It was just as Lewis had said, for as the Nonpareil swept into the Red Lion’s yard, Jane heard George Sewell shouting to the landlord that the Venturer had met with a slight mishap and would be greatly delayed. He offered two outside places to the two gentlemen who came out anxiously on hearing the news, and they gladly accepted. The coach swayed as they climbed up on top. Jane lowered her eyes. This was what was happening to her Swan. Edward Chapman was getting away with so very much, but if she had her way and luck smiled upon her regarding the horses as well as everything else, he wouldn’t be winning that race on Midsummer Day!
Lewis touched her arm, pointing up toward one of the inn’s bedroom windows. A man with a sallow face was looking down into the yard, holding the curtain aside so that he couldn’t be seen very well. ‘I think that’s Byers, the informer. He probably put the Venturer’s fares Chapman’s way.’
She stared up at the window, but the informer had already drawn back out of sight. She wished she’d seen him, for his appeared to be one of the most infamous names on the Brighton road.
With another fresh team harnessed, the Nonpareil set off once more. It was seven o’clock and in two more hours they would be in Brighton. The road was new now, having been built only ten years earlier to replace the old route which led through Cuckfield and then over the long, wearying, dangerous climb of Clayton Hill. The new route had once been a much lesser highway, threading through hamlets and past farms, and making a circuitous detour around the perimeter of Lewis’s estate at Maywood because one of his ancestors had approached King Charles II for permission to build a great house in this lovely part of the countryside.
Jane leaned her head back against the coach’s soft upholstery watching for the first glimpse of Maywood. At last she saw the stone phoenixes on the gateposts, and then the armorial wrought-iron gates themselves, and beside them the elegant little north lodge. Hanging over the lodge, its bronzed leaves bright in the afternoon sun, was an immense copper beech tree. There were horses in the paddocks, horses which would do so well for the Swan; but they’d be staying where they were and she’d have to think of something else for the race. Dappled leafy shadows moved on entrance to the driveway, which swept on beyond the gates, leading up a long incline to the magnificent house. It was a Jacobean masterpiece with no fewer than sixty-three windows gazing out over its beautiful park and mirror-like lakes. There was a prospect tower on a nearby hill, from which on a clear day six counties could be seen, and in which, one cold, snowy afternoon the previous winter, Lewis had asked her to marry him. It had been a frozen November day, the air crisp and sharp, and the snow had seemed to stretch away into icy oblivion on all sides. Her cheeks had been pink with the cold, and she’d worn a fur-trimmed pelisse, her hands plunged warmly into a large muff. She gazed at the tower as the Nonpareil swept past the lodge. In little more than a month the betrothal had been over.
If Lewis was remembering that day in the tower, he gave no sign of it. He remained silent as the coach swept past the estate, taking more than ten minutes to reach the great copper beech marking the place by the south lodge where the drive emerged onto the highway again. Maywood’s drive had been the original highway, before the petition to the king which had forced the public road to make a circuitous detour around the estate. The rise of fashionable Brighton and the need for a better route for the swift new stagecoaches had brought the old road to prominence again, but still it had to sweep around Maywood, which barred its way as surely as a great rock bars the smooth flow of a river.
Bolney, where the team was changed for the final time, was on the southern slope of a ridge close to a windy common, and it was renowned in the spring for its cherry orchards. Then it was a sea of pink and white blossom, but now the trees were in full foliage, waiting for the fruitfulness of autumn. With fresh horses harnessed, Sewell took the Nonpareil on its way once more, carefully negotiating a very sharp bend by an ancient stone barn, and then bringing the coach up to a good pace for the climb over the chalky South Downs, which alone now lay between the travelers and their destination.
Unlike the North Downs, those in the south were treeless, bare and hump-backed, a place of tufty grass and scattered gorse. Silver-blue butterflies fluttered in the thyme-scented air, where the tang of the sea was already perceptible. Cloud shadows flitted over the open slopes, and the white wings of gulls flashed brilliantly against the clear evening sky.
At last the final hill was behind them and they could see Brighton stretching elegantly along the shore of the azure sea. Jane gazed ahead at the clean, white villas spreading out from the edge of the town. She glanced quickly at Lewis from beneath lowered lashes. What was going to happen during the coming hours? Would she surrender to the emotions which only this man could arouse within her?
SIXTEEN
It was as much the thing to be seen on the fashionable pavements of Brighton as it was to be noticed driving in Hyde Park, and as the Nonpareil drove through the elegant streets on its way to the terminus in Castle Square, Jane noticed a number of ladies and gentlemen strolling along, seeing and being seen. Among them were several faces she recognized, and she nervously adjusted her veil, praying that it was as concealing as she hoped.
Castle Square was very noisy and crowded, for it was here that most of the stagecoaches arrived and departed each day, indeed it was such a busy and colorful place that many people came there just to watch the spectacle. There were at least five stagecoaches drawn up outside their individual ticket offices as with a final flourish of ‘Cherry Ripe’ the Nonpareil was brought to a dashing standstill outside the Black Horse office. Two gentlemen standing there took out their fob watches to check the time – it was nine o’clock precisely and the most famous crack coach on the Brighton road had accomplished its fifty-five mile journey from the capital without losing a single minute on its timetable. No one seeing it now could possibly guess the truth about that eventful journey.
As Lewis turned his attention to the business of tipping and then recovering their luggage from the boot of the Nonpareil, Jane glanced around the square at the various ticket offices. There were so many, from the Spread Eagle office, Capp’s and Snow’s, to the Red and Blue offices and the Fleece, which belonged to her brother and outside which stood the splendid bright green Iron Duke, on the point of departure on its evening up run. It was a handsome vehicle, its panels shining like mirrors and its team of bays so perfectly matched and groomed that they were worthy of royalty. The liveried servant Jacob Wheddle had told her of was standing by the coach, a bottle of sherry and a silver box of sandwiches on an elegantly held little tray. The coachman, as sprucely attired as Sewell, was looking across at the Nonpareil with undisguised loathing, reminding her quite sharply of the race and her reason for being there. That steady gaze reminded her as well of the incident just before Sutton when the ox-wagon had so nearly caused a terrible accident. Had that been Henry’s work? She looked away from the Iron Duke, hoping with all her heart that her brother hadn’t had anything to do with it.
Lewis had recovered the luggage and was beckoning to his private carriage, which by previous arrangement was waiting to convey them across the town to the White Lion inn.
She looked around the square again, searching for one ticket office in particular, that associated with the Feathers and the Swan stagecoach. She saw it at last, its doors and shutters closed because the only up coach of the day had long since departed and there wouldn’t be any more business until the down coach the following morning. How sad and neglected it looked when compared with the others, and with the Nonpareil’s and the Iron Duke’s in particular. Her veil lifted in the light breeze as she looked at the other two again. What she’d witnessed on the road today had been proof enough to her that Henry wasn’t alone in needing to be taught a lesson, Chapman had more than joined him. She was going to do her utmost to deal them both a salutary blow on Midsummer Day, and nothing Lewis Ardenley said in the meantime was going to change her mind.
Sitting
in his private carriage a few minutes later driving toward the White Lion inn, she reflected that her only experience of public conveyances had been exceedingly unpleasant and she was relieved to think that tomorrow’s return journey would be in this luxurious vehicle and not the Nonpareil.
They entered the Steyne, the wide, fashionable thoroughfare where the king’s famous pavilion was built and where the race would finish outside the Castle inn. On such a quiet summer evening the Steyne was peaceful, with only a few elegant couples strolling, but on Midsummer Day it would be crowded with people, all anxious to see which stagecoach crossed the finishing line first.
She looked across at the king’s magnificent pavilion, which was almost complete now, having been altered from its original Italianate style to one which was oriental, being Indian on the outside and Chinese on the inside. With its shining domes and cupolas, it was rather like a set of ornate pepper pots, but she didn’t find it as ridiculous or eccentric as some. On the contrary, she found it exciting and alluring and was in complete agreement with the king, who adored it.
Leaving the more fashionable streets behind, the carriage drove toward narrow Bedford Lane, passing on the way the burned-down warehouse of which Henry had spoken, and for the fighting of which terrible conflagration he had claimed such false credit.
The White Lion was a low building, built some hundred years before when Brighton had still been a fishing village. White-washed, with windows which peeped out almost sleepily from beneath overhanging eaves, it seemed to hug its position as if afraid that at any moment the more fashionable part of the town might come to brush it aside. The carriage halted at the door and Jane looked approvingly at the flowers in the windows and the new paintwork of the inn, deciding that although the White Lion wasn’t the most fashionable inn she’d seen since arriving in Brighton, it was certainly the most welcoming. She turned her head as a soft sighing sound carried to her ears. It was the sea, the waves of the incoming tide lapping gently against the unseen beach nearby.
As the coachman took the carriage around to the stables at the rear of the inn, Lewis ushered the two women inside, and the landlord came hurrying immediately to attend them. He was a small, bustling man, his apron as crisp and clean as Jacob Wheddle’s, his manner all that was pleasing and agreeable. Jane felt uncomfortable when Lewis gave their names as Mr and Miss Havers, and she was glad she could hide behind her veil, for she was sure her embarrassment was written large upon her face.
The hall was as neat and well-kept as the outside of the building, with red tiles on the floor and chintz on the furniture and at the windows. The clock on the wall above the fireplace pointed to just gone half past nine, and the inn, in spite of being in an unfashionable part of the town, was doing a brisk trade. The tap room was very crowded, but it was evident that most of the custom came from local people, for the dining room opposite was almost deserted, indicating that very few guests were actually staying. Even though she knew it was highly unlikely that she’d know anyone at such an establishment, she was nevertheless highly relieved when a swift inspection of the faces presented to her revealed no one with whom she was even remotely acquainted.
Assuring them that dinner would be served the moment they came down to the dining room, the landlord called to a boy to carry their luggage up to the rooms which had been reserved for them on the first floor. Ellen went with the landlord to her own room, which was near that already occupied by Lewis’s coachman, somewhere close to the kitchens and other similar offices. Jane and Lewis followed the boy up the staircase.
Lewis drew her hand through his arm. ‘It may not be Grillion’s or the Clarendon,’ he murmured, ‘but it will suit our purposes, I fancy.’
‘Since the purposes are entirely yours, sir, you must be the sole judge of whether it suits or not.’
‘That’s very true,’ he agreed, halting outside her door while the boy placed her portmanteau inside and then hurried away, ‘so perhaps you should be a little on your guard, Lady Jane, for I might have any number of dastardly plans in store for you tonight.’
‘Plan away, sir,’ she replied with forced lightness, ‘for it will avail you nothing.’ Then she went into the room and gladly closed the door behind her, leaning back against it for a moment, her eyes closed. It was madness to be here like this; utter madness….
She looked around the room then. It was plainly but comfortably furnished, and was dominated by an immense carved-oak four-poster bed in. the center. Hung with dark green velvet and piled with several thick mattresses, it was so high that in order to climb into it one had to use a small flight of wooden steps, and once inside, with those heavy curtains drawn, it would be like being in a huge cocoon. The rest of the room was less impressive, with a small dressing table and chair, and a wardrobe in the alcove next to the chimney breast. The grate had been freshly blackened and even though it was summer, there was a plentiful supply of good coal in the bucket next to the highly polished fire irons. On the dressing table there was a fine porcelain jug and bowl, together with some hand towels and a face cloth, and there was even a cake of Windsor soap. The scent of crushed lavender hung in the air from the little bags in the drawers and wardrobe, and a posy of newly picked herbs swung to and fro in the light breeze coming in through the open window. She went to the window, looking out over the stables at the rear of inn toward the sea, which was only about a hundred yards away. She could see the beach, with its rows of huts on wheels for bathing, and the shelf of shingle leading down to the smooth expanse of sand, which was being covered more and more with each incoming wave as the tide crept slowly in. The sun had almost gone now, staining the western sky with a glory of crimson and red which shimmered on the water like liquid jewels, and the calls of seagulls echoed around the surrounding rooftops.
Ellen came up to assist her in dressing for dinner. Jane had deliberated for a long time about what to wear, for she could hardly sit down to dine in the same gown she’d worn all day, but at the same time she couldn’t appear at the White Lion in something too Mayfair and fashionable. It was a problem she’d solved in the end by opting for a lilac muslin gown which she usually wore with her amethyst necklace but which was itself plain and unadorned, and which she knew traveled well, even after being crushed into a fairly small portmanteau. Ellen piled her hair up into a knot at the back of her head, leaving a single curl to fall to the nape of her neck, and added the only item of jewelry Jane had allowed herself, a little crystal-studded comb which sparkled very prettily in the glow of the sunset pouring in through the window. Draping her shawl over her arms and picking up her reticule, Jane was ready to go down. Trepidation seized her again then and she looked anxiously at the maid. ‘How do I look?’
‘Very well indeed, my lady.’
‘I don’t know if I can trust myself, Ellen. He still sets me at sixes and sevens.’ But she took a deep breath and went out, closing the door quietly behind her.
Ellen lowered her eyes sadly. Lady Jane Derwent was one of the loveliest women in society, but she was also one of the most unhappy, and all because of her hopeless love for Lord Ardenley.
The long, low dining room was completely deserted as Jane went in. She waited, listening to the muffled sounds from the tap room opposite, sounds which suddenly became loud as the dining room door was opened and then closed once more. It was Lewis. He came toward her, and raised her hand to his lips. ‘Good evening again, Jane.’
‘Good evening.’ Oh, how she wished her hand wasn’t trembling so, for surely he must feel it.
He didn’t seem to notice anything. ‘I’ve taken the liberty of already ordering, and trust that you approve of my choice. It was either mutton, which I’m told is the finest in England because the flocks hereabout graze on pasture impregnated with salt from the sea, or lobster, caught fresh this very afternoon. I chose the lobster, since I seem to recall that it’s a favorite of yours.’
‘It is indeed.’
‘Excellent, then at least we shall not fall out over t
he menu. Shall we sit down?’ He indicated a table where a waiter stood patiently with a bottle of wine.
As Lewis drew out her chair for her, he glanced at the bottle. ‘I trust that that is the Portuguese?’
‘Yes sir, the very last bottle.’ The man quickly poured a little into a glass.
Lewis took his seat and sampled the wine, nodding appreciatively. ‘The last bottle, you say? What a pity, it’s quite excellent.’
The lobster proved to be excellent as well, and was served with new potatoes and a crisp, fresh salad. They’d finished the course before Lewis mentioned the reason for their being there. He sat back for a moment, his wine glass swirling in his hand as if it was a brandy glass. ‘How very agreeable this is, Jane. I’m almost tempted to be pleased you’ve been hatching such wildly improbable schemes of late.’
‘Yes, the food’s agreeable,’ she replied.
‘A deliberate qualification? The food’s good but the company isn’t? That’s hardly polite, Jane.’
‘Should I be polite, Lewis? I fail to see why, when you’ve forced all this upon me.’
‘Since when did lobster have to be forced on you?’
‘That’s not what I mean, and you know it.’
‘Perhaps I do.’ He swirled the glass again and then put it down. ‘On the way here today you told me that you wouldn’t change your mind about the race. Is that still so?’
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