The potboy and a lad from the house next door carried her trunks to the entryway. Penelope decided to explain to Mrs. Flint that she had elected to be married from her home chapel. She felt quite certain that the good housekeeper would think it romantic and nothing unusual.
When the chaise arrived, she handed the three letters, carefully folded and sealed with some of Letty’s colorful wax, to Mrs. Flint. “Please see that these are delivered for me. There is no rush; tomorrow would be ample time.”
Being of the opinion that any mail ought to be promptly on its way, Mrs. Flint merely nodded, then waved farewell to the young lady she quite liked. Wiping a tear from her eye, she commanded Rose to deliver the letters immediately to the houses not far away.
Rose took a pleased breath and, pausing long enough to grab a cloak from a peg in the back hall, dashed off in the proper direction.
* * * *
Penelope found the post chaise acceptable, although she thought that changing carriages at each posting stage to be an annoyance. Had she a coach of her own, this would have been avoided. Still, it was far more acceptable than to travel by the stage or the mail coach.
Betsy sat on the far side, watching out the window with rounded eyes as the miles whizzed by at the great speed of seven miles per hour. Penelope leaned back against the squabs, wondering if the new greenhouse and herbs could possibly begin to compensate for what she had lost.
Some miles out of London they paused for a change of horses. Penelope decided to walk about, sending Betsy off for some buns and lemonade. The bright yellow post chaise stood out among the more sedate vehicles at the posting inn. Penelope didn’t claim to be an expert, but she thought the yellow chaise ill-designed, not as well-balanced as the others around it. But then, she was no authority.
Betsy returned with refreshments about the time the driver informed her they were ready to be off again. She directed Betsy to cork the bottle of lemonade and take it with them. Rather than delay eating, she took her bun and returned to the chaise. She wished to arrive at Fountains as soon as possible.
They were well along the Deptford Road when she became aware of an approaching vehicle. There was nothing untoward about this, for there had been any number of coaches on the road today. A glance out of the window revealed a tollgate neared, so Penelope called out to the driver to let the other vehicle pass. She wanted no chance of an accident.
Her driver had ideas of his own, unfortunately. The coming carriage challenged his skills, and he took umbrage at the very thought he might be bested. The horses were lightly touched with the flick of his whip, and they surged forward.
Penelope fell back into the corner, grabbing for the strap, darting an alarmed look at Betsy. The abigail seemed about to swoon. Concern for this possibility flew out the window when the post chaise began to wobble most frightfully.
“Oh, my lady,” Betsy moaned. “I fear we are going to tip over.”
Penelope thought to assure her it was most unlikely, when the chaise bounced, tilted badly, then crashed to the ground with a horrible splintering of wood and frightened neighing of horses, mixed with the cries of anxious men. Betsy’s screams were quite lost in the melee.
Penelope lay still for several minutes, assessing her personal injuries, which, thank the good Lord, appeared to be few. Her abigail had sustained a nasty wound on her forehead. She had collapsed in a heap, and now lay huddled against the side of the chaise, quite fainted away.
Looking up, Penelope could see bits of blue with scraps of clouds scudding by. She wondered when and if someone would come to her rescue, when a head appeared at the window.
“Penny, dash it all, if you aren’t the most totty-headed female I ever knew!” Exasperation rang from every syllable.
She tried to move, and cried out in pain. Her chest, the ribs, most likely, hurt like the very devil. A moan escaped her as she sank back, unable to rise and thus be pulled to freedom. The blue sky faded as the world disappeared from her consciousness. For the second time in her life, she fainted away.
Sometime later she awoke, feeling disoriented. She could hear the ripple of a stream somewhere nearby, and she thought she must be settled beneath a tree, for over her head leafy boughs tossed in the breeze. The lilting song of a number of birds serenaded her. Far away she could hear angry voices and horses in distress. She moved her head and spotted Betsy not too far away, close by another tree, still unconscious.
Of her rescuer there was no sight.
Penelope closed her eyes, furious at the upset in her plans, and wondering what that man was doing chasing after her in such a nonsensical manner. How had he known she was gone? Hearing a rustle in the grasses, she raised her eyelids to find him scrunching down at her side. Attack seemed the best defense.
“Precisely what are you doing here, sir?” she said, surprised her voice seemed to be oddly weak instead of snapping.
“Fetching you back to London. I suppose I could have sued you for breach of promise, but I would rather have you."
Knowing that to be all a hum, she merely shook her head. “Rubbish.”
“Touching.” Then in a strained voice he added, “How do you feel?” His hand reached out to stroke a wayward curl from her forehead.
“I am alive, but I ache in every muscle and a few bones as well,” Penelope replied, trying for a bit of humor. She shifted, and winced at the pain in her chest.
“I dare not take you back until you are somewhat better,” he mused aloud.
“You shan’t take me back. I am on
