piers with slightly raised brows. “Well?” he said gently. “What does Piers say and think?”

Mr Luttrell got up. Under that ironical, tolerant gaze, he too began to blush. “I only said—I only wondered how Pen comes to be travelling in your company!”

Sir Richard unfobbed his snuff-box, and took a pinch. “And does no explanation offer itself to you?” he enquired.

“Well, sir, I must say it seems to me—I mean—”

“Perhaps I should have told you,” said Sir Richard drawing Pen’s hand through his arm, and holding it rather firmly, “that you are addressing the future Lady Wyndham.”

The hand twitched in Sir Richard’s, but in obedience to the warning pressure of his fingers Miss Creed remained silent.

“Oh, I see!” said Piers, his brow clearing. “I beg pardon! It is famous news indeed! I wish you very happy! But—but why must she wear those clothes, and what are you doing here? It still seems very odd to me! I suppose since you are betrothed it may be argued that—But it is most eccentric, sir, and I do not know what people may say!”

“As we have been at considerable pains to admit no one but yourself into the secret of Pen’s identity, I hardly think that people will say anything at all,” replied Sir Richard calmly. “If the secret were to leak out—why, the answer is that we are a very eccentric couple!”

“It will never leak out through me!” Piers assured him. “It is no concern of mine, naturally, but I can’t help wondering what should have brought you here, and why Pen had to get out of a window. However, I don’t mean to be inquisitive, sir. It was only that—having known Pen all my life, you see!”

It was Miss Creed’s turn now to give Sir Richard’s hand a warning pinch. In fact, so convulsive was her grip that he glanced down at her with a reassuring little smile.

“I am afraid I cannot tell you our reasons for coming here,” he said. “Certain circumstances arose which made the journey necessary. Pen’s attire, however, is easily explained. Neither of us wished to burden ourselves with a duenna upon a mission of—er—extreme delicacy; and the world, my dear Luttrell, being a censorious place, it was judged expedient for Pen to pretend to be, instead of my affianced wife, my young cousin.”

“To be sure, yes! of course!” said Piers, mystified, but overborne by the Corinthian’s air of assurance.

“By now,” said Sir Richard, “we should be on our way back to London, had it not been for two unfortunate circumstances. For one of these, you, I must regretfully point out to you, are responsible.”

“I?” gasped Piers.

“You,” said Sir Richard, releasing Pen’s hand. “The lady to whom you, I apprehend, are secretly betrothed, has, in a somewhat misguided attempt to avert suspicion from the truth informed her parent that Pen is the man with whom she had an assignation in the spinney last night.”

“Yes, Pen told me that. Indeed, I wish she had not done it, sir, but she is so impulsive, you know!”

“So I have been led to infer,” said Sir Richard. “Unhappily, since I am for the present compelled to remain in Queen Charlton, her impulsiveness has rendered our situation a trifle awkward.”

“Yes, I see that,” owned Piers. “I am very sorry for it, sir. But must you remain here?”

“Yes,” replied Sir Richard. “No doubt it has escaped your memory, but a murder was committed in the spinney last night. It was I who discovered Brandon’s body, and conveyed the news to the proper quarter.”

Piers looked troubled at this, and said: “I know, sir, and I do not like it above half! For, in point of fact, I first found Beverley, only you told-me not to say sol’

“I hope you did not?”

“No, because it is so excessively awkward, on account of Miss Daubenay’s presence in the spinney! But if she has said that she went there to meet Pen—”

“You had better continue to preserve a discreet silence, my dear boy. The knowledge that you also were in the spinney would merely confuse poor Mr Philips. You see, I have the advantage of knowing who killed Brandon.”

“I think,” said Pen judicially, “we ought to tell Piers about the diamond necklace, sir.”

“By all means,” agreed Sir Richard.

The history of the diamond necklace, as recounted by Miss Creed, made Mr Luttrell forget for a few moments his graver preoccupations. He seemed very much more the Piers of her childhood when he exclaimed: “What an adventure!” and by the time he had described to her his surprise at receiving a visit from Beverley, whom he had known but slightly up at Oxford; and had exchanged impressions of Captain Horace Trimble, they were once more upon very good terms. Sir Richard, who thought that his own interests would best be served by allowing Pen uninterrupted intercourse with Mr Luttrell, soon left them to themselves; and after Piers had once more felicitated Pen on her choice of a husband—felicitations which she received in embarrassed silence—the talk soon returned to his own difficulties.

She listened to his enraptured description of Miss Daubenay with as much patience as she could muster, but when he begged her not to divulge her sex to the lady for fear lest her nice sense of propriety might suffer too great a shock, she was so much incensed that she was betrayed into giving him her opinion of Miss Daubenay’s morals and manners. A pretty squabble at once flared up, and might have ended in Piers’ stalking out of Pen’s life for ever had she not remembered, just as he reached the door, that she had engaged herself to further his pretensions to Lydia’s hand.

It took a few moments’ coaxing to persuade him to relax his air of outraged dignity, but when it was borne in upon him that Lydia had summoned Pen to her side that morning, he did seem to feel that such forward conduct called for an explanation. Pen waved his excuses aside, however. “I don’t mind that, if only she would not cry so much!” she said.

Mr Luttrell said that his Lydia was all sensibility, and deprecated, with obvious sincerity, a suggestion that a wife suffering from an excess of sensibility might prove to be a tiresome acquisition. As he seemed to feel that the support of Lydia was his life’s work, Pen abandoned all thought of trying to wean him from his attachment to the lady, and announced her plans for his speedy marriage.

These palpably took Mr Luttrell aback. Lydia’s refusal to elope with him he regarded as natural rather than craven, and when Pen’s false-abduction scheme was enthusiastically described to him he said that she must be mad to think of such a thing.

“I declare I have a good mind to wash my hands of the whole affair!” said Pen. “Neither of you has the courage to make the least push in the matter! The end of it will be that your precious Lydia will be married to someone else, and then you will be sorry!”

“Oh, don’t suggest such a thing!” he begged. “If only my father would be a little conciliating! He used to like the Major well enough before they quarrelled.”

“You must soften the Major’s heart.”

“Yes, but how?” he asked. “Now, don’t, pray, suggest any more foolish abduction schemes, Pen! I daresay you think them very fine, but if you would but consider the difficulties! No one would ever believe we had not planned it all, because if she eloped with you she would not then wish to marry me, now, would she?”

“No, but we could say that I had forcibly abducted her. Then you could rescue her from me.”

“How should I know that you had abducted her?” objected Piers. “And just think what a pucker everyone would be in! No, really, Pen, it won’t answer! Good God, I should have to fight a duel with you, or something of that nature! I mean, how odd it would look if all I did was to take Lydia home!”

“Well, so we could!” said Pen, her eyes brightening, as new horizons swam into her ken. “I could have my arm in a sling, and say that you had wounded me! Oh, do let us, Piers! It would be such a famous adventure!”

“You don’t seem to me to have changed in the least!” said Piers, in anything but a complimentary tone. “You are the most complete hand indeed! I cannot conceive how you came to be betrothed to a man of fashion like Wyndham! You know, you will have to mend your ways! In fact, I cannot conceive of your being married at all! You are a mere child.”

Another quarrel might at this point have sprung up between them, had not Sir Richard come back into the room just then, with Mr Philips in his wake. He was looking faintly amused, and the instant expression of extreme trepidation which transformed the countenances of the youthful couple by the window made his lips twitch involuntarily. However, he spoke without a tremor in his voice. “Ah, Pen! Would you explain, if you please, your—er—owl story, to Mr Philips?”

“Oh!” said Pen, blushing furiously.

The magistrate looked severely across at her. “From the information I have since received, young man, I am forced to the conclusion that your story was false.”

Pen glanced towards Sir Richard. Instead of coming to her rescue, he smiled maliciously, and said: “Stand up, my boy, stand up, when Mr Philips addresses you!”

“Oh yes, of course!” said Pen, rising in a hurry. “I beg pardon! My owl-story! Well, you see, I did not know what to say when you asked why I had not been with my cousin last night.”

“Did not know what to say! You had only one thing to say, and that was the truth!” said Mr Philips austerely.

“I could not,” replied Pen. “A lady’s reputation was at stake!”

“So I am informed. Well, I do not say that I do not sympathize with your motive, but I must warn you, sir, that any further prevarication on your part may lead to serious trouble. Serious trouble! I say nothing of your conduct in meeting Miss Daubenay in a manner I can only describe as clandestine. It is no concern of mine, no concern at all, but if you were a son of mine—However, that is neither here nor there! Fortunately—” He cast a reproachful glance at Sir Richard—“fortunately, I repeat, Miss Daubenay’s evidence corroborates the information that this shocking crime was perpetrated by a person corresponding with the description furnished me of the man Trimble. Were it not for this circumstance—for I will not conceal from you that I am far from being satisfied! Very far indeed! You must permit me to say, Sir Richard, that your presence in the spinney last night points to your having positively aided and abetted your cousin in his reprehensible—But I am aware that that is Major Daubenay’s concern!”

“No, no, you have it wrong!” Pen assured him. “My cousin was searching for me! In fact, he was very angry with me for going to the spinney, were you not, Richard?”

“I was,” admitted Sir Richard. “Very.”

“Well, the whole affair seems to me very strange!” said Philips. “I will say no more than that yet!”

“You behold me—er—stricken with remorse,” said Sir Richard.

The magistrate snorted, jerked a bow, and took himself off.

“My reputation! oh, my reputation!” mourned Sir Richard. “Horrible and unprincipled brat, why the owl?”

“Well, I had to say something!” Pen pointed out.

“I am afraid,” said Piers, conscience-stricken, “that it is a little Lydia’s fault. But indeed, sir, she meant no harm!”

“I know,” said Sir Richard. “She is so impulsive! I feel a hundred years old.”

He went out on the words, and Pen at once rounded on Mr Luttrell, saying in accusing accents: “There! You see now what your precious Lydia has done!”

“She is no worse than you are! In fact, not as bad!” retorted Piers. “She would not masquerade about the country as a boy! I do not wonder at Sir Richard’s feeling a hundred years old. If I were betrothed to you, I should feel the same!”

Miss Creed’s eyes flashed. “Well, I will tell you something, Piers Luttrell! I have got a cousin with a face like a fish, and he wants to marry me, which is why I escaped out a window. But—do you hear me?—I would a great deal rather marry him than you. If I had to marry you, I would drown myself! You are stupid, and rude, and spiritless!”

“Merely because I have a little common sense,” began Piers, very stiff, and rather flushed.

He was interrupted. A waiter came in with the news that a Young Person desired instant speech with Mr Wyndham.

Correctly divining this mythical being to be herself, Pen said: “What can that nonsensical girl want now? I wish I had never come to Queen Charlton! Oh, very well! Show the young person in!”

“Good God, can it be Lydia?” exclaimed Piers, when the waiter had withdrawn.

The young person was not Miss Daubenay, but her personal maid, a rosy damsel, who appeared to be strongly imbued with her mistress’s romantic ideals. She came in heavily veiled, and presented Pen with a sealed letter. While Pen tore it open, and read its agitated message, Piers besieged the girl with urgent questions, to which, however, she only replied with evasive answers, punctuated by giggles.

“Good gracious!” exclaimed Pen, deciphering Miss Daubenay’s scrawl. “Matters are now desperate! She says she will elope with you.”

“What?” Piers abandoned the servant, and strode to Pen’s side. “Here, give it to me!”

Pen warded him off. “She says they are going to send her to the Wilds of Lincolnshire.”

“Yes, yes, that is where her grandmother lives! When does she go?”

“I can’t read it—oh yes, I see! To-morrow morning, with her Papa. She says I am to tell you to arrange for the elopement this evening, without fail.”

“Good God!” Piers snatched the letter from her, and read it for himself. “Yes, you are right: she does say tomorrow morning! Pen, if she goes, it will be the end of everything! I never meant to do anything so improper as to elope with her, but I have now no choice! It is not as though her parents disapprove of me, or—or that I am not eligible. If that were so, it would be different. But until they quarrelled—however, talking is to no purpose!” He turned to the maidservant, who had by this time put back her veil, and was listening to him with her mouth open. “Are you in your mistress’s confidence?” he demanded.

“Oh yes, sir!” she assured him, adding with another giggle: “Though the master would tear me limb from limb if he knew I was taking letters to you, sir.”

Piers ignored this somewhat exaggerated statement. “Tell me, is your mistress indeed resolved upon this course?”

“Oh!” said the damsel, clasping her plump hands together, “she was never more resolved in her life, sir! “I must Fly!” she says to me, clean distracted. “Lucy,” she says, “I am Utterly Undone, for All is Discovered!” So I popped on my bonnet, sir, and slipped out when Cook’s back was turned, “for,” says my poor young mistress, with tears standing in her eyes fit to break anyone’s heart, “if I am whisked off to Lincolnshire, I shall die!” And so she will sir, no question!”

Pen sat down again, hugging her knees. “Nothing could be better!” she declared. “I always liked the notion of your eloping to Gretna Green. In fact, it was my suggestion. Only, Lydia told me that you have no money, Piers. Shall we make Richard pay for the post-chaise?”

“Certainly not!” he replied. “Of course I have enough money for that!”

“I think you ought to have four horses,” she warned him. “Posting charges are very high, you know.”

“Good God, Pen, I’m not penniless! Lydia meant only that I am dependent upon my father. If he refuses to forgive us, I shall be obliged to find some genteel occupation, but I am persuaded that once the deed is done he will very soon come round. Oh, Pen! is she not an angel? I am quite overcome! Is it not affecting that she should trust me so implicitly?”

Pen opened her eyes at this. “Why shouldn’t she?” she asked, surprised.

“Why shouldn’t she? Really, Pen, you don’t understand in the least! Think of her placing her life, honour, all, in my care!”

“I don’t see anything wonderful in that,” replied Pen contemptuously. “I think it would be a great deal more extraordinary if she didn’t trust you.”

“I remember now that you never had much sensibility,” said Piers. “You are such a child!” He turned again to the interested abigail. “Now, Lucy, attend to me! You must take a letter back to your mistress, and assure her besides that I shall not fail. Are you prepared to accompany us to Scotland?”

She gaped at him for a moment, but however strange the idea might have been to her it apparently pleased her, for she nodded vehemently, and said: “Oh yes, sir, thank you, sir!”

“Who ever heard of taking a maid on an elopement?” demanded Pen.

“I will not ask Lydia to fly with me without some female to go with her!” declared Piers nobly.

“Dear me, I should think she would wish the girl at Jericho!”

“Lydia is quite unused to waiting upon herself,” said Piers. “Moreover, the presence of her maid must lend respectability to our flight.”

“Has she a little lap-dog she would like to take with her too?” asked Pen innocently.

Piers cast her a quelling look, and stalked across the room to a small writing-table near the window. After testing the pen that lay on it, mending it, and dipping it in the standish, he then sat while the ink dried on it, frowning over what he should write to his betrothed. Finally, he dipped the pen in the standish once more, and began to write, punctuating his labour with reminders to Lucy to see that her mistress had a warm cloak, and did not bring too many bandboxes with her.

“Or the parrot,” interpolated Pen.

“Lor’, sir, Miss Lydia hasn’t got any parrot!”

“If you don’t hold your tongue, Pen—!”

“No little lap-dog either?” Pen asked incredulously.

“No, sir, “deed, no! There’s only her love-birds, the pretty things, and her doves!”

“Well, you will not have room in the chaise for a dovecot, but you should certainly bring the love-birds,” said Pen, with an irrepressible chuckle.

Piers flung down his pen. “Another word from you, and I’ll put you out of the room!”

“No, you won’t, because this is a private parlour, and you are nothing but a guest in it.”

“But will I tell Miss to bring the love-birds?” asked Lucy, puzzled.,

“No!” said Piers. “Oh, do stop, Pen! You are driving me distracted! Listen, I have told Lydia that I will have a chaise waiting in the lane behind the house at midnight. Do you think that is too early? Will her parents go to her room as late as that?”

“No, sir, that they won’t!” said Lucy. “The Major does be such a one for retiring early! He’ll be in bed and asleep by eleven, take my word for it, sir!”

“Fortunately, it is moonlight,” Piers said, shaking sand over his letter. “Listen, Lucy! I depend upon you to see that your mistress goes early to bed; she must get what sleep she can! And you must wake her at the proper time, do you understand? Can I trust you to pack for her, and to bring her safely to me?”

“Oh, yes, sir!” replied Lucy, bobbing a curtsey. “For I wouldn’t be left to face the Major, not for ever so!”

“You had best go back to the house with all possible speed,” Piers said, applying a wafer to the folded letter, and handing it to her. “Mind, now! that letter must not fall into the wrong hands!”

“If anyone tries to take it from you, you must swallow it,” put in Pen.

“Swallow it, sir?”

’Pay no heed to my friend!” said Piers hastily. There! Be off with you, and remember that I depend upon your fidelity!”

Lucy curtseyed herself out of the room. Piers looked at Pen, still hugging her knees on the window-seat, and said severely: “I suppose you flatter yourself you have been helpful!”

Impish lights danced in her eyes. “Oh, I have! Only think if you had had to turn back to fetch the love-birds, which very likely you would have had to do if I had not reminded the abigail about them!”

He could not help grinning. “Pen, if she does bring them, I’ll—I’ll turn back just to wring your neck! Now I must go to arrange for the hire of a chaise, and four fast horses.”

“Where will you find them?” she asked.

“There is a posting-house at Keynsham where they keep very tolerable cattle. I shall drive over there immediately.”

“Famous! Go where you are known, and let the news of your wanting a chaise for midnight spread all over the countryside within three hours!”

He checked. “I had not thought of that! The devil! This means I must go into Bristol, and I can ill spare the time, with so much to attend to.”

“Nothing of the sort!” said Pen, jumping up. “Now I will be helpful indeed! I will drive to Keynsham with you, and I will order the chaise.”

His brow cleared. “Oh Pen, will you? But Sir Richard! Will he not object, do you think? Of course, I would take every care of you, but—”

“No, no, he will not object, I assure you! I shall not tell him anything about it,” said Pen ingenuously.

“But that would not be right! And I should not wish to do anything—”

“I will leave a message for him with the landlord,” promised Pen. “Did you walk into the village, or have you a carriage here?”

“Oh, I drove in! The gig is in the yard now. I confess, if you feel it would not be wrong of you to go with me, I should be glad of your help.”

“Only wait while I get my hat!” Pen said, and darted off in search of it.