Duels & Deception
Cindy Anstey
For my family, especially Mike, Deb, Christine, and Dan
Chapter 1
In which a sensible young lady must choose between the peril of a careening carriage and mud … deep mud
Had Miss Lydia Whitfield of Roseberry Hall been of a skittish nature, the sound of a rapidly approaching carriage would have caused considerable anxiety. As it was, the clatter behind her did nothing to stay her steps. Besides, she recognized the bells on Esme’s harness and Turnip’s nicker of protest—poor creature hated to canter. The vehicle could be none other than the family landau.
However, as the nickering changed from protest to panic, Lydia was certain the carriage was now descending the steep hill too quickly. The road from Spelding was rocky and rutted, especially in the spring, and it made for a rough ride. Most drivers took it at a walk.
But not this driver.
With a glance over her shoulder, Lydia ascertained that said person was none other than Uncle Arthur. While the distance between them prevented a close examination of his facial features, there was no doubting the tension in the rigid way he held himself.
Uncle was in a mood.
With a sigh, Lydia frowned at the pretty rill beside her as it babbled its way down to the bottom of the hill. She was less than enthused with the idea of stepping off the road and into the deep mud. Instead, she quickened her pace. The rill veered away from the road around the curve, a more promising spot to allow a carriage to pass. She was confident she could make it to the turn before the landau barreled down on her.
As she hastened to safety, Lydia was surprised by a small sound as it broke through the noisy approach of her uncle. But then, the sound wasn’t really that small.
It was a shout.
Lifting her head, Lydia examined the road ahead of her. The scene was nature at its finest, for not a house, chimney, or steeple was in sight. Even the sizable gates to Roseberry Hall were hidden around the corner. Past the entrance, the road rose again, coming back into sight from where she stood, and it was there that Lydia spied a carriage and an occupant.
It was a smaller vehicle than the one rumbling behind her … a gig, perhaps; it was hard to tell exactly from this distance. And the driver appeared to be a gentleman of indiscernible age—again, because her squint could not render the figure any clearer. Still, it was definitely not a woman.
There seemed to be a problem of some sort, for the man was standing in his gig—not a wise thing to do even on the smoothest of roads. And he was waving. Rather frantically.
Lydia waved back to acknowledge the hail and increased her pace even more. As she did, she noted that the stranger dropped back onto his seat and flicked the reins, setting his horse at a quick trot. Trying to understand what necessitated this untoward greeting, Lydia considered the possibility that he might be lost or injured in some way. She would know soon enough, for their paths would meet just around the corner.
However, Lydia could tell by the increasing noise behind her that she did not have enough time to reach the dry ledge before the landau would be upon her. She was forced into the ditch—and the mud. Though she saved her skirts from the worst of it by lifting them higher than was seemly, her boots were covered in sticky brown goo clear up to her ankles. She was not best pleased.
As Lydia watched her uncle rush past, she was surprised he did not slow for the corner, taking it at a dangerous clip. Surprise turned into concern when she realized his anger was affecting his driving—erratic and ill-considered. Did he see the other carriage up ahead? The narrowness of the road would require one driver to give way, but at that speed, would either be able to react quickly enough?
The answer was not long in coming. The sound of a collision reached Lydia just before she rounded the corner. Horrified for men and horses, Lydia lifted her worsted Pomona green skirt even higher and ran.
The sight of the two carriages sitting on opposite sides of the road was at first a great relief. Both men were atop their seats, and the horses were neither down nor screaming in fright. However, with closer scrutiny, it became clear that the gig—while veering right—had broken its wheel on a collection of rocks and was listing rather dramatically, threatening to dump the driver onto the road. The stranger jumped of his own accord, likely preferring to land on his feet rather than allow gravity to deposit him in an undignified sprawl.
Uncle’s carriage—or rather the Roseberry Hall landau—had fared better when it veered off the road, although its cargo had not. A large box, which must have been on the seat beside him, had slid to the ground, throwing the cover and contents into the rill. It was to this that Uncle Arthur was pointing when Lydia hastened toward him.
“There, Lydia, I hope you are happy. I was bringing you a surprise, a pretty little peace offering, a gift for your birthday. And you ruined it. Yet again your obstinacy and disregard for anyone but yourself has brought about a disaster.”
Other than slowing her pace, Lydia did not know how to react to such a speech. It was laden with so much injustice that she could only stare in wonderment and question Uncle’s grasp of reality. The accident had not been her doing; it had been his excessive speed. Had the road been clear of pedestrians or other carriages, his speed would still have made negotiating the turn without mishap near impossible.
Then there was his reference to obstinacy and disregard for others. Never had she been so accused. Her sister, Ivy—who was as stubborn as the day was long—carried that trait proudly on her ten-year-old shoulders. And as to disregard for others—well, perhaps he should look in the mirror, for he himself wore that characteristic, and it fit like a glove.
As to the peace offering/surprise/birthday gift, well, that, too, made no sense. It could not be all three things at once.… And to make matters worse, the gift was nothing more than an allusion to what he perceived as her immaturity. For as Lydia’s gaze followed the pointing finger, she saw that a large, exquisitely dressed porcelain doll stared up at her with its one unbroken eye. This was not a present for a young lady about to turn eighteen but for a girl of ten or eleven. In short, it was a mockery.
Anger and insult fought for supremacy and control of her tongue, leaving Lydia momentarily at a loss for words. Fortunately, Uncle was too wrapped up in his own emotional swirl to take advantage of Lydia’s unusual speechless state.