He bowed again, and went back upstairs.
‘We might as well leave now,’ said Constance, getting up. ‘That brute will be another hour at least before Mr Barnes has got him shaved and dressed. We cannot wait as long as that.’
Miss Fellowes sighed. ‘I suppose not. I do dislike not knowing the end of the story.’
The two ladies thanked the landlord and went upstairs in order to make their final preparations before setting off. It was the first time that they had stayed at this particular inn and both agreed that they would be perfectly content to do so again. ‘The drama enlivened our stay, if nothing else,’ said Miss Fellowes as they left their room.
‘We could hardly expect the landlord to arrange such excitement for our entertainment on every visit,’ Constance replied. They were just passing the door of the room in which the duke was staying, when there was a burst of laughter from inside, which ended as abruptly as it had begun.
The two ladies glanced at one another. Such laughter would never proceed from Mr Barnes, who had appeared to be a very proper valet. On the other hand, men as high in the instep as the duke had appeared to be seldom laughed either, considering such displays to be a vulgarity. ‘This good humour augurs well for Mr Barnes,’ Miss Fellowes whispered, as they descended the stairs.
They settled their account with the landlord, who gave orders for their coachman to be alerted ready for their departure. It was while they were waiting for the horses to be put to that Constance suddenly realized she had forgotten to put on her locket. ‘You must have placed it in your box with your other things,’ said her aunt. ‘Indeed, I am more than half convinced that I saw you do so.’
Constance paused in indecision. ‘You may be right,’ she said. ‘All the same, I will just run upstairs to look. It will only take me a few minutes, and I really don’t want to lose it. It was Mama’s.’
She hurried back up to the chamber that they had so recently vacated, just ahead of Mr Barnes, who was obviously carrying some freshly pressed linen to his new master. A quick survey of the room yielded no sign of the locket. She looked around thoughtfully. She was perfectly certain that she would never have put it in her box as her aunt had suggested, since it was something that she wore every day.
Where had she placed it the night before? She closed her eyes in order to picture clearly how they had disposed of their things. It was not difficult. Whereas she abjured all kinds of cosmetics and skin treatments, her aunt loved pots and potions. Her dressing table at home was a jumble of jars of different sizes and colours. To stay with her on a journey was to surrender the same space for her use. In order to avoid losing her precious locket amongst the detritus, therefore, Constance had placed it on the mantelshelf.
She hurried across the room and smiled with relief as she saw it exactly where she had placed it the night before. She stood looking into the mirror over the fireplace as she fastened it around her neck; then she heard voices. She glanced about her, startled, uncertain at first as to where the speakers might be. Then she realized that the voices she was hearing must be coming from the next room where, perhaps, someone was also looking into the mirror. Obviously in some way the fireplace and chimney were conducting the sound from one room to the other.
‘You’re a marvel, Barnes,’ one voice said. ‘You even make me look like a duke.’
‘As indeed you are, Your Grace,’ the other voice responded. There was another laugh, similar to the one that Constance had heard before.
Her chain fastened securely, she moved away from the fireplace and left the room, not wanting to eavesdrop further. At least, she reflected, she had something to report to her aunt.
‘The duke is satisfied with his new servant’s efforts,’ she said as they drove out of the inn yard. She explained the circumstances in which she had chanced to overhear their conversation.
‘Perhaps Mr Field and the duke simply did not suit,’ Miss Fellowes suggested. ‘There are people who bring out the worst in each other, are there not? Think of Mrs Wrangle.’
Mrs Wrangle had been housekeeper to Mr and Miss Fellowes for just one year, and she and her employers had never got on. Mr Fellowes had complained that she would not leave his study alone, whilst his sister, an amateur artist, had often found her paints and brushes rearranged, and things washed up which had been set aside for use later. The woman had always justified her interference with a self-satisfied smile, standing with her plump hands folded across her waist. They had all been glad when she had found a new situation where the master had no study, and the mistress had no messy pastimes. In her new employment, she was praised to the skies for her diligence and co-operation.
‘Yes, that is true,’ Constance agreed. Something about the short overheard conversation had unsettled her; she could not think what it might be.
Max took another look at his reflection before leaving his chamber. He had never employed a valet, since his chosen life, spent largely on board ship, was not such as to make the engagement of one necessary or even sensible. On dry land, he customarily wore clothes into which he could shrug himself without assistance. Now, donning garments that had been measured to fit him exactly, for the first time he began to see a use for one.
His hair, always inclined to be a trifle unruly, often draped his shoulders, or was sometimes held back with a kerchief for convenience, making him look rather like a pirate, as his mother was wont to complain. Today, it had been tamed, tied back in a neat queue, and powdered. By means of a hand mirror held by Barnes at a convenient angle, he could see that its wild corkscrew curls had been coaxed so that they lay back on his collar in a neat roll. His coat, of dark-green cloth, fitted without a single wrinkle, and his waistcoat, of pale-green satin with silver thread, was cut straight in the fashionable manner. His cravat was snowy white, immaculately tied and trimmed with a fringe of rich lace. The one thing that really made him pull a face was the patch placed at the corner of his mouth. On reflection, he decided that to make a fuss about it when he was enduring all the rest would be a trifle absurd.
He walked away from the mirror. The hessian boots he was wearing with his cream-coloured pantaloons met with his approval, but he did not care for the silver tassels and said so.
‘They are de rigeur, Your Grace, I assure you,’ said Barnes earnestly.
‘Very well, then,’ Max sighed, privately resolving to cut them off and dispose of them in Cromer, along with the patch and the hair powder. ‘Am I to have breakfast, or am I too fashionably languid to eat anything?’
‘Oh no, indeed, Your Grace,’ Barnes assured him. ‘I have given orders for you to be served with a roll and preserves.’
Max raised an eyebrow. ‘A roll and preserves? Good God! Is that all Alistair has to break his fast? No wonder he looks like a willow wand.’
‘No indeed, Your Grace,’ Barnes repeated seriously. ‘He also has chocolate, and sometimes he has two rolls.’
‘Barnes, you cannot convince me that dukes never eat substantial breakfasts,’ Max declared. ‘Bring me ham and eggs on the double – and I’ll have two rolls as well.’
Barnes permitted himself a small smile. ‘I think that might be arranged,’ he responded.
The hardest thing Max next had to contend with was to stand back and allow Barnes to make all the arrangements for their departure. He thought about the last time he had arrived in London after a long voyage. After disembarking at Legal Quays, he had walked into the city and, following a brief conversation with his man of business, had set out for Leicestershire on horseback, his belongings in a cloak bag strapped to his saddle. He had rested at an inn overnight, at which halt he had ordered his own accommodation, dined in the public room and downed a few drinks with the locals. The following morning he had risen betimes, breakfasted on home-cured bacon, paid his shot, and gone on his way after saddling his own horse. He had barely had to depend upon anyone but himself. This morning, he had nothing to do. By a strange irony, he found it far more stressful than taking everything into hi
s own hands, and he could feel his brow creasing into impatient lines, and his fists clenching. Catching sight of his face in a mirror in the hall, he knew that his expression was nothing like that of a languid aristocrat.
He thought about how on one occasion, during one of his voyages, he had been obliged to enter into negotiations with a captain of another ship. Although Captain Santos had declared himself to be an honest merchant, Max had been convinced that there had been less than the width of the blade of his knife – which he kept in his boot as a precaution – between the so-called merchant and a pirate. It had taken the fellow some little time to come to a decision, and Max had known that to give away his feelings one way or the other might be fatal to the negotiations. He had kept his face calm and his body still, despite every temptation to jump up and down and demand a response. Eventually, he and Santos had come to an agreement, accepting most of his, Max’s, terms. It had been a valuable lesson. He remembered that lesson now, as he willed his features to relax, then strolled past Barnes, who was settling with the landlord.
‘I trust Your Grace was satisfied,’ said that worthy, with a low bow.
‘A very tolerable stay,’ Max murmured. ‘Very tolerable. I shall come again.’
‘Not too soon, I hope,’ muttered the waiter, as the carriage swept out of the inn yard.
‘Pipe down until you see how much he left,’ said the landlord, opening his hand so that the other man could see the glint of gold.
‘Blimey!’ exclaimed the waiter. ‘If he wasn’t an archbishop after all!’
Chapter Six
For the next night, the ducal party was to stay at the Scole Inn just outside Diss. As they travelled, Max tried to draw Barnes out over some of Alistair’s adventures. Maddeningly, he found the man to be discretion itself, as his cousin had said. He had taken the precaution of bringing a copy of Defoe’s A Tour Through England and Wales, intending to familiarize himself with the part of the world to which he was travelling, and had never visited before. He read about the dangers of the Norfolk coast with great interest. He had heard Cromer Bay referred to by seamen as the Devil’s Throat, so this was no surprise to him. He was interested to discover that along the coast, Defoe had noted that all the barns and outbuildings seemed to be constructed from wood salvaged from wrecked ships.
He then became very absorbed in Defoe’s report of a severe maritime disaster almost exactly one hundred years before, when, through a mixture of unwise decisions and unfortunate accidents, 200 vessels and over 1,000 lives were lost in the region of Happisburgh. He counted himself very fortunate never to have been shipwrecked, usually thanks to Abe Collings’s admirable seamanship. Even so, he had had one or two close escapes, in which he had been made to feel very puny when confronted with the might of wind and waves. ‘Poor souls,’ he murmured. ‘Poor souls.’
‘Your Grace?’ questioned Barnes, looking up from his own copy of James Bruce’s Travels to Discover the Source of the Nile.
‘Just something I was reading,’ Max replied. Glancing down the page, his attention was caught by the name of the very place to which they were going. ‘“Cromer is a market-town close to the shore of this dangerous coast,”’ he read. ‘“I know nothing it is famous for (besides its being thus the terror of the sailors) except good lobsters, which are taken on that coast in great numbers.” We must have some of those, Barnes. Are you partial to fish?’
‘Exceedingly partial, Your Grace,’ replied Barnes, permitting himself a smile.
Max laid his book on the seat beside him. ‘Barnes, you don’t need to call me that when no one’s around, you know,’ he said, smiling impishly.
‘If I call you Mr Persault when we are alone, there is a danger that I may do so when others are by,’ Barnes answered seriously. ‘Better to maintain the pretence between us at all times – Your Grace.’
Max nodded ruefully. ‘You’re wiser than I am,’ he agreed. ‘Alistair told me I might depend on you; so tell me if I’m doing aught to give the game away, won’t you, there’s a good chap?’
‘You may depend upon me, Your Grace,’ said the valet politely, before both men turned back to their books.
On their arrival at the Scole Inn, Max allowed Barnes to assist him from his carriage, and sauntered in, according the landlord a brief nod, before following the valet up to the magnificent room that had been allotted to the most illustrious guest that the innkeeper could remember entertaining for a very long time.
Max was also provided with a private dining room, in which he ate in splendid isolation. To give himself something to do, he brought his copy of Daniel Defoe to the table, and amused himself with flicking through the pages to try to discover which of the many Norfolk places the famous traveller had visited had most incurred his disapproval. To his great disappointment, Defoe appeared to find little in the county to criticize. He had words of praise for Norwich, calling it ‘an antient, large, rich and populous city’. His approval of the cathedral meant little to Max, who did not have very much enthusiasm for architecture in general. His interest was caught by Defoe’s description of the navigability of the rivers Yare and Waveney. He would have liked to have spent some time exploring them, but concluded reluctantly that to do so might easily draw unwelcome attention. Once Alistair had returned safely, he promised himself that he would make such an exploration.
The door opened as the waiter came in with a tray, and coincidentally, there was a burst of laughter from the taproom. Max turned his head towards the sound. Oh, how infinitely preferable to be one of that laughing number instead of sitting here with only his own company for entertainment! He would have felt very much more at home in the taproom with a pint at his elbow and a hand of cards before him, than here in this solitary state. The waiter, evidently misunderstanding his expression, murmured apologetically, saying something about going to hush them up.
What would a duke do now, Max thought to himself. He waved a careless hand in the air. ‘It’s of no consequence,’ he said. Then, in a moment of inspiration, he took some gold out of his pocket. ‘For their continued enjoyment,’ he said, handing it to the waiter. ‘Tell them to try to keep the noise down.’
The next time the waiter came in, he brought with him the thanks of all the drinkers present; and for the rest of his meal, Max had the very entertaining experience of hearing bursts of jollity punctuated by someone saying ‘Hush!’ very loudly. The consequence was that those working at the Scole Inn had a very different impression from the staff at the Swan at Stanway, and spoke ever afterwards of His Grace of Haslingfield as a very open-handed gentleman.
The incident had the effect of making Max feel rather restless. As he listened to the laughter, he recalled an occasion when he had been a schoolboy at Eton. It had been only a few short days before Alistair had left school, and he and his chosen friends were planning to go into the town and celebrate their impending freedom at one of the local hostelries. By this time, the two cousins were living in the same house, Alistair having a room of his own, Max sharing with a number of other boys.
It was hardly likely that anyone in authority would concern themselves with the actions of young men so soon to be out of their sphere of influence, so the excursion had been planned without any recourse to secrecy. Max had known what was afoot. He wished his cousin well, and would miss him when he returned the following term and Alistair was no longer there; he had not expected to be included in this outing. He had been much surprised, therefore, when, as he was dropping off to sleep, a hand had touched his shoulder and a voice had whispered in his ear, ‘Come on, coz; time to go.’ Obediently, he had scrambled into his clothes, being careful not to arouse those with whom he shared a room.
It was by no means the first time that he had gone out without leave. He had made his escape by the simple expedient of climbing down the drainpipe, helped at the bottom by Alistair and his friends. They had spent a convivial evening at a local hostelry, and returned in the early hours of the following morning. It had been quite impos
sible for Max to scramble up the drainpipe, given the merry state that he was in. A solution was found by Alistair and his friends, who had crowded around him, shielding him from view, and had hustled him back into the house under the very eyes of the dame in charge, who had emerged sleepily from her chamber and warned them not to wake the younger boys who were already abed.
After a few moments’ thought, Max got decisively to his feet and rang the bell. ‘I have finished now,’ he told the waiter. ‘You may clear away.’ He left the room with a slight inclination of the head to the man, who had sprung to open it for him, and walked slowly up the stairs to his room where, as he had suspected, Barnes was tidying his things, having eaten his own meal already.
‘I am feeling quite fatigued,’ Max said, raising his hand to his mouth as if to stifle a yawn. ‘I would be glad if you would leave those things now. Just help me out of my coat, there’s a good fellow. You can have the rest of the evening to yourself. I don’t want to be disturbed again until morning.’
Anyone intimate with Max would have been quite suspicious at the extraordinary suggestion that he should be fatigued enough to retire at eight o’clock after a simple coach journey. Fortunately, Barnes did not know his new employer well, so he simply took the coat away to be pressed and wished Max a peaceful night.
As soon as Barnes had gone, Max grinned, and went to the trunk under the window in which some of his clothes were stored. Although most of his things had been chosen with his character of a dandy in mind, he had managed to persuade Alistair that he would need some country wear also. He had had an additional point to make. ‘What of when you eventually appear?’ he had asked. ‘I may need to meet you or go on some errand. I must be able to escape notice, or simply slip away.’ Alistair had conceded the point, and therefore, Max had succeeded in procuring for himself a coat of corbeau-coloured cloth, with a similarly dark waistcoat, a pair of buckskin breeches, and some serviceable boots. All of these he had taken good care to ensure were items which he could put on without assistance. From the very beginning, he had harboured a suspicion that at some point he might want to escape.
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