her money to pay for a room at an inn, returned them to the purse and got wearily to her feet. She could not remain on this tree trunk for ever. Picking up her bandbox, with the vague idea of obtaining a ride in the direction of the metropolis, she set off down the road towards the village.
The fields that bordered the wayside were freshly tilled and planted with hops and barley, sprouting green and lush. The hedgerows, where honeysuckle and clematis rioted among the briars of the blackberries, whose white flowers were not yet unfurled, provided her with occasional shade from the sun shining bright in the pale blue of the early summer sky. The landscape undulated gently. The air was rent with birdsong. It was a lovely day. A lovely day to be a fugitive from justice, she thought bitterly
For the first mile, she made good progress, her head full of fantastical schemes for the recovery of Lady Ipswich’s necklace. The illicit hours she had devoted to reading the novels of the Minerva Press had not been entirely wasted. Before long, however, reality intervened. The straps from her bandbox were cutting into her hand; her cloak, the only outerwear she possessed, was designed for the depths of winter, not to be combined with a woollen dress in early summer. Her face was decidedly red under her bonnet and she could not conceive how such a few necessities as she carried could come to weigh so much. A pretty copse, where foxgloves and the last of the bluebells made vivid splashes of colour, failed to fill her with admiration for the abundant joys of nature. She was not in the mood to appreciate rural perfection. In fact, it would not be inaccurate to say that Henrietta’s temper was sadly frayed.
By the time she finally approached her destination she was convinced she had a blister on her foot where a small pebble had lodged inside her shoe, her shoulders ached, her head thumped and she wanted nothing more than a cool drink and a rest in a darkened room.
The King George was a ramshackle inn situated at a crossroads on the outer reaches of Woodfield village. The weathered board, with its picture of the poor mad king, creaked on rusted hinges by the entrance to the yard, where a mangy dog lazily scratched its ear beside a bale of hay. Dubiously inspecting the huddle of badly maintained buildings that constituted the hostelry, Henrietta was regaled by a burst of hearty male laughter that echoed out from behind the shuttered windows. Not a place to trust the sheets, never mind the clientele, she concluded. Her heart sank.
The front door gave straight into the taproom, which she had not expected. The hushed silence that greeted her entrance proved that she had taken the patrons equally by surprise. For a moment, Henrietta, clutching her cloak around her, stared at the sea of faces in front of her like a small animal caught in a trap and the men stared back as if she were a creature fished from the deep. Her courage almost failed her.
When the landlord asked her gruffly what she wanted, her voice came out in a whisper. His answer was disappointing. The mail was not due until tomorrow. The accommodation coach was fully booked for the next two days. He looked at her curiously. Why hadn’t she thought to enquire ahead? Was her business in London urgent? If so, he could probably get her a ride with one of his customers as far as the first posting inn, where she could pick up the Bristol coach that evening.
Suddenly horribly aware that the less people who knew of her whereabouts, the better, Henrietta declined this invitation and informed the landlord that she had changed her mind. She was not going to London, she informed him. She was definitely not going to London.
With a mumbled apology, she retreated back out of the front door and found herself in the stable yard, where a racing carriage was tethered, the horses fidgeting nervously. There was no sign of the driver. The phaeton was painted dark glossy green, the spokes of its four high wheels trimmed with gold, but there were otherwise no distinguishing marks. No coat of arms. The horses were a perfectly matched pair of chestnuts. Such a fine equipage must surely be London-bound.
Henrietta eyed it nervously, a reckless idea forming in her head. The seat seemed a very long way from the ground. The rumble seat behind, upon which was stowed a portmanteau and a large blanket, was not much lower. The hood of the phaeton was raised, presumably because the owner anticipated rain. If he did not look at the rumble seat—and why would he?—then he would not see her. If she did not take this chance, who knew what other would present itself? The spectres of the Bow Street Runner and Maisy Masters’s tales of prison loomed before her. Without giving herself time to think further, Henrietta scrambled on to the rear seat of the carriage, clutching her bandbox. Crouching down as far as she could under the rumble seat itself, she pulled the blanket over her and waited.
She did not have to wait long. Just a few minutes later, she felt the carriage lurch as its driver climbed aboard and almost immediately urged the horses forwards. Only one person? Straining her ears, she could hear nothing above the jangle of the tack and the rumbling of the wheels. The carriage swung round past the front of the King George and headed at a trot out of the village. Sneaking a peak out of the blanket, she thought they were headed in the right direction, but could not be sure. As they hit a deep rut in the road, she only just stopped herself from crying out and clutched frantically at the edge of the rumble seat to stop herself from tumbling on to the road.
The driver loosened his hold on the reins and cracked the whip. The horses made short work of quitting the environs of Woodfield village. As they bowled along, Henrietta tried to subdue a rising panic. What had she done? She could not be at all sure they were headed towards London and had no idea at all who was driving her. He might be angry when he discovered her. He might simply abandon her in the middle of nowhere. Or worse! She did not want to think about what worse was. Oh God, she had been a complete idiot.
The carriage picked up speed. Hedgerows fragrant with rosehip and honeysuckle flew past in a blur as she peered out from under her blanket. Beyond, the landscape was vibrant with fields of swaying hops. She glimpsed an oast house, its conical roof so reminiscent of a witch’s hat. They passed through a village, no more than a cluster of thatched cottages surrounding a water mill. Then another. Farms. The occasional farmer’s cart rumbled past heading in the opposite direction. On a clear stretch of road, they overtook an accommodation coach with a burst of acceleration that had Henrietta grabbing on to the sides of the phaeton. The driver of the coach raised his whip in acknowledgement.
Jolted and bruised, cramped and sore, her head aching again, Henrietta clung to the seat and clung also to the one reassuring fact, that at least she had avoided Lady Ipswich’s Bow Street Runner. She found little else to console her as they sped on through unfamiliar countryside and soon gave up trying. The events of the past twenty-four hours finally took their toll. Exhausted, shocked, bruised and confused, Henrietta fell into a fitful dose.
When she awoke, it was to find that the carriage had slowed. They seemed to be following a river, and it seemed wide enough to surely be the Thames. She tried to stretch, but her limbs had gone into a cramp. She was weighing up the risks of emerging from under the seat when they turned off the road through a gap in the hedgerow.
A swathe of grass rolled down to the wide, slow-moving river. Henrietta’s heart began to pound very hard and very loud—so loud she was sure it could be heard. Should she huddle down further or make a break for it? Should she stay to brazen it out, perhaps even request to be allowed to complete the journey? Or should she take her chances with her very limited funds and even more limited knowledge of where she was?
The chassis tilted as the driver leapt down. He was tall. She caught a glimpse of a beaver hat before he disappeared round to the front of the horses, leading them down to the water and tethering them there. It was now or never, while he was tending to them, but panic made her freeze. Get out, get out, she chided herself, but her limbs wouldn’t move.
‘What the devil!’
The blanket was yanked back. Henrietta blinked up at the figure looming over her.
He was just as tall and dark and handsome as she remembered;
