“With a sprained cold,” Aunt Agatha said acidly. “So nobody else knows?”
“No.”
“What about the servants?”
Emm shook her head. “I don’t believe they would talk, not about this.” She’d spoken to them and had been assured of their discretion. Of course, what people said and what they did wasn’t always the same.
“Well someone must know something, because, as I said, I heard a whisper.”
“What exactly did you hear?”
The old lady made an impatient gesture. “Nothing solid, just the hint of a rumor about ‘one of the Rutherford gels,’ and the suggestion that she’d run off with a man.”
“Lily would never—” Rose began.
“Pish tush, gel, we know that. But the whisper is out there and we need to do something about it.” Leaning heavily on her silver-topped ebony cane, she rose to her feet. “Off you go, gels, and fetch your hats and coats. We’re going for a drive.”
“I don’t want to go out,” Rose said. “I want to stay in case there’s news—”
“The best you can do for your sister is to appear in public as usual with nothing to worry about except that your sister has . . .” She thought for a minute. “The influenza, something serious, not a sprain or a cold. In fact, it would look better if you came to stay with me, Emmaline, to protect your child. And you gels will come as well, for fear of the infection. It will strengthen the story.”
“It won’t. I’d never leave my sister if she was ill,” Rose declared.
“I’d stay too,” George said. “I never catch colds or the flu—I’m as healthy as a horse.”
Aunt Agatha closed her eyes briefly. “Such a vulgar metaphor, Georgiana. Health is a desirable state for a young lady, but when you invite people to compare you with an animal . . .” She gave a pained shudder.
Emm laid a calming hand on George’s arm and said firmly, “Nobody is moving anywhere. I told Cal I’d wait here, and so I will—we all will. But fresh air and a public family outing in the park is an excellent idea, though perhaps the girls could accompany you on horseback—with their groom in attendance, of course.” She gave both girls a speaking look.
Better for them not to be stuck in a barouche with their aunt. They were so tense and worried about Lily that Aunt Agatha’s pronouncements, which rubbed them up the wrong way at the best of times, would today be like a flame to a tinderbox. She glanced at Rose. Or gunpowder.
“Now, Aunt Agatha, while the girls are changing into their habits, how about a nice cup of tea?”
• • •
Lily came awake with a jerk. Against all her resolution, she’d dozed off. Something had changed. What?
And then she realized. The carriage had stopped. Someone shouted. She couldn’t make out what, but a moment later Nixon shouted back. “In this weather? Damned if I will!”
She cautiously cracked the lid of her prison open a sliver.
Another shout. The coachman. She couldn’t hear it all, but it sounded like he wanted Nixon to get out and push. The coach was stuck in mud. Nixon refused again, this time in even worse language.
The coachman’s voice sounded suddenly loud and close. “Want to wait until help comes, do ya? With that special cargo of yours tucked away? Risk ’em finding her, will ya?” He must have climbed down.
There was a short silence. Lily held her breath. Nixon swore again, then ordered the driver to do the pushing, while he led the horses.
She heard the door close, then the voices came again, muffled, as if from a distance. Nixon and the driver were out of the coach. Now was her chance. Heart thudding, braced for the lid to be slammed back down on her, she raised it, inch by inch. And breathed again.
The carriage was empty. She scrambled out, then peered carefully out the window. She could hardly see a thing—it was raining—but from the shouts exchanged, it seemed Nixon was up ahead with the horses and the coachman was on the other side of the coach, stuffing bracken and gorse under one of the wheels.
Lily threw her cloak over her—thank goodness it was a dark color—stealthily unfastened the door, then leapt from the coach and ran into the low scraggly vegetation that stretched for miles on either side of the empty road. Her only hope was to lie down in it, go to ground like a hunted hare, and hope they wouldn’t see her.
Half a dozen steps later she found herself falling helplessly, landing facedown with a hard splat. She lay, winded for a few moments, her lungs straining for air, her brain racing, trying to make sense of what happened.
She was in some kind of hole . . . no, it was a ditch, running parallel to the road. Her breath returned in a rush. Keeping her head well down, she lay in shallow, freezing, stagnant ditch water, gulping lungfuls of cold, bracing air, trying to marshal her drug-hazed wits.
Had she made any noise when she’d fallen? She couldn’t remember, but a small scream or exclamation seemed likely. Had they noticed? Or had the gag muffled any noise she’d made? She peered cautiously over the lip of the ditch, through the meager cover of the vegetation that lined it.
In the driving rain she could barely make out the shape of the coach. She squinted through the gloom, hardly daring to breathe.
Nixon and the coachman continued shouting instructions—and abuse—back and forth. Lily breathed again. They hadn’t noticed her escape. Yet.
With some difficulty, for her wrists were still bound, she pulled her cloak over her head. Thank goodness she’d worn it to the Mainwarings’ rout instead of the cream silk and taffeta one. The dark blue velvet would at least hide her, if not keep her warm and dry—between the rain and the ditch
