‘There!’ said Charles as she disappeared from sight. ‘Did you hear that? She is going to old Henry Capitain’s and no one with an ounce of good breeding would be going there. She is some waif he has picked up and invited to visit him. You could save her from a fate worse than death.’ He gave a cracked laugh when he realised what he had said. ‘Well, a short life but a merry one, eh?’
‘It is not a matter for jest.’
‘I am not jesting.’
‘We don’t know anything about her.’
‘We don’t need to know anything, apart from the fact that she is not already married, because that would certainly be an insurmountable obstacle.’
Roland laughed harshly. ‘And what about Susan?’
‘What about her? She is miles away in Derbyshire and she won’t come here in the middle of winter, considering the state of the roads and the fact that you have not yet issued the invitation.’ He paused, looking at Roland with his head on one side. ‘Have you?’
‘No, but are you suggesting I should keep news of my marriage a secret from the woman I love?’
‘That’s up to you, old fellow. You aren’t exactly betrothed, are you? You have not yet offered for her?’
‘No, but I believe there is an understanding…’
‘What good is an understanding to a young lady who has her heart set on a wedding-ring, not to mention babies? If my estimate of the fair sex is correct, she will not wait forever, so why not do something to hasten the day?’
Roland had polished off the best part of two bottles of claret or he would never have embarked on such a conversation, let alone taken it seriously. But he was in a fix and it seemed like a way out. If he married a complete stranger, someone he found not in the least attractive, as different from Susan as chalk from cheese, perhaps it would work. ‘And where did I meet this new bride of mine?’ he asked. ‘I can hardly tell Grandmama I picked her up in an inn.’
‘You’ve just come back from London, haven’t you? You’ve been away for weeks on business. You were introduced by Lady Gordon at one of her soirées, or something of that sort. You brought her home with you.’
‘Now?’ Roland was astounded. ‘You mean me to take her home now?’
‘No, tell the Dowager you left the young lady at the inn while you went on ahead to break the news to her. By the time you come back I shall have made the acquaintance of the woman in question.’
‘You assume she will agree.’
‘Well, yes, there is that,’ Charles conceded. ‘But it’s worth a try. In any case, it does not have to be this young lady; we can find others. You could advertise.’
Roland laughed, but it was a cracked sound and not in the least mirthful. ‘"Wanted, a wife for a year. Must be of mean appearance and desperate, not to say a little mad." They will flock to answer it.’
‘Have you got a better idea?’ Charles demanded, miffed. ‘Apart from remaining a single man for the rest of your days?’
‘Forget it,’ Roland said, rising unsteadily and picking up his tricorne hat. ‘I wish I had never told you. I’m going home. Are you coming?’
‘No, I’ll stay here for the night and come on in the morning.’
Roland looked at him suspiciously. ‘What are you going to do?’
‘Nothing, my dear fellow. Simply ask a few questions, see how the land lies.’
‘I wish you would not.’
‘It can’t do any harm, can it? I will not commit you to anything.’
‘I should hope not,’ Roland said fervently. ‘What shall I tell Kate?’
Charles looked up in surprise. ‘She is not expecting me tonight, is she?’
‘How do I know?’ Roland was beginning to feel irritable. He supposed it was his friend’s unfailing good humour which irked him, his ability to find something to smile at even in the worst situations, but it was unfeeling of him to make a joke of Roland’s predicament. ‘You are the one who writes to my sister, not I. What did you tell her?’
‘That I would see her before the week was out. This is only Thursday. Tell her you saw me in London and that I was just going to Tattersalls to buy a horse. That’s true, because you did. Tell her I will be with her tomorrow. Send your curricle in for me.’
‘Very well, but I want your promise that you will not propose to the little kitten on my behalf.’
‘As if I would.’ Charles laughed. ‘You can do your own proposing.’
‘Never. I bid you goodnight.’ With that, he clapped his hat on his head and left the room to go to the stables, where he confidently expected that an ostler would have changed the horses on his travelling carriage.
Charles sat on while the room he asked for was prepared. A faint smile played around his lips. Roland would never have his heart’s desire if someone didn’t take him in hand.
Margaret opened her eyes to bright sunshine, and hurried to the window. It looked out on to the market, which was dominated by the great cathedral. The street was muddy and unpaved and was busy with carts loaded with produce, carriages, farmers on horseback, and men herding cattle and sheep to the pens from which they would be sold. Men and women hurried past and a coach rolled down the street and under the archway below her window. Perhaps when it had changed its horses it would be going on, and pass somewhere near Winterford. She washed and dressed and went downstairs.
The coffee-room was full, as it had been the previous night, and the waiters were hurrying to and fro serving breakfast. She hurried over to the one she had spoken to the previous night. ‘The coach that just came in. Does it go anywhere near Winterford?’
He turned from serving a gentleman with ham and eggs, and smiled thinly. ‘No, nothing goes out there; there’s nothing to go for. You’ll have to hire privately or walk—-’
‘Excuse me, did you say Winterford?’ the man he was serving interrupted.
Margaret turned to him, a smile on her lips which faded when she realised it was one of the men who had been surveying her so openly the evening before. ‘Yes,’ she said coolly, to let him know she deplored his insolence.
‘I am going there myself. I could take you.’
‘We do not know each other, sir.’
‘I beg your pardon. Let me introduce myself. I am Charles Mellison, of Mellison Hall in Huntingdonshire. You may have heard of the family.’
‘I have not.’
He smiled. ‘Ours is an old family with the very best of antecedents, I assure you. I am going to Winterford Manor, the country home of Lord Pargeter. You and your maid will be quite safe in my company, I promise.’
‘I have no maid,’ she said, and then wished she had not admitted it when she saw a little gleam of triumph in his eye. ‘But that does not mean I will allow myself to be taken up by a perfect stranger.’
‘No, of course not,’ he said. ‘I only thought I could help you out of a difficulty. Lady Pargeter would not like to think a guest of hers had been left to make her own way.’
‘I am not a guest of hers.’
‘No? Then I do beg your pardon.’
‘I am going to Sedge House. Mr Henry Capitain is my great-uncle.’
‘But the Capitains and the Pargeters have known each other for centuries!’ he exclaimed, as if that made everything right. ‘You must allow me to escort you…’
‘Well…’ She hesitated. Was she in a position to look a gift-horse in the