Riding to the Moon Read online

  “We saw a statue of him when we were in Rome and Ardsley does look like him,” Charles remarked.

  “That is the answer, then,” Jimmy said. “He is Apollo, a God, and we poor devils are just humans.”

  “Even Gods, if my mythology is not at fault,” Charles said, “were susceptible to pretty women, but I have the uncomfortable feeling that it was the male Gods who disguised themselves, rather than the Goddesses.”

  “Oh, well, you can rewrite the whole lot of Greek – or was it Roman – mythology to suit yourself,” Jimmy said with a smile, “but Apollo or no Apollo, I am hungry.”

  *

  It was a week later when Lord Frodham and Sir James Overton set off from Charles’s house in the country to drive to Ardsley Hall.

  Their horses had left two days earlier, both gentlemen having given their grooms strict instructions to take them easily and to make sure that they were in perfect condition for the steeplechase on Saturday.

  Besides thinking of his horses, Charles had given a great deal of his time to searching for a young actress with whom he intended to deceive the Marquis into believing that she was as blue blooded as he was.

  “If you are going to give her a fictitious name,” Jimmy said, “you will have to be careful to choose one of which the Marquis will not be suspicious. I am quite certain he knows the genealogical tree of every family in the country.”

  “That is the least of our worries,” Charles said after the third day and night of searching the theatres and dance halls and even the ‘houses of pleasure’ for a likely candidate.

  Once or twice they had seen a face that was so attractive and so pretty that Charles had thought his search was at an end.

  But the beauty in question had only to open her mouth to betray an accent that no possible amount of tuition could disguise from anybody as astute as the Marquis.

  “Of course, we may have to teach her how to speak,” Charles conceded, “but perhaps if she was a foreigner it would be easier.”

  “I have always been told that the Marquis of Ardsley is very good at languages,” Jimmy said. “In fact I remember hearing that he has helped Lord Hawkesley at the Foreign Office on various occasions.”

  Charles’s lips tightened, but he made no comment and they moved on to look elsewhere for a creature who Jimmy was already convinced was as rare as a dodo bird.

  Jimmy actually had found the chase most enjoyable, although he was sorry for his friend and now, as they drove through the countryside at a spanking pace behind Charles’s team of bays, he said,

  “I ought to have insisted that we have a time limit on our wager, otherwise I can see us spending the rest of our summer searching for the unobtainable with you growing more and more grumpy in the process.”

  “I am not grumpy,” Charles replied, “and I have not given up hope! But I have begun to think that we are looking in the wrong places.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “The sort of woman we want is more likely to be found in the country than in London. You know as well as I do that, if she was beautiful enough for our requirements, she would have been snapped up the moment she set foot in one of those overcrowded dance halls. And if she was on the stage, her dressing room would be full of followers.”

  “You certainly have something there,” Jimmy replied, “and I was just thinking that, when I was young, the Vicar of the family Church to which I was taken every Sunday had an extremely pretty daughter.”

  Charles turned from his contemplation of the road ahead to look at his friend and ask,

  “Where is she now?”

  Jimmy laughed as he replied,

  “Married – with a large family!”

  “Then why the hell are you talking about her?”

  “I was only agreeing with you that pretty girls are not the prerogative of London.”

  “If they are pretty enough, it is the one place they want to go.”

  “That is true,” Jimmy agreed. “So what you have to do, Charles, is to trap ’em before they get there!”

  “You are laughing at me,” Charles said, “and so damned sure of taking my hundred guineas off me that you are getting as bad as Ardsley himself!”

  Jimmy sighed as he said,

  “I want to topple him off his perch! At the same time I am quite prepared to eat his superlative food, stay in the most comfortable house in England and applaud him as he wins the first prize at his own steeplechase.”

  “If you say one more word,” Charles threatened, “I will turn you out of the phaeton and make you walk.”

  “In these hessians?” Jimmy exclaimed. “For God’s sake, Charles, it would be a Chinese torture!”

  They both laughed as they drove on.

  The sunshine, which had been somewhat fitful earlier in the day, had now disappeared behind dark clouds.

  Then, after luncheon at a comfortable inn, where Charles changed his team of bays for four perfectly matched chestnuts, the sky was not only overcast but there were rumbles of thunder in the distance.

  “Damn!” Charles said irritably. “We are going to get wet. I should have thought of travelling in my fastest chariot so that we could put the hood up.”

  “It will be very unpleasant to arrive looking like a drowned rat,” Jimmy said reflectively. “I am quite certain that the Marquis, if he was in our place, would manage to control the elements.”

  “I agree with you, but there seems to be nothing we can do about it and we still have at least another hour’s driving before we get there.”

  Ardsley Hall was in Hampshire and now, too late, Charles thought that, if they had started earlier in the morning, they might have reached their destination before the storm broke.

  A sudden flash of forked lightning made the horses nervous and, as he was not certain that if the lightning grew worse, the comparatively young team would not panic, he said,

  “There is an inn about half a mile from here. I have never been there and I expect it’s rather scruffy, but it might be wise to take shelter. I don’t believe the storm will last long. “

  “I think you are wise,” Jimmy said. “I have heard of nasty accidents taking place in thunderstorms.”

  As he spoke, he was thinking that four horses were difficult to control at the best of times and although Charles was an extremely good and experienced driver, he was not a Corinthian like the Marquis.

  However, it was something he was far too tactful to say aloud and, as the lightning flashed again and the crash that followed it seemed nearer than it had been before, he was thankful when Charles drove into the courtyard of an attractive old black and white inn with diamond paned windows.

  The groom clambered down from the back seat and began to give orders to the ostlers who came running from the stables.

  Charles put down the reins and climbed from the phaeton while Jimmy descended on the other side of it.

  They walked into the very low-ceilinged inn and a large fat man who was obviously the landlord came hurrying towards them, wiping his hands on his apron.

  “Good evening, sirs, you’re very welcome!”

  “I am Lord Frodham,” Charles replied, “and I and my friend will be staying for the duration of the storm. We would like a private parlour.”

  “I’m afraid its small, my Lord, but it’s all we’ve got,” the Landlord replied.

  He led the way through an open lounge, in which a large log fire was burning, to where at the far end it had obviously been divided by a somewhat makeshift wall of panelling that did not match the rest of the room.

  The parlour was small, as he had said, but there was a fireplace, two armchairs and a table on which fastidious guests who did not wish to mix with the hoi polloi could eat in private.

  The landlord bent down to light the fire, and Charles said,

  “Bring me a bottle of your best claret. I presume you have no champagne?”

  “Afraid not, my Lord,” the landlord replied, “but the claret’s good and the brandy,
which be French, be very good indeed!”

  The way he spoke made it quite clear that the brandy had come across the Channel and no duty had been paid on it.

  “Bring a bottle of both,” Charles ordered.

  Bowing, with a gratified expression on his face, the landlord left the room.

  There was a small window which looked onto an untidy piece of ground that could hardly be described as a garden and Jimmy walked towards it.

  As he did so, there was a flash of lightning that illuminated both the outside and the inside of the inn, followed by a resounding crash of thunder and he started back almost as if he had been struck.

  “Thank God we are out of this!” Charles exclaimed.

  “The horses would go mad!”

  “We were only just in time,” Jimmy agreed. “Another few minutes and we would have been drenched.”

  Almost as if it was an echo, as he spoke, they heard a woman’s voice say on the other side of the wall,

  “My carriage and horses are drenched. May I stay here until the storm has abated?”

  It was a soft, rather attractive voice and Jimmy thought that in some strange way she sounded a little frightened.

  “Yes, of course, ma’am,” he heard the landlord reply.

  “Perhaps you’ll sit by the fire? And can I offer you a cup of tea? I feel sure you’d not take wine.”

  “No, no, of course not,” the woman replied, “and a cup of tea would be very pleasant. Thank you.”

  “I’ll see to it at once, ma’am.”

  As the landlord finished speaking, he opened the door of the private parlour and came in carrying a bottle of French brandy and one of claret.

  He also had a tray in his hands with four glasses on it and he set everything down on the table, saying as he did so,

  “It’s an ill wind that doesn’t blow a landlord some good. I weren’t expectin’ any visitors today.”

  He drew the cork from the brandy bottle and, as he put it down on the tray, Jimmy said,

  “I heard you talking to a lady.”

  The landlord looked at him, then said in such a low voice that it was almost a whisper,

  “A nun, sir!”

  “A nun!” Jimmy exclaimed.

  The landlord nodded.

  “I wondered why you were so certain she would not take wine,” Charles commented. “Now I understand.”

  “It’s not often we sees nuns in this part of the world, my Lord, and driving in a smart carriage with two horses.”

  As he opened the bottle of claret, the innkeeper added,

  “If there’s anythin’ else you gentlemen wants, let me know.”

  “We will,” Charles replied.

  He walked to the table, poured out half a glass of claret, sniffed it and then tasted it tentatively.

  “Not bad!”

  “I prefer brandy,” Jimmy said, “but not too much. As you know, Ardsley’s cellar is famous and I am keeping myself for dinner.”

  “If we ever get there!” Charles reacted.

  The thunder was still deafening overhead and the rain seemed to increase until the ground outside looked like a pond.

  It was such a depressing sight that Jimmy walked to the fire.

  “It is overhead,” he said, “and I have no wish to endure more than an hour of this.”

  “Nor have I,” Charles agreed. “We are fortunate that when the storm started we were so near to a place of shelter, whatever it might have been like.”

  “Thank God for it.”

  As Jimmy spoke, he sat down in a comfortable armchair and his friend sat opposite him.

  Because it was hard to make their voices heard above the noise of the rain, they both were silent, sipping their drinks and feeling sleepy from the warmth of the fire.

  They had been sitting quietly for quite some time when suddenly there was the sound of a door opening noisily, footsteps, then a cry from the woman they had heard earlier.

  It was a cry of fear, and they heard a man’s voice saying,

  “So here you are! What the hell do you mean by running away and being dressed up like that?”

  “I-I am going – into a – Convent – and nothing you can – say will – stop me!”

  “I’ve a great deal to say and you’ll listen to me!”

  The man’s voice was rough and, although it was educated, there was something about it that told Charles and Jimmy that he was not a gentleman.

  “You’ve put me to a lot of inconvenience,” the man said, “and as soon as this storm is over, I’m taking you to London, where you’ll do as I tell you.”

  “If you think I have any intention of marrying Lord Bredon or obeying you in any other way, you are very much mistaken!”

  “You’ll do as you are told!” the man said sharply. “You ought to be grateful to me, instead of behaving in this madcap manner. Going into a Convent indeed! I’ve never heard of such a thing! Besides, they might not want you.”

  “I have every intention of becoming a nun and they will be only too pleased to accept me – and my – fortune!”

  “So that’s your idea, is it? Well, you’ll not give your fortune over to any Convent while I’m in charge of you.”

  “In charge of me?” the woman replied scornfully. “You are not in charge of me. You were employed by my father as his Solicitor and – he would not engage you for a day more if he was still – alive.”

  There was a little tremor in her voice as she said the last word, and Charles and Jimmy, who were listening with undisguised curiosity, thought her father’s death must have taken place quite recently.

  It was almost as if they were in the audience at one of the melodramatic plays that held spellbound those who paid to see them.

  “Now listen to me, Mr. Jacobson,” the woman said and it was obvious from her voice that she was young and, Charles was sure, frightened. “I will pay you anything you ask, even if it is a large sum, when I am twenty-one and have control of my fortune.”

  The man laughed, and it was not a pleasant sound.

  “Do you really think I am going to wait for three years? Lord Bredon has promised me ten thousand pounds the day he marries you – and the sooner the better, from his point of view and yours.”

  “What do you mean – and mine? I will not marry – Lord Bredon. I hate him – as I hate all men – and I do not – intend to – marry anybody!”

  For a moment it seemed that Mr. Jacobson was stunned before he said,

  “You’ve got bats in your belfry that’s what you’ve got! All women want to get married and Bredon’s a gentleman all right and you’ll look pretty in a coronet.”

  “I daresay he has pawned that with everything else,” the woman said scornfully. “If you think I want to marry a bankrupt to save him from being taken to the Fleet prison as a debtor, you are the one who is mad! Papa would be appalled by your behaviour.”

  “Your father’s dead and there’s nothing you can do about it,” Mr. Jacobson said roughly. “And if it’s not Lord Bredon, it will be another fortune-hunter of some sort and you’ll find there is not much to choose between any of them.”

  “I am not going to choose. As I have already told you, I am going into a Convent and there is nothing you can do to stop me.”

  Mr. Jacobson laughed.

  “That’s what you think! You will come to London with me willingly or I’ll take you unconscious. That’s the only choice you’ve got. What’s more, we’re going now and if you get wet, you’ve only yourself to blame.”

  “I will not – come with you – I will not!”

  Her defiant words ended in a scream and Charles and Jimmy knew that she was fighting against Mr. Jacobson, who was dragging her towards the door.

  They looked at each other and without saying anything rose to their feet.

  They put down their glasses and, pulling open the parlour door, walked out into the lounge.

  As they both expected, Mr. Jacobson, an unpleasant, foxy-looking man, was dragging the
woman towards the outer door of the inn.

  She was resisting in every way possible, but she was small while he was large and there was no doubt how the contest would end.

  In the struggle the woman’s veil had fallen off and Charles, who had walked out first, had a glimpse of thick red tresses falling over her black-draped shoulders before he punched Mr. Jacobson hard with his clenched fist.

  He immediately released the woman’s wrist and put up his own hands.

  But he was too late.

  Charles hit him again, this time on the chin and he fell to the ground, out for the count.

  Jimmy turned from the satisfaction he was receiving from watching his friend in action, to see two very large eyes looking up at him and hear a voice say fervently,

  “Oh, thank you – thank you!”

  He was just thinking that she was one of the prettiest girls he had ever seen in his life, when Charles turned round.

  “What shall I do about him now?” he asked.

  The girl, for she was nothing more, was looking apprehensively at Mr. Jacobson lying unconscious on the floor.

  “I-I must get – away! ” she said, “but the horse – that brought me here from Southampton is very tired – and I am afraid that when he revives, Mr. Jacobson will – catch up with me – again.”

  Charles looked at Jimmy and smiled.

  “I think we can prevent that from happening.”

  “Of course!” Jimmy replied.

  As he spoke, he looked round and saw that there was a heavy curtain that could be pulled over the outer door in the winter to keep out the cold.

  It was caught back now with what appeared to be a tough rope of the same material.

  He unhitched it from the hooks, letting the curtain fall forward and handed it to his friend.

  Bending down, Charles tied the man’s legs together, turned him over somewhat roughly and, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket, tied his wrists behind his back.

  As he did so, he said with a note of laughter in his voice,

  “We need yours to gag him.”

  “Yes, of course,” Jimmy agreed obligingly.

  He took his handkerchief from his pocket, then, as if there was no need for them to speak of what was required, he lifted Mr. Jacobson up by the shoulders, Charles took his legs and they carried him through the door that led into the yard.