This sudden notice and the Duchess’ magnanimous behavior bewildered Charles, but all Betty’s constraint had vanished, her head was spinning with excitement and the consciousness that Charles -- now linked so publicly with her -- looked handsome in his regalia, and she cried, “We command that you amuse us! Do we not, my liege lord? A riddle! Let the Doctor tell a riddle!”
Dr. Radcliffe immediately complied with
“My first’s a negation as all will agree,
My second’s deep water but not from the sea,
My whole is the season of festivity.”
Charles got it first, “Nowell,” and began to enjoy himself. The Duchess had obviously decided to forget the past. Betty was a gay co-ruler. The Wassail bowl circulated freely. The port and claret bottles were brought, whereupon the Doctor rose somewhat unsteadily and said, “Before we drink to the Twelfth Night, I propose the health of our true king-over-the-water! To King James!” He raised his glass, drained it, and flung it into the fireplace, where it shattered. The others sipped more delicately, Lady Lichfield after a moment’s hesitation, the Duchess with a shrug. “You are courageous, sir,” she said to the Doctor. “Many would think such a toast was treason, but to be sure we are all friends here. Dear friends,” she repeated, smiling at him through her lashes, and squeezing his thick mottled hand. He had just been telling her of the huge legacy he intended to leave to her young son, Lord Nassau-Paulet. This legacy was not the only benefit Henrietta knew how to extract from the Doctor -- and with the minimum of effort on her part.
The feast continued. They had a boar’s head and sang “The Boar’s Head Carol.” They ate eel pie and plum puddings. They told jokes and more riddles. Charles, having found his voice, vied with Betty in issuing commands. The jests grew more bawdy. The young girls were sent to bed. Francis, after the fourth glass of claret, even roused himself and recited a ribald poem in French, which none of them quite understood except James, who laughed.
It was then Betty discovered that Mr. Paulet had disappeared.
“Why, look!” she cried, waving her scepter and frowning. “One of our courtiers has left without our permission. We are most displeased.”
Charles added, “We are displeased. When he returns he shall be punished by dancing a jig for us.”
Betty fancied there was a peculiar look on the Duchess’ face, though Henrietta’s voice was sweet and mock-apologetic as she said, “Forgive the poor wretch, Your Majesties, he has a weak head; he has doubtless need of air.”
“To be sure,” said Lady Lichfield, who was finding her stays too tight. “And indeed ‘tis time we all set off for Ormond House.”
The Doctor instantly agreed. One of the footmen went to summon the coaches, and reported that Lady Lichfield’s coach had not returned, that there was a message from the coachman saying it had broken an axle.
“Ah,” cried the Duchess gaily. “But ‘tis of no consequence! Our King and Queen shall ride in my coach, and there’s ample room for the rest of us in the Doctor’s. Yes, yes, I insist! The royal couple must ride beneath a ducal coronet at least. ‘Tis only fitting.”
Henrietta was irresistible, since she appeared to be making a benevolent effort to give the young couple a ride alone with each other. Betty had a qualm. Surely the Duchess had never before shown like willingness to relinquish any of the trappings of her rank, or to squeeze herself into an inferior conveyance. But nobody else saw anything peculiar, and her mother was actually nodding approval.
Betty and Charles laid aside their robes and crowns, donned their cloaks, and entered the gilded coach, which was manned by four servants -- the coachman, a footman on the box beside him, another on the step behind, and a postillion on the near lead horse.
In the darkness of the great coach, constraint returned to Charles and Betty, and they sat primly far apart upon the satin cushions. They listened to the rumbling of the wheels on the cobblestones, the clatter of hoofs from six horses, the crack of the coachman’s whip, and the warning shouts of the postillion. Neither spoke for some time until Charles, peering out the window, said with some surprise, “Why, I don’t see any lights, and there seem to be trees around us.”
Betty looked through her window. “Ormond House is in St. James’s Square, isn’t it? I should’ve thought we’d stay in town to get there, but perhaps the coachman thinks the streets will be too crowded on Twelfth Night.”
“It may be,” said Charles, but he frowned as they passed the dim outline of a tiny thatched building which looked like a village tavern, and then plunged into the darkness of a tree-lined road, while beneath the wheels the bumping of cobbles had given way to the crackling of frozen dirt.
Charles reached up and knocked on the sliding panel which communicated with the footman behind. His knocks produced no response, nor did the panel budge. “Jesus!” said Charles. “What’s the matter with that knave back there!” and he banged on the glass dividing them from the coachman. By the flickering coach lamps they could dimly see his rump high on the box, and that of the footman beside him. This effort produced no result, either, except that the long whip snapped and the horses went faster.
“ ‘Tis odd,” Charles muttered. He did not wish to make a fool of himself by opening the door and shouting for attention, in case this were a customary byroad between Bloomsbury and St. James’s Squares. Betty had no such reflection. “How dare they ignore us!” she cried, and jumping forward she grabbed the ponderous door handle, shouting, “Halt, I say, halt! Open the door!”
The coach stopped and the door opened, though it was not because of Betty’s shouts, as they soon learned. The rear footman, a great burly fellow, thrust his head inside and said in a hurried voice, “We’ re in trouble, milady, there’s a ‘ighwayman outside. Now keep quiet and ye won’t get ‘urt.” The footman reached in the coach, scooped Betty up in his arms, stood her on the ground, and held her pinioned with his huge arms before the astounded Charles could move.
Then Charles drew his sword and was out of the coach at a bound. Directly in front of him in the wan moonlight there was a shadowy masked figure on horseback; the figure held a large shiny pistol which pointed at Charles’s head. “Give me your purse,” said the masked figure to Charles in a muffled falsetto.
“By God, I won’t!” cried Charles. “And what’s the matter with you scoundrels up there?” he shouted turning to the Duchess’ motionless servants. “There’s only one of him!”
“We wouldn’t want to get shot, sir,” said the coachman calmly. “Best do as ‘e says, if ye value your own life.”
Betty gave a shrill cry, which was at once stifled by the hand of the footman who held her.
The highwayman brandished his pistol and said to Charles, “So you’ll not obey me -- then I must shoot.”
It was not so much courage that caused Charles’s next move as blind firry consequent upon the sudden perception of a plot He knew that this was no real highwayman, and that the whole scene was as sham as any play-acting the stage could offer. That there might be real enough danger as well he did not think. With all his agile young strength he lunged sideways for the horse’s head, and whacked it across the nose with his sword. The horse snorted and reared, the pistol went off and smashed the coach window, whereupon the coachman and his mate and the postillion had their hands full calming the six frightened horses.
Charles grabbed the highwayman’s leg and yanked the man from his saddle. Charles jumped on him and began to flail with his fists.
Betty, who had ceased struggling as she watched, felt the restraining arms around her begin to loosen. And she heard the footman begin to chuckle. “Go it, young sir,” he whispered. “Bash ‘im in!” Charles neither heard nor needed the advice. The man beneath him hit back as best he could, but Charles delivered a violent punch on the nose and the man went limp.
“ ‘Ave ye killed ‘im, sir?” asked the footman who held Betty. Charles heard that and slowly drew back, staring down at the face from which the mask had long since f
allen off. Despite the bleeding lip and mud smears, the narrow pimply face was recognizable.
“It’s Paulet!” said Charles blankly, his head spinning. The footman released Betty, walked over to the man on the ground, and felt him. “No, ye’ve not killed ‘im, sir, I see. Mr. Paulet’ll live to do ‘er grace’s dirty biddings yet another day.”
“Shut up, Will!” called the coachman angrily. “Dump Mr. Paulet in the coach, and get back where ye belong. That free tongue o’ yours’ll get ye ‘anged at Tyburn yet.”
The footman shrugged. “What abaht them?” he said gesturing towards Charles and Betty.
“Leave ‘em ‘ere,” said the coachman. “We’ll know wot ter sye to any story they tell.”
The footman shrugged and, picking up Paulet, flung him into the coach, slammed the door, and climbed up to his perch.
“Wait!” cried Betty. “You can’t leave us here like this!”
“Aye but we can, milady,” said the coachman. “Ye may be sure our orders wasn’t to coddle ye, or the young gentleman, an’ I obey me orders.” He cracked his whip and the horses started.
Charles and Betty watched the coach trundle off between the trees.
“Blessed Mary and the saints,” said Charles on a long breath. “I can’t think yet.” He jerked his head several times, and fingered a lump behind his left ear. “I’m something addled.”
“Oh, Charles,” Betty cried, throwing her arms around him. “He hurt you! What a fearful thing this has been. Oh, what are we going to do?” And she began to cry.
“Don’t,” said Charles, the dizziness waning. “Don’t weep, Betty. We’re safe enough now. Just a matter of a long walk back to town.”
“But can you?” she whispered. “Charlie, you were so brave! To think how you routed that villain!”
Charles was aware that his victory had been caused by rage, good luck, and the feebleness of his opponent, but her praise was sweet. He pulled her arm through his and they began to walk back along the country road. In a few minutes they reached the tiny tavern Charles had noticed earlier. There was a candle in the window, and Betty said, “Could we go in and rest for a while -- get warm?” Her voice shook, and Charles forgot his own misery.
“Poor little coz,” he said. “You must be frozen, and in those satin shoes.” Betty’s feet were, indeed, soaked from the icy puddles.
A slatternly landlady at length answered their knock. She listened sceptically to the tale of a highwayman, while scowling at the bedraggled young couple, then Charles showed his purse and she finally installed them by a fire in the empty taproom. She brought in some mulled ale. The warm liquor revived them both. They sat side by side on the settle, and began to talk.
“ ‘Tis clear enough now,” said Betty. “That bitch gave her orders to Paulet and the blackamoor page when she called them aside before supper, pretending there was a message from the Duke.”
“Yes,” said Charles slowly. “Juba had ample time to arrange all her connivings, to alert her servants -- and the broken axle on your mother’s coach -- a lie! We fell headlong into her schemes. My only wonder is what punishment Paulet had orders to deal me. Would he have killed me, do you think?”
Betty shuddered. “I doubt that even the Duchess would put murder on her soul.”
Charles nodded. “Maybe not. I was to be wounded, no doubt, and you left stranded alone in the dark. And whatever we said later, the Duchess could deny, saying that an encounter with a highwayman had so befuddled our memories that we knew not what happened.”
“This she can still say -- and will.” Betty shook her head. “Who’d believe our tale against that of the Duchess of Bolton? Oh -- she concocted a pretty revenge.”
“And so can I!” cried Charles violently. “I’ll find a way to make her smart, I’ll --”
“Charles!” Betty interrupted, putting her hand on his. “I pray you, please don’t. You’d run into more danger, and you’re leaving for the North on Monday, anyway. Forget this outrageous attack, in which you -- you were not, in the beginning, quite guiltless.” Her voice thickened, and she averted her head. She extracted a lace handkerchief from her bosom and wiped her eyes.
Charles stared at her. Until tonight he had never thought of her as anything but a sharp-tongued, lively girl, with a passion for teasing and pranks. He was startled by this shaky disheveled Betty, obviously much concerned for his safety. And there was the strong, new bond of danger shared and surmounted.
“Betty,” he said after a moment. “You’re sorry I’m going North?”
“Of course, you great booby, except you’ll be safe from the Duchess, and any other angry ladies you may have insulted here.” Betty blew her nose, and turned to Charles with something of her usual briskness. “You’ve lost your peruke,” she said, “and that cravat’ll never again be fit for society.”
Charles paid no attention to this. He took another drink of ale. “Would you mind being betrothed to me?” he asked on one quick breath, staring elaborately into the fire. “I -- I’ve reason to think James and your parents wouldn’t object. I mean -- I don’t either if you want to. I think we’d get along.”
“La!” said Betty, the color flaming up under her freckles. Her heart began to beat as hard as it had when she struggled with the footman. “Truly, sir, you confuse me. I don’t know what to say.”
Charles did not either, being somewhat horrified at what he had already said. He took her plump little hand and kissed it. The hand trembled, and he saw that Betty’s lips were trembling too. So he kissed them. The kiss was pleasant, though it inspired none of the sensations he had felt with Meg and, initially, with the Duchess. The kiss was safe, warm, companionable. There was respect too, an element notably absent in the other kisses he had given. “So now we’re betrothed?” he asked shyly.
She swallowed. “I suppose so, Charles. I’m fond of you, I must confess.” Fonder than he was of her, she knew, but time might remedy that, and in any case one did not expect wild romance in marriage.
“Are you warm enough now?” he asked with solicitude, enjoying a new proprietorial feeling. “Do you think you can walk back to London?”
Charles and Betty arrived in Bloomsbury Square at about four in the morning. They found the house ablaze with candles, James pacing up and down the hall, and Dr. Radcliffe ministering to Lady Lichfield, who was in hysterics.
Both youngsters were too cold and weary to correct the story the Duchess had already given. Her coach had returned to Ormond House just before the ball finished. It had been waylaid, it appeared, by a ferocious gang of highwaymen; the servants had been overpowered, Charles and Betty abducted for ransom, no doubt. The bullet-smashed windowpane lent credence to the tale. Which was not unique. Lord Dorchester’s coach had been held up last week, and Lady Salisbury’s a month ago. The news-sheets had been full of the scandalous laxity of the Watch.
Charles satisfied his distraught elders by some confused account of their escape, and changed the tenor of Lady Lichfield’s cries by adding that he and Betty had plighted troth to each other, and hoped this met with approval. It did. James shook his brother’s hand, Lady Lichfield kissed him and her daughter, Dr. Radcliffe brought madeira in which to drink a toast. The young couple finally went to bed, in a haze of rejoicing and congratulations.
Charles told James the true story of the highwayman next day, and found that his brother agreed with Betty. “It is wiser to forget this despicable matter since no real harm was done. I need not point out that this’ll be a lesson to you, Charles. You played the fool and got burnt. But good has come of evil, since the adventure precipitated an understanding between you and our cousin Betty. She’s a fine girl.”
“She is,” Charles agreed humbly. “And I find I’m very loath to leave her. I fear for her in this wicked town.”
James smiled. “You needn’t. She’s going back to Ditchley Park with her mother. Mr. Petre can marry you there by special dispensation in the summer. But I want you with me in Northumberland first.” H
e sighed. “Frank won’t go, and I’m bound to admit a northern winter wouldn’t help his chest. He and Uncle Tom will stay in the good Doctor’s care. But I’d not like to go home without either of my brothers.”
“Nor shall you, my lord,” cried Charles. “You can ever count on me. And I swear I’ll never give you cause for disquiet again.”
On Sunday Betty and Charles were formally betrothed. James produced a cabochon ruby ring and Charles put it on Betty’s finger. The young couple were then sent to the music room to amuse themselves, while Lady Lichfield and her lawyer, James and his lawyer, Roger Fenwick, all conferred in the library over the initial proposals for the marriage settlements. Betty was to have a jointure of £800 a year, and a manor in Berkshire. James offered to give Charles some of his Cumberland estates in addition to the £3000 left Charles by their father’s will. Lady Lichfield’s lawyer and Mr. Fenwick haggled a bit, as in duty bound, but the interview was harmonious. James was generous, and Lady Lichfield delighted that the strain of husband-hunting was over and she could retire to the peace of the country.
There was also harmony in the music room. Happiness had beautified Betty. She sparkled and laughed and flirted with Charles, who warmly responded. When Lady Lichfield came to summon her daughter she found the two playing a hideous jangling duet on the harpsichord, while Charles nuzzled Betty’s ear and she giggled and ducked her head.
“Foolish children,” said Lady Lichfield smiling. “I see that Betty will need every minute of your separation to learn proper decorum. I shall hope to give you a model of wifely dignity, Charles.”