Джорджетт Хейер: The Corinthian

By the time he had reached the opposite kerbstone, the mysterious fugitive had arrived, somewhat fortuitously, at the end of his improvised rope, and was dangling precariously above the shallow area, trying with one desperate foot to find some kind of a resting-place on the wall of the house. Sir Richard saw that he was a very slight youth, only a boy, in fact, and went in a leisurely fashion to the rescue.

The fugitive caught sight of him as he descended the area-steps, and gasped with a mixture of fright and thankfulness: “Oh! Could you help me, please? I didn’t know it was so far. I thought I should be able to jump, only I don’t think I can.”

“My engaging youth,” said Sir Richard, looking up at the flushed face peering down at him. “What, may I ask, are you doing on the end of that rope?”

“Hush!” begged the fugitive. “Do you think you could catch me, if I let go?”

“I will do my poor best,” promised Sir Richard.

The fugitive’s feet were only just above his reach, and in another five seconds the fugitive descended into his arms with a rush that made him stagger, and almost lose his balance. He retained it by a miracle, clasping strongly to his chest an unexpectedly light body.

Sir Richard was not precisely sober, but although the brandy fumes had produced in his brain a not unpleasant sense of irresponsibility, they had by no means fuddled his intellect. Sir Richard, his chin tickled by curls, and his arms full of fugitive, made a surprising discovery. He set the fugitive down, saying in a matter-of-fact voice: “Yes, but I don’t think you are a youth, after all.”

“No, I’m a girl,” replied the fugitive, apparently undismayed by his discovery. “But, please, will you come away before they wake up?”

“Who?” asked Sir Richard.

“My aunt—all of them!” whispered the fugitive. “I am very much obliged to you for helping me—and do you think you could untie this knot, if you please? You see, I had to tie my bundle on my back, and now I can’t undo it. And where is my hat?”

“It fell off,” said Sir Richard, picking it up, and dusting it on his sleeve. “I am not quite sober, you know—in fact, I am drunk—but I cannot help feeling that this is all a trifle—shall we say—irregular?”

“Yes, but there was nothing else to be done,” explained the fugitive, trying to look over her own shoulder at what Sir Richard was doing with the recalcitrant knot.

“Oblige me by standing still!” requested Sir Richard.

“Oh, I am sorry! I can’t think how it worked right round me like that. Thank you! I am truly grateful to you!”

Sir Richard was eyeing the bundle through his quizzing-glass. “Are you a burglar?” he enquired.

A chuckle, hastily choked, greeted this. “No, of course I’m not. I couldn’t manage a bandbox, so I had to tie all my things up in a shawl. And now I think I must be going, if you please.”

“Drunk I undoubtedly am,” said Sir Richard, “but some remnants of sanity still remain with me. You cannot, my good child, wander about the streets of London at this hour of night, and dressed in those clothes. I believe I ought to ring that bell, and hand you over to your—aunt, did you say?”

Two agitated hands clasped his arm. “Oh, don’t!” begged the fugitive. “Please don’t!”

“Well, what am I to do with you?” asked Sir Richard.

“Nothing. Only tell me the way to Holborn!”

“Why Holborn?”

“I have to go to the White Horse Inn, to catch the stagecoach for Bristol.”

“That settles it,” said Sir Richard. “I will not set you a foot on your way until I have the whole story from you. It’s my belief you are a dangerous criminal.”

“I am not!” said the fugitive indignantly. “Anyone with the veriest speck of sensibility would feel for my plight! I am escaping from the most odious persecution.”

“Fortunate child!” said Sir Richard, taking her bundle from her. “I wish I might do the same. Let us remove from this neighbourhood. I have seldom seen a street that depressed me more. I can’t think how I came here. Do you feel that our agreeable encounter would be improved by an exchange of names, or are you travelling incognita?”

“Yes, I shall have to make up a name for myself. I hadn’t thought of that. My real name is Penelope Creed. Who are you?”

“I,” said Sir Richard, “am Richard Wyndham, wholly at your service.”

“Beau Wyndham?” asked Miss Creed knowledgeably.

“Beau Wyndham,” bowed Sir Richard. “Is it possible that we can have met before?”

“Oh no, but of course I have heard of you. My cousin tries to tie his cravat in a Wyndham Fall. At least, that is what he says it is, but it looks like a muddle to me.”

“Then it is not a Wyndham Fall,” said Sir Richard firmly.

“No, that’s what I thought. My cousin tries to be a dandy, but he has a face like a fish. They want me to marry him.”

“What a horrible thought!” said Sir Richard, shuddering.

“I told you you would feel for my plight!” said Miss Creed. “So would you now set me on my way to Holborn?”

“No,” replied Sir Richard.

“But you must!” declared Miss Creed, on a note of panic. “Where are we going?”

“I cannot walk about the streets all night. We had better repair to my house to discuss this matter.”

“No!” said Miss Creed, standing stock-still in the middle of the pavement.

Sir Richard sighed. “Rid yourself of the notion that I cherish any villainous designs upon your person,” he said. “I imagine I might well be your father. How old are you?”

“I am turned seventeen.”

“Well, I am nearly thirty,” said Sir Richard.

Miss Creed worked this out. “You couldn’t possibly be my father!”

“I am far too drunk to solve arithmetical problems. Let it suffice that I have not the slightest intention of making love to you.”

“Well, then, I don’t mind accompanying you” said Miss Creed handsomely. “Are you really drunk?”

“Vilely,” said Sir Richard.

“No one would credit it, I assure you. You carry your wine very well.”

“You speak as one with experience in these matters,” said Sir Richard.

“My father was used to say that it was most important to see how a man behaved when in his cups. My cousin becomes excessively silly.”

“You know,” said Sir Richard, knitting his brows, “the more I hear of this cousin of yours the more I feel you should not be allowed to marry him. Where are we now?”

“Piccadilly, I think,” replied Miss Creed.

“Good! I live in St James’s Square. Why do they want you to marry your cousin?”

“Because,” said Miss Creed mournfully, “I am cursed with a large fortune!”

Sir Richard halted in the middle of the road. “Cursed with a large fortune?” he repeated.

“Yes, indeed. You see, my father had no other children, and I believe I am most fabulously wealthy, besides having a house in Somerset, which they won’t let me live in. When he died I had to live with Aunt Almeria. I was only twelve years old, you see. And now she is persecuting me to marry my cousin Frederick. So I ran away.”

“The man with a face like a fish?”

“Yes.”

“You did quite right,” said Sir Richard.

“Well, I think I did.”

“Not a doubt of it. Why Holborn?”

“I told you,” replied Miss Creed patiently. “I am going to get on the Bristol coach.”

“Oh! Why Bristol?”

“Well, I’m not going to Bristol precisely, but my house is in Somerset, and I have a very great friend there. I haven’t seen him for nearly five years, but we used to play together, and we pricked our fingers—mixing the blood, you know—and we made a vow to marry one another when we were grown-up.”