by M C Beaton
Contents
Title Page
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By the Same Author
About the Author
Copyright
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… an indolent, thoughtless, innocent sort of man that will be continually in scrapes, and that will not get forward with all his extraordinary talents, unless somebody take him up and push him on …
Creevey Papers
Miss Pym awoke with a start and wondered for a moment where she was. She drew aside the bed hangings. The dull-red glow of a dying fire on the hearth revealed an inn bedchamber. But which inn? she wondered blearily. She seemed to have been in so many since she started her travels.
Then memory came flooding back. Of course! She was in a bedchamber in the White Bear in Piccadilly and shortly to set out on the road to Portsmouth.
Miss Pym had no business to take her to Portsmouth, no relative, only a desire to travel and, above all, to look upon the sea for the first time. She had already made two exciting journeys, one to Bath and one to Exeter. And what adventures she had had! Her life spent as a servant in the household of Mr Clarence seemed far away. And yet only a short time ago, she had been housekeeper at Thornton Hall in Kensington, looking forward to a bleak life of servitude. Then Mr Clarence had died and left her a legacy.
Hannah Pym’s thoughts turned to her late employer’s brother, Sir George Clarence, Sir George who had shown her such friendship and who had promised to take her to the opera when she returned from Portsmouth, Sir George with his fine profile, blue eyes, and silver hair.
She rose from her bed and drew off a pair of white cotton gloves, for she slept with her hands covered in goose grease and lemon juice in an attempt to soften and whiten them; although they were well-shaped, they were still a trifle red and coarse.
She was a thin, spare woman in her forties with square shoulders and slender hands and feet. She had thick sandy hair and odd-coloured eyes, like opals, which changed colour according to her mood. Her face was sallow, her mouth long and humorous, and her nose crooked. Her crooked nose and her sandy hair were the bane of her life. Had Sir George not already seen her sandy hair, she would have dyed it brown or some other fashionable colour. She gave a characteristic pull at her nose, fell to her knees and prayed to God to send her humility so that she might not long to wake up one morning and find her hair brown and her nose straight.
Her prayers over, she opened her trunk and took out a fine travelling-gown of brown velvet, for it was now March and the weather was still blustery and cold. Hannah had a good stock of expensive gowns and cloaks and hats. Urged by Sir George, she had taken her late employer’s wife’s wardrobe as her own, for pretty Mrs Clarence had run away with a footman so very long ago and had not taken anything with her. As she dressed, Hannah thought about Mrs Clarence and wondered what had become of her. Did she know her husband was dead and that she was free to marry her footman? Hannah could never blame her for having run away. Mrs Clarence had been so bright and kind and witty and Mr Clarence so moody and dark and depressing. He had shut up half the house after his wife had run away, and no longer entertained. Hannah had considered him heart-broken, but after his brother told her that Mr Clarence had always been moody and depressed, Hannah had come to the conclusion that he would have degenerated into a semi-recluse whether his wife stayed or went.
There was a tremendous bustle and noise in the inn, but then there always was in coaching inns, which turned night into day with the constant coming and going of travellers.
Hannah rang the bell and commanded the waiter to carry down her trunk to the stage. She tipped him and then followed him down the corridor, avoiding the outstretched hands of the other servants who congregated outside inn rooms like gannets as soon as a guest left. Disappointed, they told Hannah what they thought of her, but Hannah turned a deaf ear to their complaints. She had arrived late the night before, had not dined, and had no reason to tip anyone. The towels in her room had not been clean but had simply been put in the linen press and had been still dirty from use by previous owners. The room itself had been dirty but at least free of bugs, unlike the City coaching inns, where bugs were a plague. Describing a stay at the Belle Savage on Ludgate Hill, Parson Woodforde, that famous diarist wrote, ‘I was bit so terribly with buggs again this night that I got up at four o’clock in the morning and took a long walk by myself about the City till breakfast time.’ The following night, he said, ‘I did not pull off my cloathes … but sat up in a Great Chair all night with my Feet on the bed and slept very well considering and not pestered with buggs …’
Outside in the courtyard stood the coach, the Portsmouth Flyer. It was the usual Flying Machine, as the stage-coaches were called, high and covered in black leather and with red leather curtains at the oval windows. Hannah was curious to meet her travelling companions.
She was the first to board the coach and so she took her favourite seat in the left-hand corner, facing the horses. The day was windy and cold, and high above the courtyard, great angry clouds were racing each other across the sky, giving the impression that the moon was tearing across the heavens at such speed that one felt the night should be over in a twinkling.
The carriage bobbed and lurched as an outside passenger climbed on the roof. Then another. But where were the insiders? At ten minutes to six – ten minutes before the hour of departure – the carriage door opened and a fussily dressed lady climbed in. She was wearing a huge bonnet like a coal-scuttle out of which a sharp angry little face peered, rather like some vole-like creature staring out of a hole on the river-bank. The eyes rested on Hannah, a sniff emerged from the coal-scuttle, and the woman sat down with a bump.
‘Cold morning,’ remarked Hannah pleasantly. The woman sniffed again but did not reply.
For a moment, Hannah forgot that coach passengers usually avoided speaking to each other and the old servant in her felt cowed, imagining that the woman had sensed her low origins. Then Hannah gave her nose a defiant pull. She was now Miss Hannah Pym, gentlewoman, and on her return from Portsmouth, Sir George Clarence would take her to the opera. The carriage door opened again and a drab-looking middle-aged man climbed in. He had a bad cold and sniffed loudly. The coal-scuttle sniffed in disapproval. The man sniffed again. The coal-scuttle sniffed louder. Hannah giggled and both glared at her.
‘I am sorry my cold amuses you,’ said the man. He had a red face that looked as if it had been recently boiled. He had mutton-chop whiskers of fiery red and red-veined eyes.
‘Forgive me,’ said Hannah. ‘I had just remembered something vastly amusing. I am monstrous sorry for you, sir. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Miss Pym of Kensington.’
‘Mr Jonas Cato of Fairfax,’ said the man. ‘Fact is I feel devilish poor.’
‘I should not be travelling on the common stage,’ said the coal-scuttle. ‘I am Miss Abigail Trenton and my carriage had gone ahead with my luggage. I hope I may not catch your cold, Mr Cato, for I am a delicate creature and my chest is weak.’
‘Sorry, ma’am, but I must get to Portsmouth to catch my ship.’
‘Are you in the navy, Mr Cato?’ asked Hannah.
‘No, Miss Pym. Overseer on a tobacco plantation in Virgina.’
‘An American!’ Miss Trenton sounded as appalled as if he had confessed to being a primitive savage. ‘That explains it.’
‘Explains what?’ demanded Mr Cato sharply.
‘Your disregard of the health of your fellow passengers,’ said Miss Trenton. ‘Americans are famous for the crudity of their manners.’
‘I ain’t met a one that could bea
t bad manners when it comes to the likes of you,’ said Mr Cato. ‘And that business of your carriage going on ahead is all a hum if you ask me. Every coach in this country seems to contain a lady who swears she’s really got her own carriage and it’s gone on ahead. All we need now is a drunken sailor and you will have the usual passenger list of an English coach.’
‘How dare you, sir!’ cried Miss Trenton. ‘I do so have my own carriage and … and … it is green and well-sprung and with my John on the box and …’
‘Now, now,’ said Hannah soothingly in the voice that had quelled more than one squabble in the kitchens of Thornton Hall, ‘if we are to travel together to Portsmouth, let us not fight and argue.’
Miss Trenton did not reply but took out a small book and began to read it. Mr Cato blew his nose mournfully, winked at Hannah, crossed his arms on his chest and closed his eyes.
The carriage door on Hannah’s side opened, letting in a blast of cold air. There were several elegant men outside carrying a limp body. ‘In he goes,’ they cried.
An elegant young man was thrust into the coach and placed in the corner opposite Hannah. She realized he was dead drunk. His pallor was alarming and he was completely unconscious but he reeked of spirits and stale tobacco. One of the young men who had arranged him in the corner turned and smiled at Hannah as he climbed down from the coach. ‘Been drinking deep, has our Gus. Watch he don’t cascade on your shoes, ma’am.’ Then he slammed the door.
Hannah eyed the young man nervously and drew her feet as far under the seat as they would go lest the young man did decide to be sick. She studied his face in the light of the carriage lamp.
He was very beautiful. He had a perfect profile and alabaster skin. Ridiculously long black silky eyelashes were fanned out over his cheeks. His mouth was a perfect piece of sculpture and his guinea-gold hair was in tumbled curls under his hat. His long legs were muscular and strong. His clothes were of the finest, and he had sixteen strings to his breeches.
Mr Cato opened his eyes and squinted sideways at the sleeping gentleman. ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘The ruin of England. Drink and laziness. Dead before he’s thirty.’ Then Mr Cato closed his eyes again.
Hannah opened her reticule and brought out a small flask of rose-water and sprinkled some on the carriage floor to counteract the smell of stale spirits emanating from the young man.
Up on the roof, the guard blew a blast on the yard of tin. The young man stirred and groaned and opened his eyes. Like the rest of him, his eyes were beautiful; they were deep sapphire-blue. They rested on Hannah and winced.
‘The deuce,’ said the young man faintly. ‘Where am I?’
‘On the Portsmouth Flying Machine,’ replied Hannah.
‘That’s all right then,’ he said sleepily.
‘You are not, sir,’ said Hannah sharply, ‘going to be sick?’
He looked at her vaguely. ‘I cannot promise I won’t.’
‘Then will you please try to be sick outside the carriage!’
‘Do my best, ma’am. What’s that awful smell?’
‘You, sir.’
‘Faugh. Change and bathe at the next stage. Oh, God in Heaven and all His angels protect me!’ This cry of pain was because the coach had struck a hole in the road. The young gentleman clutched his fair curls and groaned.
Hannah’s eyes were by now fairly snapping with curiosity. She noticed the fine sapphire in his cravat, the splendour of his boots, the fineness of his linen. Here surely was an aristocrat, and an aristocrat on the stage was a mystery and mystery meant adventure.
He looked about to fall asleep again, so Hannah spoke up. ‘We have all introduced ourselves. I am Miss Hannah Pym of Kensington. The other lady is Miss Abigail Trenton, and the gentleman, Mr Jonas Cato.’
‘Railton, at your service, ma’am,’ he said weakly.
‘Mr Railton?’ pursued Hannah.
‘Lord Augustus Railton, if you must know,’ he said.
Miss Trenton jerked upright, her mouth a little open. ‘Oh, I am glad to make your lordship’s acquaintance,’ she gushed. ‘So dreadful for us both to find ourselves in this stage, is it not? My carriage had gone ahead with my luggage. So much luggage, my lord, that there was no room for me. We shall no doubt catch up with it on the road.’
‘And pigs may fly,’ said Mr Cato.
Lord Railton or Lord Augustus? wondered Hannah. How should she address him? Then she remembered. Hannah read the social columns. Lord Augustus Railton was the younger son of the Earl of Tradmere. Therefore he should be addressed as Lord Augustus. What else had she heard of him? Surely there had been a trial in Bow Street? Something to do with breaking into the Duke of Duborough’s house at midnight?
Hannah glanced out of the window. They would not cross the Thames until the coach reached Putney Bridge. She wished she had not been so thrifty and had eaten breakfast. But a bed at the White Bear was enough expense without adding meals on to it. Hannah had a small apartment above a baker’s in the village of Kensington. It was too dangerous to travel from Kensington to London in a hack during the hours of darkness, and so she had decided to spend the night at the inn in Piccadilly. Would the road from Kensington ever be safe? Between Kensington and London lay Knightsbridge, the haunt of footpads and highwaymen. People wishing to walk from Kensington to Hyde Park Corner were meant to gather at the sound of a bell outside the entrance to Kensington Palace so that several could walk together in order to mitigate the perils of the journey.
Hannah looked rather sourly at Miss Trenton. Here she was with a real-life aristocrat and not a heroine in sight. There should have been a beautiful young lady in the carriage so that Lord Augustus could fall in love with her. Hannah was a determined matchmaker.
When Mrs Clarence had been in residence and Hannah had still only been a housemaid, there had been a young lady, a Miss Worthington, staying as a guest. A Mr Tamery had been much enamoured of this lady and she of him, but both were dreadfully shy and it looked to Hannah as if their visit to the Clarences might end with both of them going their separate ways without declaring their love.
And so she had declared it for them. She had written a letter supposed to be from Mr Tamery to Miss Worthington, stating his passion and asking the lady to meet him in the gardens. How frightened the young Hannah had been at her own temerity. How amazed she had been later, as she had learned to spell and write better, that her scheme had worked so well. For both had promptly become engaged, Mr Tamery having been clever enough to keep quiet about not having written that ill-spelt letter.
When Putney was reached, only Hannah was awake. She sent up a prayer for Mr Pitt, the Prime Minister, lying ill at Bowling Green House, and hoped he would recover soon. She wondered whether they would soon be at war again with France. Some newspapers said the Consul, Bonaparte, had fits of madness, and only his wife, the Creole, Madame Bonaparte, could tolerate him. Joséphine, Madame Bonaparte, was said to be vastly elegant. Hannah took comfort from that. Madame Bonaparte was forty. If a woman could be described as elegant at the age of forty, there was hope for such as Hannah Pym yet!
The coach crossed Putney Heath and then on to Kingston, where it rolled into the yard of the Castle.
Lord Augustus awoke with a groan. ‘B’Gad. I’ve a stomach on me like a Bengal general,’ he complained. Hannah drew her skirts close about her and eyed him nervously.
‘Perhaps a breakfast will set you to rights, my lord,’ she said. ‘A few rashers of bacon …’
‘Stop, I pray,’ said Lord Augustus faintly. The carriage door swung open and the grog face of the coachman looked in. ‘Breakfast, ladies and gents,’ he said. ‘And make it sharp.’ He then held out his hand for tips.
Lord Augustus’s pallor became tinged with a faint pink. He searched frantically in his pockets. It was customary for the gentlemen in a stage-coach to pay the ladies’ tips and meals.
‘I bet the food at this inn is rotten,’ said Lord Augustus.
‘Wager you it ain’t,’ said Mr
Cato. ‘Reputed to have the best fare on the Portsmouth road.’
Animation showed in his lordship’s blue eyes. ‘Five yellow boys says it ain’t,’ he said.
‘Right,’ agreed the American. ‘But my decision, mind.’
Hannah could not help noticing the slight relief in Lord Augustus’s eyes as Mr Cato tipped the coachman for all. They trooped into the inn, followed by the outside passengers who, like the outsiders they were, would have to wait until the insiders had been served.
The smell of frying bacon was so delicious and Hannah so hungry that she was sure Lord Augustus would lose his bet. Alas, cooking food usually smells more delicious than the reality. The stage-coach passengers sat down to a breakfast of greasy, smelly bacon, pock-marked bread that showed where the spots of mould had been cleverly cut from it, and evil coffee.
Mr Cato silently handed over five guineas, which Lord Augustus cheerfully pocketed. Milk laced with rum was offered all round but all waved it away, fearing that the milk was sour. Only Lord Augustus, who had ordered and drunk a large glass of brandy, looked cheerful when they mounted the coach again.
Miss Trenton poked her head out of the window and glared at the coachman, who was talking to the guard in the inn courtyard.
‘Are we to be kept at this filthy place all day?’ she shouted.
‘Waiting another passenger,’ said the coachman laconically.
‘I shall give you five more minutes,’ snapped Miss Trenton, ‘and if we are not on our way by then, I shall report you to the owners!’
She slammed up the glass and peered around. ‘Disgraceful!’ she said. ‘Of course, I suppose the blame must lie with this new passenger. People are so inconsiderate.’
‘Be along soon enough,’ drawled Lord Augustus. ‘We’ll be making another stop at Esher and might get something decent to eat there.’ He smiled around lazily. ‘Apologize for being bosky. Celebrating something, only can’t remember what.’
‘Perhaps this is our passenger arriving,’ said Hannah, noticing a shabby post-chaise drawing up.
