will get the post-boys and the rest of you men.’
He went upstairs and put on his greatcoat and hat and then went back down and collected a lantern from the landlord.
He saw the faint tracks of Emily’s feet in the snow that lay in the sheltered courtyard. Just at the gate where the great arch still provided shelter, he noticed the footprints turning off to the right.
So Emily had not gone out to find another inn, as he had first thought. The way to the right headed straight into the countryside, for the Nag’s Head was on the very edge of the town.
He cursed as the full force of the wind took him. He was becoming increasingly worried. The cold was bitter. If she had tumbled into a snow-drift, he would not find her until daylight.
‘Miss Freemantle!’ he shouted. But the roaring wind drowned his voice. He strode on, waving the lantern and shouting with all his might. He waded through a drift that came up to his waist. How on earth had the spoilt Emily managed through that? He had walked about a mile and was becoming hoarse with shouting when suddenly the wind dropped, roaring away across the countryside, leaving a moon-washed landscape of dazzling snow pitted with blue and black shadows. And then, far ahead, on a straight stretch of snow-covered road, he thought he saw a figure. He quickened his pace. Something made him remain silent, as if he knew that Emily might run off into the fields if she thought she was being pursued.
Emily was at the end of her tether. She felt like a sodden, freezing mass of exhausted misery. Only the thought of the long walk back to the inn and the humiliation that awaited her spurred her on, although she had begun to stagger from weariness. And then the wind dropped and she stood for a moment shivering, her eyes scanning the white landscape. For the first time, she realized she had taken the wrong direction. That was why no light had shone near the road. She gave a choked sob. There was nothing for it. She turned about. And then she saw the dark figure of a man striding towards her, the lantern bobbing.
It was the ruffian! He had come back for her.
Emily swerved off the road and into a small wood, running and stumbling and falling, dragging herself up only to run headlong again.
And then a hand seized her shoulder. ‘I have money,’ she screamed. ‘Do not hurt me. You may have it all. Please do not hurt me.’
‘I would like to wring your neck,’ said Lord Harley’s voice. He turned her round and shone the lantern in her face.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ said Emily and burst into tears.
He watched her impatiently and then put an arm round her and gave her a gentle shake. ‘Rally, Miss Freemantle. Rally! I fear this is only a lull in the storm. We’d best get back as soon as possible.’
‘I c-can’t go back,’ said Emily. ‘I am so ashamed.’
‘You were tipsy and tactless,’ he said. ‘Nothing out of the common way. Come along, Miss Freemantle. I do not want to present your parents with a block of ice as a daughter. Did you plan to walk all the way to London?’
‘No, I was looking for another inn. I went the wrong way and there was this ruffian, and he … he …’
‘He what?’
‘He tried to kiss me.’
‘You are on Bagshot Heath and lucky to be alive. Come along.’
His arm still around her shoulders, he urged her towards the road. He then put a strong arm about her waist and, almost lifting her from the ground, hurried her along.
He was amazed to feel his senses quickening at that contact and thought it absurd that such a thing should happen when he was cold and tired. But he held her closer to the warmth of his body. With a great almighty roar, the wind came hurtling down the road towards them and enveloped them in a whirling white snowstorm. Now it was not only blowing snow but falling snow they had to contend with.
They reached one of the largest snow-drifts on the road. He stopped and held the lantern high, looking for the passage he had made in it earlier, and the light fell on Mrs Bradley’s anguished face. And that was all that could be seen of Mrs Bradley, for the rest of her was buried in the drift.
He left Emily and went forward and began to scoop the snow away from Mrs Bradley with his hands. ‘I come out with me basket of medicines,’ said Mrs Bradley, ‘for to see if I could find Miss Freemantle, and I got so frit in the snow-drift, I couldn’t move.’
‘You can move now,’ said Lord Harley sharply. ‘You ladies walk behind me and keep close. We are nearly at the inn.’
When Emily at last saw the faint glow of the lamp swinging outside the inn courtyard, she experienced such a feeling of relief it almost warmed her. They turned into the courtyard to be met by an expedition party: the landlord, the guard, the coachman, Mr Fletcher, and the two outsiders, Mr Hendry and Mr Burridge, carrying staves and lanterns.
Hannah Pym, waiting on the steps like a field marshal surveying his troops, hustled Emily and Mrs Bradley into the coffee room, where a large fire was blazing. Hannah’s shrewd eyes studied them. Emily, for all her bad experience, was young and strong and would come about. Mrs Bradley was another matter. She was a bluish-white colour and her breathing was ragged.
‘Miss Freemantle, go to our room and change into dry clothes and then come down to the kitchen,’ ordered Hannah. She turned to Lizzie. ‘Fetch Mrs Bradley’s night-dress and wrapper and clean towels and bring them down to the kitchen. Mr Burridge and Mr Hendry, if you please, I need help in the kitchen to fill a bath.’
Mrs Bradley sat down by the kitchen table and drank a glass of brandy. Hannah had had to prise her precious basket from her wrist. A large copper pan and two kettles were already steaming on the fire.
‘Put the bath on the floor in front of the kitchen fire,’ Hannah ordered the men, ‘and help me fill it.’
Mrs Bradley drank brandy and shivered and watched curiously, thinking they must be getting water ready for a mammoth wash.
Lizzie entered with the night-things and towels. Emily appeared and was offered brandy. She did not know why Hannah had ordered her to the kitchen. Surely after such an ordeal, she should be allowed to go to sleep.
‘Right,’ said Hannah, hands on hips. ‘Off you go, gentlemen, and I thank you.’ She closed and locked the door behind them and then said to Mrs Bradley, ‘Off with those wet clothes and in the bath.’
‘Me!’ Mrs Bradley’s eyes were childlike with wonder. ‘I don’t take no baths.’
‘I know,’ said Hannah, wrinkling her nose. ‘But this is not an ordinary bath, this is a medicinal bath, Mrs Bradley, as recommended by Queen Charlotte’s physician.’
‘But I can’t strip down to me buffs in front of you ladies.’
‘You may keep on your shift,’ said Hannah, rightly thinking that that garment could do with a wash as well. Her eyes fell on Emily and gleamed with a green light. ‘Miss Freemantle, I suggest you go and do what’s right and then return and help me and Mrs Bisley.’
‘What’s right?’ echoed Emily faintly.
‘Work it out for yourself. Examine your conscience.’
Emily wearily left the kitchen. What did that fiend of a woman want her to do?
She went slowly up to her room, determined to climb into that soft bed and sink into oblivion. But on the bed was her wig, the one that had caused all the trouble. There was that stab of conscience, sharp and acute. She was too tired to worry about pride. She went down to the coffee room. The men, with the exception of the coachman and Captain Seaton, who were in the tap, were grouped around the fire. Lord Harley was standing, mixing a bowl of punch. He was grating lemons but stopped, looking curiously at Emily as she came into the room. Women’s dress of the year 1800 was not designed for warmth. Emily had only one wool gown. All her other dresses followed the dictates of fashion, namely, that everything should be flimsy and light enough to be rolled up and put in a pocket. She was wearing a gown of white muslin, cut low, and looped over the arm on the left to disclose one leg in a salmon-coloured silk stocking. It was quite a delicious leg, mused Lord Harley. Over her shoulders, she wore a Norfolk shawl, and in one hand, she carried the wig. She went straight to Mr Fletcher and said in a low voice, ‘I am most sorry for having caused you such embarrassment. I have no need of this wig and should never have had it in the first place. Be so good as to accept it as a present and also to accept my heartfelt apologies.’
‘Well, I … I …’ Mr Fletcher looked around for help.
‘A charming gesture, if I may say so,’ said Lord Harley.
‘Yes,’ said Mr Fletcher, and, sensitive creature that he was, suddenly realized the effort the apology must
