by M C Beaton
She remembered getting poor little Mr Fletcher to write those letters. She had bullied him into it, although he had protested that it was surely immoral to stoop to forgery. She had eagerly studied the social columns for days now, hoping for an announcement of a wedding between Lord Harley and Miss Freemantle. Such an announcement, she felt, would lift the terrible guilt from her mind. She could then call on Sir George and plan her next expedition.
What adventures she had had! And how miserable that she could not even turn them over in her mind without coming across the great stumbling block of her own bad behaviour.
She chided herself. She had always been nosy, had always interfered in other people’s affairs. Never again. When she took her next journey on the Flying Machine, she would look at the scenery and ignore the other passengers.
The two little rooms were very dark and bleak, but she did not want to set about looking for a cottage until she had satisfied her lust for travel and adventure. But adventure to Hannah was not only travel on the stage-coach. It meant adventuring into other people’s lives. When there had been a regular staff at Thornton Hall, she had enjoyed herself immensely busying herself in their affairs. She thought of going back to look at Thornton Hall and then rejected the idea. There would be some strange caretaker and his wife in residence. There would be no one to talk to.
For the first time in her busy life, Hannah began to feel lonely. She put on her cloak and hat and went out into Kensington Village and spent far too much on two bunches of spring flowers, lately arrived from the Channel Islands, to give her drab living quarters some colour.
But once the flowers were arranged in vases, she began to feel cheered.
And then there came a knock at the door. She wondered who it could be. The baker had been paid rent in advance.
She smoothed down her gown and opened the door and then fell back a pace.
Lord Harley and Emily Freemantle stood on the threshold.
The entrance was dim and Hannah’s sharp eyes scanned their faces hopefully, but both were looking solemn and severe.
‘Come in, Miss Freemantle, my lord,’ said Hannah nervously. She raked the fire to a glowing red and put a kettle on it. ‘You will take tea?’
‘We should be furious with you, Miss Pym,’ said Lord Harley, ‘and you know why.’
It was no use trying to pretend otherwise. ‘How did you know?’ asked Hannah miserably.
‘Because I would not write such fustian, and neither would Miss Freemantle.’
Hannah’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Pray forgive me,’ she said. ‘You both seemed to be very suited, and I thought …’
She gave a pathetic little sob.
‘Put her out of her misery,’ said Emily with a laugh, and Hannah looked at the girl’s glowing face, hope dawning on her own.
‘Yes, you travelling matchmaker,’ said Lord Harley. ‘Your plan worked. We are come to invite you to our wedding.’
‘Oh, my lord,’ gasped Hannah. ‘It is more than I deserve. When is the marriage to take place?’
‘In three months’ time,’ said Emily. ‘You will receive an invitation very shortly.’
To Emily’s consternation Hannah sat down suddenly and began to cry in earnest. ‘I have been feeling so guilty,’ said Hannah, mopping her eyes. ‘So very guilty. I forced poor Mr Fletcher to write those letters for me, and when I went to say goodbye to him at the inn, he could barely bring himself to speak to me.’
‘Poor Miss Pym,’ said Lord Harley. ‘Now what about some tea?’
Hannah busied herself making a pot of tea and then ran down to the baker’s to buy cakes. By the time she returned, Lord Harley and Emily were wrapped in each other’s arms. She retreated to the passage and coughed loudly and then walked in again.
The couple were once more apart and Emily began to talk about their adventures at the inn. Lord Harley said that Mr Hendry’s background had been discovered. He had been an apothecary’s assistant in London and had been trying to court his master’s daughter. The apothecary had sent him packing and discovered after Mr Hendry had left that he had stolen money from the shop and a quantity of drugs. ‘Will he hang?’ asked Hannah uneasily. In an age of mass hangings that were always well attended, it was surprising the number of people who loathed the very idea of that ultimate punishment.
‘I do not think so,’ said Lord Harley. ‘I believe he will be transported.’ The couple then began to talk generally of their adventures. Hannah joined in, but after a while Lord Harley and Emily seemed only to want to turn over and over again how they first came to fall in love, and Hannah felt excluded from the glowing circle that seemed to surround the happy pair.
When they left, she found she was feeling more alone than ever. She could never have been in love with that under-butler. For Lord Harley and Emily had been radiant and exalted by love. Hannah could never remember having felt like that.
But a cheerful thought came into her mind. Now she was free to go and see Sir George. First, she sat down and wrote Mr Fletcher a letter. He had given her the address of a friend in London where he had said he would be staying until he married Lizzie. She told him that his forgeries had done the trick. Then she sealed the letter and put on her hat and cloak and took the letter to the post.
Then she looked at Sir George’s card, hailed a hack, and gave the driver directions to Green Street in Mayfair.
Only when she had rung the bell and an imposing butler was standing looking at her did Hannah realize two things. Firstly, a lady did not call at a gentleman’s town house, and secondly, she did not even have a card to present.
Her cloak and hat were of the finest material, but servants, she knew only too well, had an inbuilt sense of who was Quality and who was not.
‘I am come to see Sir George Clarence,’ said Hannah. ‘I am Miss Pym.’
The butler did not hesitate for a moment.
‘Sir George is not at home,’ he said and closed the door in Hannah’s face.
Sir George was walking into the hall, drawing on his gloves as the door slammed.
‘What was that?’ he asked.
‘A person by the name of Miss Pym. She did not even have a card, sir.’
‘Pym?’ Sir George looked puzzled for a moment and then his face cleared. ‘Oh, Miss Pym. And I told her to call.’
The butler sprang to the door and opened it as Sir George hurried out. Sir George looked to right and left and then saw a thin dejected figure just turning the corner of the street. He walked swiftly along and finally caught up with Hannah.
‘Miss Pym,’ he called.
Hannah turned round and looked at him. She had forgotten how handsome and distinguished he looked with his piercing blue eyes and silver hair.
She tugged at her nose in embarrassment and said croakily, ‘I should not have called on you, sir, at your home. I was acting as a servant, you see, and I forgot I did not even have a card to present.’
‘And I should have told you to write to me so that we could make an arrangement to meet,’ said Sir George. ‘I was on my way to my club, but I would rather hear your adventures. It is not far to Gunter’s, and it is a fine day.’ He held out his arm.
Hannah gingerly took it and then cast little glances to right and left, hoping one of the former servants from Thornton Hall might appear and see her walking so grandly with Sir George Clarence.
Once seated in Gunter’s, Hannah began her tale. Sir George leaned back in his chair and studied those odd eyes of the ex-housekeeper. They would glow blue with happiness, flash green with excitement, or turn gold when she was serious. He listened enthralled to her tale of the highwayman, the snowstorm, the incarceration at the inn, and the perfidy of Mr Hendry, and then in increased amusement as she told him how she had cajoled Mr Fletcher into writing those letters.
‘Now that was very bad and mischievous of you,’ said Sir George gently. ‘Perhaps it is just as well Lord Harley does not know your direction, or you might have found yourself in court.’
He laughed and laughed and then he said, ‘So now you have had your fill of adventures, you will be glad to settle down.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Hannah. ‘I have only just begun.’
‘And where are you bound next?’
‘Bath,’ said Hannah. ‘I think I shall go to Bath.’
‘Are you sure? If it is adventures you crave, I cannot think you will find any on the road to Bath. It is a good easy road and I think the worst of the winter weather is over. And Bath itself! Genteel invalids and filthy tasting water.’
‘No, I always wanted to go to Bath. Do you know, sir, that sometimes I dream that on a journey I will meet Mrs Clarence. I know she did a very bad thing, but I remember her with affection. Besides, she will be free to marry now and might not know it.’
‘My brother’s death was published in all the newspapers,’ he said. ‘Mrs Clarence has no doubt read one of them or has been told by a friend. Where do you reside at present?’
‘I have taken two small rooms above a bakery in Kensington.’
‘Cannot you do better for yourself? If I can be of any help …’
‘You are too kind, sir. But I would like to travel first and then find some place pleasant to live afterwards. But you have heard all my news and I have not once asked you about yourself, sir.’
‘I have been busying myself with Thornton Hall. Perhaps I shall sell it. But it is such a bleak, ugly place that I became obsessed with a desire to see how it would look with pretty gardens and some decoration. If you go to Bath, you will see from the road that the gardeners have already begun work.’ He began to talk of all the improvements he was making and Hannah studied him covertly, trying to remember every detail: the high-nosed face, the bright blue eyes, the hair that was so white and fine, the splendour of his dress. He was wearing a coat with a high collar and short waist made of plum-coloured silk, nankeen breeches, and gold-and-white-striped stockings. A diamond flashed in the whiteness of his cravat and a diamond-and-sapphire ring sparkled on one of his long white fingers.
Hannah had opened her cloak when she sat down and hoped he noticed her dress of fine glazed cambric, one of Mrs Clarence’s gowns. Mrs Clarence had always been almost ahead of the current fashions, and fortunately her gowns were high-waisted, so that Hannah had had to make very little alteration.
She dreaded the moment when he would rise to leave. Her pleasure in his company was tinged with a bitter-sweet flavour. She could never feel entirely at ease with him, always conscious of her lower rank, always feeling out of place, very much like a servant strayed into a world in which she not only did not belong but to which she would never belong. But he seemed in no hurry to take his leave and they talked on amicably until the blue light of dusk began to fill Berkeley Square outside and the lamplighter was up on his long ladder filling the parish lamps with whale-oil and lighting them.
And then a lady came up to their table. Hannah looked up. Sir George rose to his feet and Hannah stopped herself just in time from rising as well.
‘Sir George,’ carolled the lady. ‘I have not seen you this age.’
‘Good afternoon, Mrs Courtney,’ said Sir George. ‘Miss Pym, may I present Mrs Courtney. Mrs Courtney, Miss Pym.’
Mrs Courtney sank down gracefully in an empty chair at their table without being invited. Hannah’s heart sank. She remembered Mrs Courtney. She had called two years before to see Mr Clarence, and it had been the general opinion of the servants that the lady, a widow, was husband-hunting. She was extremely elegant with a pretty, faded face. She was wearing a mauve crepe gown trimmed with groups of tucks and with a fold of silk of the same colour inserted in between. On her head was a headdress of intricately folded mauve silk. Her large greenish eyes rested curiously on Hannah, much as they had rested on the housekeeper two years before when she had quizzed Hannah closely about the state of Mr Clarence’s mind and whether he intended finally to divorce his errant wife.
Sir George was talking generally about the weather, plays he had seen, and mutual friends. Mrs Courtney raised her quizzing-glass and studied Hannah through it and then let it fall. ‘Haven’t we met?’ she asked, interrupting Sir George.
‘I do not think so,’ said Hannah. On her own, she would have told the truth, but she did not want to disgrace Sir George by admitting to having been a servant.
‘Strange.’ Mrs Courtney’s green eyes fairly snapped with curiosity. ‘And are you an old friend of Sir George?’
‘A very old friend,’ said Sir George firmly. ‘We have not seen each other this age, and there is so much to talk about.’
‘I am sure you are both wishing me gone,’ said Mrs Courtney with an artificial laugh but showing no signs of getting to her feet.
‘I could never bring myself to say such a thing.’ Sir George leaned back in his chair and smiled blandly on Mrs Courtney. ‘But I fear you will find Miss Pym and me boring company, for we have so much to discuss.’
Mrs Courney bridled. The hint was too obvious. She rose to her feet. ‘But I am so sure I have met you, Miss Pym. Do not worry. I shall recall where and when. I have an excellent memory.’
‘And that is a threat,’ said Hannah gloomily when Mrs Courtney had left the shop. ‘She did meet me at Thornton Hall. She came to find out whether Mr Clarence planned to divorce his wife and quizzed me on the subject. I would have told her but I did not want to shame you by revealing you were taking tea with a servant.’
‘An ex-servant,’ said Sir George. ‘Of what were we talking? Ah, yes, the gardens at Thornton Hall. On your next return, Miss Pym, write to me of your arrival and I shall take you to see them.’
‘I should like that above all things,’ said Hannah, feeling as shy as a girl.
He smiled at her, thinking it was pleasant to squire such a grateful and entertaining lady.
Hannah did not want him to be the first to suggest that they leave, and so she reluctantly gathered up her gloves and reticule.
‘Where are you going now?’ asked Sir George as they stood outside in Berkeley Square. ‘Kensington?’
‘Now,’ said Hannah. ‘I shall go to the Bell Savage in the City and buy a ticket for the Bath coach.’
‘Then let me summon a hack for you.’
‘I would rather walk, sir,’ said Hannah, who was by now so happy and excited that she felt she would burst if she did not get some exercise.
‘As you will, Miss Pym. All success and good fortune on your next journey.’ He raised his hat and bowed low and Hannah dropped a curtsy. She turned back, however, after a few moments and watched Sir George’s tall figure cross Berkeley Square in the dim light and stood there watching for quite a while after he had disappeared from view.
Then Hannah set out for the City. She wanted to jump, to skip, to shout aloud. He had invited her to see the gardens. She could enjoy her next journey without wondering whether he would remember her or would see her at all.
She stood under a street lamp and pulled a folded newspaper cutting from her reticule and studied it. It was an advertisement for the Bath coach.
FLYING MACHINE
As those desirous to pass from London to Bath, or any other Place on their Road, let them repair to the Bell Savage on Ludgate Hill, London, and the White Lion at Bath, at both which places may be received in a Stage Coach every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, which performs the whole journey in Three Days (if God permit) and sets forth at five in the morning.
Passengers to pay one pound five shillings each, who are allowed to carry fourteen Pounds Weight – for all above to pay three halfpence per Pound.
She put it away and set out with a brisker stride towards the City.
Hannah no longer felt lonely. There was so much to look forward to. Lord Harley’s wedding, the visit to Thornton Hall gardens, and a whole new adventure on the Bath Road.
The wonderful t
hing about a stage-coach was that it was a great equalizer. The upper classes, although affecting to despise this mode of travel, often stooped to use it, for a lady, say, could travel with only her maid rather than having to use not only her own carriage but hire five attendants to protect her from the perils of the road.
Hannah finally reached the Bell Savage and purchased an inside ticket for the Bath coach. She stood for a little while afterwards in the bustle of the inn yard. The coach had just arrived from Bath, swinging into the courtyard on its high red wheels. She could smell it, that smell of wood and leather and horse sweat.
Her heart began to beat hard with excitement. She stayed watching and listening for quite a long time before setting out on the long road home. By the time she reached Hyde Park corner, she realized she was tired, but no driver of a hack was going to risk the perils of Knightsbridge Road in darkness and so Hannah forged on alone, nervously looking to right and left, dreading every moment she would be attacked and wondering why she had not gone home immediately after leaving Gunter’s.
But at last she wearily climbed the stairs to her rooms above the bakery. She made up the fire and sat down exhausted in a battered armchair and kicked off her shoes.
Her eyes began to droop and once more she felt the swaying of the coach and the long blast of the guard’s horn as the Flying Machine bore her through the length and breadth of England.
About the Author
M.C. Beaton is the author of the hugely successful Agatha Raisin, Hamish Macbeth and Edwardian murder mystery series, all published by Constable & Robinson. She left a full-time career in journalism to turn to writing, and now divides her time between the Cotswolds, Paris and Istanbul.
Titles by M.C. Beaton
The Travelling Matchmaker series
Emily Goes to Exeter
Penelope Goes to Portsmouth
Deborah Goes to Dover
Belinda Goes to Bath
Beatrice Goes to Brighton
Yvonne Goes to York
The Edwardian Murder Mystery series
