Page 4 of Rescuing a Tantalising Heiress
They drove on for what seemed like hours, the horses relentless while pursued by their fear. The dawn was breaking, and through the gaps in the drapes, Isabella could see the first rays of sunlight. She knew nothing of where they were—the brief glimpse of the moorland and the heath had given her no clue as to where they were, for she rarely set foot outside her father’s estate and knew little of the surrounding countryside.
But we must’ve travelled for many miles,she reasoned to herself, even as a sudden jolt announced the stopping of the carriage.
The compartment veered to one side, and had Isabella not thrown herself towards the door, she may well have found the whole thing upturned. As it was, the door flew open, and she rolled out, landing on a tuft of grass, the horses now standing perfectly still, as though held by an unseen hand.
Looking around her, she saw they were on the edge of the moorland, pastures and meadows stretching out before her, and the far side of the path bordered by woodland. She got to her feet with difficulty, her hands still bound, though, mercifully, looser.
“Where am I?” she said out loud, glancing at the horses, as though one of them might be able to answer her.
There was no one else around, and looking back along the track, Isabella could see no sign of pursuit. But that did not mean pursuit was not being made, and Isabella was under no illusion as to the intentions of the bandits—they would surely stop at nothing to realize her return and claim their money.
Straightening up, Isabella looked around her for a solution to her predicament. She did not know where she was or which direction led back to her father’s estate.
“I’ve had a lucky escape,”she told herself, shuddering at the thought of what would have happened had she remained in the control of the bandits.
To walk on was foolhardy; to walk back would mean certain capture. But if she could hide for long enough to allow the threat to pass, she may be able to make her way home under the cover of darkness or find an inn on the moor to take refuge in.
The only possible cover was the woods and thanking the horses for what they had done—for their fear had been her salvation—she stepped off the path and into the trees. It was May, and the woodland was alive with blossoming growth; an early morning dew settled heavily over the mossy ground, and the leaves providing dappled shade from the warmth of the sun above.
But I mustn’t get lost,Isabella told herself, even as she felt certain the bandits would guess she was hiding in the trees when they came across the horses on the track.
She walked on, following dead-end paths, and stumbling over fallen trees. Isabella did not know where she was going, only that wherever it was, it was better than remaining by the carriage to await her fate. The woodland seemed never-ending, and she found no sign of life until she reached a brook, where a rickety wooden bridge crossed over to a path on the far side.
I wonder why there’s a bridge here?she asked herself, for she felt certain she was far from civilization, the moorland seeming to stretch endlessly on either side of the track.
But having crossed the bridge, Isabella found herself on a well-trod path through the trees, and to her immense surprise, the path now gave way to a lawn, across which lay a house. Her relief was palpable, even in her exhaustion. She was terribly thirsty, and her stomach was rumbling with hunger.
I can only imagine what I must look like,she thought to herself as she was about to hurry across the grass to the terrace—the front of the house being opposite the garden.
But a sudden thought occurred to her, and she shrank back fearfully. What if the occupant of the house was the very person she had been intended for? She watched for a moment, hoping to catch sight of the occupant or perhaps a servant—someone she could ask for help.
The house was a handsome one, red brick, and built in the Queen Anne style. It had a gabled roof and a long terrace; the gardens were mature and walled on one side, where a gravelled forecourt opened up to stables on the far side of the house.
I’m certain I’ve never been here before,Isabella said to herself, trying to think back to the various grand houses in the district, to which she had been taken under duress by her father.
There was Lady Lastington at Finnegan Manor and the Allshotts at Dale. But neither of their houses was like this, and Isabella felt certain she did not know the occupants of the fine, red-brick house before her.
But that only makes it worse—some enemy of my father,she thought to herself.
But her thirst was growing more pronounced, and she was beginning to feel dizzy, having eaten or drank nothing since dinner the night before. The choice was stark—remain hidden in the trees and face imminent collapse or risk the very thing she had tried to escape from. But need now overcame caution, and Isabella emerged from the trees, skirting the edge of the garden and making her way up onto the terrace.
What choice do I have?she asked herself, as she kicked at one of the doors, hoping to attract the attention of a servant.
For a few moments, Isabella waited. She could hear nothing from inside, and again, she kicked at the door, her wrists still bound. As she did so, a window was pulled up above, and a woman’s face—that of a maid in a cloth cap—looked out with an indignant expression on her face.
“Oi, what do you think you’re doing, you vagabond?” she exclaimed.
Isabella was about to remonstrate with her, when she realized she must have looked quite a state—her dress and cloak torn, her hair dishevelled, her hands bound, and her face dirty and mud-stained.
“Please, I need help. Who lives here?” she asked.
The maid was about to reply, when the door in front of her was opened was an imperious-looking man with a hawked nose and a bushy brow. He was dressed in a pristine black frock coat and a stiffly starched shirt and collar, and he looked Isabella up and down with disdain.
“Yes?” he said in an icy tone.
“Send her away, Mr Marston. She’s a vagabond,” the maid called out from above.
The butler peered out of the door.
