Miss Creed shook her head vigorously. ‘No, indeed you will not! One should never be beholden to strangers. I shall pay everything for myself. Of course, if you are set against travelling by the stage, I do not see what is to be done. Unless –’ she broke off as an idea occurred to her, and said, with sparkling eyes: ‘I have a famous notion! You are a notable whip, are you not?’
‘I believe I am accounted so,’ replied Sir Richard.
‘Well, supposing you were to drive in your own curricle? Then I could get up behind, and pretend to be your Tiger, and hold the yard of tin, and blow up for the change and –’
‘No!’ said Sir Richard.
She looked disappointed. ‘I thought it would be exciting. However, I dare say you are right.’
‘I am right,’ said Sir Richard. ‘The more I think of it, the more I see that there is much to be said for the stagecoach. At what hour did you say that it leaves town?’
‘At nine o’clock, from the White Horse Inn, in Fetter Lane. Only we must go there long before that, on account of your servants. What is the time now?’
Sir Richard consulted his watch. ‘Close on five,’ he replied.
‘Then we have not a moment to lose,’ said Miss Creed. ‘Your servants will be stirring in another hour. But you can’t travel in those clothes, can you?’
‘No,’ he said, ‘and I can’t travel with that cravat of yours either, or that abominable bundle. And, now I come to look at you more particularly, I never saw hair worse cut.’
‘You mean the back, I expect,’ said Miss Creed, unresentful ofthese strictures. ‘Luckily, it has always been short in front. I had to chop the back bits off myself, and I could not well see what I was about.’
‘Wait here!’ commanded Sir Richard, and left the room.
When he returned it was more than half an hour later, and he had shed his evening dress for buckskin breeches, and top-boots, and a coat of blue superfine cloth. Miss Creed greeted him with considerable relief. ‘I began to fear you had forgotten me, or fallen asleep!’ she told him.
‘Nothing of the sort!’ said Sir Richard, setting a small cloak-bag and a large portmanteau down on the floor. ‘Drunk or sober, I never forget my obligations. Stand up, and I will see what I can do towards making you look more presentable.’
He had a snowy white cravat over one arm, and a pair of scissors in his hand. A few judicious snips greatly improved the appearance of Miss Creed’s head, and by the time a comb had been ruthlessly dragged through her curls, forcing rather than coaxing them into a more manly style, she began to look quite neat, though rather watery-eyed. Her crumpled cravat was next cast aside, and one of Sir Richard’s own put round her neck. She was so anxious to see how he was arranging it that she stood on tiptoe to catch a glimpse of herself in the mirror hanging above the mantelpiece, and got her ears boxed.
‘Willyou stand still?’ said Sir Richard.
Miss Creed sniffed, and subsided into dark mutterings. However, when he released her, and she was able to see the result of his handiwork, she was so pleased that she forgot her injuries, and exclaimed: ‘Oh, how nice I look! Is it a Wyndham Fall?’
‘Certainly not!’ Sir Richard replied. ‘The Wyndham Fall is not for scrubby schoolboys, let me tell you.’
‘I am not a scrubby schoolboy!’
‘You look like one. Now put what you have in that bundle into the cloak-bag, and we’ll be off.’
‘I have a very good mind not to go with you,’ said Miss Creed, glowering.
‘No, you haven’t. You are now my young cousin, and we are wholly committed to a life of adventure. What did you say your name was?’
‘Penelope Creed. Most people call me Pen, but I ought to have a man’s name now.’
‘Pen will do very well. If it occasions the least comment, you will say that it is spelt with two N’s. You were named after that Quaker fellow.’
‘Oh, that is a very good idea! What shall I call you?’
‘Richard.’
‘Richard who?’
‘Smith – Jones – Brown.’
She was engaged in transferring her belongings from the Paisley shawl to the cloak-bag. ‘You don’t look like any of those. What shall I do with this shawl?’
‘Leave it,’ replied Sir Richard, gathering up some gleaming scraps of guinea-gold hair from the carpet, and casting them to the back of the fireplace. ‘Do you know, Pen Creed, I fancy you have come into my life in the guise of Providence?’
