Chapter Two

Four days later, having agreed that he would meet up with his cousin at the Dun Cow at Dunchurch, Will Maitland headed north from his home in Buckinghamshire and made for Dunstable, from where the newly metalled Watling Street would take him into Northamptonshire and eventually on to join up with the Coventry turnpike. He had sent his bags on ahead of him and had every intention of making quite a leisurely journey of it, since he reckoned that it would take him something in the region of six hours to accomplish the distance, including a couple of halts for refreshment and to water Pegasus, his chestnut stallion.

The summer day was fine and fair, with sufficient breeze to make a steady canter enjoyable and, to begin with, having set out at such an early hour, he had the road much to himself, skirting past the occasional rosy-cheeked milkmaid as she dreamily followed her charges from their field to the milking-shed, and exchanging smiling greetings with the farmers’ wives he encountered driving their laden gigs to the local marketplaces.

The morning wore on and the volume of oncoming traffic increased and, having more than once been forced to hug the hedge as a lumbering stagecoach bore down upon him, he judged the moment suitable to make his first stop, choosing a pretty little wayside inn just outside the village of Stony Stratford. After instructing an ostler to rub down and water his horse, he chose to partake of his own refreshment seated on the wooden bench that the landlord had thoughtfully provided beneath the shade of a nearby leafy chestnut tree.

His hunger satisfied, he leaned back in comfortable tranquillity against the tree’s great trunk and closed his eyes and, whether it was the lulling sound of the insects droning above his head or the effect of ‘mine host’s’ strong home-brewed, coupled with his early rising, he would never know, but in just a few moments his head nodded on to his chest and he was sound asleep.

A tentative tap on his shoulder startled him out of his pleasant doze.

‘Begging your pardon, sir,’

The sound of the landlord’s voice dragged Maitland from his slumbers and it did not take him long to realise that the sun was no longer directly overhead, which irritating circumstance meant that he would have to press on very quickly if he wanted to make up the time he had lost. Cursing under his breath, he called for Pegasus to be saddled, hurriedly paid his shot and, mounting in one swift movement, he wheeled the horse out of the yard and urged him into a fast gallop towards Tow-cester.

   

Two hours later, by mid-afternoon, he had reached the Daventry turnpike where he ascertained from the toll-keeper that a further eight miles would see him at the Dunchurch pike.

‘An’ ye’d do well to stop the night there, sir,’ warned the keeper, pocketing Maitland’s two pence and handing him his ticket. ‘’Taint wise to be crossing Dunsmoor Heath at sundown—been a fair few travellers robbed there lately.’

Maitland thanked the man for his solicitude, assuring him that Dunchurch would, in fact, be the end of his journey and, with a cheery goodbye, set off once more at a spanking pace.

Hardly a mile or so up the road, however, Pegasus suddenly faltered in his stride and, gradually slowing down, he began to limp on his left foreleg. Maitland, after five years in a cavalry regiment, had no trouble recognising the ominous signs and he immediately reined in, dismounted and led his horse on to the grass verge where he carefully examined the hoof and found, as he had expected, a small sharp flintstone lodged under his shoe. Since he always carried with him the necessary implements for dealing with such an emergency, it did not take him long to extract the offending object, but, knowing that the horse would still be in considerable discomfort for some little while, he looked about him for inspiration and, spotting a small stream not far off, he led the still limping animal over to the bank and into its soothing shallows. He patted his neck with sympathetic encouragement as the thirsty animal eagerly gulped the refreshing water, then, taking out his pocket-handkerchief, he soaked it in the fast-flowing stream and wiped his own perspiring face before lowering himself to sit on the grass verge while his mount gratefully cooled his sore foot.

There was still a considerable amount of traffic making its way in both directions along the road. Several carters went by, touching the brims of their felt hats in greeting as they passed, and a pedlar’s wagon, hung all about with pots and pans, brushes and broom-handles and the like, brought a instant smile to Maitland’s face as it rattled and clanked its way onwards. This was followed, shortly afterwards, by a well-sprung, open-topped landaulet, drawn by a pair of beautifully matched greys.

Having seen that the owner of the carriage was frantically signalling to his coachman to check his horses, Maitland leapt to his feet. Almost before the vehicle came to a standstill, its owner was out of his seat and hurrying back down the road, a slight limp impairing his otherwise swift progress.

‘Will Maitland!’ he cried, in obvious astonishment. ‘By all that’s holy! What in the name of goodness are you doing here?’

Grinning widely, Maitland strode quickly to meet him, both hands outstretched to grasp the other man’s.

‘Eddie Catford!’ he said. ‘My dear fellow! I had quite forgotten that your place is hereabouts. How are you, old chum? How’s the leg?’

The Honourable Viscount Edwin Catford beamed back at his ex-army comrade.

‘Not worth a mention, dear friend,’ he replied, with studied nonchalance. ‘But why are you lolling about at the side of the road? Lost your way, old chap?’

‘Very amusing,’ chuckled Maitland, giving the viscount a light-hearted punch in the arm. ‘Actually, I’m heading for Dunchurch, but poor old Pegs picked up a flint a while back, obliging us to rein in for a few minutes.’

‘Oh, bad luck!’ Catford was instant sympathy. ‘Can we take you up?’

He gestured towards his carriage and Maitland, turning, saw that the vehicle held other occupants.

‘That would be useful,’ he confessed, ‘but I see that you have ladies with you—I must not detain you.’

‘Nonsense! They’ll be delighted to meet you,’ avowed Catford, steering his friend to the side of the landau. ‘Ladies, this roadside vagrant is none other than an old comrade from my regiment—one William Maitland, Esquire. Will, allow me to present my cousin, Miss Georgianne Venables, and our neighbour’s granddaughter, Miss Stephanie Highsmith.’

His two young passengers had been consumed with curiosity as to the identity of the stranger but, upon hearing Maitland’s name, the viscount’s cousin’s face lit up with a welcoming smile.

‘Major William Maitland!’ she exclaimed. ‘But surely you are the hero himself?’

‘The very same,’ replied Catford, grinning hugely at his friend’s discomposure. ‘Dragged me from the Jaws of Death without a thought for his own safety…’

‘Cut line, Eddie,’ begged Maitland, laughing. ‘That’s old history now—your servant, ladies.’

Turning, he made his bow to the occupants of the carriage, both of whom regarded him with unconcealed interest, for the tales of Earl Gresham’s son’s exploits in the Peninsula had long held the locals spellbound, and there would have been few who would not have heard of Will Maitland’s daring intervention in what might well have been their young hero’s final action.

Having had his horse shot from under him on the field at Waterloo, the viscount had found himself pinned beneath the dying animal, unable to extricate his shattered leg. Notwithstanding the fact that their company had, by this time, been in hasty retreat, Maitland had wheeled back and leapt from his mount to heave his comrade out of the mud and up on to his own horse’s back. Miraculously avoiding both shot and cannon, he had managed to re-mount and head the animal in a frantic gallop back to their lines, for which courageous action he had been promoted and mentioned in dispatches.

‘Aunt Letty will be overjoyed to finally meet you face to face,’ said Georgianne. ‘She was so full of your bravery when she brought Edwin back from the military hospital at Chatham.’

Maitland smiled. ‘Her ladyship has been kind enough to write to me on several occasions during the past year,’ he replied. ‘I look forward to calling on her.’

‘Which I hope you will do, as soon as may be,’ interrupted Catford. ‘But, for the moment, where are you bound? Tie Pegasus to the rear of the carriage and we will take you up as far as we can—give him a much-needed rest from your tiresome weight, at any rate,’ he added, with a grin.

Maitland, returning the grin, acquainted Catford with his destination. On learning that the viscount was travelling to within two miles of Dunchurch, he gratefully availed himself of his offer and, having secured his mount’s halter to the rear of the landau, climbed into the vacant seat beside his friend.

‘You are bound for Gresham Hall, ladies?’ he enquired with interest, as soon as the coachman had whipped up the horses. ‘May I ask if you live hereabouts?’

Although he had addressed his questions to both of Catford’s female passengers, it was the young lady seated directly opposite him who had captured the better part of his attention.

Whilst Maitland was willing to concede that the viscount’s cousin, with her light brown hair drawn neatly back under a simple chip-straw and her placid grey eyes set in pleasant features, was far from unattractive, her looks paled almost into insignificance when compared with the breathtaking loveliness of Miss Highsmith.

A tumble of golden curls, half-hidden beneath the frivolous confection of a wide-brimmed, beribboned bonnet, framed Stephanie’s utterly bewitching features. As he gazed, wholly entranced, at the girl’s adorable face, complete with cornflower-blue eyes, a pert little nose and the most kissable lips he had ever come across, Maitland found himself instantly captivated.

‘Since Georgianne is also my mother’s ward, Gresham Hall has always been her home,’ replied Catford, on the girls’ behalf. ‘And Lady Highsmith has done us the honour of allowing her granddaughter to stay with us whilst she herself takes the waters at Harrogate.’ He turned to the still slightly bemused Maitland, explaining, ‘My parents are about to celebrate their fortieth wedding anniversary and we are quite a houseful at the moment. You, of course, will be more than welcome to a bed. Had I known that you intended to be in Warwickshire at this time, I would have invited you earlier. Why are you here, may I ask?’

Hurriedly redirecting his mind to the viscount’s question, Maitland replied, ‘Thanks for the offer, Cat, but I’m racking up in Dunchurch—with my own cousin, as it happens, if he arrives as planned. We’re set on the trail of a long-lost relative of ours who was, apparently, born in these parts—fulfilling a sort of a deathbed promise, you might say.’

‘How intriguing!’ Georgianne leaned forwards, her eyes alight with interest. ‘May we be privy to this search? Or, is it a deep secret?’

‘Well, there are family secrets involved, I must confess, but it is highly probable that in the end I shall be thankful for whatever assistance I can get, Miss Venables,’ replied Maitland with a laugh. ‘The mystery goes back before you were born, I hazard, and I suspect that it will be more of a chore than I had realised. I fear that I shall be poring over old parish records for some weeks to come.’

Stephanie’s pert little nose wrinkled in distaste. ‘Oh, that does, indeed, sound boring in the extreme, Mr Maitland—I do hope that you will be able to set aside a little time to come and visit us all at the Hall, as Lord Catford has suggested?’

Although Maitland merely promised that he would do his best, he was inwardly determined that wild horses would not prevent him from furthering his acquaintance with the lovely Miss Highsmith. Now twenty-eight years old, he had, of course, indulged in many light-hearted adventures of the romantic kind but, having spent the previous five years of his life in a somewhat ramshackle military life on the Continent, he had always been careful never to allow himself to become too emotionally involved. For, truth to tell, he thoroughly enjoyed his bachelor existence.

A man of independent means, with a solid family background to his name, he was almost totally lacking in personal conceit, although he could hardly have been unaware that the eyes of many a hopeful mother lit up when he chose to single out their daughters, for he was what was known as a ‘good catch’. In point of fact, though, he had no idea of marrying for some time to come, being perfectly content to spend his days assisting his father in the management of the Maitland family’s large estate in Buckinghamshire and involving himself in the many sporting activities available to gentlemen of his wealth and status. His previous amatory excursions had left his heart more or less unscathed, with the possible exception of that which had involved a certain somewhat exotic demoiselle, to whom he had been obliged to bid a rather reluctant farewell upon his unit’s embarkation from Belgium. A few weeks back in the swing of the victory celebrations in London had soon cured him of that particular malady, however, and, although he had subsequently danced and dined with many a fair damsel, he had not, until this moment, discovered any good reason for altering his single state.

Sitting back, he allowed his eyes to play over the creamy perfection of Stephanie’s complexion and, as he marvelled again at the curling length of the sooty black lashes that framed the deep azure blue of her eyes, the neat little nose and the sweet rosebud lips, a deep sigh seemed to tug at his heart. But then, suddenly conscious that he had, perhaps, been staring at the lady rather longer than was circumspect, he forced himself to drag his gaze away from Stephanie’s all-encompassing loveliness and allowed it to drift across to her companion, only to discover that, if the curve of her lips was anything to go by, Catford’s cousin appeared to be regarding him with a certain amount of amusement.

Feeling somewhat like a naughty schoolboy who had been caught with his hand in the biscuit jar, a slight flush appeared on his face and he hurriedly dropped his gaze and endeavoured to concentrate his attention on the ongoing conversation.

‘His lordship is being most kind,’ Stephanie was enthusing,  as she cast a warm smile at the viscount. ‘He has chosen to accompany us on our afternoon excursions almost every day since my arrival—he insists that it is good exercise for him—although I am sure he would rather be off shooting with the other gentlemen.’

‘Not at all, my dear,’ demurred Catford graciously. ‘I’m not yet up to tramping the heath—more than happy to be of service, I assure you.’

‘Cat keeps us entertained with his endless fund of droll anecdotes about his travels,’ said Georgianne, shooting her cousin a fond glance. She had been somewhat taken aback at Maitland’s response to her smile, which had been merely been offered as a gesture of friendliness on her part. His reaction to Stephanie’s loveliness had come as no surprise to her, since it was very little different from that of the majority of others of his sex when they first set eyes upon her friend. Having known Stephanie all her life, Georgianne had learned to regard such behaviour with patient equanimity, experience having shown her that this sort of awestruck admiration was inclined, for the most part, to be fairly short-lived. She was well aware that her friend took such adulation as her due, deriving much enjoyment from playing off one hopeful contender against another. It was not that Georgianne particularly approved of Stephanie’s somewhat cavalier attitude towards her fluctuating band of admirers, but rather that she felt that any man who allowed himself to be treated in such a way was no man at all and must, therefore, deserve all he got. Furthermore, although she had no personal interest in him, she did feel a slight sense of disappointment that the man who had risked his own life to go to her cousin’s aid should turn out to be as shallow as the majority of Stephanie’s previous devotees.

‘You must know the area pretty well, Eddie,’ ventured Maitland, reluctantly hauling his thoughts back to the real reason he had set out on this journey. ‘Do you have you any idea where might I procure a list of the local churchyards? I suppose that ought to be my first objective.’

Catford pursed his lips in thought, then, ‘Reginald Barkworth is your man,’ he nodded. ‘Used to be the curate at the parish church in Dunchurch. Veritable encyclopaedia when it comes to local history—oh, botheration! Here we are at the Willowby turn, old man. Time to bid you farewell, I fear!’

Not at all sorry to extract himself from Georgianne Venables’s somewhat pointed scrutiny, Maitland opened the door, leapt nimbly from the landaulet and untied Pegasus from his tether. Catford leaning out, waited for his friend to mount before adjuring him not to fail to present himself at the Hall with all speed as soon as he was settled in.

‘Reginald Barkworth,’ he called, in reminder, as Maitland turned his horse’s head towards his destination. ‘Tell him I sent you and be sure to let us know how you get on with your quest, dear fellow.’

Maitland had no difficulty in giving his promise, since he had every intention of finding his way to Gresham Hall and the fair Miss Highsmith at the earliest opportunity but then, as he suddenly remembered that he had prevailed upon Chadwick, his man, not to bother to pack his decent dress-clothes, he cursed himself for a fool. Determined to reach the inn in time to send off for reinforcements to his meagre wardrobe, he reluctantly waved farewell to his travelling companions and set off up the turnpike.