Lady Jane's Ribbons

by Sandra Wilson

  Sewell and Chapman glowered at him, while the crowd curled up with mirth at this display of unfriendly rivalry. On the Swan, Will remained still and quiet, the beads of perspiration still standing out on his pale forehead. Jane noticed how his hand trembled on the ribbons. Her own nerves were far from steady, and her heart hadn’t stopped its wild thundering since the moment they’d left the Feathers.

  On his curricle, Lord Sefton was looking at his watch for a final time. The queen stood up in her carriage to watch, and everything was suddenly so quiet that the animals in the royal menagerie could be heard very clearly indeed. The marshal raised his hand. The three stagecoaches were poised, their teams screwed up to a veritable pitch as they responded to the change in the atmosphere. Then Lord Sefton dropped his arm, the cannon boomed, and the three coaches sprang forward together toward the narrow confines of Eastcheap.

  Jane clung to her seat as the Swan surged into action, the chestnuts pulling so effortlessly that the stagecoach could have been weightless. Will had anticipated the signal to absolute perfection, stealing a slight march on the others so that unbelievably the Swan entered Eastcheap in the lead.

  Twisting in her seat, she saw the Iron Duke and the Nonpareil thundering neck-and-neck behind, with beyond them the medley of following carriages, led by Lord Sefton’s yellow curricle. The noise was incredible as the whole concourse poured along Eastcheap, jostling for position and driving as fast as the stagecoaches.

  The crowds passed in a blur, their cheers reverberating between the houses as Will prepared to negotiate the sharp turn to the south directly ahead, using the brakes for the first time. He’d avoided using them all the way from the Feathers, but his speed was too great now to postpone the moment any longer. Jane tensed, not knowing quite what to expect.

  Then they were upon the corner, the brakes snatching fiercely so that the team’s heads came up. Jane held on tightly, her eyes closed as the coach swung around the corner, losing precious inches on its rivals because Will had applied too much pressure and lost too much speed. She heard him curse under his breath as he tooled the chestnuts up to a swift pace once more.

  Ahead rose the two-hundred-foot column called the Monument, built to commemorate the great fire of 1666, which had started close to this spot. There was a gallery at the very top, and people were crowded into it, waving and cheering as the three coaches swept closer, followed by the company of fashionable carriages and the light vehicles of the sporting gentlemen.

  London Bridge was in sight now, and although Jane could hardly believe it, the Swan was holding on to its lead. This was about to change, however, and it was because of a misunderstanding between Will and herself. An open landau was drawn up at the foot of the Monument, and as she saw it she remembered that Charles had said Alicia and her newly reconciled husband were to join the carriages following the race from this point. The landau was theirs and because its hoods were down she saw its occupants quite clearly. They sat side-by-side, their backs toward the oncoming race, and there was an ominous gap between them. Jane stared at them as the Swan thundered past. The duke’s thin, elderly visage looked pinched, to say the least, while Alicia looked positively furious, her face flushed and angry. They’d quarreled already. ‘Oh, no.’ she breathed, still staring back at the landau, which was moving forward as it joined the following carriages.

  Will heard her and thought something was wrong. Automatically he began to rein in. ‘What is it, Lady Jane?’ he cried.

  The Swan’s speed fell away dramatically. ‘Nothing’s wrong, Will,’ she cried looking back again to see to her dismay that the other two coaches were on the point of passing. ‘Drive on, Will! Quickly!’ But it was too late, the Iron Duke and the Nonpareil galloped by, and she distinctly heard Chapman’s triumphant laughter.

  Will urged the chestnuts into action again, but as they crossed the bridge toward the southern bank of the Thames, the Swan was trailing in third place.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Chased by the throng of sporting vehicles and carriages, the race dashed noisily through Southwark, cheered on from every pavement and window. As the Elephant & Castle was passed, the two leading coaches were together. Sewell resorted to his whip to try and edge the Nonpareil into the lead before they reached open country, but on the flat the Nonpareil’s revolutionary design had no advantage over the more conventional Iron Duke, and Henry’s skill was anyway equal to his opponent’s.

  Bringing up the rear, the Swan was cheered on as well, especially by the women, but Jane could see that very slowly the other two coaches were pulling away. She looked anxiously at Will. ‘They’re getting away! Can’t we go faster?’

  He hesitated, knowing that it was his timidity which was at fault; then with sudden resolve he cracked the whip. The team sprang forward as if stung and the wind buffeted Jane’s bonnet, forcing her to hold it tightly on. The parasol had long since been placed safely by her feet, where it lay with its blue fringe trembling in the draft of air which swept against the coach from the speed with which it was traveling.

  Looking behind again, she gazed at the following concourse. A cloud of dust was rising above the company of carriages, curricles, cabriolets, and horsemen pursuing the race out of the capital, and she could see Lord Sefton’s yellow curricle in the lead, with the Duke of Dursley’s purple cabriolet close behind. Beyond their accompanying band of sporting gentlemen, she could just make out Blanche’s landau, one of the only ones to be sensibly hooded, and the Brantingham landau, its hoods down so that its occupants must already be liberally covered with the choking dust. She stared at the elegant vehicle, thinking that far from assisting the Brantinghams to mend their quarrel, the dust would make it ten times worse, since Alicia loathed being anything other than perfectly turned out.

  Her attention was whisked back to the front again then as the race passed through the open turnpike at Kennington. The leading stagecoaches seemed to be a little closer now that Will had urged the team on, but even as she thought it a sharp bend in the road made Will check the Swan’s flight just a little too much. Sewell and Henry suffered no such hesitation; they drove on without slowing at all, again drawing inexorably away from the Swan.

  They were in open country now, the city sliding away fast behind them as the fresh teams pounded along the almost deserted road, few other vehicles risking being caught up in the helter-skelter of race day. There were still people lining the wayside, but they were becoming fewer and fewer in number, just little groups here and there as the workers from the fields came to the road to watch the race.

  Cow parsley and blue flax swayed and bobbed as the leading coaches drove furiously by, still neck-and-neck, and Jane could see her brother’s lithe figure bending forward just a little as he sought to coax just that little extra pace from his flying team of strawberry roans. The Iron Duke’s bright green panels were already a little dulled from the dust kicked up, and she could taste that same dust on her lips.

  With each bend in the road, Will’s lack of confidence and inexperience cost the Swan precious inches. He couldn’t bring himself to use the brakes, his training and instinct telling him that each application put a strain on the wheels, and so Jane had the torment of watching the others draw inexorably further and further away.

  Will knew his failings and glanced apologetically at her. ‘I can’t do it, Lady Jane,’ he shouted above the noise of the coach, ‘I’m just too afraid!’

  ‘It’s only for one day, Will.’

  ‘I know.’ His whip cracked again, but although the chestnuts flung themselves willingly forward, making the coach lurch tangibly faster, the next corner saw those inches lost once more.

  Ahead, Henry was fighting to stay with the Nonpareil now, for the corners gave the low, wide Nonpareil the upper hand and Sewell wasn’t slow to capitalize on this. At the bridge where he had almost overturned his unfortunate rival on the day that Jane and Lewis had traveled to Brighton, he at last gained the advantage, squeezing the Nonpareil into a definite lead, one
which Henry would have to work very hard indeed to snatch back. Behind them both, the Swan thundered on, catching up a little on every straight, losing again at every bend, bridge, and descent.

  There were crowds again at Mitcham, where the air was sweet with the scent of lavender and herbs from the surrounding market gardens, but Jane was hardly aware of anything, clinging to the edge of her seat as the Swan flew along the street. The taste of dust seemed to have spread now from her lips to her entire mouth, but she didn’t really notice. Taking yet another glance behind, she saw Lord Sefton’s curricle some hundred yards away, with the Duke of Dursley close behind, and beyond them the light racing vehicles of their gentlemen friends. Then there was a gap before the brilliant company of following carriages could be made out through the dust. She saw Blanche’s landau, still managing gamely to stand the pace, but the Brantingham landau was nowhere to be seen.

  Mitcham faded away behind as they raced on toward the end of the first stage at Sutton. Ahead now lay the dell where the ox-wagon had so nearly managed to cause such a dreadful accident to the Nonpareil. The memory was suddenly very vivid indeed, like a warning cry in her head, and she quickly put a hand on Will’s arm. ‘Have a care, this is a dangerous place!’

  She could see the lane now, and smell the perfume of lily-of-the-valley. The overhanging trees muffled the passage of the coach, making everything seem oddly quiet after the noise of the open road. The road curved, taking the other two coaches out of sight, and eliminating for the time being the view of the following spectators; the Swan was to all intents and purposes alone. Jane could hear her heart pounding with rising fear as she stared at the entrance of the lane, so hidden still by leaves that to the uninitiated it was quite invisible. Something was going to happen again!

  Suddenly the road wasn’t clear any more – a small flock of sheep spilled from the lane directly into the Swan’s path, milling around frantically as two dogs snapped and barked at them.

  Jane screamed as it seemed the coach must plough straight into them, and Will gave a startled oath as he struggled to rein the flying horses in. The team’s heads came up and their haunch muscles bulged with the effort of trying to stop, but the coach’s impulsion was too great; it hurtled on toward the terrified, helpless sheep.

  Jane clung to the seat. ‘Will! The brakes!’ she screamed. ‘Use the brakes!’

  At the very last moment he grabbed at the handle, applying the brakes with all his might and fighting back a cry of pain as he wrenched the muscles in his hand. The coach shuddered and the brakes whined against the wheels, but the speed was almost immediately checked, the horses rearing and plunging as they managed to halt within inches of the panic-stricken sheep. The dogs didn’t give up, but continued harrassing their prey.

  With another curse, Will rose to his feet, snatching up his whip and cracking it like a pistol close to the ears of first one dog and then the other. The effect was electrifying. With frightened yelps, they took to their heels and vanished back along the lane. The sheep immediately broke away in the opposite direction, streaming into the undergrowth and making good their escape before the dogs returned.

  Jane was too shocked to speak as Will sat down again. He winced as he took up the reins, for a pain lanced through a torn muscle in his right hand. Clicking his tongue to soothe the unnerved horses, he moved the Swan forward once more, just as Lord Sefton’s curricle headed the spectators around the curve behind.

  The team came swiftly up to a spanking pace once more, but precious time had been lost and there was now no sign at all of the other two stagecoaches. Moreover, it was soon obvious that the injury to Will’s hand had made matters much worse as far as the unfortunate Swan was concerned.

  Jane looked anxiously at him. ‘Can you manage?’

  ‘Just about. God damn that villain Chapman!’

  ‘Chapman?’ Her eyes widened then. ‘You don’t mean that the sheep were his doing?’

  ‘Reckon so. There was a man in that lane, and I’d swear I’d seen him at the Black Horse.’ His whip cracked and he whistled encouragement to the team to fling themselves into their collars as they drew the coach out of the dell on toward the first cottages of Sutton.

  The other coaches were to change teams at the Cock Inn, but the Swan’s fresh team waited beyond the town at a fork in the road. As the Swan passed the inn, Jane saw the skewbalds and roans of the Nonpareil and Iron Duke, but of the coaches themselves there was no sign. Will shouted out to an ostler as the Swan dashed by, and was told that they’d driven on one minute earlier, the Nonpareil still marginally in the lead.

  Lewis’s second team waited at the appointed place, and as the Swan drew to a weary standstill, the grooms from Maywood rushed forward to unharness the tired team. Jane’s heart was pounding as she watched, for it seemed that they were taking an age. Lord Sefton, the Duke of Dursley, and their friends had all taken fresh horses at the Cock Inn and were now coming along the road again, slowing and finally halting altogether as the Swan remained obstinately stationary by the fork in the road. The fresh team were almost harnessed, but one of the traces was refusing to untwist. It couldn’t be left, for if it untwisted on the road, the resulting snap might break it. The grooms rattled and shook it, but the metal links stayed where they were. Will glanced at his father’s watch. Precious time was slipping away, and the leading coaches were moving further and further out of reach with each second.

  ‘Can’t you finish?’ he cried out in desperation. ‘We want to reach Brighton today, not next week!’

  ‘Keep your hair on, we’re doing the best we can!’ growled the man in charge, scowling as much in embarrassment as annoyance.

  Jane turned in her seat to see the following concourse beginning to catch up as well, all coming to a gradual standstill behind the earl and his friends. It was so humiliating, as if fate was determined not to lift a finger to aid the poor Swan. She could have wept with frustration, especially when she saw the Brantingham landau again, its hoods wisely raised now.

  Suddenly the trace capitulated, straightening so easily that it was hard to believe that it had put up such a struggle. Will didn’t wait a second. His whip cracked and the fresh team plunged forward, almost snatching the coach out into the road again. Their hooves clattered on the tinder-dry surface, and the wheels rumbled, while Jane heard whip after whip cracking behind as the following carriages began to move again as well. But how much time had they lost? She looked anxiously at Will, raising her voice above the noise. ‘How late are we?’

  ‘Five minutes on Dad’s reckoning,’ he shouted back.

  She stared ahead in dismay. Five minutes, five ignominious minutes, and they’d only covered the first stage! There were another four stages to cover yet; how much more time would they lose before trailing into Brighton a disgraced third? Oh, please, please let luck be on the Swan’s side for a change!

  THIRTY-TWO

  Only once during the next stage did they even catch a glimpse of their opponents, and that was when the road ahead rose over Banstead Downs. Jane could see the others quite clearly, and it seemed that somehow or other Henry had taken the lead, dashing over the summit with the Nonpareil at his heels.

  Will’s injured hand was giving him a great deal of pain, but he struggled valiantly to continue, and he was gradually coming to terms with the brakes, which had after all probably saved their lives in the dell. But five minutes was a lot to make up, and Jane knew that with each mile to Reigate, only seconds were being clawed back.

  After the incident with the sheep, and Will’s certainty that it hadn’t been accidental, she was still very nervous, scanning the road ahead and the fields for a sign of further trouble. She was trembling inside, and clinging to the edge of her seat more tightly than necessary. Oh, how she wished Lewis was with her and that he’d never gone back to Maywood the night before.

  The air on the downs was sweet and warm, and she could hear the high-pitched songs of larks far above. She saw Tumble Beacon again, and remembered w
ryly the defiant thoughts she’d had when last she’d seen it. She’d been so convinced that the Swan was going to take the others on as an equal, challenging them on their own level; the truth was proving very different.

  They reached the top of Reigate Hill with no further sight of the other two stagecoaches. The spectators following were now stretched in a long, straggling line, with a considerable gap between Lord Sefton and his friends and the first of the carriages. As the Swan began the dangerous descent, Will applied the brakes with something approaching confidence. The countryside of the weald stretched ahead, hazy with sunshine, allowing only a vague impression of the distant South Downs, beyond which lay Brighton, their goal.

  The Swan dashed through the town of Reigate, where people lined the pavements to cheer the tardy coach on its way, the women again calling encouragement as they saw Jane on the box. At the White Hart, where the Iron Duke and the Nonpareil had changed teams minutes before, the lapse of time was sufficient for the tired teams to have been led away out of sight. Will shouted an inquiry as he drove past, and an ostler called back that the others were still nearly five minutes ahead, with the Iron Duke still somehow in the lead. Jane’s hands clenched and unclenched with frustration. In spite of their efforts, they weren’t making any impression on that gap!

  On the far side of the town, more grooms from Maywood were waiting with the fresh horses, and to Jane’s great joy she saw that Lewis was with them. He was mounted on a nervous, capering black horse, his head uncovered so that his golden hair shone in the bright sunlight. He wore a dark green riding coat and beige breeches, and he looked concernedly at Jane as he maneuvered his horse close as Will drew the coach to a weary standstill. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes. Just.’

  He reached over to put his hand on hers. ‘What’s been going on? Why isn’t Arthur driving? And why on earth are you so far behind?’