by M. C. Beaton
“Now,” said Lord Storm, “tell me everything you know about Jimmy.”
“Hardly anything.” Emily sighed. “I asked Lady Bailey’s footman, John, if he would like to earn extra wages guarding Duke, and when he refused, I asked him if one of the other servants would do it. He produced Jimmy, the knife boy. I thought Jimmy too young, but the dog took an immediate liking to the boy. And Jimmy adores Duke, there’s no question of that. Why, the tricks he could make that dog do! He even taught Duke how to dance on his hind legs.”
Lord Storm put down his glass. “You might have hit on the answer.”
“What answer? I mean… what…?”
“Why! If I were a young boy with no money and no family but had this dog who could dance, the first place I would head for is some sort of fair to sell my services.”
Emily looked at him in dawning surprise. “That must be it!” she cried. “Where do we begin to look?”
“Wait here,” he said. “I will see if the landlord has a local newspaper.”
After some moments, he returned with the paper and spread it out on the table while Emily watched him anxiously.
“There is one at Cryffeham,” he said. “That is not far from here, I believe. Now, don’t look so excited. It’s a long way for a boy to walk. We shall probably find nothing but the usual mummery of fat women and two-headed babies.”
As they neared Cryffeham, the horses beginning to tire, exhausted with the heat and the miles of travel, they heard the faint sounds of bustle and music.
The fair was being held in a field outside the small town. It looked gay and pretty from a distance, but as they neared, they could see it was a very ramshackle affair with a few tawdry sideshows and a grass ring in the center cleared for cattle shows, ferret chasing, and various feats of strength.
“I must find a posting house soon and rest the horses,” said Lord Storm. “But let us search the fair first.”
He threw the reins to a small boy and tossed a coin to him, saying they would not be long. They made their way across the dusty grass toward the sideshows, automatically gravitating to the one that was drawing the biggest crowd.
But it was not a dancing dog being billed but a new droll called “The Cruelty of Atreus”—“the scene wherein Thyestes eats his own children is to be performed by the famous Mr. Psalmanazar, lately arrived from Formosa, the whole supper being set to kettle drums.”
“Unless Jimmy has volunteered to be eaten, we shall not find him here,” said Lord Storm. “Let us try some of the other booths.”
They walked along, reading the boards. There was everything but a dancing dog. There was even “a bovine curiosity or double cow,” which had “given uncommon satisfaction to the several learned bodies by whom it has hitherto been seen,” and “a surprising young mermaid, taken on the shores of Aguapulca.”
The sky grew very dark overhead, and from a distance a faint rumble of thunder sounded over the noise and music of the fair. Emily’s skin prickled under her wool gown. She was beginning to feel very hungry, having left home without even any breakfast.
Her head began to swim, and she loosened the satin ribbons of her bonnet. “You are feeling faint?” asked Lord Storm anxiously. “Let us leave the search until tomorrow.”
“There’s a knot of people over there,” said Emily. “Let’s look.”
Putting a strong arm around her waist to support her, Lord Storm led her to where a group of people were standing at the edge of the booths, laughing and clapping.
Lord Storm was tall enough to look over the heads of the crowd. He smiled down at Emily and squeezed her waist. “Jimmy and Duke,” he said, laughing. “Safe and well. Wait! Emily!”
But Emily had wrenched herself from his grasp and was pushing her way desperately to the front.
Shaggy gold-and-black fur gleaming, stupid grin on his narrow face, Duke was revolving slowly to the beat of a tambourine held by Jimmy.
The boy saw Emily and dropped his tambourine and threw his arms around the dancing dog. “You ain’t going to take Duke away from me,” he said fiercely.
“Listen to me, Jimmy,” cried Emily, running forward. “I—”
“You leave the lad alone,” growled a beefy individual who seemed to belong to the fair. “I took ’im on, and half the takings is mine.”
Lord Storm strode into the ring made by the gawking crowd.
“Come along, Jimmy,” he said sternly. “You heard your mistress.”
“No flash cull is takin’ away my bread an’ butter,” growled the beefy man.
He swung a punch at Lord Storm, who neatly blocked it and retaliated with a punishing left to the man’s chin. His assailant rocked on his heels and then charged to the attack like an enraged bull.
Emily had no eyes to admire the way his lordship neatly threw his heavier attacker with a cross-buttock. She had knelt down in the grass beside Jimmy and had put her arms around him.
“Oh, Jimmy,” she said. “I wasn’t going to leave without you, you silly boy. You can be with Duke always, if you like.”
Jimmy stared at her in a dazed way. “Always?” he said. “Me and Duke. Us. Together. An’ I’ll get paid for it?”
“Oh, yes, Jimmy,” said Emily, laughing through her tears.
Duke pranced up and licked Emily’s face and then Jimmy’s face.
“You can beat me if you like, miss,” said Jimmy. “I done a bad thing, running away. But I don’t care so long as I can have Duke.”
“You’ve caused me a lot of trouble.” Emily smiled. “But I shan’t punish you.”
“Thank you, miss,” blubbered Jimmy. “I hain’t bin so happy in all me born—”
“Very touching,” said Lord Storm’s chilly voice.
Emily and Jimmy looked around. The beefy man was stretched out cold on the grass, and his lordship was nursing a pair of bleeding knuckles.
I could have had my brains beaten out, reflected Lord Storm sourly, while that precious threesome lay on the grass hugging each other.
Brushing the grass from her dress, Emily said awkwardly, “I am so grateful to you, my lord. It was a brave thing you did. That man was so large and so powerful, I was frightened to look. I was sure you would be killed. How on earth did you manage to fell a great beast like that?”
“I’ve had some practice,” said his lordship, much mollified, although he had a sneaking suspicion that Emily had forgotten all about him in the joys of reunion and was now trying to placate him. “At least, your former master should wake up to the best takings he’s ever had, Jimmy.”
The crowd had paid more for the fight than they would have paid to see Duke. The beefy man was beginning to stir, so Lord Storm picked up the hat full of money and placed it on his chest.
There was a sudden brilliant flash and then a tremendous crash of thunder.
“We must find shelter soon,” he said, holding on to Emily as the crowd began to stream out of the field. The heavens opened and the rain descended on them with the thunderous roar of a torrent in full spate.
There was another tremendous crack of thunder, and over the heads of the crowd, Lord Storm saw the boy who had been holding his horses taking to his heels. There was another violent crack that shook the air above and the ground below. Lord Storm swore, released Emily, and began to run. But he was too late; horses, carriage, and all had run off.
“Here’s a coil,” he shouted above the uproar of the storm. “My team has bolted. You there, fellow! Is there a gentleman residing nearby?”
The farmer he had addressed shouted back, “Mr. Booth, Cryffeham Manor,” and started to struggle out of the field, which was rapidly turning into a bog under the drumming rain. A wind had sprung up, and the fair people were fighting to take down the sodden, flapping canvas of the booths.
The young mermaid taken on the shores of Aguapulca could be seen struggling out of her fish tail, and the double cow was becoming unglued into two separate miserable beasts.
Lord Storm clutched another man as he
ran past. “Cryffeham Manor,” he shouted. “Which direction?”
The man shouted something, pointing back down the road from which they had come, tugged his sleeve loose, and ran on.
“Let’s go,” said Lord Storm. “Give me your hand, Emily. Jimmy, keep close behind us.”
Despite the rain and the wreck of her bonnet, Emily felt a little glow inside that he had called her by her first name.
They struggled down the mud of the road, away from the field, blinded by the rain. The trees on either side of the road heaved and groaned in the storm.
Just when they were giving up hope of ever finding the manor, they came to a pair of tall wrought-iron gates. They pushed them open and plunged into the relative shelter of a tree-lined drive. The day had grown as black as night.
“We will need to ask this Mr. Booth for shelter for the night,” said Lord Storm. “Let us hope he is not some recluse who dislikes visitors.”
The trees began to thin out, giving way to expanses of waterlogged lawn. The house, now visible, turned out to be a small square building of red brick, looking more like a workhouse than a manor.
Lord Storm searched for a bell pull and, finding none, hammered loudly at the door.
There was a long silence, and then at long last they could see the bobbing glimmering light of a candle through the narrow windows on either side of the door.
The door swung open to reveal an elderly gentleman dressed in an old-fashioned chintz coat and knee breeches. His face under the shadow of a great bagwig was lined and gentle, and his eyes had a look of vague innocence.
“Come in! Come in!” he said, standing aside. “I fear it is a bad time to entertain guests, but you are welcome to what I have. I am afraid I gave my servants the day and night off. It is a tradition of the house. Every fair they are allowed to attend, and then they pass the evening feasting in the village hall.
“I see you have no maid,” went on the old man in his gentle voice. “I fear I am a stickler for the conventions, and if I am to offer you shelter…”
Lord Storm explained at least part of their plight. He then took one look at Emily’s strained, tired face. “Allow me to introduce ourselves,” he said. “I am Mr. Freham, this is my wife.” Emily stifled a gasp. “Jimmy is our page, and that bundle of wet fur is our dog, Duke. And you, I gather, are Mr. Booth?”
“Yes, indeed,” said Mr. Booth. “I am glad to entertain a married couple. I should explain, you see. Last winter, a lady and gentleman had a carriage accident in the snow and wished to shelter here for the night. But they were not married, and so I said the gentleman could stay but the lady could not. They were not chaperoned, you see. Alas, we have two hostelries in Cryffeham, but neither has rooms of any description, being more in the way of common alehouses. I remember the lady and gentleman became quite rude and called me an old Methodist because I would not countenance their staying together under my roof.
“This lad may take the dog to the kitchens, where he will find a fire and towels.”
Jimmy nodded. His face had registered no surprise when Lord Storm had said his name was Freham and that Emily was his wife. Jimmy was still young enough to consider that all adults moved in mysterious ways their wonders to perform. He had Duke, and that was all that mattered.
As Jimmy left for the kitchens with Duke at his heels, Mr. Booth picked up his candle and said he would show “Mr. and Mrs. Freham” to their bedchamber.
After the first shock of hearing she was supposed to be a married lady, Emily had given up caring. She was too uncomfortable and too tired.
“Normally, I would be able to prepare two bedchambers for you,” said Mr. Booth, slowly mounting the stairs in front of them. “But with my servants away carousing, I fear there is only the one chamber made up. But it is only for one night.”
He pushed open a door. “Ah, here we are. And the fire has been laid, so you only need to light it. I shall ask that boy of yours to help me with a cold collation. It is all I have.”
“You are very kind,” said Emily shyly.
“Not at all, Mrs. Freham. I do not get much company. I shall expect you belowstairs in, say half an hour? Good, good.” He lit a branch of candles on the toilet table and shuffled out, closing the door behind him.
Lord Storm and Emily were left alone.
He bent to light the fire, and Emily looked around the room. There was a four-poster bed in one corner and a door in the other leading to a dressing room. It was a very masculine room, with a high brass fender around the fire and hunting prints on the walls. A stuffed fox head stared glassily down from over the mantel.
“I wish we had asked the good Mr. Booth whether he had any clothes we could change into,” said my lord, looking at Emily’s wool dress, which was clinging to her body. “I feel we have troubled him enough, but I do not want to sit down to supper in these wet clothes.”
There was a knock at the door, and Mr. Booth entered carrying an armful of clothes. “I hope you will both be able to find something among these. I am afraid they are rather in the way of family cast-offs, but perhaps they will serve.”
Lord Storm took the dressing room to change so as to leave Emily the comfort of the fire.
Emily selected a gown of straw satin of an old-fashioned cut. The undergarments were worn and yellowish but clean, and they smelled faintly of lavender. She dressed quickly and nervously, frightened lest Lord Storm should surprise her before she got her dry clothes on.
But he took a long and tactful time dressing himself, and she was able to dry her hair thoroughly at the fire and then pile it in some semblance of a fashionable coiffure on top of her head.
Lord Storm made his appearance finally. He looked strangely old-fashioned in a long coat of light-brown velvet figured in red and green, worn with knee breeches and high-heeled shoes with enormous buckles.
Emily was glad to escape with him from the enforced intimacy of the bedroom. As they went downstairs, he whispered to her, “Try to remember we are man and wife or the prim Mr. Booth will have us all sleeping in a hedgerow.”
She nodded in reply, although her heart hammered uncomfortably at the thought of the night to come. Where would they sleep? They could not possibly sleep together.
Supper was a merry affair, since Lord Storm set himself to please, regaling Emily and Mr. Booth with tales of the strange eccentrics he had met on his visits to country houses.
“I never knew anyone to drink quite so much as Lord Saye of Sele,” said Lord Storm. “He is a tremendous epicure, and I remember one of his breakfasts where we all dined on omelette made entirely from golden pheasants’ eggs. But he would drink absinthe and curaçao in quite terrible quantities. Once when we were going out to dinner, he told his servant, ‘Place two bottles of sherry by my bedside and call me the day after tomorrow.’
“Another great epicure is Lady Dorothy Nevill. She is always experimenting. She said to a friend, ‘Guinea pig, now there’s tasty dish for you. But it’s always a job to make your cook do it. They want bakin’ same as the gypsies serve the hedgehogs. I tried eatin’ donkey too, but I had to stop that for it made me stink.’”
Mr. Booth laughed appreciatively and raised his glass. “To our good health,” he said. Emily and Lord Storm dutifully drained their glasses. Emily began to wonder quite how many toasts Mr. Booth intended to go on proposing.
She was very tired, and her head was beginning to swim with all the wine she had drunk. The meal was served by Jimmy, who disappeared to the kitchens again as soon as he had set the food on the table.
And then, when Emily thought the evening would never end, Mr. Booth begged to be excused, saying he never kept late hours. They both wished him goodnight.
“I am so tired,” yawned Emily when they were alone. “All I want to do is sleep and sleep and sleep.”
“Then go and sleep,” he said. “I shall bed down on that vastly uncomfortable-looking sofa over there, and if Mr. Booth should find me in the morning, I shall tell him I fell asleep over
my cups.”
Emily smiled at him gratefully. She was too tired to protest. He kissed her hand and bade her goodnight, and she was too fatigued to feel any emotion when his lips touched her hand.
Upstairs, she washed and undressed and pulled on a cambric nightgown and climbed wearily between the sheets. But she was wide awake, staring at the bed canopy, her whole body burning and aching for him. The day came back to her in restless flashes of memory. He had called her Emily. He had kissed her hand. She cradled the hand he had kissed against her cheek and longed for sleep, but it refused to come.
And then he opened the door and came in quietly, a flat candlestick in his hand. He crossed to the dressing room, the small flame of the candle casting his face into sharp relief.
“What is it, my lord?” said Emily.
He swung around and came over to the bed, his eyes in the candlestick holding a strangely brooding look as he gazed down at her flushed face and tumbled hair.
“Not asleep yet?” he said softly. “I came up to see if I had a dry cheroot in my case.”
“Yes,” whispered Emily, her eyes fixed on his mouth.
He gave an odd little sigh and placed the candle on the table beside the bed. He held a fold of the bed curtain back so that he could see her more clearly.
“Marry me, Emily,” he said.
The strain and fatigue melted from Emily’s face, to be replaced with such a glowing look of radiance that her face seemed almost luminous.
“Oh, my lord,” she said, her voice catching on a sob. “Of course I will.”
He sat down beside her and wrapped his arms around her, lifting her up so that she was cradled against his chest, hearing the wild beating of her heart pounding under his.
He felt as if all his senses were being assaulted, the touch of smooth satin skin, yielding, trembling lips, smells of clean hair and old linen and lavender.
And then somehow he had slung his long legs into bed beside her, lying on top of the coverlet, pressing and molding her body against the length of his own while his lips burned and moved and explored.
Suddenly, he stopped. He heaved himself up on his elbows and crouched over her, his face a blur above her own.
