by Jo Beverley
Quickly Hermione arranged the boys on her left side, saying, “Roger in front, Billy behind. Both of you hold tight to my skirt and don’t let go. Billy, keep an eye on your brother.”
With the valise in her right hand and her left ready to grab a wandering child, she steered a course through the melee of passengers. The people were close enough to a mob of their own, buffeting her and the children, intent only on their own direction.
When they achieved a bit of space in the innyard, Polly was waiting. “What happened to you? Really, Hermione.” She grasped Roger’s hand and towed him onward. Hermione took Billy’s hand and smiled at him.
“There’s nothing to fear, love. I see your father and the coach. We’ll be on our way soon.”
Then they were almost knocked to the ground by a big-bellied man bullying his way through to where a public coach was ready to go, full inside and crowded on top. There must be at least one space left, for the coachman was calling, “All aboard for Stockport! All aboard. I dare not dally!”
“Hold, coachman,” the man bellowed. “Double fare for a ticket!”
Hoping the bribing oaf didn’t get a seat on the coach, Hermione wove over to their sturdy old coach, where Polly’s husband, Sir William Selby, took the valise to stow in the boot. He was a slimly built, sensible man, but even he looked worried.
“There, see,” Hermione said to Billy as she guided him up the steps into the coach. “We’re safe now.”
Soon they were packed into the carriage and their coachman could steer out into the street, but there was almost as much chaos and crowding there. It looked as if all the coaches and travelers in the area had the same idea.
“We’re on our way,” Hermione said cheerfully, “and many of these people are traveling north or south. We’re going west, so we’ll soon have the road to ourselves.”
Perhaps the lads relaxed a bit, but baby Henrietta was grizzling. That could be because she was held tight in Polly’s arms and Polly was intent on the street, seeking any threat. So was William, who didn’t frighten easily, his long face anxious. Hermione couldn’t stop herself doing the same, though there’d be nothing any of them could do if they were surrounded by an inflamed mob. William didn’t even travel with a pistol.
She remembered how earlier in the year the London mob had turned on the Prince Regent’s carriage as he returned from opening Parliament. Stones had been thrown and even a shot fired. In March there’d been an enormous gathering in nearby Manchester, which had become known as the Blanketeers’ March because the protesting weavers had all carried blankets. The march had been stopped before it left Lancashire, but for a while it had seemed to herald disaster. Hundreds had been arrested.
The government had suspended habeas corpus and enacted new laws to control seditious meetings, but it seemed to be like putting a lid on a boiling pot—seething unrest kept bursting free. Hermione couldn’t believe that violent revolution could happen here as it had in France, but perhaps most French people had thought the same.
The situation in France had begun with moderate demands for reform, but ended up in rivers of blood—blood that had included that of Thayne’s family, breaking his mother’s mind. In the worst time, the period called the Terror, the sans-culottes had stopped coaches to haul out families they thought privileged and hack them to death, or hang them from a lamppost. “À la lanterne!” had been the cry. And “À bas les aristos.” Bring down the aristocrats.
Some of the French nobility had fled early, but most had been sure the insurrection would fizzle out. The royal family had waited too long to race toward Austria, the queen’s homeland. As a result many, including the royal family, had ended their lives on the guillotine, men and women both, their only crime their high birth.
If this local mob attacked their carriage, would it help to protest that they were impoverished nobility? Not when they had wealth beyond the dreams of many. Her stockings were darned, but she had stockings. They were traveling in an old-fashioned and quite uncomfortable coach, but many people must walk if they wanted to get anywhere. Most of the time they ate simple, frugal food, but they never went hungry or cold, and they always had good shelter.
Yes, they were privileged, and if some of those suffering the harsh effects of the postwar privations resented them, it wouldn’t be surprising. At home everyone would know that William was a good landowner who found work for as many as he could and paid fair wages. They’d know how the family provided charity for those in need. Here, no one knew any of that. The streets were crowded with people watching the coaches go by. Was she imagining sullen glares? At least there were no curses or shaken fists.
But then some soldiers came into view—foot soldiers under the command of a mounted officer. People fell back to make way for them. Hermione had enjoyed soldiers on display, looking fine in their uniforms, and had once been as entranced by a uniformed officer as any young lady. Now she saw them from a different angle. The men seemed hard-faced and grim, and many would have seen bloody action in the Peninsula and Waterloo. If the Riot Act was read, they would follow orders. Their bayonets would be lowered and their rifles fired.
“It seems wrong that they might soon be fighting fellow Englishmen,” she said.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Polly protested. “They are all that stands between us and the guillotine!”
William took the fretful baby from her. “Try to be calm, dearest. It’s not so dire yet.”
“Yet!” she echoed, but she did calm a little. William was good for her. “You can’t deny that there are people who want to bring about a revolution. Lord Sidmouth, the Home Secretary, said as much. People have been arrested for it.”
“Most reformers want change by legal means, love, and heaven knows reform is needed. But let’s not speak of it here.” He glanced at the boys. Billy in particular was following intently. “See, we’re away from the crowded area and can make better speed.”
He was right. They’d turned off the north–south road and were heading west.
Billy asked, “Can we have breakfast now?”
Roger removed his thumb to echo, “Breakfast.”
Henrietta began to whine.
The poor children were used to a comfortable routine and their nursemaid, Minnie Lowick. They were so attached to her, little Roger had even called her name instead of Hermione’s last night. Polly and William were loving parents, but much of the children’s care fell to Minnie, and nine-month-old Henrietta probably thought she’d been torn from her arms forever. Indeed, waving good-bye at the doors of Selby Hall, Minnie had looked as if she’d like to snatch back her charges from the unreliable arms of their parents. With hindsight it might have been worth squeezing her into the coach, but four adults plus three children really wouldn’t have been possible, and they couldn’t have asked Minnie to travel with the coachman, exposed to all weather.
“Not quite yet, boys,” William said. “We’ll stop when we’re well out of the city.”
Billy slumped and Roger stuck his thumb back in his mouth, but Henrietta gave up protest and fell back asleep. Hermione could relax a little, but this allowed her mind to return to the adventure in the night. In hindsight she couldn’t believe she’d let a man stay in her room—but it had been Thayne. She’d finally met Lieutenant Thayne again. It was delicious to accept that fact by daylight, but she must also accept that he was now a criminal. If she had any sense at all, she’d wish they would never meet again, even if this venture left her rich. She’d fallen into this entanglement as quickly as she had in the past. And that passionate kiss. She’d nearly lost all control!
But please let him not be dead.
She must hope they never met again, but she couldn’t bear the thought of him dead.
As the coach rumbled on, she couldn’t resist memories. When he’d told her about his mother, she’d wanted to take him into her arms. How horrible that must be, to not
exist for a parent. Worse than a death. She’d nursed her dying mother. Her death had come quickly after a carriage accident. She’d nursed her father, and that had been much harder. He’d been old, for he’d married late, and he’d declined over months, frequently in pain, frightened and angry. He’d been himself, however. Neither had slipped away in life.
She wished she knew his real name. She couldn’t keep thinking of him as Lieutenant Thayne when he was no longer in the military, and she was sure his name wasn’t Ned.
He’d be Thayne, then. Simply Thayne, and by that name surely she could find him. Against her will her mind slid toward dreams. If Great-uncle Peake was all she hoped he would be, there might be a future for them.
Chapter 7
At last, they stopped for breakfast. Polly didn’t think three miles far enough, but William overruled her. In the common dining room of the Three Bells they were the first ones bringing news of mayhem. Some people were alarmed, but it was clear others felt some sympathy for the Spenceans.
“Time Lunnon paid ’tention t’plight of t’north,” one burly man said in an accent so thick Hermione found it hard to understand.
“But not by public disorder,” said a pinch-faced clerical type.
“Orderly march, that’s all.”
“It’ll turn into disorder. You mark my words.”
“And why not?” asked a gray-haired man who’d been observing from the fireside, puffing on a pipe. “Think back to the Magna Carta. Where’d we all be if Bad King John hadn’t been stopped? Then there’s the Glorious Revolution that put Queen Mary and King William on the throne. Without that, we’d all be Papists. Or burning at the stake.”
“Lord have mercy!” exclaimed the clerical man’s wife. “When was that?”
“Not a hundred and fifty years ago, ma’am, after Charles the Second died and his brother James became king. Rabid Papist he was, and tried to foist a false son on us all. The warming-pan baby,” he reminded everyone.
“Oh, that,” said a big-breasted matron in a fur-trimmed cloak and a grand bonnet. She’d made no secret of being a wealthy widow who ran her dead husband’s saddlery business. “A substitute baby smuggled in by means of a warming pan when the queen’s child was stillborn? I’ve never seen a warming pan big enough.”
The man’s face twitched with annoyance. “We’ll be thinking you a supporter of the Stuarts, ma’am.”
“Only if you’re a fool,” she dismissed. Hermione delighted in her effortless authority. How splendid to be a wealthy widow running her own business.
“A royal bedpan,” the man persisted. “Everything they have is bigger than normal.”
Some of the people in the room were nodding, but the widow hadn’t finished. “You’ll be saying next that they have extra-large royal chamber pots. Those changes you talked of, sir, were brought about by the nobility squabbling among themselves and had nothing to do with folk like you and me. Look at how the first King George came upon us. He didn’t even speak English, but we had no say.”
“There you are, then,” said the man with the pipe. “That isn’t right.”
“But it preserved law and order from Papists and Scots. That’s all that matters to law-abiding folk.”
There was a murmur of agreement and the man fell silent, but Hermione noticed that his waistcoat was made of a fabric striped thinly in black, red, and green. Like Thayne’s neckcloth. And the bonnet of the woman in the innyard. Three very different people to be following a fad, but her main concern was stumbling across arguments in favor of unrest in such an unlikely place.
Once in the coach, Hermione wanted to discuss it with William, but it would upset Polly and disturb the boys. The boys were content now their stomachs were satisfied, but her own breakfast sat heavily inside her. Perhaps Polly was right to be fearful. It was as if there were a contagion in the air. She watched men digging out a drainage ditch, while others mended a nearby fence, and wondered whether their glances at their coach showed resentment or worse. Could they turn their tools as weapons against her family?
Oh, nonsense. This was England, and those were honest workingmen, just like the ones she’d known all her life. In Yorkshire she often passed time with their wives and daughters, talking about the weather and sharing wisdom about how to get the hens to lay, and how to preserve meat longer into the winter.
This journey could benefit everyone on William’s estate. With Great-uncle Peake’s money William would be able to hire men to do necessary repairs to Selby Hall and other buildings. There’d be improvements to the land and the laborers’ cottages. Polly would hire more servants in the house and dairy, and be able to be less frugal all around. What a merry Christmas the next one might be.
And Cousin Porteous would lose any ability to force her into marriage. She might even have a dowry large enough . . .
No. Despite magical memories and astonishing kisses, Thayne was a thief. There had to be many decent ways for a man like him to make his living, but he’d chosen to steal, which meant other people lost their hard-earned property to him. Even if he did reform when he could marry a rich woman, did she want a man like that?
Yes, said her weak and wanting part.
“Oh, you idiot.” She’d actually mumbled it and the others looked at her. “Sorry, nothing. Where do we stop next?”
“In Warrington,” William said, consulting a map and a guidebook. “We’ll dine there and give the horses a long rest. Our route crosses the main Carlisle-to-London road, so there are any number of inns. We have no need of the hustle and bustle of the center, so we’ll stop earlier.” He ran his finger down a page. “The Lamb sounds tranquil.”
In time, the coachman steered under an arch into a small innyard, but an ostler urged them through another arch into a more spacious area. “For there’s plenty of space back there, sir, and a lane back to the street.”
“And the small yard will then look more inviting to another coach,” Polly murmured.
“Nothing wrong with that,” William said as the coach just made it through the second arch. “And look, there’s a grassy area and a pond with ducks. After we’ve eaten, the boys will enjoy playing here.”
Not just ducks but ducklings, so the boys had to be compelled to eat first. As soon as they’d finished, they were fidgeting to be off. William said to Polly, “I’ll take them out there. The horses need more rest, so why don’t you and Hermione stroll around the town a little?”
Henrietta was asleep, so they soon set off, sharing the task of carrying her.
Hermione knew this jaunt was to help settle Polly’s nerves, for she loved to shop. Selby village offered no opportunity for this pleasure, and if they went to nearby Wakefield, Polly was more likely to be upset about all the items she couldn’t afford. This was shopping for amusement only, but it was spiced by possibility. Beneath every discussion of a bonnet, a china dish, or a bar of French soap ran, If we get Great-uncle Peake’s money . . .
The amusement was ended by an ominous rumbling sound from the infant, accompanied by a smell. Thank heavens Polly had charge of Henrietta at the moment. “Time to go back,” she said, in the manner of one forced back to grim reality.
“But toward our future,” Hermione said. “What do you say to my stopping at the shop to buy a bar of that soap? It’s not a great deal of money and it will remind us of all the other pleasures.”
“Oh, do! But I must hurry back.”
“I’ll be perfectly safe on this busy street for five minutes, and indeed if I were set upon by brigands, I don’t see what you could do.”
Polly laughed. “You’re always so practical, dearest. Very well, but don’t dally. I’m sure we must be off soon.”
She hurried back toward their inn, but Hermione dawdled, enjoying being on her own for a while. She wasn’t solitary by nature, for in Hampshire she’d enjoyed many social occasions, but she’d always been able to spend
time alone, sketching, reading, playing music, or simply whiling away time. That seemed sinfully indolent now, for at Selby Hall the family worked as hard as the servants. It was probably a sin to want to be able to afford indolence, but she did.
She entered the aromatic shop and lingered over the pleasure of choosing between a plain soap, a rose-scented one, and a lavender. In the end she chose the rose because Polly would prefer it, and the shop assistant wrapped it neatly in silver paper and tied it with a pink ribbon. Delighted by the prettiness of it, and completely satisfied with her purchase, Hermione left the shop—to almost bump into Thayne.
His apology was distracted, but then he truly saw her. And smiled in a most satisfying way. “Lady Hermione.”
“Sir.” She dipped a curtsy, unable to suppress a smile of her own, even though daylight didn’t amend his shabbiness. His hair was still too long beneath his unfashionably low-crowned hat, and his jacket had seen many better days, and he was still a thief. But his dark-lashed eyes were as fine as she remembered from the ball and her heart was dancing.
“How do you come to be here, wandering the streets without escort?” he asked.
“How do you come to be here without pursuers? Aren’t you supposed to be en route for London?” Suddenly she wondered whether he’d followed her there.
A number of romantic fancies were exploded when he said, “The road to London threatened to seize up because of the Spencean Crusade, so I traveled west to avoid delay. You’ve done the same?”
“Our route continues west. To Tranmere, in the Wirral.”
“Thus we cross by happy chance. May I escort you to your inn?”
Good sense commanded that she say no, but she was incapable of it. “So you’ve escaped pursuit,” she said as they strolled along.
“With your help.”
“Which I’m sure I should repent. Any theft has a victim.”
“I assure you, the victim in this case doesn’t deserve your sympathy. No, I’ll say no more, but I hope you believe me, for I’d not want you to suffer any qualms.”
