with whom she could fall in love. In her fevered mind, Daniel Rawson was the embodiment of good luck.
During her pursuit of him, chance favoured her at every turn. She and Emily Greene not only found amenable travelling companions whenever they needed them, the cavalcade invariably contained carts and wagons. The two women were often invited to tether their horses to the back of a cart so that they could travel with a measure of comfort. To someone like Emily, this was a godsend as her thighs and buttocks were already tender from the little riding she had done. Abigail, too, availed herself of the opportunity to get out of the saddle for a while. Progress was not fast but it was steady.
The inns at which they spent the night were serviceable if noticeably short of any refinements. Emily was amazed how quickly her mistress adapted to the meaner conditions. Having lived in comparative luxury all her life, Abigail had never had to sleep on a lumpy mattress before or wash in public or eat unappetising food. One night, they were even forced to sleep under the stars but there was no complaint from Abigail. Each day took her closer to the man she loved and that was all that mattered to her.
When they reached Bedburg, they parted company with one group of travellers and immediately found another, heading south towards Bonn. There were fifteen of them in all, making the journey in three carts or on horseback. The men were armed and there were enough of them to ward off a potential attack. Abigail and Emily hitched their horses to one of the carts and climbed aboard. The driver was a friendly man in his late thirties with a solid frame and a pleasant face fringed with a fair beard. His name was Otto and he knew enough English to have a conversation with his two guests. While Abigail sat beside him, Emily was in the back of the cart, perched on something that was covered by a tarpaulin.
'Why are you going to Bonn?' asked Abigail.
'I keep the promise,' replied Otto.
'Promise?'
'To my wife, I swear it.'
'Oh, I see.'
'Marthe, she was born there.'
'Are you going home to her?'
'No,' he said with a forgiving smile. 'I take Marthe there.'
Abigail looked around. 'But she's not with us now.'
'Yes, she is.'
'Where — is she one of the women in the other carts?'
He shook his head. 'I promise that Marthe, she will be in Bonn buried beside her mother.' He glanced over his shoulder. 'In the back, the coffin is.'
'Goodness!' cried Emily, jumping up as she realised that she was actually sitting on the dead body of Otto's wife. She moved further back to sit down. 'I'm so sorry, sir. You should have told us.'
'Marthe, she will not mind,' he said. 'A good woman, she was.'
It took time for the Abigail and Emily to get used to the idea that they were sharing the cart with a corpse. Otto was a talkative man. He turned out to have borne arms in a German regiment that had fought against the French the previous year, an injury to his foot ending his reluctant career as a soldier. Abigail pressed him for detail.
'Did you ever meet the Duke of Marlborough?' she inquired. 'Father says that he's the most brilliant commander in Europe. He has outstanding people under him. I don't suppose that you ever came across a Captain Daniel Rawson?'
'No, no,' said Otto.
'Captain Rawson is with the Duke of Marlborough's Foot.'
The German looked at her. 'But he has two feet, no?'
Abigail giggled. 'That's Captain Rawson's infantry regiment,' she explained, taking pleasure from saying Daniel's name for the third time. 'He's a very brave soldier. The Duke admires him greatly.'
'I did not like it, being the soldier.'
'Why not?
'From my wife, it take me away.'
'Did you kill any Frenchmen?' wondered Emily.
'The musket, I fire many times. Maybe, someone I kill.'
'How long do you think the war will last?' asked Abigail.
'For ever,' said Otto with resignation. 'France, she never stops wanting the more. Always fighting, her army is, always will.'
'The French could be defeated by British heroes like Captain Rawson.' Otto looked sceptical. 'They could,' she added stoutly. 'The Duke of Marlborough is resolved to win a famous battle against the French. I heard that from Captain Rawson himself.'
Otto was not convinced. He had the world-weary air of a man who had seen too many armies marching to and fro across his native land. Lapsing into silence, he drove on. They continued on their way, following the course of the River Rhine as it snaked southwards. It was late afternoon when the weather broke. After rolling along in the sunshine, they suddenly found themselves at the mercy of driving rain and a swirling wind. Since they had little protection from the downpour, they had to find the nearest shelter they could. When they came around a bend and spied an inn ahead of them, therefore, they were unworried by the fact that it looked weather-beaten and almost ramshackle. It was a refuge.
The horses were stabled but the carts had to stand out in the rain. Though she was distressed to see that Otto left his wife's coffin under the tarpaulin, Abigail did not feel that it was her place to protest in any way. The man had been kind and avuncular to them. As the natural leader of the travellers, it was he who discussed the sleeping arrangements with the landlord and haggled over the cost. He seemed to be arguing with the man on behalf of Abigail and Emily, pointing to them and raising his voice in a demand. A sly, shifty little man with straggly grey hair and a beak of a nose, the landlord tapped his walking stick angrily on the floor.
When Otto came over to them, he was very apologetic. Because the accommodation was so limited, the travellers would have to share beds. What he had managed to do was to secure a private room for Abigail and a place in the attic for Emily. Neither of them liked the idea of being split up but they soon found that Abigail's room was more like a large broom cupboard than a bedchamber. Emily saw that she would have to sleep in the attic but, before she left her mistress's room, she took the trouble to sweep away some of the cobwebs and check that the bed was habitable.
Over a hot meal and plenty of ale, the travellers had a jolly time and the Germans soon burst into song. Abigail thanked them for the way she and her maid had been welcomed the group and she had a special word of gratitude for Otto. As the ale flowed more freely and the songs grew more raucous, the Englishwomen made their excuses and retired early to bed. Emily was soon asleep in her dingy attic room but Abigail stayed awake to write in her diary by the light of a candle. The jollity was still continuing down below when she finally blew out the flame and lay back to think about Daniel Rawson.
An hour later, Abigail drifted quietly off. It was as well that she was a light sleeper because it was not long before the latch was lifted on her door and a heavy footstep made a floorboard creak. Coming awake with a start, she sat bolt upright and peered into the gloom.
'Who's there?' she asked. 'Is that you, Emily?'
Before she could say another word, a hand was clasped over her mouth and she was pushed back down on to the bed. A man's body pressed down on top of her and she could smell the ale on his breath. Struggle as she did, Abigail could not move him.
'Like her, you are,' said Otto, laughing softly in the dark. 'Just like my Marthe. To me, be good. Tonight, you are my Marthe.'
Abigail was distraught. He was too heavy to be moved and too strong to fight off. Worst of all, his free hand was starting do take the most alarming liberties, stroking her hair, squeezing her breast then trying to pull up her nightgown. A refined young lady who longed to surrender herself to Daniel Rawson was about to have her virginity snatched cruelly away by a drunken German widower. Abigail Piper's run of luck had come to a grinding halt.
When he moved his hand from her mouth, she dared to hope that he had relented but all he wanted to do was to take a long, hard, bruising kiss from her. The taste was disgusting. Her stomach lurched, her blood ran cold and she began to tremble all over. As his tongue became more invasive and his hands more predatory, Abigail
