style="font-size:15px;"> She hadn’t walked very far when she heard the approaching coach, and her confidence swiftly flagged. It was surely the stagecoach, and the driver would stop, insist she board the coach. She hadn’t thought of that wrinkle. But Prudence was determined not to be delivered into the hands of Linford. “You will not falter,” she murmured under her breath. “You have as much right to walk along this road as anyone.”
Prudence lifted her chin as the coach rapidly approached. It wasn’t until the last possible moment that she understood the coach did not intend to stop and inquire about her at all, and with a cry of alarm, Prudence leaped off the road just as the team thundered by, cloaking her in a cloud of dust.
When the coach had passed, Prudence coughed and picked herself up with a pounding heart, dusting off her day gown as best she could. “He might at least have slowed to see if I’d been harmed,” she muttered, and climbed back on the road, squared her shoulders, and began to walk again.
She had no sooner taken a few steps than she heard the sound of the second coach. Now an old hand at navigating passing coaches, Prudence hopped off the road and stood a few feet back.
But this coach slowed. The team was reined down to a walk, then rolled to a stop alongside where she stood.
The driver, her driver, peered down at her a moment, then turned his head and spit into the dirt. “Aye, miss, wheel’s fixed. Climb aboard.”
“Thank you, but I prefer to walk,” she said lightly.
“Walk! To where? There’s naught a village or a person for miles.”
“Miles?” she repeated, trying to sound unimpressed. “How many miles would you say?”
“Five.”
“Well! Then it’s a good thing that I wore my sturdy shoes,” she lied. “A fine day for walking, too. Thank you, but I shall walk, sir.” She wondered if Matheson was sitting in the interior of the coach overhearing her, laughing at her foolishness. Was that why he hadn’t shown himself? Perhaps he didn’t want anyone to think he was in any way familiar with a featherheaded debutante who was walking down the road in slippers more fitting for a dance?
“Suit yourself,” the driver said, and lifted the reins, prepared to send the team on.
“Sir!” Prudence shouted before he could dispatch the team. “Will you see that my trunk is delivered to Himple?” She opened her reticule to retrieve a few coins and began to make her way across the ditch to the road. “Please. If you will leave it at the post station, someone will be along for it.” She climbed onto the road—slipping once and catching herself, then climbing up on the driver’s step. She held up a few shillings to him.
“You’re alone, miss?” one of the gentlemen riding behind the driver called down to her.
She ignored him. Her heart was racing now, not only with fear, but also with anger that was very irrational. She could imagine Mr. Matheson sitting in the coach, rolling his eyes or perhaps even sharing a chuckle with the boy. One could certainly argue that she deserved his derision given what she’d done today, but she didn’t like it one bit.
“You’re certain, are you?” the driver said, taking the coins from her palm and pocketing them.
“Quite. Thank you.” Prudence stepped down.
The driver put the reins to the team. Once again, Prudence was almost knocked from the road. As it was, she stumbled backward into the ditch, catching herself on a tree limb to keep from falling.
She watched the coach move down the road and disappear under the shadows of trees.
Five miles from a village.
She looked around. There was no one, and no sound but the breeze in the treetops and the fading jangle of the coach. Prudence had never been alone like this. But, as her poor, mad mother used to say before she’d lost the better part of her mind, no one could correct one’s missteps but oneself. The sooner one set upon the right course, the sooner one would reach the right destination.
Prudence would argue the point about the right destination, but there was nothing to be done for it now. And for God’s sake, she would not shed a single tear. There was nothing she detested more than women who resorted to tears at the first sign of adversity. Yes, walk she would, in shoes that were meant to wander about a manicured garden...just as soon as she gave her aching feet a rest.
Prudence dropped her valise and sat down on top of it, her knees together, her legs splayed at odd angles to keep her balance on the small bag. She folded her arms on top of her knees, pressed her forehead against her arms and squeezed her eyes shut. How could you be so stupid?
Reality began to seep into her thoughts.
Whatever made her believe she could be like her sisters? She’d never been like the rest of them, had never taken such daring chances, disregarding all propriety on a whim. What made her believe that she could step out of bounds of propriety now? Yes, she’d been at sixes and sevens of late, unsatisfied with her lot in life, but still! She was alone on a road, perfect prey for highwaymen, thieves or other horrible things she couldn’t even bring herself to think of. Gypsies! Prudence gasped and her heart fluttered, recalling the frightening tales Mercy had insisted on telling.
“Well.”
The sound of a man’s voice startled her so badly that Prudence tried to leap up and scream at the same time and managed to knock herself off her imperfect perch and onto her bottom.
Mr. Matheson instantly reached for her, and Prudence, in a moment of sheer relief, grabbed him with both hands, hauled herself up with such vigor that she launched herself into his person and threw her arms around his neck.
Perhaps he was as stunned as she—he caught her, but neither of them moved for one long moment. Then Mr. Matheson put his hands firmly on her waist and carefully set her back, staring down at her as if she’d lost her mind.
“I beg your pardon,” she said apologetically. “I was momentarily overcome with relief! What are you doing on foot?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Rescuing you.”
Prudence could feel the color rising in her cheeks, the thump, thump, thump of her shame and delight in her chest. “You gave me such a fright,” she said, pressing her hand to breast. “I thought I would perish with it.”
“Well, I think we’ve sufficiently delayed your ultimate demise for at least an hour or so,” he said. “What the devil are you doing here? Why did you leave the coach? Where in hell do you think you’re walking?”
“To the next village or cottage,” she said, gesturing lamely in that direction. “I mean to pay someone to return me to Ashton Down.”
He squinted down the road in the direction she gestured. “What a perfectly ridiculous thing to do,” he said gruffly. “Why would you? You had a seat on a coach!”
“Because I feared Mrs. Scales would not be able to restrain herself from reporting all that had happened since leaving Ashton Down, and she...might possibly utter my name.”
“I think the odds of that are excellent,” he said, nodding, as if it were a foregone conclusion.
