“It’s nothing now.” He smiled. “Just a little shaky at first. Shall we go?”
They made their way slowly down the corridor. Fortunately, Sir Waldo’s house was built so that the servants had their own wing, and the principal bedrooms were on the same floor as Jack’s. They had only to negotiate the length of the servants’ wing and the turn to the main corridor before they approached Sir Waldo’s quarters.
Considerably weak at first, Jack found his strength returning, and with each step he took he learned to manage the crutch better. Before long he was not relying much upon Selby’s arm and could remark laughingly, “Well, Selby, I am much obliged for your assistance, but the next time why don’t we see if I can’t hop the whole way.”
He did not win the servant’s approval by saying this, however, for the old man replied, “That’s Mr. Selby to you, you young jackanapes. You’ll not be using your disrespect with me!”
Jack—thus put properly in his place—humbly begged Selby’s pardon, and with an abashed glance at Cecily, prepared to meet her grandfather.
As Jack entered the room, he found Sir Waldo sitting up in bed. The baronet raised his quizzing glass and studied Jack through it. Jack felt suddenly as if he were undergoing an examination by the Postmaster General himself. He hastily decided that he had better mind his manners if he wished to be invited here again. He straightened self-consciously and left his impudence at the door.
“Here is Mr. Henley to see you, Grandpapa,” Cecily said.
“Jack, sir,” he amended.
“Sit down, Jack,” Sir Waldo insisted. “And relieve that leg of yours. Glad to see you’re up on your feet. Though not quite able to handle a team of four yet, I’ll warrant.”
Jack smiled and started to lower himself into a chair, but was stopped by the intrusion of a soft muzzle between himself and his intended seat. Sir Waldo’s aged hunting bitch had come to inspect the visitor.
“Here, Leto! Come away from there! Let the poor boy sit,” Sir Waldo said.
The dog abandoned her activity with reluctance, but stiffly moved to obey her master. Jack was intrigued by her name.
“Leto, sir?” he asked with raised brows, forgetting he would not be expected to recognize the mother of Apollo and Artemis.
Fortunately, Sir Waldo did not detect the amusement in his voice and answered with an explanation. “A Greek goddess, my boy. Something you wouldn’t know about. I named her that because she was always wandering about looking for a place to pup.”
Jack hid his appreciation of Sir Waldo’s wit and arranged his face into a suitable expression of bewilderment. His host ignored it and turned the conversation to a subject he thought more suitable for his guest. While Jack listened, Sir Waldo told him about his own driving days as an amateur in the Benson Driving Club, relating such stories as he thought would appeal to a younger coachman. As they talked, Jack remembered to thank Sir Waldo for the contraption that had saved him from incurring a fine the day Cecily had ridden with him on the box.
Sir Waldo tut-tutted, but not without an air of pride.
Jack found Sir Waldo to be pleasant company, and was grateful for this respite from his solitude. Cecily, he was glad to see, had taken a chair by her grandfather’s bed and was doing some handwork while they chatted. She looked upon them with tolerant amusement, but he fancied that she regarded him from time to time with a certain curiosity.
After a good hour spent discussing the merits of various harnesses and their makers, all kinds of tack, and the fascinating quirks of coach horses and solutions to their behaviour, Sir Waldo lay back with a satisfied sigh. He looked Jack over approvingly.
“Did you say your father was a coachman before you, my boy?”
Jack smothered a grin and replied, “Not exactly, sir. But he was very much occupied with horses in one way or another.”
Sir Waldo nodded confidently. “I knew you were bred to it. A fellow coachman can always tell.” He missed the twinkle in Jack’s eye and continued, “How long have you been at it then?”
“Just four months.”
“Four months!” The old man raised his eyebrows. “Well, I daresay you were an ostler for quite a long while before moving up. But you must have had some fine fellows to emulate, eh?”
Jack thought of old Jem, his father’s coachman, who had let him take the reins whenever Jack wanted to cut a lark. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I did.”
Sir Waldo was looking tired, but he was not ready to let Jack go yet. “Well, you are a fine lad,” he said. “It is a great measure of comfort to me, in the condition in which I now find myself, to realize that my time as an amateur coachman was not wasted.”
“Sir?” Jack was puzzled.
Sir Waldo went on as if he had not spoken. “To know that by our small efforts—my friends’ and mine, mind you—a word here and there, a bit of guidance, some discussion on the nobler aspects of your craft—that lads like you can be influenced to turn out as well-spoken and sensible as you have. You would not countenance now, I suppose, the sort of language one met with when taking the mail back when it was started. But now, I understand that a lady may ride the mail—or even the stage, if she were so desperate—without running the risk of being insulted or offended.”
Jack listened in amazed silence.
“My granddaughter spoke of you after you brought her here,” continued Sir Waldo. “And while that was an extraordinary escapade, for which I spoke quite firmly to her . . .” Here he tossed a reproving look Cecily’s way . . . “she spoke quite highly of your manners and your bearing. The Royal Mail should be proud.”
These words made Jack blush more rosily than he had ever done in his life. He had already been mentally writhing under the falseness of his position, and he could not bear the praise being heaped upon him. It would be one thing, he thought, if he had merited Sir Waldo’s words, but quite another for the son of a baronet to be accepting praise for speaking well!
He ventured a look at Cecily, who had suddenly jumped up from her chair and, with her back turned towards him, was smoothing Sir Waldo’s covers. He could only be glad she had not noticed his discomfort.
Fortunately, at this point, Sir Waldo indicated that he was ready for Jack to retire. The conversation entertained him, but had provided more excitement than he was accustomed to now. Selby advanced to assist his master to recline, and Jack stood on his own, waving away the offer of any help back to his room.
After bidding Sir Waldo goodbye, he hobbled through the door held by Cecily. Until he’d stood, he had not realized how tired he was himself, and the support of Selby’s arm would have been very welcome at that moment. But Jack could not very well ask for it, having assured the room at large that he did not require it. Using only one crutch gave him a tendency to swivel, and his progress back to his room was slow.
Cecily walked alongside him in order to open the doors to the corridors. She watched his progress anxiously.
“A fine old gentleman, your grandfather,” said Jack once they had got out of his hearing. “He knows quite a bit about horses.”
Cecily smiled at him gratefully. “Thank you so much for going to him. You cannot know how much it means to Grandpapa to keep in touch with the drivers on the road. Not a day goes by that he does not mention when the coach should be arriving.” Her eyes lit mischievously. “He always sends a footman down for any letters, but I really think it is to see if the mail has come on time! “
Jack chuckled. “Your grandfather is not the only curious one. He puts me in mind of the young boys I take up occasionally. Always wanting to know my best times, and if I race carriages when I am not driving the mail. They are most disappointed to learn that when I have finished my run, all I want then is a good, full meal and a comfortable bed!
“Oh, well,” he added, “I was much the same, I suppose.”
Cecily regarded him curiously. “Were you?” she asked.
Jack answered unguardedly, “My heavens, yes! Up to any kind of foolishness. Tha
t was before—” He broke off suddenly and turned to see her reaction, but the rapid movement of his head threw him off balance, and he started to fall upon his bad leg.
Cecily moved swiftly to his side and threw an arm about his waist, just as his broken leg touched the floor. Jack gasped and then swore, closing his eyes tightly for an interval until the pain abated. When he opened them, it was to find Cecily, with one arm around him, peeking anxiously up at him from beneath his arm.
Jack smiled apologetically. “I’m so sorry, Cecily. You must excuse my manners, but that hurt like the very devil.” She blushed, and he realized he had forgotten to address her properly. Still, she did not remove her support.
“That’s perfectly understandable,” she assured him, struggling to keep her composure in this awkward position. “I daresay I should be swearing if my leg were in a similar case.”
“And I should be very surprised,” Jack said, by way of a compliment, but at Cecily’s sudden frown, he realized he had once again overstepped his bounds and dropped the subject at once.
She had withdrawn her arm, but was still standing near. Now she asked, “Will you be quite all right, or shall I give you my arm?”
Jack supposed he ought to have tried to make it on his own, but the truth was his leg still hurt dreadfully. And he found he liked the feel of Cecily’s touch.
He winced purposefully and her arm went quickly round him again. “If I could just put one hand on your shoulder . . .” he suggested.
She did not refuse, so he wrapped his whole arm around her shoulders and leaned slightly against her. She would not look up.
They started down the corridor again, and Jack tried not to put too much of a burden on her slender frame. The top of her head came just to his chin, and her soft curls tickled him occasionally as they brushed against it.
They scarcely spoke, for both were intent upon acting as if nothing were out of the ordinary. He wished he could relieve some of her embarrassment by telling her who he really was, but knew that he must not. After all, he thought grimly, he was not Sir Geoffrey Henley’s son until his father chose to recognize him as such.
They were about to reach the door to his room, when Jack addressed her suddenly, “Miss Wolverton, if you don’t mind my asking, why did you take the mail coach that morning?”
Cecily looked quickly up at him and released him. He could tell the memory of that occasion had discomposed her. “Why . . .” she began, as if at a loss. “It was simply that I had to leave my aunt’s house very suddenly, and I could not wait for my grandfather’s coach to arrive.”
“I see,” Jack said, when she appeared to have stopped. He waited for her to elaborate, but she did not. And he could not insist upon knowing if she did not wish to tell him. Yet, he felt convinced that something unpleasant must have caused her to flee her aunt’s house.
He wished, though, that she would tell him what the matter had been and silently cursed his unlucky position, for it prevented any confidences between them.
Cecily raised her chin and looked at him squarely, “So you see, Mr. Henley, that I have been greatly indebted to you for that service.” She lowered her eyes again and Jack understood. She would have him think it was in return for that service that she had been so kind to him today.
He was obliged to accept her reason. “T’was nothing, Miss Cecily,” he said, reverting to the address of a faithful servant. “And I have been more than amply repaid.” He bowed to her with difficulty and then hobbled to his bed. She closed the door softly behind him.
Jack lay down, releasing a great sigh of weariness, and stared up at the ceiling. He thought about the experience he had just had, and feelings of pride, shame, elation, and longing swept through him. Then he thought of Sir Waldo’s final words, about how well he proved the beneficial influence of gentlemen on the road.
All of a sudden, the humour of his situation outweighed all the rest, and Jack opened his mouth and laughed. Soon his whole body shook with the relief of laughter.
* * * *
Cecily, who had remained outside in the corridor, lost in a reverie, was startled by the sound. At first, distressed and not quite believing what she heard, she put her ear to the door and listened. Yes, it was laughter. She coloured and wondered what Jack could have found to laugh about. She devoutly hoped that it had nothing to do with her. She listened again and the laughter subsided. Surely if it were she he was laughing at, he could not sound so heartily amused! No, if Jack were the sort of fellow she now thought him, there would be no harm in his humour.
She found herself smiling as well and wishing she could be inside enjoying the joke with him. She had had little to laugh about in the past two years. But she did not begrudge Jack his pleasure, for she hoped that someday she would know what it was all about. She only wondered why he was pretending not to be a gentleman. By now, she was certain of his being one. He had given himself away too many times during their visits for there to be any doubt. His manners, his speech, the frequency with which he forgot to appear humble—all these things proclaimed him as such. She was not taken in by his innocent looks and his devices for keeping her in his room. Only someone who was her social equal would have had the audacity to do the things he had done.
A smile teased her lips as she thought of his artifice. Was it these tricks that had him so amused?
None too soon, she remembered that she ought to be wary of anyone posing as something he was not. And she cautioned herself not to be taken in by his charm. Who could tell why he had become a coachman? Had he sunk beneath disgrace? Was he dishonourable?
Her heart answered no. She was certain that could not be the case. Surely a dishonourable person in his circumstances would have taken the twenty shillings she had offered him on the mail. That was all the proof she needed. And, despite her certainty that he was gently born, he had never once tried to insinuate himself into the household in any way. He had made no claims. In a way this confounded her all the more. It suggested that his current occupation was the one in which he expected to stay. The prospect was disturbing.
That he enjoyed her company, that he did his utmost to prolong her visits, she was well aware. But that might be only because he was so alone. The thought that he sought her company only to relieve his loneliness somehow left her feeling quite dismal. Yet the memory of his antics exhilarated her to an equal degree. Her own rather cheerless circumstances and lack of companionship must clearly be to blame, she thought. She must guard herself from becoming too intrigued by this mysterious coachman.
* * * *
For the next two weeks, Jack was called upon daily to make the walk to Sir Waldo’s rooms. Each of those times, Cecily came to escort him, but she was always careful to have a footman with her, both coming and going.
Jack understood. To give her assistance, as she had when there was no possibility of another’s, was excusable. To allow it to happen again would not be. Her manner to him had always been most proper, and if, at times, she accorded him more respect than might have been expected, he had to suppose it was to indulge an invalid. At times he wished she were not so careful. He noticed she was invariably polite and considerate to all the servants, and he could detect little difference between her treatment of them and her kindness to himself. The thought was lowering.
One day, however, as he waited to be fetched, Mr. Selby entered the room. Cecily was not with him.
“You are to come to the master’s room at once,” he said to Jack without preamble.
Jack stood up quickly, his expression changing rapidly from expectation to concern. “Is anything the matter with Miss Cecily? Sir Waldo?”
But a haughty Mr. Selby would not answer him. He sniffed and commanded Jack to come at once if he knew what was good for him. Jack obliged, leaving his questions for those more inclined to answer, for he reasoned that if anything were terribly wrong with either his master or mistress, Selby would not look so smug.
The trip down the corridor was not so arduous now, and
within minutes Jack was knocking upon Sir Waldo’s door.
“Come in!” roared Sir Waldo in a voice Jack had never heard.
Sir Waldo was sitting up in bed, fuming, with Cecily at his side. It looked as if she had been trying to calm him down. Jack gave a quick sigh of relief when he saw that they both were well. Beyond this, he had no time to think.
“Young man!” Sir Waldo began in a stern voice. “I demand an explanation!” He glared accusingly at Jack from beneath his grizzled brow.
“Sir?” Jack asked, at a loss. He looked to Cecily for enlightenment, but found none. She was regarding him composedly, without a hint of emotion to guide him.
Sir Waldo responded angrily, “Do not play the fool with me, if you please. I have here—” he waved a sheet of paper in his hand upon which Jack thought he detected a familiar signature “—I have a letter here from a Sir Geoffrey Henley, Baronet, asking after the welfare of his only son, Jack.”
Jack shot another look in Cecily’s direction and found that she was barely restraining a smile.
“Yes, sir?” Jack inquired respectfully, facing Sir Waldo once again with confidence.
His response did not please her grandfather, however. “Well, what is it, boy? Are you the son of this gentleman who has written me, or are you a driver on the Royal Mail?”
Jack grinned with a touch of sheepishness. “Well . . . both, sir. That is, if Sir Geoffrey is good enough to claim me.”
Sir Waldo’s ire mounted. “A bastard is it! Do you mean to say I have been harbouring this gentleman’s bastard in my house! Someone he himself does not recognize . . .” But Jack’s upheld hand and hoot of laughter stopped Sir Waldo before he could finish.
“Please pardon me, Sir Waldo,” he said, “for not making myself clearer. But I will overlook the unintended slight to my mother and give you my assurances that I am Sir Geoffrey’s legal and natural progeny. All of it, I might add. It is just that my father and I have lately been . . . what one might call estranged.”
Jack on the Box Page 7
