These Old Shades by Georgette Heyer
Saint-Vire went to Léonie and lifted her. She was limp in his hold.
‘I must let my head fall back, so! And my mouth open a little, thus! Voyons, I am being very clever! But I do not in the least know what comes to me. This man is a fool.’
She was carried out, and put into the coach, and propped up with cushions.
‘You will make for Rouen,’ Saint-Vire said, ‘En avant! ’
The door was shut, Saint-Vire settled himself beside Léonie, and the coach rolled forward.
Léonie set her wits to work.
‘This becomes more and more difficult. I do not see that I can do anything but continue to sleep while this man sits beside me. Presently we shall stop to change horses, for these are not good, I think. Perhaps this pig-person will get out then. If he thinks I am asleep he will do that, for he will want to eat again. But still I do not see how I am to escape. I will say a prayer to the Bon Dieu to show me a way.’
Meanwhile the coach travelled on at a fair rate, and the Comte took a book from his pocket and began to read it, glancing occasionally at the inert figure beside him. Once he felt Léonie’s pulse, and seemed to be satisfied, for he sank back into his corner and resumed his reading.
They must have been over an hour on the road when it happened. There was a terrific bump, a lurch, shouts and the stamping of frightened horses, and the coach toppled slowly into the ditch, so that the door by Léonie was only a yard from the hedge. She was flung violently against the side of the coach, with Saint-Vire atop of her, and it was only by a supreme effort of will that she refrained from throwing out a hand to save herself.
Saint-Vire struggled up, and wrenched at the off-side door, calling to know what was the matter. Victor’s voice answered.
‘The near back wheel, m’sieur! We have one of the horses down, and a trace broken!’
Saint-Vire swore roundly, and hesitated, glancing at his captive. Once more he bent over her, listening to her breathing and then jumped down into the road, shutting the door behind him. Léonie heard him join in the mêlée without, and scrambled up. Cautiously she opened the door that leaned drunkenly to the hedge, and slipped out, crouching low. The men were at the horses’ heads, and Saint-Vire was hidden from her sight by one of the plunging leaders. Bent almost double she fled down the road, keeping to the ditch, and, coming presently upon a gap in the high hedge, pushed her way through it into the field beyond. She was hidden now from the road, but she knew that at any moment Saint-Vire might discover her escape, and she ran on, dizzy and trembling, back along the way they had come, looking wildly round for some hiding-place. The field stretched away on either side; the bend in the road was some hundred yards further on, and there was no sign of human habitation, or friendly woodland.
Then in the distance she heard the sound of a horse’s hoofs on the hard road, galloping from the direction of Le Havre. She peeped through the hedge, wondering whether she dared call upon this furious rider to stop and assist her. The horse came round the bend. She saw a familiar blue coat, muddied over, a torn ruffle, and a dark handsome young face, flushed and excited.
She tore her way through the hedge, flew out into the road, and waved her hands.
‘Rupert, Rupert, j’y suis! ’ she shrieked.
Rupert pulled up, wrenching his horse back upon its haunches, and let out a whoop of triumph.
‘Quick! Oh, quick!’ Léonie panted, and ran to his stirrup.
He hoisted her up before him.
‘Where is he? Where’s that black scoundrel?’ he demanded. ‘How did you –’
‘Turn, turn!’ she commanded. ‘He is there, with that coach, and there are three others! Oh, quickly, Rupert!’ She pulled the horse round, but Rupert held it in still.
‘No, damme, I’ll have his blood, Léonie. I’ve sworn –’
‘Rupert, there are three with him, and you have no sword! Now he has seen! Nom de Dieu, en avant! ’
He looked over his shoulder, undecided. Léonie saw Saint-Vire snatch a pistol from his pocket, and drove her heels into the horse’s flanks with all her might. The animal leaped forward; something sang past Léonie’s cheek, scorching it; there was a terrific oath from Rupert, and the horse bolted with them down the road. A second explosion came, and Léonie felt Rupert lurch in the saddle, and heard the quick intake of his breath.
‘Touché, b’gad!’ he gasped. ‘On with you, you madcap!’
‘Laisse moi, laisse moi! ’ she cried, and snatched the bridle from him, urging the frightened horse round the bend. ‘Hold to me, Rupert, it is well now.’
Rupert could still laugh.
‘Well, is it? Gad – what a – chase! Steady, steady! There’s – lane – further down – turn into it – never reach – Le Havre.’
She twisted the bridle round her little hands, and pulled gallantly.
‘He will mount one of those horses,’ she said, thinking quickly. ‘And he will ride to Le Havre. Yes, yes, we will turn down the lane; Rupert, mon pauvre, are you badly hurt?’
‘Right shoulder – ’tis naught. There – should be – village. There’s the lane! Steady him, steady him! Good girl! Hey, what an adventure!’
They swept into the lane, saw cottages ahead, and a farm. Of impulse Léonie pulled up her mount, turned aside to the hedge, and made the horse push through into the fields. Then on she drove him, cross-country, at a canter.
Rupert was swaying in the saddle.
‘What – will you be at?’ he said hoarsely.
‘Laisse moi! ’ she repeated. ‘That is too near the road. He would be sure to look for us. I go further.’
‘Damme, let him look for us! I’ll put a bullet through his black heart, so I will!’
Léonie paid no heed, but rode on with a wary eye on the look-out for shelter. Rupert, she knew, was losing blood fast, and could not long endure. To the right, in the distance, she saw a church spire, and made for it, a cold fear in her heart.
‘Have courage, Rupert! Hold to me, and it will be very well!’
‘Ay, I’m well enough,’ said Rupert faintly. ‘Courage be damned! It’s not I who’d run away! Burn it, I can’t get my hand to the hole he’s made in me! Gently, gently, and ’ware rabbit-holes!’
A mile further the village was reached, a little peaceful haven, with its church sitting placidly by. Men working on the fields stared in amazement at the fleeing couple, but they rode on into the cobbled street, and up it till they came upon a tiny inn, with a swinging board over the door, and stables lying tumbledown about the yard.
Léonie reined in, and the horse stood quivering. An ostler gaped at them, mop in hand.
‘You there!’ Léonie called imperiously. ‘Come and help m’sieur to the ground! Quickly, great fool! He is wounded by – by highwaymen!’
The man looked fearfully down the road, but seeing no dread footpad, came to do Léonie’s bidding. Then the landlord bustled out to see what was toward, an enormous man with a scratch wig on his head, and a twinkle in his eye. Léonie held out her hand to him.
‘Ah, la bonne chance !’ she cried. ‘Aid, m’sieur, I beg of you! We were travelling to Paris, and were set upon by a party of footpads.’
‘Tare an’ ouns!’ said Rupert. ‘Do you think I’d run from a parcel of greasy footpads? Think of another tale, for the love of God!’
The landlord slipped an arm about his lordship, and lifted him down. Léonie slid to the ground, and stood trembling.
‘Mon Dieu, what an escape!’ said the landlord. ‘These footpads! You, Hector! Take m’sieur’s legs, and help me bear him to a guest-chamber.’
‘Devil take you, leave my legs alone!’ swore Rupert. ‘I can – I can walk!’
But the landlord, a practical man, saw that he was almost fainting, and bore him without more ado up the stairs to a little chamber under the eaves. He and the ostler laid his lordship on the bed, and Léonie fell on her knees beside him.
‘Oh, but he is wounded to death!’ she cried. ‘Help me with his coat!’
Rupert opened his eyes.
‘Fiddle!’ he said, and sank into unconsciousness.
‘Ah, an Englishman!’ cried the landlord, struggling with his lordship’s tight-fitting coat.
‘An English milor’,’ nodded Léonie. ‘I am his page.’
‘Tiens! One would know it was a great gentleman. Ah, the fine coat so spoiled! The shirt we must tear.’ He proceeded to do so, and turning my lord to his side, laid bare the wound. ‘It needs a surgeon, bien sûr. Hector shall ride to Le Havre. These highwaymen!’
Léonie was busy staunching the blood.
‘Yes, a surgeon!’ she started. ‘Ah, but Le Havre! He will be – they will pursue us there!’ She turned to the landlord. ‘Hector must know naught of us if he is questioned!’
The landlord was bewildered.
‘No, no, they would not dare! The highwaymen keep to the open country, my child.’
‘It – they were not – highwaymen,’ Léonie confessed, blushing. ‘And I am not really Lord Rupert’s page.’
‘Hein? What is this?’ demanded the landlord.
‘I – I am a girl,’ said Léonie. ‘I am the ward of the English Duc of Avon, and – and Lord Rupert is his brother!’
The landlord stared from one to the other, and a mighty frown came.
‘Ah, I see well! It is an elopement! Now I will tell you, mademoiselle, that I do not –’
‘But no!’ Léonie said. ‘It is that the – the man who pursues us stole me from the house of Monseigneur le Duc, and he drugged me, and brought me to France, and I think he would have killed me. But Milor’ Rupert came swiftly, and our coach lost a wheel, and I slipped out, and ran and ran and ran! Then milor’ came, and the man who stole me fired at him, and – and that is all!’
The landlord was incredulous.
‘Voyons, what tale is this you tell me?’
‘It is quite true,’ sighed Léonie, ‘and when Monseigneur comes you will see that it is as I say. Oh please, you must help us!’
The landlord was not proof against those big, beseeching eyes.
‘Well, well!’ he said. ‘You are safe here, and Hector is discreet.’
‘And you won’t let – that man – take us?’
The landlord blew out his cheeks.
‘I am master here,’ he said. ‘And I say that you are safe. Hector shall ride to Le Havre for a surgeon, but as for this talk of Ducs!’ He shook his head indulgently, and sent a wide-eyed serving maid to fetch Madame and some linen.
Madame came swiftly, a woman as large about as her husband, but comely withal. Madame cast one glance at Lord Rupert, and issued sharp orders, and began to rend linen. Madame would listen to nobody until she had tightly bound my Lord Rupert.
‘Hé, le beau! ’ she said. ‘What wickedness! That goes better now.’ She laid a plump finger to her lips, and stood billowing, her other hand on her hip. ‘He must be undressed,’ she decided. ‘Jean, you will find a nightshirt.’
‘Marthe,’ interposed her husband. ‘This boy is a lady!’
‘Quel horreur! ’ remarked Madame placidly. ‘Yes, it is best that we undress him, le pauvre !’ She turned, and drove the peeping maid out, and Léonie with her, and shut the door on them.
Léonie wandered down the stairs and went out into the yard. Hector was already gone on his way to Le Havre; there was no one in sight, so Léonie sank wearily on a bench hard by the kitchen window, and burst into tears.
‘Ah, bah!’ she apostrophised herself fiercely. ‘Bête! Imbécile! Lâche!’
But the tears continued to flow. It was a damp, drooping little figure that met Madame’s eye when she came sailing out into the yard.
Madame, having heard the strange story from her husband, was properly shocked and wrathful. She stood with arms akimbo, and began severely:
‘This is a great wickedness, mademoiselle! I would have you know that we –’ She broke off, and went forward. ‘But no, but no, ma petite ! There is nothing to cry about. Tais-toi, mon chou! All will go well, trust Maman Marthe!’ She enfolded Léonie in a large embrace, and in a few minutes a husky voice said, muffled:
‘I am not crying!’
Madame shook with fat chuckles.
‘I am not !’ Léonie sat up. ‘But oh, I think I am very miserable, and I wish Monseigneur were here, for that man will surely find us, and Rupert is like one dead!’
‘It is true then that there is a Duc?’ Madame asked.
‘Of course it is true!’ said Léonie indignantly. ‘I do not tell lies!’
‘An English Duc, alors? Ah, but they are of a wildness, these English! But thou – thou art French, little cabbage!’
‘Yes,’ said Léonie. ‘I am so tired I cannot tell you all now.’
‘It is I who am a fool!’ Madame cried. ‘Thou shalt to bed, mon ange, with some hot bouillon, and the wing of a fowl. That goes well, hein ?’
‘Yes, please,’ Léonie answered. ‘But there is Milor’ Rupert, and I fear that he will die!’
‘Little foolish one!’ Madame scolded. ‘I tell thee – moi qui te parle – that it is well with him. It is naught. A little blood lost; much weakness – and that is all. It is thou who art nigh dead with fatigue. Now thou shalt come with me.’
So Léonie, worn out with the terrors and exertions of the past two days, was tucked up between cool sheets, fed, crooned over, and presently left alone to sleep.
When she awoke the morning sun streamed in at the window, and sounds of bustle came from the street below. Madame was smiling at her from the doorway.
She sat up and rubbed her eyes.
‘Why – why, it is morning!’ she said. ‘Have I slept so long?’
‘Nine of the clock, little sluggard. It is better now?’
‘Oh, I am very well to-day!’ Léonie said, and threw back the blankets. ‘But Rupert – the doctor – ?’
‘Doucement, doucement, said I not that it was naught? The doctor came when thou were asleep, my cabbage, and in a little minute the bullet was out, and no harm done, by the grace of the good God. Milor’ lies on his pillows, and calls for food, and for thee.’ Madame chuckled. ‘And when I bring him good broth he snatches the wig from his head, and demands red beef, as they have it in England. Dépêches toi, mon enfant.’
Twenty minutes later Léonie went dancing into Rupert’s chamber, and found that wounded hero propped up by pillows, rather pale, but otherwise himself. He was disgustedly spooning Madame’s broth, but his face brightened at the sight of Léonie.
‘Hey, you madcap! Where in thunder are we now?’
Léonie shook her head.
‘That I do not know,’ she confessed. ‘But these people are kind, n’est-ce pas?’
‘Deuced kind,’ Rupert agreed, then scowled. ‘That fat woman won’t bring me food, and I’m devilish hungry. I could eat an ox, and this is what she gives me!’
‘Eat it!’ Léonie commanded. ‘It is very good, and an ox is not good at all. Oh, Rupert, I feared you were dead!’
‘Devil a bit!’ said Rupert cheerfully. ‘But I’m as weak as a rat, confound it. Stap me if I know what we’re at, the pair of us! What happened to you? And why by all that’s queer did Saint-Vire run off with you?’
‘I do not know. He gave me an evil drug, and I slept for hours and hours. He is a pig-person. I hate him. I am glad that I bit him, and threw the coffee over him.’
‘Did you, b’gad? Blister me if I ever met such a lass! I’ll have Saint-Vire’s blood for this, see if I don’t!’ He wagged his head solemnly, and applied himself to the broth. ‘Here am I chasing you to God knows where, with never a sou in my pocket, nor a sword at my side, and the landlord’s hat on my head! And what they’ll be thinking at home the Lord knows! I don’t!’
Léonie curled herself up on the bed, and was requested not to sit on his lordship’s feet. She shifted her position a little, and related her adventures. That done, she demanded to know what had befallen Rupert.
‘Blessed if I know!’ said Rupe
‘Sold one of Monseigneur’s horses?’ exclaimed Léonie.
‘No, no, ’twas a brute I got at the blacksmith’s, owned by – burn it, what’s the fellow’s name – Manvers!’
‘Oh, I see!’ said Léonie, relieved. ‘Go on. You did very well, Rupert!’
‘Not so bad, was it?’ said Rupert modestly. ‘Well, I bought a passage on the old tub, and we got in at Le Havre at one, or thereabouts.’
‘We did not leave Le Havre until two! He thought you would not follow, and he said that he was safe enough now!’
‘Safe, eh? I’ll show him!’ Rupert shook his fist. ‘Where was I?’
‘At Le Havre,’ Léonie prompted.
‘Oh, ay, that’s it! Well, by the time I’d paid this fee and that my guineas were all gone, so off I went to sell my diamond pin.’
‘Oh! It was such a pretty pin!’
‘Never mind that. The trouble I had to get rid of the damned thing you’d scarce believe. ’Pon my soul, I believe they thought I’d stolen it!’
‘But did you sell it?’
‘Ay, for less than half its worth, rot it! Then I skipped off to the inn to inquire of you, and to get me something to eat. Thunder and turf, but I was hungry!’
‘So was I!’ sighed Léonie. ‘And that pig-person ate and ate!’
‘You put me out,’ said Rupert severely. ‘Where was I? Oh yes! Well, the landlord told me that Saint-Vire was gone off by coach to Rouen at two o’clock, so the next thing I had to do was to hire a horse to be after you again. That’s all there is to it, and devilish good sport it was! But where we are now, or what we’re to do, beats me!’
‘The Comte will come, do you not think?’ Léonie asked anxiously.
‘I don’t know. He can’t very well snatch you when I’m here. I wish I knew what the plague he wants with you. Y’know, this is mighty difficult, for we haven’t either of us a notion what the game is we’re playing.’ He frowned, thinking. ‘Of course, Saint-Vire may come to steal you again. He’ll have ridden back to Le Havre first, depend on’t, and when he finds we’ve not been there he may scour the countryside, for he knows he hit me and it’s likely we’d be hiding somewhere near.’