Where Love Illumines (Where There is Love Book 2) Read online

  But it was the Child carriage that met delay. When the coach began to slacken its pace, Mr. Child opened the window and yelled out, “What are you thinking of, man? Faster! Let’s not be stopping here in the middle of the heath. The horses have hardly worked up a lather yet.”

  “Carriage stopped in the middle of the road ahead of us, sir,” the coachman answered.

  Mary looked out her window. “Oh, it’s Lord Anstine’s coach. Do you suppose they’ve had trouble?” As the Child coach rolled to a stop, Mary opened her door and jumped out to run to Lady Anstine.

  Then she stood stock-still as she saw the reason for the delay. The highwayman of Hampstead Heath held Lord and Lady Anstine at gunpoint.

  And now his gun was pointed at Mary too. She gave a cry of alarm. Then her cry increased as, with a growl and a sharp, bark, Spit sprang from her arms and took a flying leap at the mounted highwayman’s leg.

  The confusion was all Lord Anstine needed to get off a shot. The robber gave a shout of pain, spun sideways in the saddle, and clutched his shoulder. Then he galloped off across the heath.

  Trembling, Mary picked up Spit and allowed a postillion to hand her back into the coach. “Oh, my dear! You could have been shot!” Mrs. Child grasped Mary’s hand. “Whatever next? An elopement and a highwayman in one night! It’s too much.” Mary quite agreed, but she felt too weak to say anything as the coach rushed on into the dark.

  “But what’s that?” Mrs. Child leaned forward and looked at Spit. “Blood on your poor animal’s mouth?”

  Mary looked down in alarm and then smiled. The dark streak running from Spit’s mouth was not blood but a piece of fabric. “Good boy, Spit You gave that highwayman what-for, didn’t you? My valiant spit dog, what an adventurous life you lead!” She tucked the scrap into her reticule.

  Streaks of morning light filled the sky by the time they neared Luton, north of London. “We’ll change horses at the posting house here,” Mr. Child said. “And I’ll inquire for word of our miscreants. Gillam should have passed here hours ago; he’ll have left a message.”

  The ostler and stable boys had fresh horses harnessed to the carriage before Mr. Child returned with his information. “They were here, all right. Gillam’s about an hour ahead of us. Good road now. We should catch up. And when we do, I’ll disinherit her, that’s what I’ll do. Cut her off without a penny. If that’s what she thinks of my name and my fortune, she shall have neither. Confounded ungrateful—”

  “Now, Robert, don’t upset yourself. It will only bring on your gout again.”

  But Mr. Child’s prophecy met with frustration a few miles outside Northampton. Here a detachment of King’s Dragoon Guards were exercising on the road. No matter how violently Child raged and swore, the King’s own would not be hurried or moved in their maneuvers.

  “Egad, I’d tear the fence down and go around them if the bank weren’t so steep,” Child blustered.

  There was nothing to do but to pull to the side of the road and wait until the company had finished its drill. While they were waiting, one of the officers rode by. Mary was surprised to recognize him. “Captain Felsham!” she called through her open window.

  He rode up to the carriage and saluted the ladies without the least sign of surprise at seeing them there.

  “Forsooth, Felsham, is it necessary to exercise these fellows on the public highways?” Child bellowed.

  “Not precisely necessary, sir. But sometimes it can be—er, expedient.”

  Mary caught the gleam in his eyes. “Captain, do you mean to say you’ve thrown up this roadblock on purpose?”

  “Let us just say that Rapid Westmoreland is an old friend of mine.” The captain saluted and spun his horse about to return to his men.

  “That blackguard! That rapscallion! That—I’ll write to His Majesty, that’s what I’ll do!” It wasn’t clear whether Child was raging at Westmoreland or the captain, but as the road cleared and allowed them to continue at that moment, he subsided. After a bit of silence he added, almost under his breath, “But it was quick-witted of him.”

  It was nearing noon, and Mary had begun to wonder if Mr. Child intended to drive the entire distance to Scotland without stopping for a meal. The farther they went, the more rutted the North Road became and the more slowly they traveled. “Only consolation is that it’ll slow down those young scamps just as much,” Child said.

  Finally he ordered the coachman to stop at an inn. But inside they discovered that Westmoreland had not been the only one slowed by the road. “Gillam! What the—what are you doing here? I sent you out to chase down that good-for-nothing who made off with my daughter, not to loaf around coaching houses!”

  “Sorry, sir. ’Unter threw a shoe. I’m just a waitin’ for the farrier to finish ’is work.”

  “Why the devil didn’t you change horses, man? You could be five miles down the road by now.”

  “Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but ’ave you seen the cattle they ’ave to offer ’ere?”

  Mary fell gratefully to the slab of thick bread and cheese the innkeeper’s wife served them. She slipped bits of her crusts under the table to Spit, who likewise hadn’t eaten for hours. She had barely finished eating when Child bustled them back in the coach again.

  “One thing about it, my Sarah won’t travel on an empty stomach. I’ll wager she’s wheedled her beau into feeding her at every inn. Bet old Rapid didn’t plan on that.” Child sounded smug as he banged on the carriage roof for the driver to carry on. “And spring ’em!” he hollered out the window.

  Mary was beginning to wonder how much more of the harsh jolting in the swaying carriage she could endure when Gillam rode up to Mr. Child’s window. “Carriage up a’ead, sir. Coronets on the door. Can’t make ’em out though.”

  Child gave a shout of triumph. “Aha! Caught ’em, we have. Now we’ll see who that lass will obey. Overtake ’em, Gillam!” At the same time he pounded his signal for the driver to lay on his whip.

  The top was down on Westmoreland’s carriage. Mary could see Sarah’s dark curls tossing in the wind under her bonnet as Westmoreland whipped the horses. Then, more alarming, she saw Westmoreland draw a pistol and wave it at Gillam. Surely he wasn’t so desperate that he’d shoot Child’s groom. Mary leaned toward her open window. She heard the pounding of the horses’ hooves, the crack of Westmoreland’s whip, and above all, she heard Sarah shout gaily, “Shoot, my lord! Shoot!”

  Westmoreland shot.

  The next moment one of Mr. Child’s favorite hunters lay dead beneath his groom. Mrs. Child took one look at the flow of blood from the animal’s chest and fell across Mary in a swoon.

  With slumped shoulders, Mr. Child got out of his carriage and helped Gillam to his feet while the runaways sped off, Sarah waving in farewell.

  The chase was abandoned. By the time the Child party made their way back to Osterley, with frequent stops for food and rest, there was no doubt that Sarah was now the Countess of Westmoreland. “Married in some alehouse in Gretna Green,” Mrs. Child wailed. “After all the plans I had for my daughter.”

  Mary suggested that perhaps the bishop could offer Mrs. Child some comfort. Stifford was summoned to request Bishop Twysden’s attendance, but the butler informed his mistress that his lordship had returned to his London house the night of the musicale. Mr. Roger had come for his bags the next day.

  Bereft of its company and of the daughter of the house, Osterley seemed barren. Mary suggested that she should return to London also, but Mrs. Child begged her to remain and bear them company. Mary hadn’t the heart to argue, and Mr. Child dispatched a groom to London with a note to Elizabeth.

  The following week the newlyweds returned, flushed and pleased with themselves and not at all penitent. “My dear, why were you so fast when I had much better parties in view for you?” Mrs. Child asked her daughter.

  “Mama, a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,” Sarah replied, pulling a long curl over her shoulder.

  “That’s as may b
e, young lady,” her father said with a degree of severity that cut the preening short, “but I’ll tell you right now, I’ve already seen my man of business. My estate is to go to your second child. I’ll not have Westmoreland’s heir getting my property.”

  Sarah wrapped her arms around her papa’s neck. “Now, Daddy, don’t be cross. After all, we were only taking your advice. And it has been a fine adventure.”

  While Mr. Child sputtered, Mrs. Child drew Sarah and Mary aside to discuss the lavish wedding she was now determined her daughter should have. “It’s the only way to put a good face on things and quiet the gossips. I’m determined you shall be married by a bishop, my dear.” She paused and looked at her daughter. “Shall I have to call you ‘Your Ladyship’ now that you’re a countess? My, it feels quite grand to have such a title in the family, no matter what your papa says.”

  “Shall we have Bishop Twysden for the ceremony?” Sarah asked.

  “That’s a splendid idea! There’s nothing like an old family friend at a time like this. We haven’t seen him since he removed to London. We’ll call on him tomorrow and make all the arrangements, and we must order you a new wardrobe, my love.”

  Mary saw the excursion to London as an opportunity to return to Devonshire Place, but she accompanied her friends to the bishop’s home in St. James Square first.

  As they waited in the fine anteroom, Mary couldn’t help musing on her friend’s attitude to marriage—a new wardrobe, a fine adventure, a bird in the hand. Sarah seemed to be happy, but there had to be more to marriage than that.

  Her reverie was interrupted as the servant came to lead them to Bishop Twysden. He was in his study, but his desk did not look as if he had been doing any work. He did not rise from his sofa at their entrance, but instead merely offered two fingers on his left hand for them to clasp. “I beg your pardon, but l have suffered a slight accident on my right shoulder.” Even under his robes Mary could see the bulky bandage. “Most stupid of me—I was careless cleaning my fowling piece. Now, how may I serve you, madam?” he asked Mrs. Child.

  Without mentioning the awkward fact of the elopement, she merely told him that Sarah and Westmoreland were to be married, and they wished him to perform the service. The talk turned to publishing banns and setting of dates, but Sarah set all such delay on end when she announced, “Fah, what a lot of nonsense. We shall not wait upon all that. We are to be married next week by special license.”

  Mrs. Child started to argue and then apparently remembered that her daughter was now a countess and that such pronouncements were quite within her rights. “As you wish it, my dear,” she said meekly.

  Bishop Twysden waved a scented handkerchief with his left hand. “Egad, it’s an impatient lass. I fear my physician will not hear of my performing any such arduous episcopal duties for many weeks yet.”

  Sarah rose regally. “Then we shall find another bishop. I’m sorry we have troubled you, sir. I wish you a speedy recovery.”

  Thinking their interview would last longer, Mrs. Child had sent their coachman to Oxford Street on an errand. Now they had to wait again in the anteroom for his return. Mrs. Child turned to her daughter. “Don’t give it a thought, Sarah. We shall have the Archbishop of Canterbury. I can’t imagine why I didn’t think of him in the first place—he’s much higher. And I was thinking, instead of some commonplace London church, why not be married at Westmoreland’s seat? Apethorpe is such a magnificent establishment.”

  The wedding talk continued, but Mary sat frozen as events of the past weeks made a pattern in her mind. It was unthinkable, yet the pieces fit too tightly. He always demands a room on the ground floor, Sarah had said. Was the bishop more interested in free passage in and out his window than in the scenery?

  I wanted to be sure the guns were all loaded, Roger had said, but Lord Houseton had found his charges drawn when he tried to shoot the highwayman. Had Roger been unloading the firearms?

  She looked at the silver shoe buckles peeping from under her petticoats. I set my man to search for them. Had Roger asked his uncle for them in his cut of the booty?

  In her mind’s eye, she saw the highwayman grab his wounded shoulder and knew it to be precisely the same location as Bishop Twysden’s bandages.

  And yet it was all circumstantial. Surely she was wrong. A strange coincidence. A bishop was a holy man of God, set apart for the work of the church. He could not be a highwayman.

  She opened her reticule and drew out the scrap Spit had bitten off the highwayman’s stocking. Purple striped with silver thread. I had them woven especially for the occasion. Here was evidence she could not argue with.

  Mary sat staring at the scrap in her hand, too angry and amazed for words. When she thought of all Roger’s flowery speeches to her, when she considered his audacity in returning her stolen goods as a love token, when she recalled his broad hints that he would ask her to marry him—and all the time he was no better than a common thief! The very idea! Her temper surged. Oh that the puppy stood before her so she could give him a piece of her mind.

  As if summoned by her thought Roger entered and made a deep bow. “Ladies, I have just this moment been informed of your honoring us with your presence. If I had known sooner—”

  Mary jumped to her feet, cutting off his words. “If you had come in sooner, sir, you might have prevented my solving the puzzle.” Mary held out the purple and silver scrap. “Would you be so good as to inform your uncle of my possession of this bit of evidence and convey my advice that he spend more time reading his prayer book than taking exercise upon the heath.”

  Before the open-mouthed Roger could respond, a footman announced the arrival of Mrs. Child’s carriage. Mary swept from the room without giving Roger another look. But another carriage was in first position before the bishop’s doorstep. Lady Anstine emerged in a spring bonnet lavishly adorned with yellow and lavender flowers and feathers. “My dears, have you heard the news? It’s too alarming for words. They are saying that the highwayman is—well, I simply couldn’t credit it, so I had to call on dear Bishop Twysden myself to make certain—because, of course, it wouldn’t do to spread a rumor that isn’t strictly true.”

  Mary gave a satisfied nod. “It is quite true, Lady Anstine.” And she passed on into the carriage. The polite world would see to Bishop Twysden’s punishment. Highwaymen were romantic creatures in books, but one would not tolerate a criminal in one’s drawing room. The bishop’s penance would be far harsher than any the law could require.

  As the carriage rolled across London to the Tudway home, Mary couldn’t help recalling the first time she saw Bishop Twysden in Bath Abbey, with the light from the stained-glass window falling across his vestments. And she recalled the words he had read, “The Scripture moveth us in sundry places to acknowledge and confess our manifold sins and wickedness; and that we should not dissemble nor cloak them before the face of Almighty God our Heavenly Father; but confess them with an humble, lowly, penitent, and obedient heart.”

  How was it possible for a man who professed belief in God and in His Word to live such a life? Could one really become so hardened to all God required that his only thoughts were for riches and position? Would the bishop and his nephew ever be able to humble themselves to confess their sins before God with lowly, penitent, and obedient hearts?

  With a jolt Mary recalled that for a space of time she had been determined that she would accept Roger. The thought of what she had been spared left her weak—weak and longing for Rowland: For his comfort, for his rocklike values that one could anchor to; for his twinkling brown eyes that could make one relax and forget one’s troubles.

  When they reached Devonshire Place, the sight of the rather shabby Tabernacle carriage outside made her heart leap. Rowland was here.

  But when he came down the steps to meet her, his eyes were not twinkling, and the drawn lines of his face told her all was not right.

  Fourteen

  “Lady Selina is ill. I have come to take you to Park Lane.” Rowl
and’s clipped sentences told Mary more clearly than anything else how desperate the situation was.

  She didn’t even go into the house, but bade Sarah and Mrs. Child good-bye and wished Sarah happiness with her Westmoreland. Then she directed Knebworth to take her bags up and inform Elizabeth of her whereabouts.

  “Has she been ill long?” Events had rushed in upon her so of late that Mary struggled even to recall what day it was.

  “She was stricken with the fever Sunday night. She and Colonel Hastings attended service at the Tabernacle that morning, and she looked as happy as at the drawing room.”

  Mary nodded. She knew how quickly fevers could strike and carry their victims off—but surely not Selina. Such a good, kind creature, her mother’s support, Colonel Hastings’s whole delight—and two months before her wedding. Surely that was not to be!

  When the carriage arrived at Park Lane, Mary thought how impregnable the great house looked, as if death couldn’t possibly enter. But death had entered the countess’s life many times; it had borne off her husband the earl, a daughter Elizabeth, three sons—George, Fernando, and Henry. Now was it to strike again and take her most beloved child?

  They entered the quiet, dim hallway and were shown up the grand staircase, past the drawing room where the happy couple had announced their engagement only short weeks before. In a small sitting room outside Selina’s bedchamber, they found the countess, supported by her old friend John Berridge. “How good of you to come, Rowland, Mary. The physician is with her now. We may go in soon.”

  Rowland went to Hastings standing in stiff silence in the far corner and grasped his hand. “My dear fellow—”

  Hastings continued to hold onto Rowland. “Only a few days ago she said, ‘Certainly I am the happiest woman in the world. I have not a wish ungratified—surely this is too much to last.’” There was a crack in his voice, but his countenance betrayed nothing.