She seemed to take this as a tribute. She raised her candid eyes to his face, and said: “Do I? Truly?”
His gaze travelled slowly over her borrowed raiment. “Horrible!” he said. “Are you under the impression that you have tied that—that travesty of a cravat in a Wyndham Fall?”
“No, but the thing is I have never tied a cravat before,” she explained.
“That,” said Sir Richard, “is obvious. Come here!”
She approached obediently, and stood still while his expert fingers wrought with the crumpled folds round her neck.
“No, it is beyond even my skill,” he said at last. “I shall have to lend you one of mine. Never mind; sit down, and let us talk this matter over. My recollection is none of the clearest, but I fancy you said you were going into Somerset to marry a friend of your childhood.”
“Yes, Piers Luttrell,” nodded Miss Creed, seating herself in a large arm-chair.
“Furthermore, you are just seventeen.”
“Turned seventeen,” she corrected.
“Don’t quibble! And you propose to undertake this journey as a passenger on an Accommodation coach?”
“Yes,” agreed Miss Creed.
“And, as though this were not enough, you are going alone?”
“Of course I am.”
“My dear child,” said Sir Richard, “drunk I may be, but not so drunk as to acquiesce in this fantastic scheme, believe me.”
“I don’t think you are drunk,” said Miss Creed. “Besides, it has nothing to do with you! You cannot interfere in my affairs merely because you helped me out of the window.”
“I didn’t help you out of the window. Something tells me I ought to restore you to the bosom of your family.”
Miss Creed turned rather white, and said in a small, but very clear voice: “If you did that it would be the most cruel—the most treacherous thing in the world!”
“I suppose it would,” he admitted.
There was a pause. Sir Richard unfobbed his snuff-box with a flick of one practised finger, and took a pinch. Miss Creed swallowed, and said: “If you had ever
He glanced down at her, but said nothing.
“He has a wet mouth,” said Miss Creed despairingly.
“That settles it,” said Sir Richard, shutting his snuff-box. “I will escort you to your childhood’s friend.”
Miss Creed blushed. “You? But you can’t!”
“Why can’t I?”
“Because—because I don’t know you, and I can very well go by myself, and—well, it’s quite absurd! I see now that you
“Let me inform you,” said Sir Richard, “that missish airs don’t suit those clothes. Moreover, I don’t like them. Either you will travel to Somerset in my company, or you will go back to your aunt. Take your choice!”
“Do please consider!” begged Miss Creed. “You know I am obliged to travel in the greatest secrecy. If you went with me, no one would know what had become of you.”
“No one would know what had become of me,” repeated Sir Richard slowly. “No one—my girl, you have no longer any choice: I am going with you to Somerset!”
Chapter 3
As no argument produced the least effect on Sir Richard’s suddenly reckless mood, Miss Creed abandoned her conscientious attempt to dissuade him from accompanying her on her journey, and owned that his protection would be welcome. “It is not that I am afraid to go by myself,” she explained, “but, to tell you the truth, I am not quite used to do things all alone.”
“I should hope,” said Sir Richard, “that you are not quite used to travelling in the common stage either.”
“No, of course I am not. It will be quite an adventure! Have you ever travelled by stage-coach?”
“Never. We shall travel post”
“Travel post? You must be mad!” exclaimed Miss Creed. “I dare say you are known at every posting-inn on the Bath road. We should be discovered in a trice. Why, I had thought of all that even before you made up your mind to join me! My cousin Frederick is too stupid to think of anything, but my Aunt Almeria is not, and I make no doubt she will guess that I have run away to my own home, and follow me. This is one of the reasons why I made up my mind to journey in the stage. She will enquire for me at the posting-houses, and no one will be able to give her the least news of me. And just think what a bustle there would be if it were discovered that we had been travelling about the country together in a post-chaise!”
“Does it seem to you that there would be less impropriety in our travelling in the stage?” enquired Sir Richard.
“Yes, much less. In fact, I do not see that it is improper at all, for how can I prevent your booking a seat in a public vehicle, if you wish to do so? Besides, I have not enough money to hire a post-chaise.”
“I thought you said you were cursed with a large fortune?”
“Yes, but they won’t let me have anything but the most paltry allowance until I come of age, and I’ve spent most of this month’s pin-money.”
“I will be your banker,” said Sir Richard.
Miss Creed shook her head vigorously. “No, indeed you will not! One should never be beholden to strangers. I shall pay everything for myself. Of course, if you are set against travelling by the stage, I do not see what is to be done. Unless—” she broke off as an idea occurred to her, and said, with sparkling eyes: “I have a famous notion! You are a notable whip, are you not?”
“I believe I am accounted so,” replied Sir Richard.
“Well, supposing you were to drive in your own curricle? Then I could get up behind, and pretend to be your Tiger, and hold the yard of tin, and blow up for the change and—”
“No!” said Sir Richard.
She looked disappointed. “I thought it would be exciting. However, I dare say you are right.”
“I am right,” said Sir Richard. “The more I think of it, the more I see that there is much to be said for the stagecoach. At what hour did you say that it leaves town?”
“At nine o’clock, from the White Horse Inn, in Fetter Lane. Only we must go there long before that, on account of your servants. What is the time now?”
Sir Richard consulted his watch. “Close on five,” he replied.
“Then we have not a moment to lose,” said Miss Creed. “Your servants will be stirring in another hour. But you can’t travel in those clothes, can you?”
“No,” he said, “and I can’t travel with that cravat of yours either, or that abominable bundle. And, now I come to look at you more particularly, I never saw hair worse cut.”
“You mean the back, I expect,” said Miss Creed, unresentful of these strictures. “Luckily, it has always been short in front. I had to chop the back bits off myself, and I could not well see what I was about.”
“Wait here!” commanded Sir Richard, and left the room.
When he returned it was more than half an hour later, and he had shed his evening-dress for buckskin breeches, and top-boots, and a coat of blue superfine cloth. Miss Creed greeted him with considerable relief. “I began to fear you had forgotten me, or fallen asleep!” she told him.
“Nothing of the sort!” said Sir Richard, setting a small cloak-bag and a large portmanteau down on the floor. “Drunk or sober, I never forget my obligations. Stand up, and I will see what I can do towards making you look more presentable.”
He had a snowy white cravat over one arm, and a pair of scissors in his hand. A few judicious snips greatly improved the appearance of Miss Creed’s head, and by the time a comb had been ruthlessly dragged through her
