Page 82 of Gallant Waif
“So it’s little Kate Farleigh who’s got my officers in knots, is it?” said the Marquis of Wellington. He smiled again at Kate, bowed and kissed her hand. A gasp ran round the room.
“Knew your father, m’dear. Very fine man he was. Sorry to hear about his death. Your brothers, too. Brave boys, brave boys. Know they would be proud of you.”
He took her hand and tucked it into his arm. “Shall we take a turn about the room?” Without waiting for a reply, he moved off, lowering his voice so that only she could hear.
“Young Carstairs filled me in. Pack of worthless gabble-mongers. But we’ll fix them. Face ’em down, what? Show ’em for the cowards they are, eh?”
Wellington moved slowly towards the crowd which pressed forward, eager to speak with the great man. As he did so, he introduced Kate, mentioning to this person that he was a friend of her family, to that person that she was a gallant young heroine, to another that she was a brave little lady, one of England’s finest.
They were soon joined by a group of older ladies, one of whom linked arms with Kate, clearly declaring her support. Kate blinked at her. The woman was a complete stranger.
She bent towards Kate. “Lady Charlotte, my dear. I’m so terribly sorry this happened. If I’d known…but we were all in the card room, I’m afraid, and only just heard what was happening.” She indicated the rest of her party. Kate recognised Lady Courtney and several others, but this glittering matron was a complete stranger.
Seeing Kate’s continuing puzzlement, the lady added, “I’m Arnold Bentham’s mother—you know my nephew, Francis.” As Kate suddenly nodded in comprehension, the lady continued, “You saved my Arnold’s life, Miss Farleigh. For that, you have my undying friendship and support, and that of these other ladies too.”
Kate slowly circled the room; on one side of her, the Marquis of Wellington, on the other, a collection of society’s most formidable matrons. She was dazed by the turn in her fortunes, unable to comprehend quite what was happening. She nodded, curtseyed and smiled, oblivious of whom she was meeting, who was shaking her hand.
Jack was there, a pace or two behind her, hovering protectively. She could feel his presence, sense his strength. She wanted to touch him, but she couldn’t. She turned to look at him over her shoulder. Their eyes met, caressed, clung, but she was moved forward inexorably, and they were separated by the crowd, pressing closer, eager to meet the Great Man and his protégée.
Kate could hardly believe it. She had been snatched from her worst nightmare, and now was engaged in an almost triumphal procession on the arm of England’s greatest living hero. But it was Jack who’d saved her. He had risked social ostracism, had stood up with her in the most public of places, had declared his support of her for all the world to see. Jack, who’d been a recluse, hiding his wounds from the world—he’d come out and danced with her, when no one else would even look her in the eye.
And it was Jack whose arm she wanted to be on, whose arms she wanted to be in.
Kate glanced back. He was no longer there. Her eyes scanned the room anxiously. Where was he? She could see him nowhere. He had stood up for her in her hour of need. Surely he wouldn’t desert her in her moment of triumph? Didn’t he know it would mean nothing to her if he was not with her?
She caught Francis’s eye across a dozen heads and asked him the silent question. He returned a sombre look, then shrugged and shook his head hopelessly. Kate’s face dropped. Jack had left. But why?
With a leaden heart, Kate returned to the hollow greetings of well-wishers and sycophants.
“What do you mean, she’s gone? Gone where? She hasn’t been seen since that blasted ball, and let me tell you, Grand-mama, nothing could be more ill-judged. She needs to be out there, circulating, seeing people, showing them she’s nothing to hide. We’ve scotched the worst of it, but if she’s hiding herself away…”
“I said she’sgone,Jack. Gone away. Left.”
“Left where? What do you mean?” Suddenly Jack turned white. He sat down in a rush. “You mean gone? She’s left London?”
Lady Cahill looked at him in some compassion, then hardened her heart. He’d been acting like a fool.
“Gone where?”
“Back to that village I found her in.”
“Good God, how could you let her do something so…? What is there for her anyway? Why would she do such a thing?” He rose to his feet again and paced about, raking his fingers through wildly disordered locks. Suddenly he looked up sharply.
“Who is escorting her? How is she travelling? And who is to meet her?”
His grandmother shrugged.
“You mean you let her go alone!” he roared.
“I was not exactly consulted, Jack, and do not take that tone with me. I’m as worried about the dratted girl as you are!” snapped his grandmother. “The foolish child slipped away at dawn.”
“So how is she travelling?”
“I don’t know, Jack, the Mail or stage, I presume!”
“Good God! Mail or stage! Rubbing shoulders with God knows who! Doesn’t she know the dangers? Footpads, highwaymen! Doesn’t she know how often accidents happen? Pray God she took the Mail; at least they have a guard!” Swearing, he rushed from the room.
Lady Cahill sat back, a satisfied grin on her face.
