All at once it dawned on her that the voices had ceased. In the silence, she heard the clop of hooves along with a crackling of twigs. Delia’s pulse quickened and she trained her gaze along the road behind the coach, alert now.
Realisation hit just as a rider burst out of the woods onto the road, heading back in the direction of Dorchester.
“It’s him!”
“Get to horse!”
Delia’s stranger put his mount at the gallop, the queue of his long hair bouncing on his shoulders as his horse thundered away down the road.
The two ruffians scrambled into sight behind the coach, yelling as they ran for their horses. Mounting up with less dignity than haste, the two riders started after him, imprecations and curses rolling off their tongues.
Delia’s heart was in her mouth. All she could think of was the hideous notion that her stranger might be captured. Without knowing who he was or why they pursued him, she prayed desperately that he would manage to outrun them. Or outwit them somehow as he had before.
He’d called them fools. Then he must know how he could evade them, must he not?Oh, let him stay safe!
The riders were out of sight by the time she recalled the coach and her injured great-aunt. Conscience swept her. She slipped out from behind her concealing tree and began to pick her way towards the road.
She could see Vowles still on the box, but there was no sign of Scoley, though she could hear grunting as if some effort were undertaken. Was he helping Aunt Gertrude?
Her attention half on where she put her feet and half on the coach, she saw movement through the window and glimpsed Lady Matterson’s sprigged gown. The coach door slammed. Running footsteps were accompanied by a frantic shout.
“She’s in! Get us out of here, Vowles!”
Scoley! The groom was climbing up to the box. Hadn’t he seen Delia was not in the coach? She began to hurry, calling out a warning.
“Hi, wait!”
The coach was already in motion, the horses’ hooves loud enough to cover her voice. She raised it, breaking into a trot.
“Wait! Vowles, wait!”
The coach accelerated. They could not hear her! Delia reached the road and ran after the vehicle, yelling at the top of her voice.
“Wait for me! Don’t leave me here! Scoley! Vowles! Stop! Oh, dear God, stop!”
Horror overwhelmed her as Delia’s cries vanished into the air, drowned out by the thundering rattle of wheels and hooves as the coach outstripped her without mercy. Blown, Delia staggered to a halt, knees sagging, her hands going to her thighs as she watched her last hope disappear around a bend.
For a moment she was preoccupied with getting her breath, random thoughts pestering her mind. They were gone. She was alone in the forest. Why hadn’t they heard her? Oh, help, what should she do?
As her breathing slowed, so did her panic. Granted, she was alone, but she need only follow the road. The day was warm and bright; she need not fear to become cold or damp. They were bound to realise sooner or later, and then they would come back for her.
But that might be hours, protested a small voice in her head. Common sense said otherwise. Weymouth was less than nine miles distant. An hour’s drive. Perhaps a little more. Would they stop before? Unlikely. If they supposed her to be in the coach, they must be intent upon getting to Weymouth where Aunt Gertrude could be properly looked after. She couldn’t be dead. Scoley must have carried her into the coach. They would not have hurried so if she’d been dead, would they?
As the questions mounted, Delia found she’d begun walking. At least she need not fear those ruffians. The stranger would have led them quite away. He’d done it to give Delia and her people a chance to make their escape. If he only knew she’d managed instead to get herself left behind!
Not that it would make any difference. He was obviously a fugitive. But from whom, or from what? Intrigued she might be, but she would never know now. Best forget him. Or remember him only as a phantom, a tiny spark of adventure in her otherwise humdrum life. A chuckle escaped her. Had her prince come after all? If so, he’d made but a fleeting appearance. She would cherish his memory nevertheless.
Her feet, encased in light shoes not meant for hard walking, began to protest. Delia ignored them. Also the beginnings of thirst. But within a very short time, it seemed, she found it hard to think of anything but aching feet, tired legs and a dry mouth. Not to mention the awakening of hunger.
How long had she been walking? Her spirits drooped as she realised it could not be more than a quarter of an hour or so. The sun was still high in the sky and any hope of the coach having already reached Weymouth was vain.
She’d seen no one on the road. It was eerily silent. Too much so, because now she could hear the soughing of wind in the trees, a scurrying of something in the undergrowth, and the distant clopping of hooves.
Hooves? Oh, no! The clopping became a chorus. Many hooves there were. And coming fast. Oh, not again!
Delia stopped dead, turning in the road. She could see a couple of hundred yards back the way she had walked, and her eyes anxiously sought the source of the sound beyond the curving highway.
Before she could well take them in, a coterie of horsemen swept around the bend, travelling fast, one ahead of the rest.