Belinda Goes to Bath Read Online Free PDF

He had worked hard and long, experimenting with new farming methods, taking what little capital he had and using it carefully on the stock exchange. The hostilities with the French had brought about a rise in the price of wheat, and slowly his fortunes began to turn. Now, at the age of thirty-four, he was a very wealthy man. His estates and farms were the envy of all less hard-working landowners. He had restored his ancestral home, Baddell Castle, to its long-forgotten glory. He loved fine statuary and fine paintings and the most delicate of china. His idea of a wife was someone who would grace his home like a work of art.
    Hard physical labour in his younger years,combined with a fastidious mind, had kept the more rampant lusts at bay. He had begun briefly to take pleasure when it was offered by, say, some fashionable widow at the London Season who knew very well what she was doing and did not have a heart to break. Succumbing to broken hearts, the marquess’s observations had led him to believe, was something females were prone to do.
    He was a tall man with a trim waist, square shoulders, and a lithe, athletic figure. He wore his hair powdered and confined at the nape of his neck with a ribbon. His face was high-nosed and rather stern and he had silvery-grey eyes that usually did not reflect what he was thinking.
    He came to a wooded close overlooking the river Thrane that bordered his land. To his amazement, he saw a stage-coach coming down the opposite bank. A little guard was on the back of one of the horses and was hacking the traces free. The team of horses swerved right, clear of the careening coach. The coach wheels struck an outjutting ledge of rock. For one horrifying moment it sailed clear off the ledge and seemed to hang in the snowy air. And then it plunged straight down into the icy stretch of the river.
    He dismounted and hurried down the bank, slithering and sliding until he reached the river. He sat down, pulled off his top-boots, and shrugged off his long black cloak, then waded into the icy torrent.
    The carriage door swung open and a middle-aged lady with a rather crooked nose looked at him first in surprise and then relief.
    ‘I see I shall not have to swim for it,’ she said. ‘The torrent seems shallow enough.’
    The marquess made his way with difficulty to the coach and hung on to the open door. ‘Climb on my back,’ he ordered, ‘and I will carry you to safety.’
    ‘There is a lady here who is hurt,’ said Hannah, for it was she. ‘Take her first.’
    ‘Very well,’ said the marquess in a voice as cold and uncaring as the winter landscape. ‘But be quick about it.’
    ‘Help me,’ said Hannah to Belinda as she stooped over Miss Wimple. That lady’s face was an ugly colour and she had a great gash on her forehead.
    They heaved and pushed at the inert Miss Wimple. ‘Of what use are you?’ cried Hannah furiously over her shoulder to Mr Judd, who was sitting on the floor of the coach.
    ‘My wife has fainted,’ he said sulkily.
    ‘Pah!’ retorted Hannah. ‘Does such a little thing paralyse you? Had the coach not landed upright, we might all have been drowned.’
    The marquess leaned into the carriage and managed to lift Miss Wimple in his arms. Hannah watched in admiration as he carried her easily to the bank and laid her down. Soon he was back again. By this time, Hannah had found her smelling salts. She held the bottle under Mrs Judd’s nose and then slapped her face. ‘Leave her alone,’ cried Mr Judd, struggling to his feet.
    ‘Then get you out of the carriage and carry your own wife to safety instead of letting that fine gentleman do all the work.’
    Mr Judd looked weakly out of the door at the raging river. There was a moan behind him as his wife recovered from her faint.
    ‘Now get down in the river,’ commanded Hannah. ‘No, sir,’ she said to the marquess, ‘stand aside. There is no reason why this gentleman cannot carry his own wife.’
    Mr Judd dropped down