ConneXions
Chapter 2
by
Dee
It was the cessation of the rocking movement of the carriage that woke Marie. She pushed herself up straighter on the carriage seat, and looked with wide eyes over to Joseph, the only other passenger in the Post carriage with her. They had had the company of other travellers on the earlier legs of the journey, but the last - an elderly married couple - had disembarked at Wentworth after giving Marie many good wishes for her first London Season.
The carriage had stopped completely now. "What is happening?" Marie asked quietly, her voice a little shrill.
There were harsh voices outside, the protestations of the driver from his box, and a voice demanding: "Do you want to die, man?"
Her eyes widened even further, and in her head she began a fervent, if simple prayer; no, please God, no, please God, no.
When the door to the carriage was wrenched open she shrieked, shrinking back into the corner, clutching her hands to her chest. He was waving a pistol, his blonde hair wild, his face dirty. He looked like a madman. Marie felt her heart beat a terrified rhythm, and her head felt light. No, no she was not going to faint!
Then, through the beating of her blood in her ears, she heard it. Hooves, approaching on the road. The man in the doorway looked around, and Joseph leapt on him, the pair of them crashing out of the carriage. There came the sounds of shots being fired. Once, twice.
Horrified, overcome, Marie gave up the fight and sank into blissful darkness.
* * * * *
She awoke with dappled sunlight on her face, staring up into a blue sky through leaves rippling on the gentle wind. Then the sky was blocked out by the familiar face of Joseph, looking down at her with concern. "Miss, you're awake!"
She sat up, with the help of his hand. "Joseph, why am I lying in the grass by the side of the road?"
"The Captain said it would be best for you to get out of the stuffy carriage." A shadow fell over her, and Joseph looked up. "Captain, she has come to."
Marie looked up as well, following his gaze. Standing just behind her was a man. Though not great of stature, he seemed formidable, the perception only enhanced by his bearing. She looked up to his face, but the sun was behind his head, and she could make out nothing but hair, dark and almost as wild as the ruffian's had been. "So I see," a low, gruff voice said. "Is she well enough to continue her journey?"
Marie stood without the aid of Joseph's hand, fuelled by anger. Speaking as if she were not there... "I am perfectly well, sir..." and she trailed off, her intended demands of name and an explanation for his presence shrivelling on her tongue as she saw behind him, protruding from behind a tree, a pair of booted feet. She knew, they were the feet of the ruffian, and he was dead.
The blood drained from her face, and Joseph leapt to his feet to grasp her arm. "Miss, you are still unwell, please sit."
The stranger merely looked at her in silence. She could see his face now, a stern face, a slightly rough and tired face. Brown eyes neither soft nor sparkling. There was an intensity about him, though, that was somehow compelling. He took her hand, bowed over it. "Pardon, Madam. I am Captain Logan, of the ---th regiment. I happened to chance upon your carriage here, beset as it was."
Beset no longer, as those boots bore witness. Marie tore her gaze away from them, and turned to Captain Logan. "Then I must thank you, sir, for coming to our aid. You are a true gentleman. I am Miss Marie Rogue, and this is Joseph."
He straightened, releasing her hand. "No thanks are necessary, Miss Rogue. I did what was required." From the passivity of his countenance, it did not seem he was suffering under any great burden of guilt for his actions. But then again, she reasoned, why should he? The men were criminals, riff-raff. They would have been transported for what they had tried to do. Captain Logan looked to the sun, high overhead now. "The day is passing, Miss Rogue. You must continue your journey if you are to make London by tonight."
She accepted his hand and he led her the few steps to the carriage, Joseph trailing behind. As she stepped up into the carriage, she was suddenly overwhelmed by how close it seemed inside. So small and confined. She paused on the step, breathing heavily.
"Don't be afraid," Captain Logan said quietly, as if he understood everything that was going through her mind. "You will be quite safe, Miss Rogue. I will ride behind the carriage. No further harm will befall you."
Relief flooded Marie, and she smiled down at him warmly. She climbed the last two steps into the carriage, and when his hand released hers, it seemed to her she could still feel his fingers. She folded her hands into her lap and stared at them as Joseph climbed up into the carriage and took his seat. She heard the driver call to Captain Logan, thanking him, and his response was merely a thunder-low rumble.
The carriage began to move again, and she restrained herself from looking out the window. How unladylike. Of course he would be following; he had given his word.
But before they had travelled half a mile, she could hold it no longer, and leant over to look out the window, clamping a hand on her head to prevent her bonnet escaping. The sight of him, mounted on a large black horse, following the coach, filled her with satisfaction.
* * * * *
"My dear child! We were worried; you are so late." Jean enveloped the girl in a hug, an intimacy born of the worry she had expressed. "We feared your coach overturned, or robbers, or all manner of terrible things."
"Your guesses were not so far from the mark." It was Captain Logan who spoke, who had handed her down from the carriage before she had been swept up by Mrs Summers, who now stood behind her. He bowed as Jean turned to him. "Captain Logan, Madam. At your service."
"Whatever do you mean?" She turned to Marie. "What does he mean? Oh my child, you were not -?"
"The coach was set upon by bandits," Marie said, much more calmly than she would have thought herself capable of being. "Heaven knows how badly it may have gone for us, were it not for the timely intervention of Captain Logan." She smiled his way, but he was looking to Mrs Summers, not to her.
Scott stepped up beside his wife, reached out his hand to Logan. "Then by God, sir, I thank you most sincerely. And am most humbly at your service. Scott Summers, and this is my wife Jean."
Jean curtseyed, dropping her eyes. "Won't you come in and have some tea? It is the least we can do, though we cannot hope to repay the debt we owe you."
Marie almost held her breath, half-fearing he would refuse, and vanish from her life. But he did not, rather bowed again, and said he would be honoured.
Scott nodded, and offered his arm to his wife, who took it instantly. "Then let us go inside, and talk no more in the street, but rather in comfort." He led the way inside as Captain Logan offered his arm to Marie, who felt quite elated as she took it.
The tea was, of course, prompt and elegant, and introductions were made all round, between Sir Charles, and Captain Logan, and little Miss Marie Rogue, who the old man declared twice as pretty as the last time he had seen her. They settled, and the story of the coach was not, as may have been expected, dwelt upon. This was, we must remember, one of the most respectable drawing rooms in London, where such matters as robbers and shootings were not even considered, let alone discussed.
"So, Captain Logan," Sir Charles began from his bath chair, "your regiment has been transferred to London, I seem to recall."
Logan nodded, stiffly and formally. "Yes sir, that is so. Our Colonel seems to believe the society will be of benefit to us."
"You do not agree?" Scott asked mildly.
Marie thought it had been blatantly obvious from the Captain's tone that he did not. "Balls and opera will avail us little, should the Corsican decide upon action," he said.
"Quite so," Charles agreed.
Jean set down her teacup. "Come, gentlemen. The conversation has taken a decidedly militaristic air I find quite unwholesome. Leave Napoleon on the doorstep. He is not invited into my drawing room." She smiled to her husband, before turning to the Captain. "Now that you are in London, however inappropriately you believed the quartering, I do hope you will be attending some of those balls and operas. If for no other reason than that we may continue our acquaintance."
"I believe all the officers have received an invitation to a ball given by the Lord and Lady Richmond," Logan noted. "I have no doubt we will all be attending; it has been a goodly period since our last chance at society. After that, I am not certain. I... am not overly interested in the overwhelming number of engagements so many men enter into."
"Another society-shy gentleman! London is full of them." Laughing a little, Jean looked fondly to her husband, who smiled politely in response. "But we too will be attending the Richmond's ball. It is the real beginning of the Season, and we would not miss it. We will certainly see you there."
Marie smiled broadly, hiding it in her teacup. A ball, and her Prince, her own saviour, there. She watched him across the room, a trifle uneasy, she thought, with his fragile cup and saucer. They were too small, too insignificant for him, she decided. He was vital. She knew he must be a magnificent soldier. She was just sure of it.
The conversation flowed on, until after half an hour, Captain Logan stood, taking his leave on the need to reach his own lodgings before dinner. He was seen out by the entire party, who stood in the hall a moment after his departure.
"He is a straightforward man," Scott noted. "Perhaps a little too blunt."
"A man of action," Charles agreed.
"But a gentleman, nevertheless," Jean concluded.
Marie said nothing, but smiled and dreamed, just a little.
* * * * *
Jean sat before her mirror, brushing her hair before bed and thinking about the day. How dramatic Marie's arrival had been, and bringing with it Captain Logan. Jean had noticed the way Marie looked at him, and she wondered if there would be trouble there. He was respectable, to be sure, as an officer. He was older, steadier, perhaps just what a young girl needed in a husband. But his family, his fortune; nothing was known of these things. His suitability was most certainly in question. She could see what interested Marie, though. There was an intensity about him, a vitality that defied the constraints of her drawing room. That touch of wildness...
The rasp of the brush through her hair slowed, stopped. A quiet knock sounded on the door, and she blinked, resuming brushing at her usual pace. "Yes?" she called.
The door opened a little to admit her husband, sliding in, just another shadow in the others cast by the candle by her mirror. She smiled and lay down the brush as he came up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders. He met her eyes in the mirror, his eyes lit with pleasure and mischief and love as he leaned over to blow out that single flame.
And she thought no more that night.
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