by Lynne, Karen
Betsy had finished her packing, and they were to leave on the morning coach. Aunt Lucy had given her strict instructions and reminded her to behave like a lady. She promised she would come for a visit later in the summer. Mrs Notley of Bristol had been informed, and Abby could expect an invitation.
Mrs Packett and her daughters met Abby at the station and made their greetings. “Lady Abigale, it was good of your father to allow us to accompany you as far as Bath.”
“Oh no, Mrs Packett, I am most grateful for you to escort me.” Abby gave her a slight nod and a pretty smile.
The sisters giggled, and Miss Millicent nudged her sister. Lady Abigale, I have brought a guide book and look forward to pointing out the interesting historical sights.”
Abby smiled. “As we are going to be together for the next two days, please call me Abby.”
“Oh, lovely, and you may call me Liz, and my sister is called Milly by her friends.”
Liz gave Abby a wide smile before heading to the coach where the luggage and trunks had been loaded. No sooner had they left and turned towards the Tyburn Turnpike when Liz, who sat by a window, began to watch the scenery, keeping her place in her book. An hour later they passed through the village of Southhall.
“Southhall supports a weekly market on Thursdays where they sell cattle, which are the best in Middlesex, except those held in Smithfield,” Liz informed them.
“Cattle, cattle! What do we care about cattle?” Milly screeched.
“Cattle are vital, especially to Southhall,” her sister argued.
Their mother, Mrs Packett, had dozed off soon after they left London. Abby was amazed that she could sleep through all the bumping and swaying of the coach and the constant arguments of her daughters.
Abby turned to the window watching the scenery go by. A small church built of flint and brick came into view it was a neat structure with a tower at its west end. It looked to have been built hundreds of years before but must have been well cared for by the villagers. Memories of the vicarage back home and its chapel came to mind. The church of Saint Catherine, it had been built in the twelfth century and updated through the centuries. Her ancestors were buried in the adjourning cemetery.
The coach stopped, bringing her out of her thoughts. She welcomed the rest and short break. Betsy followed Abby through the inn to a room set up for female travelers. She freshened up, then followed her nose; the smell of fresh pastries wafted through the air. She bought two buns with ham and cheese and five apple tarts that were still warm from the oven to eat on the trip.
The crunch of wheels could be heard on the cobblestones. The door swung open, and a tall man in a dark cloak pushed his way through brushing past Abby, he turned, his sharp eyes gazing down at her face before moving past. Abby’s skin tingled, she took notice of his commanding manner. Was he someone important?
She moved outside where a black lacquered coach rounded the corner of the inn. Walking to the edge of the building, she peered in awe as it was an exceptionally built carriage with a gold and red B monogrammed on the door. Four brilliant black horses pulled the sleek vehicle. Surely it was built for speed Abby thought.
Her coach driver signaled their departure, and she hurried to board. Abby shared her meal with Betsy and wiped her hands on the napkin before pulling out an apple tart and handing one to each of the occupants.
“Thank you, Lady Abigale, for your consideration,” Mrs Packett acknowledged as she took one of the apple tarts. Her daughters parroted their mothers’ thanks before hastily devouring the treat.
Abby took a bite of the apple tart and closed her eyes, slowly savouring each bite. It reminded her of home. Mrs Baxter made the best pastries. She was the housekeeper and cook at Fyne Court, Lady Susan’s childhood home. Mrs Baxter was a jolly person who enjoyed teaching Abby to make apple tarts. “It’s a way to a man’s heart,” she would say. “Even the finest lady should be able to cook a few treats.” She didn’t mind Abby spending time in the kitchen with her. It was an activity she would never have been allowed to do at her father’s home at Montacute. Their cook was pernickety about his kitchen.
Abby tried to rest, but the noise the sisters were making prevented any meaningful sleep. When the coach pulled into the inn for the night, Abby’s nerves were stretched to their limits, although Betsy seemed to be in good spirits. How was she going to make it through another day? The Old Crown Coaching Inn, the sign read. She needed some food and a respite from the constant chatter of the Packett girls.
They retired to their rooms after dining. Abby and Betsy were led to a small room facing the front of the inn while Mrs Packett and her daughters slept in the room at the back.
Restless, Abby soon slipped out with Betsy for a short walk under the full moon when the jingle of harnesses brought her attention to the same sleek black coach she had seen earlier pull into the inn. Its impressive owner stepped out and mumbled directions to the grooms before going into the Old Crown. Abby nudged her maid, “Betsy, go find who owns the coach and where they are bound.”
Betsy scampered off to talk to the grooms appearing back shortly, she informed her mistress, “’ Tis Sir Andrew Pulteney, the fifth Baronet of Bath. His man says he’s headed home to Bath this very evening. They’re only stopping for a few hours to rest the horses. With the light of the full moon, he bragged they should make it by dawn.”
Abby could believe it with those fine horses. Her mind formed an idea as she and her maid walked to and fro in front of the inn, careful to stay in the light of the lamps. “Betsy, how would you like to make it to Bath this night and not have to listen to the Packett sisters?”
“Would be a blessing to my ears, my lady,” Betsy said, “but what have you got planned?”
They returned to their room as Abby explained to Betsy what they needed to do. They had a servant carefully bring their luggage back down and set it on the corner of the building so as not to be seen through the windows.
Abby had removed a black cloak from her trunk and wrapped it around her. Pulling the hood over her hair, she sat down and waited for Sir Andrew to finished his business, then Betsy went into action.
* * *
“Please, sir.” A petite girl looked up at Andrew as he was paying the innkeeper. He looked into her eyes and listened as she continued. “Your man tells us you are headed to Bath this evening.”
“Yes,” Andrew answered, keeping his voice firm. He looked at her with suspicion.
“My mistress, an elderly widow, is on her way to Bath. She has received news from her son that her grandson is very sick and wishes to see her for fear he will die. She fears if she waits for the morning coach, she may not be there in time. We would ask for a small favour. If you could give us a ride, it would greatly be appreciated.”
Andrew could feel his insides tightening. He preferred his solitude. “Where is your mistress?”
“She is just outside, sir, waiting with her luggage.”
Andrew stepped to the door and noticed a dark figure wrapped in a cloak sitting on a very fine trunk.
“You look to be of quality, sir, and we feel with your escort, we would be safely delivered to Bath by morning.” The young miss gave him a pleading look.
As Andrew contemplated the situation, compassion took over, and he walked towards the widow.
“Sir.” The miss stopped him. “She prefers her solitude and is very tired from this day’s journey. We won’t be any trouble. If you would just say yay or nay, that will do.”
Andrew could feel his ire rising. He wanted this trip to be done with and hated unnecessary complications. His life ran smoothly, and that was how he liked it, but he could not just leave a widow sitting alone in the dark when he had the means to help.
“Very well. I’ll have my man load your luggage, and you may help your mistress into the coach.”
“Oh, thank you, sir.” the miss responded excitedly. “I shall inform my mistress.”
* * *
Abby couldn’t believe their
luck as she slowly ascended the steps, trying to appear as feeble as possible. She kept her head ducked under her hood while she seated herself in the far corner, tucking her cloak further around her.
Betsy sat next to her as they listened to Sir Andrew shout orders to his men. He was soon sitting opposite them in the coach. He tapped his cane up on the roof. The coach lurched forward, and they were on their way into the darkness.
Abby laid her head against the side of the carriage and feigned sleep, willing him not to speak to her. She must have dozed off for soon Betsy was giving her a nudge, and she opened her eyes. She could just see the light of dawn coming through the carriage window.
“If you would give me your address, we can set you down at your door,” Sir Andrew offered.
“Oh, we have given our address to your man,” Betsy spoke up.
Abby stole a glance from under her hood watching as Sir Andrew talked to Betsy. He had a look of confusion as if he wanted to say something. But then his face cleared and he held his tongue. His well-dressed attire of dark colours was not of the latest fashion but of good quality. He’d been leafing through a stack of papers by his side, reading as the light of morning came through the windows.
Abby looked up at the impressive façade, and her heart leapt as the coach stopped in front of 20 Royal Crescent. A smile appeared on her lips as she lowered the hood of her cloak. Finally, she made it safely to Bath.
* * *
Sir Andrew’s men were efficient. As soon as the coach stopped, the door was opened the step lowered. The lady’s companion descended with Andrew following. The men were already unloading the luggage and carrying it up to the steps where they laid it at the door of number 20 Royal Crescent. His brows knit together as he realised the address was the same given to him by Sir George.
He looked into the carriage while the matron looked out the window. She lowered the hood of her cape, and golden curls fell across her shoulders turning her smiling face toward him. Crystal blue eyes met his in the early light of dawn. Lady Abigale’s familiar face had matured into a distinctive beauty. A stirring deep inside began to rise, but before he could utter a word, she moved towards him, stepping out of the carriage.
“Sir Andrew, we are so grateful for delivering us safely to Bath. I hope we can repay you for your kindness.” Her clear melodic voice resonated through him.
She was ascending the steps of the home before he could respond. A butler opened the door, his clear voice could be heard in the street. “Lady Phelips, we have been expecting you.” Lady Abigale stepped through the door and was gone.
Andrew continued to stare at the door of number twenty. She knew his name he thought as he slowly climbed into his carriage and sank into the seat. The little minx—, he’d been duped. What had he gotten himself into?
Chapter Three
“The mistress is still asleep,” the butler informed Abby. “The housekeeper will show you to your room.” The help seemed to be efficient, Abby thought as she followed the housekeeper up a flight of stairs.
Abby was so excited, she didn’t know if she could get some rest, but Abby knew she needed to. It had been a long trip. The bumping of the coach and the constant bickering of the Packett sisters had taken its toll, and she could feel her muscles beginning to stiffen.
Betsy helped her undress, then Abby laid her head on the pillow. She must have fallen asleep immediately for she remembered nothing until Betsy gently woke her.
“Miss Underwood is going to town and wanted to know if you would join her?”
Betsy sat a small tray with a hot bun and tea on the small table by her bed. Abby sprang from the bed and looked out the window. A bright morning with no rain, good. She reached for some gowns in the wardrobe. Throwing a few on the bed, searching for a walking dress, she began slipping one on, hardly waiting for Betsy to help her. Abby devoured the bun before leaving her maid to clean the mess.
Josephine was tying on her bonnet when Abby descended the stairs. “Today is market day. I enjoy the walk and picking out fresh produce, I thought you’d like to come.”
Abby agreed, eager to explore the sites. They stopped first at the baker where Josephine bought half a dozen Sally Lunn buns and a dozen Sydney tea rolls.
Abby struggled to keep up with Josephine, whose long legs outpaced her. They made a right on High Street and found the market on the left. Delighted with the sights and smells, Abby purchased winter apples, which she determined would make wonderful apple tarts. Gladdened it had turned into a pleasant day, Abby and Josephine stopped at the tea room and enjoyed a delightful luncheon before returning home.
“Lady Abigale, a gentleman stopped by and left his card,” the butler informed them before relieving them of their parcels and bags and carting them off to the kitchen.
Abby retrieved the card from the side table in the hall. “Sir Andrew Pulteney,” she read. Abby began to feel guilt at having deceived him. What had he meant by calling on her? Abby handed the card to Josephine.
“Sir Andrew Pulteney? I am surprised he has called. Are you acquainted with him?” Josephine asked handing the card back to Abby.
“No, I am not– I met him on the road while we were travelling here.” Abby dare not mention her deception. “Sir Andrew was kind enough to give us a ride from Farlington to complete our journey. I will not tell how tedious the first part of the trip was, caged up in a travelling coach with Mrs Packett’s daughters,” Abby confessed.
“Oh, yes, I am familiar with the girls. They are fine if you can get them alone, but together they, well…” Josephine smiled nodding.
“I will not feel bad that I left them. My father paid their fare, and I did leave Mrs Packett a note so she shouldn’t worry.” Abby tried to convince herself.
“If Sir Andrew has made a special call to you, I am impressed. He is the leading citizen here in Bath. Old family. He represents the borough of Bathwick in the House of Commons.”
That bit of information did not make Abby feel better. If he was a member of Parliament, that meant he knew her father. What luck to have picked him for her trickery. Abby would not think about it for she meant to enjoy herself and refused to let it spoil her trip. She followed Josephine to the back parlour, which was situated very nicely with a view of the back gardens.
“I would like to go to the workhouse this afternoon,” Josephine said. “You are welcome to stay at home or come with me.”
“The workhouse?” Abby was curious. “What will you do at the workhouse?”
“I would like to find a cook. They train young women in domestic service, and I would just as well hire from the workhouse rather than an agency. I have been very pleased with them in the past.”
Abby brightened. “I think that is an excellent idea, and I would love to go with you.” Abby thought about Fyne Court, who housed several young ladies. She would like to see how the workhouses did their training.
“Are you not worried about references?”
Josephine waved her hand and scoffed. “References, no, I have a pretty good sense of measuring a person. Besides, the workhouse has records and can give me their history. Most of the workers don’t have references. Many have fallen on hard times through no fault of their own. With a little help, they can be back on their feet supporting themselves. We should leave for the workhouse at three o’clock. I will leave you for now as I need to confirm with the housekeeper before we leave.”
Abby walked over to the small desk by the window in search of some paper. She wanted to write a letter to Miss Isabella Dalton informing her of Abby’s arrival in town and where she could be found. She finished two more letters to Susan and Eliza, regaling them with her adventures of riding with the Packett sisters on their journey, made even more tedious by Miss Millicent complaining of her sister’s monologue of the attractions along the way. Mrs Packett slept the whole way, oblivious to her argumentative daughters. Satisfied, Abby sealed the letters and left them on the tray in the hall, along with the shillings for the butler t
o post.
* * *
Refreshed and shod in her walking boots, Abby and Josephine left the Crescent on foot to visit the workhouse. Betsy followed, armed with a parasol just in case of a summer shower. At half-past the hour, following the London Road, they arrived at the Walcot parish church where an old workhouse was located on the right side of the road. Abby looked up at the simple building made of red brick, which sported three stories.
The matron was pleased with Josephine’s arrival and led them through the women’s parlour, where many women were gathered and working on sewing projects. The matron proudly described their programs and how they helped train women in different trades. The young people would be trained to go into service, she informed them. They were led out to the back courtyard where young girls played on the grass. A red brick bakehouse stood at the far corner.
Abby sat on a bench at the corner of the courtyard to observe the children at play while Josephine followed the matron into the bakehouse.
“My lady, this does not look like any workhouse I have heard of,” Betsy said, taking a seat on the bench by her mistress.
“Where have you seen a workhouse before, Betsy?”
“My cousin in London told us about them. Terrible places, they are houses of squalor. Not a place you would like to go.”
The courtyard was surrounded by stone walls, Abby could hear the yelling of children’s voices over the enclosure. She suspected it was the boys as the matron had said that the men and women were kept separate.
* * *
Sir Andrew had paid a call to the Crescent, but the ladies were out shopping, the butler informed him. He left his card. Irritation bubbled up inside as Andrew climbed into his curricle. This was becoming a chore he didn’t want to deal with. He flicked the reins and headed to Harrington’s. He had things to get done today before he went home to spend time with his young son.
