Free The Speckled Monster by Jennifer Lee Carrell Page A

had not seen for over a year, and had never expected to see again. I have been grieved for some time to hear you are to be confined to one you do not like, mourned Wortley. She agreed to meet him, though only to disabuse him of his error. She could marry or not as she pleased, she assured him.
    Almost immediately, the two picked up wrangling where they had left off: about where to meet (Lady Jekyll’s, Sir Godfrey Kneller’s, or her Italian tutor’s), whether she cared enough for him (yes), whether her father could be induced to reopen negotiations with him (no). Wortley was no Paradise, but he was not Hell either. By mid-July, Lady Mary began to glimpse a middling path to escape.
    To Wortley, she wrote: Were I to choose my destiny, I had rather be confined to a desert with you than enjoy the highest of rank and fortune in a court with him I am condemned to . Still, she did not want to overstate the case. I am sincere enough to acknowledge, she added, there are parts of your humor I could wish otherwise .
    To Philippa, she was more candid.
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    My dear Phil,
    My adventures are very odd. I see no probable prospect of my ever entering charming Paradise, but since I cannot convince him of the necessity of what I do, I rack myself in giving him some pain. I may go into Limbo if I please, but ’tis accompanied with such circumstances, my courage will hardly come up to it. In short I know not what will become of me. This is the real state of my heart, which is now so much perplexed and divided that I change resolves every three minutes. You’ll think me mad, but I know nothing certain but that I shall not die an old maid, that’s positive.
    Limbo is better than Hell.
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    The decision to elope more or less made, the lovers still found plenty to dicker about: where and when it would take place, even whether it was best to abscond in a coach and six, or a coach and pair. Lady Mary did not think it necessary to tell Wortley that she had not yet said good-bye to Paradise. She did inform him, however, that she would not make the smallest move before consulting her brother in Acton. Only when Will promised his support did she go forward.
    Come next Sunday under the garden wall, at ten o’clock, she wrote on Monday, August 11. It will be dark, and it is necessary it should be so .
    Sensing treachery, her father descended upon Acton. Dorchester knew nothing for certain, but his interrogations of the household convinced him his suspicions were right. After a terrifying interview, he dismissed Lady Mary under guard to her chamber, with a command that she was not to come out again, except to step foot in his coach the next day. She wrote Wortley in a panic, telling him that their plans had been foiled. I shall be sent back to West Dean, she wailed, never to come from thence but to give myself to all that I hate . Much later, with the rest of the house asleep, she smuggled out another message: She would creep out onto the balcony between six and seven o’clock in the morning. If he could, Wortley should contrive to fetch her then. It would be their last chance.
    Shivering as if the birds’ morning songs were slivers of ice, she waited the whole promised hour, but Wortley did not come.
    Later that morning she was hustled into her father’s coach, escorted by her brother and a dour old maid of her father’s choosing, who made it impossible for Will and Mary to talk. Thundering west, Will never said a word, but held her hand. She watched him watching the miles streaming by, a small smile playing around his mouth. Its quicksilver curve seemed the only tilt of happiness in the whole of a cold, hateful world.
    At the inn that night, she discerned his amusement: tipped off to their route, Wortley had taken a room as another guest. She did not see him that night or all the next day, though she was aware that he was doggedly trailing their party.
    The second night, with her suspicious maid snoring away in