The House Of Lanyon. Valerie Anand
send them back eventually.”
“Yes, of course. I hated taking them, but we needed them so much.” She did feel safe with him. They were doing a crazy thing, a wrong thing in the eyes of the world, but it was a right thing, as well. It was right because Christopher was Christopher and they belonged with one another.
“Will anyone guess where we’ve gone?” she asked. “They’ll be after us as soon as they know.”
“They might guess at London. If they do, they’ll probably think we began by making for Taunton. It’s the more usual road. But I know the Bridgwater one and just because it’s not so usual, I think it’s the safest one for us.”
“I wish it could be different,” said Liza. “I wish we could be married with everyone congratulating us and pleased with us, approving of us and wishing us luck. I feel like a hunted deer. I keep straining my ears to hear the hounds! But all the same, I’m so very glad to be here with you.”
“And I am glad to be with you, sweetheart. I hate the thought of being hunted down, as well. We just mustn’t be caught, that’s all!”
At Allerbrook Peter was not exactly refusing to speak to his father, nor was Richard making it too obvious that he was furious with his son. Neither had any wish to expose their disagreement to the world. Conversation of a sort had taken place around the Rixons’ table, mostly concerned with farming matters. It had been generally agreed that the field known as Quillet might well support a crop of wheat, but ought to be fenced.
“You’ve only got ditches there and wheat’ll invite the deer in as if the Dulverton town crier had gone round calling them,” cheerful Harry Rixon said. “You’ll get they old stags lying down, the idle brutes, squashing great patches of it and snatching every ear of wheat within reach afore they get theirselves up and stroll off to find some nice fresh wheat to squash and gobble.”
“The Sweetwaters won’t like it,” Gil Lowe prophesied glumly. “You’ve mostly used Quillet for pasture, haven’t you? I’ve noticed they put their milking cows there now and then. Are they supposed to?”
“No, but when did that ever stop them?” enquired Richard sourly. “I pay rent on that land. I’ll plant it if I like. Reckon you’re right about the fences, though.”
All that was normal enough, and if few words were actually exchanged between the two Lanyons, it was hardly noticeable, for the crowd was considerable. It included everyone who had helped in the pony drive, farmers and farmhands alike. Roger and Higg were there along with their employers. Higg alone seemed to sense something strange in the air. Higg looked and sounded slow, but he was nowhere near as slow as he seemed and Richard caught a thoughtful glance or two from him. He looked away. He was thinking.
All of a sudden Richard Lanyon was unsure of himself. All very well to decide that after all he ought to marry again and why not Marion, but there were things to consider. For instance, it was quite true that farm life would be strange to her, far stranger than to Liza, for Liza’s father dealt a lot with sheep farmers and she knew farmers’ wives and had some idea of how they lived.
Still, Marion was young enough to learn, and not squeamish. Fisherfolk were never that. Gutting a herring, or gutting a chicken; there wasn’t much difference really, and Betsy could show her the dairy work.
The lack of any respectable dowry was a worse drawback, but that might be offset if she produced sons to help on the farm, and daughters to be married off into useful families. Taking the long view, even a Marion Locke might provide a step or two on the upward ladder.
Yes. He could take Marion to wife and still remake the future in the shape he wanted. And put Peter in his place.
What would be harder would be convincing her parents that the proposal was a good one, especially as he and they had already agreed that such marriages wouldn’t do.
But, by God, he wanted her. He’d desired her from the moment he first set eyes on her. It was sheer desire that had overridden the old way of thinking, the taking it for granted that fisherfolk and farmers didn’t intermarry, the lack of dowry, the embarrassing fact that his own son had probably had her first. The wench was by all the evidence about as steady as a weathercock in a gale, but he didn’t care. He knew now that he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted Deb and about ten thousand times more than he’d ever yearned after Joan. He wanted to get his hands on her, to make her his, to surround and bemuse her so that she could see no other man, think of no other man, but himself.
The proper thing to do was to see her father, but instinct said no. Instinct said win the girl over first. Go hunting and bring her to bay; tame her to his hand and maybe she could help him tame her parents.
Today was a Tuesday, the second in the month. Next Tuesday was the third one, and she’d be going to Lynton to see her grandmother and aunt. Her mother had obligingly mentioned where her relatives lived—close to the mouth of that strange valley where he’d had a youthful romance long ago. He’d find the cottage easily enough. He meant to be open and honest. He’d call and ask to see the girl. Maybe he could coax her to stroll with him, alone, so that he could talk to her, persuade her…
And he’d make damned sure that Peter couldn’t get away that day. Yes. One week from now. That was the thing to do.
It was a hunter’s moon, shining ahead of the pursuers, low as yet, disappearing at times beyond shoulders of land as they came through the Quantock Hills, but when visible, bright enough to light the track in front of the horses, even to glint in the eyes of a fox as it darted across the path. They could see their way.
“Where are we?” Nicholas asked Gareth as they cantered their horses up a gentle hill and drew rein, looking down on the moonlit world. Somewhere in the distance was the fugitive twinkle of candlelit windows in a village. He knew the countryside east of his home, of course, but he had never ridden through the Quantock Hills after dark before.
“Nether Stowey, that is,” said Gareth’s Welsh voice at his side. “They’ll have gone straight through there, I fancy, if they ever came this way. If I had all of us on my heels, I wouldn’t stop till my pony fell over, indeed to goodness I wouldn’t.”
“Liza’d never push a pony too hard,” said Nicholas, and to his own annoyance, found his eyes pricking. He had been proud of his daughter, proud of her glossy brown hair and her smile and her kindness. She was good with the ponies. Yes, and better at catching them than anyone else because they would come to the field gate to meet her! How could she have so misused her gift with them, and done this to her parents?
“We’d better do some pushing on ourselves,” said Father Meadowes. “As fast as the moonlight will let us.”
They pressed on. Presently, as they came into a shallow dip, he checked his horse again, and the others slowed down with him. “What is it?” asked Nicholas.
Father Meadowes pointed ahead, to the top of the little rise in front of them. “See? Against the skyline? Two riders…there, they’ve gone over the crest.” As he spoke, his horse raised its head and whinnied. “If they’re on the Nether Stowey road ahead of us,” Meadowes said, “those two could be them.”
“They’ve been dithering along the way if it’s them,” said Gareth with a chuckle. “I wonder what for?”
“You mind your tongue,” said Nicholas.
Father Meadowes shook his steed up again. “Let’s catch up. Heaven’s been good to us—we can see where we’re going, just about. We can gallop here.”
“What are we to do tonight?” Liza asked. She was strong, but the day had taken its toll, and they weren’t covering the miles as fast as they should. They had taken a wrong track three times, once heading for the shoreline by mistake, and twice in the fading light as they made their way through the Quantocks. Time had been particularly wasted on a steep, pebbly path which turned and twisted and finally tried to take them back westward.