by Edith Layton
Again, she thought, she had been lucky in disembarking here after a few stops, for the night.
For though the inn had been rather shabby and down at the heels, the landlord’s empty rooms had been enough to convince him to admit the well-dressed lady, even though she had no escort, no maid, and paltry luggage with her. After a suspicious sniff, he had let her pay in advance, and had given her shelter in this dreary room under his ancient roof.
But now morning was come again. And her jot had been paid for only the one night, and somehow she must find a way to continue her travels. It was, she reasoned, what she ought to have done in the first place. Although Miss Bekins had never replied to her letters, she was the one and only other human left on the earth who could be trusted. All the niceties that she had worried about, as to whether Miss Bekins could afford her presence, whether she could find a position at the school, or would even be genuinely welcomed there, were forgotten now. There was no other place to go.
But how? she sighed, rising. There was only enough money left for either a few more stops on the coach, or a few more meals and nights’ lodgings.
“An excellent game,” she could almost hear that hoarse voice laughing. Indeed excellent, Regina thought, rising and taking up her traveling bag again. Oh yes, Your Grace, an excellent game.
She asked only for coffee in the inn’s main coffeeroom, although the scent of good country ham and bread that the few other travelers were indulging in caused her nostrils to widen. While she sipped at it, she eyed the others in the room. There were only four of them: two solid looking country men, avidly eating and discussing livestock in broad loudly interested tones; a morose looking shabby pedlar who seemed lost in some internal revery; and one stout overly dressed old farmer, obviously on some family business. They had all glanced up at her when she had entered, with varying degrees of curiosity, and then had lost interest in her. She was clearly, their attitudes said, neither of their world or concern.
When the bored-looking young serving maid began to clear their now deserted tables, Regina rose and went over to her. “Excuse me,” she said in a hushed tone, “but I wondered if you could be of some assistance to me.”
The girl stopped her stacking of plates and looked at her with ill-concealed suspicion. Ladies of quality, her expression clearly read, did not stop to converse with kitchen wenches. Not when there was both a landlord and landlady, and fellow travelers to be approached. But Regina had been fearful of the sharp-eyed landlady, and had felt that perhaps only someone in similar financial circumstances would understand her request.
“I’m in rather…an awkward position,” she began, quietly, for she did not want the only remaining patron, the old pedlar, to hear her. “It seems, due to circumstances that are too tedious to go into, that my funds are running low. Oh, I have enough, I assure you, to pay my way here, but…I shall need to find some sort of…employment, for a brief space, so that I can continue my journey. I have many miles to go. To Canterbury, as a matter of fact,” she went on, dismayed at the girl’s blank expression. Was it possible that the girl was a deaf-mute? “And I was wondering if you could tell me if there were any…positions available in this town, or the next along the route?”
“What sorta ‘position’?” the girl asked in a loud, hostile voice, straightening and pushing back a lock of her lank hair.
“Well,” said Regina desperately, “perhaps teaching, or…companion, or sewing, or….”
But the girl laughed, flinging back her head and guffawing. “Teaching?” she laughed. “Not likely, and the onliest companions any of our folk might be looking for from you would be as a companion of the night, if you get my meaning. And why should anyone pay good money for a stranger to sew for ’em? This isn’t London Town, my dear,” she said in a mock accent, swinging her hips.
Regina flushed when she saw how quickly even the serving girl held her in contempt, and caught the pedlar’s interested glance at her. She backed away in confusion.
“Hold on, Clary,” called the pedlar, rising and coming toward them both. “Remember what the preacher says about Christian charity.”
“I assure you,” Regina stammered, aghast, “that I do not require charity.”
“Naw, naw, you don’t get my drift,” the pedlar smiled, his long thin face showing animation. “Now Clary, my paw told me to cast bread upon the waters…specially if it don’t cost nothing to do it. Listen, my whole business depends on good feelings. ‘Good feelings’ll sell more thread and gee-gaws than good prices,’ he said, ‘and don’t forget it my lad.’ Now,” he said holding up two none-too-clean hands, “I don’t need to hear your story, nor do I want to either—the less you know,” he winked, “the less to regret. But my business is people, y’see, and I read people like the gentry reads books, and I say there’s no harm in her, Clary. No harm atall. And if she were about the sort of business you mean, Clary, a guinea to your shilling she wouldn’t be after asking you where to find it.”
The girl flushed and ducked her head.
“Not that you’re not a lovely little thing,” the pedlar grinned to the sallow little maid, “but any fool can see that you’re a good girl. But now listen, miss, it’s a lucky thing you did run into us, Clary and me. For if it’s work you’re after, someone will have to set you straight, and Clary and me, why, we’ve worked all our lives, and likely will continue to do so, you’re right to ask us. But no,” he said, shaking his head, “no one hereabouts is going to be looking for a teacher, nor a companion…and even if they was,” he added kindly, “they wouldn’t be looking for one…off the street, if you get my drift. So you have to set your sights different-like. You see?”
“Now,” he said, thinking, “Clary, what about Mrs. Stors in Witney? Didn’t I hear that that wench of hers Gilly was coming to her time? And wouldn’t she be needing another girl to serve in the taproom and main room? Why there’s your opportunity, miss,” he said, seeing Clary’s little nod, “for Mrs. Stors is a good woman, she is that. And if you carry a tankard, and set down a plate, she can use you I reckon. Now the pay’s not tremendous, mind, but there’ll be good food, and lodging, and a good steady job for you. So if you can forget about all that teaching, and companioning, if you’ve got the stomach for real work, there’s your chance.”
“Witney?” Regina asked, thinking of her diminishing coins. “How far is that…on the coach, or can I walk to it?”
“Well,” considered the pedlar, looking at her shrewdly, “I suppose I could advance you a few—”
“No, no, I assure you,” Regina began, “that won’t be necessary. It is only advice that I require now, please,” she said gazing at him intently. “Only advice.”
The pedlar sighed; she was such a beautiful girl, and he was a sentimental fool—he would not mind her being in his debt, even if he never saw her again, but he understood her look of horror. She was a lady, after all, and he took his hand out of his pocket again.
“Well,” he said brusquely, “the stage ain’t due for some hours yet, so if you take shanks’ mare, strolling along under your own power, if you take my meaning, and walk straight along the road, you’ll likely get to the next stop by late afternoon. Then it’ll be only two more stops till Witney and the Crown and Gaiter. That’s where Mrs. Stors will be. And tell her that Old Jack Potter sent you. That’ll be recommendation enough. And good luck to you.”
Regina thanked him and, picking up her case, put a few coins on the tabletop, and left.
Jack Potter watched her leave and, seeing her turn in the right direction, waved a farewell to her.
“You see, Clary girl,” he sighed, “looks don’t necessarily mean happiness. No, my old dad was right when he said that a beautiful woman attracts trouble like an old oak attracts lightning. So remember that the next time you wish you had big green eyes and a complexion like cream.”
But Clary, who was scrubbing the tabletops with more vigor that she had shown in two years of work, did not find his advice comforting, at all.
It was late at night when the coach, with its customary flourishing of blowing horns and bustle, stopped in front of the Crown and Gaiter. The walk to the next stop along the coach line had left Regina weary beyond belief. Her slippers had not been made for a long tramp along a country road. But she had refused the offer of a ride from both a cat-calling group of young men in a farm cart and an overly hearty middle-aged man in a curricle. When she had seen any equipage approaching that looked well enough to contain any member of the gentry, she had quickly taken to the brush at the side of the road. She still wished to cover her traces.
But now she was lightheaded from hunger. When she had finally reached the next inn, she had splurged on a muffin and tea, and had been almost grateful that the coach was late so that she could sit and warm herself by the fire in the coffeeroom. She had been badly frightened by a slightly tipsy young man who had been ogling her, and who had looked as if he was gathering up enough courage to approach her, and had sat stiff and, she hoped, unapproachable looking until she had heard the clatter and rattle that signified the coach was approaching.
Once inside, she shut her eyes tightly and began to wonder, for the first time since she had begun her flight, what actually could happen to a young woman who had neither home, nor friends, nor family, nor trade. The thought had never really occurred to her before. There were, she knew, work houses for debtors, and poor houses for the old and destitute, but where they were located, and how one applied to them, she did not know. London, she reasoned, would be where they were found, but she could not go back there. But what did the friendless and homeless do in the countryside?
Women could work in trade, she knew, as milliners, market-mongers, and dressmakers, or in homes as serving girls, housekeepers, and servants. But one had to have skills or opportunities for the first, and references for even the meanest sort of employment in the second case. Even Belinda, her own maid in her uncle’s house, had come with references. But she had neither a trade, nor friends in trade, nor references. She almost laughed to herself when she thought of what St. John’s expression would have been had she asked him for references so that she could find employment as a parlor maid. But no, she soberly thought, she did not want to think of him at all. She had left Sinjin and Amelia and the Duke, and their whole world behind her.
Thus, when she saw the shingle with the Crown upon it swinging in the cold night breeze, she stepped out of the coach with mixed hopes for her future. It was late, she was cold, and she had only a few more coins between herself and whatever the unimaginable fate was for a homeless woman.
Mrs. Stors was a large broad elderly woman with a blunted face, whose skin clearly showed that at some time in her past she had been fortunate enough to live through an affliction of the smallpox. She listened to Regina impatiently as they spoke in the steamy kitchens. The inn was crowded to the doors. Today had been market day, and merchants, pedlars, farmers, and visitors from miles around the locality had crammed the inn full.
“Well,” she said, staring at Regina sharply, “you don’t look like a serving wench to me. But I do need an extra pair of hands tonight. And Jack Potter’s a fair man. Still, I don’t know what to make of you at all, I don’t. You talk like a lady, you look like a lady, but your face and figure could get you a snugger bed than the one you’ll have to share with Lucy, I can tell you. But I don’t have time to jabber with you. So if you’re not a thief, or a slut with a new game, I’ll use you tonight, and we’ll see what happens. But take off that fancy coat and put on one of Lucy’s dresses, because I can tell you, my customers won’t half believe you waiting on them with that Paris gown or whatever it is you’re wearing. Lucy!” she bellowed.
A stout young smiling girl with black curls clustered all around her broad red face appeared in the doorway, laden with tankards of ale.
“This here is Regina. Stop gawping. Take her to your room double quick and give her a dress to wear, and tell her the lay of the land. Quick. For she’s to help you out tonight in the taproom. And be quick about it,” she roared, and spinning on her heel, she rushed off into the kitchens.
Regina felt a bizarre sense of disbelief when she surveyed herself in the small mirror in Lucy’s little room. The dress she had been given to wear was none too clean, and far too low cut and too short at the ankle.
Lucy’s dress was an absurd costume for her. It was too brightly colored, of a cheap material, tight at the waist, and shockingly low at the neck. But a quick glance at Lucy’s approving stare sank her hopes of crying off and donning her own severe blue walking dress again. Still, when she noticed with alarm how any little inhalation threatened the security of her precariously concealed breasts, she knew that she could never leave the room in it. But Lucy just grinned, and said, “Won’t you be the sensation tonight,” and after insisting that Regina unfasten the tight chignon she was wearing and “Fluff out yer hair a bit, love, so they won’t think you’re going to bite them,” she left to the bellowing echoes of Mrs. Stors’s “Lucy!” that rang through even the incredible hub-bub that rose from the inn.
Regina drew her hair back and tied it at the nape of her neck and, after resisting an impulse to tear off the dress and change back into her own clothes, she ruefully remembered the three coins that clung together for comfort in the bottom of her purse and, straightening her posture, she went wearily down the narrow flight of dark stairs and into the taproom.
It seemed to her that it was almost fantastic how the uproar seemed to quieten when she stepped into the room. The customers, a roiling sea of hearty countrymen, with a few rough-voiced women sprinkled among them, appeared to blur before her eyes. She looked down in confusion.
When she closed her eyes and waited for the earth to swallow her up, the noise level began to rise again. She had no idea of how out of context she had looked, gliding into the crowded, smoky room, with her gleaming chestnut hair pulled back from her pale, finely featured face, her gently curved figure clearly delineated in the ill-fitting gown, her slender form hesitantly entering the room. But when she opened her wide green eyes, she saw the tables full of men beckoning, “Aye girl, some service,” “Two bitters,” “Some food here, Lass,” and remembering Lucy’s hurried instructions, she tried to place their faces and their orders correctly.
It seemed to be going well, it is not so difficult, she thought, when she could think, as she rushed from the tap to the tables, from the steaming kitchens to the uproarious tables. It was hot, there was a strong mixture of scents, of ale, of human sweat, of woodsmoke. But the patrons here were a casual lot, she thought. They were considerate enough, she thought, returning to the room with her eighth tray of small beer, for when she got an order wrong, they only laughed and handed the food about themselves. She could not distinguish one face from another, nor one voice from another in the uproar. But Lucy had passed her in her travels and had whispered, “Keep it going, love, you’ll do fine.”
The heat of the room had brought a pink flush to her cheeks, the drawn-back hair had escaped from its confines and drifted along her neck, and she was looking in confusion for the rightful recipient of her tray of beverages when she felt a strong arm clasp her around her waist and a merrily drunken voice slur, “Aye, here’s the best thing I’ve seen in the market today.”
She looked down in horror at the widely grinning man who had captured her and, trying to keep the liquids from tipping over, tried to escape his embrace. But a moment later he had risen and, taking her with his other arm, he held her still and pushed his sweaty, grinning face close to hers. “Give us a kiss, girl,” he chortled. “Spice up the brew.” A second later, she was swung away from him by another man, older and with the dirty face of a working farmer. “Don’t be a pig, Harry,” he laughed. “I did see her first, and I’m the one she’s longing for,” and with that, he captured her waist, groped at her buttocks with his free hand, and pressed her toward him for a kiss. As she felt his mouth upon her own, she gave a little shriek and tipped the tray, sending it
splashing down on the table, and on all its occupants. Laughter rose up around her, and she pushed away from the man who had grasped her and, without thinking, swung her hand around and slapped him soundly on the face. The laughter rose even higher at that, and, tears in her eyes, she rushed from the room.
Mrs. Stors found her standing in the hallway, trembling. “It won’t do,” the woman said half regretfully. “It won’t do at all. You don’t have it in you, my girl. A serving wench can’t behave like a debutante. There’s no harm in the men, none at all. But they do expect a kiss and a tweak, or a cuddle and a saucy word with their victuals. Won’t do to discourage trade. Oh they’ll forget this soon enough, but you won’t do. You’ll never get used to it.”
An unexpected light of sympathy came into the other woman’s eyes.
“I don’t know your game, and I don’t want to. But there’s a bed here for you tonight. And some victuals as well. And a few shillings for your night’s work, but you’ll have to be going in the morning. Try something else, my dear.”
“No,” said Regina stiffly. ‘Thank you for your efforts. But I don’t deserve pay for this night. Nor will I disturb Lucy any further. If I may wait for the coach in your…parlor, I’ll be gone in the morning.”
The woman’s face turned stony.
“Too much the fine lady for my charity, are you? Well suit yourself, but the private parlor’s engaged by a gentleman. So if you don’t want Lucy’s bed, you’ll wait in the street, my dear,” and she turned and left.
Regina, regretting her rash words, went back to Lucy’s room and, leaving the detested dress neatly upon the bed, dressed as warmly as she could.
