by Amelia Smith
Fog blanketed the streets of London that morning. Thomas looked in vain for a ray of sunlight. Despite the cold, the gutters stank. Yes, a good ride through the open countryside would clear his head. His valet could follow later. Much as he had hated the solitude of travel, he had grown used to it and the clarity it lent his thoughts. He needed that clarity now, needed to shake his misplaced affection for Miss Grey from his mind, if she did not so much as write to say farewell... but then, in her position, he could see why she wouldn't. It would lend credence to rumors spread by gossip-mongers like her aunt. He had even been congratulated on finding such a pretty new mistress. Would that it were so!
“Why the long face, Smithson?”
Thomas looked up to find that he was on the doorstep of his club. Mr. Churchill was on his way out, and looking positively gleeful.
“That would be Sir Pently, now that we're in London,” Thomas grumbled.
“Prickly, aren't we?” Churchill gave him a friendly punch to the shoulder.
“And you're acting like a child.”
Churchill rolled his eyes.
“Pardon me,” Thomas said, “I have business to attend to.”
“Very well then, have it your way,” Churchill said. “I'm off to India again. Could still use a man like you in the home office, if the aristocracy can't keep you busy enough.”
Thomas drew away. The man embodied everything about trade which his mother despised. Even at the ball, he'd been measuring the price of everything in sight, and couldn't hide his bald-faced desire to bring investors into his enterprise. He may even have found some. Thomas was not one of them.
“No, thank you,” Thomas said. “I find my family obligations quite enough to occupy my time. Good day.”
Churchill tipped his hat with a sneer, and then fairly bounced away down the lane.
#
“I will be glad to reach our new home,” Hyacinth said, on the last morning of their travels. They'd been in coaches and inns for four long days, each bumpier than the last, but after that first day, the company had been more genial, and there had been no more highwaymen. Something about the attack continued to prey on her mind. She had thought of confiding in Maria, but Maria was nervous enough already.
“Home?” Maria said. She looked rueful.
“Are you missing Gibraltar?” Hyacinth asked.
“I do miss the sun,” Maria said, “but no, it is only London that I'm thinking of.”
“Don't worry, I'm sure we'll find some way for you to see Harold again, before too long.”
“And you, your gentleman?”
Hyacinth shook her head and looked out the window. All morning, the landscape had been hilly and half wild, but here, it flattened into a broad valley of well-tended farmland. The coach jolted to an abrupt halt.
“Lindley Hall!” the coachman announced.
Maria and Hyacinth jumped up. Hyacinth leaned out at the doorway.
“Already?” she asked. “They said it was near the village of Grantley.”
The coachman pointed. “Grantley's just ahead there,” he said. Hyacinth had to get down from the coach to see the cluster of cottages nestled by the turn of a broad stream on the valley floor. Here, they overlooked it all, through gaps in the trees. “I can take you there, if you like,” the coachman offered, “but the hall's only a half-mile from here, down hill all the way.” He indicated a narrow but well-kept drive, just on the opposite side of the road. From where they'd stopped, the road ran steeply down toward the village. It would be a mile or so to walk back, up hill all the way, with their bags.
“No, that's fine,” Hyacinth said. “We can walk from here. We'll see the village later.” She beckoned for Maria to follow. They retrieved their baggage and the coach rolled away down the road. A man leading a donkey approached from the direction of the village and tipped his hat to the driver, who paused for a brief conversation which involved many broad gestures. The coachman waved back towards Hyacinth, and the man with the donkey nodded. As the coach moved on, he greeted Hyacinth.
“The man says you've come to see Lindley,” he shouted to them from a hundred yards down the road. “I can help you with your bags – just going that way, myself.”
“Thank you,” Hyacinth shouted back.
Maria took a deep breath, and they waited for the man and his donkey. A few small birds flitted through the trees, and though the day was cloudy, it was not overly cold.
“Good day to you, ladies,” the man said as he drew closer. He wore a tweed cap and rough-spun trousers. “My name's Matt,” he said. “I'm a gardener down at the hall.”
“We're pleased to meet you,” Hyacinth said. “This is Maria, and I'm... I'm Miss Grey.”
“Miss Grey, is it?” Matt looked puzzled. “I've heard that name somewhere, but I suppose it's a common name, Grey.”
Hyacinth nodded.
“Now, wait!” Matt struck his head. “You're not our Miss Grey, are you?”
She blushed. “Well, I... I'm Mrs. Miller's heir, if that's what you mean.”
“By Golly,” Matt said. “And to think I'm the first here to meet you.” He stuck out his hand for Hyacinth to shake, and then shook Maria's hand, too. “Come on to the hall then! No time to waste. We've all been waiting to meet you!”
Maria helped secure their larger bag on the donkey's back, and together they followed the drive through a small bit of woodland. It gave way to an orchard, on a south-facing slope.
“Them's apples,” Matt said, “and cherries that way. We make a bit of cider, but they're mostly for pies.”
Hyacinth was charmed. “I never thought I'd have an orchard,” she said.
“Don't worry, we'll take care of it for you. You'll see it blooming soon enough, April or so, just a few months away.”
“It's beautiful even now,” Hyacinth said. Then they turned a corner and she saw the hall. It sat beside a lake, a well-kept manor house which must have been a hundred years old, or more. It had a newer wing, and at a glance, she guessed it would be large enough to accommodate at least twenty girls, and a few tutors. It would be a beautiful school, if she could manage it. Looking at Matt, the gardener, proudly leading his donkey down the lane, she realized that the people who were already here should have some say in the matter, too. She would consult them all.
“It's quite large,” Hyacinth said. “I'd seen maps, but seeing it in person is quite another matter.”
“It is a fine old house,” Matt said.
“And how many are living here? Mr. Butler, the solicitor, mentioned a manager, but I know nothing of the rest of the staff.”
Matt whistled. A moment later, a young boy emerged from the stables beside the house and started up to meet them. “You'll see yourself. There's myself and three other gardeners. Joe, there, is the stable boy,” he said, pointing at the boy who was running up towards them. “There's the cook and three maids inside. We kept them on, on account of not having any reason not to, as Mrs. Miller provided for us all. Then of course there's Mr. and Mrs. Owen, who manage the place. It was Mr. Owen who said we might see you soon.”
The boy arrived, panting.
“Joe,” Matt said, “here's our own Miss Grey, and a Miss Maria with her.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Joe mumbled.
“Now run along and tell the others. We ought to line up to meet her, like they do at Lawton.”
Hyacinth froze for a moment. “Lawton? As in the Sir Pently of Lawton?”
“There's a Lord Algernon Pently there, there is, and a baroness, too, though she's away in London.”
“Oh. Dear. We'll be neighbors,” Hyacinth said.
The gardener, preoccupied with his donkey, did not notice anything amiss.
“We all have neighbors,” he said, “and some are good, and some are not so good, but we tolerate each other well enough most days.” He stroked the donkey's neck. “And now you ladies had best go inside, and see the place. Mr. and Mrs. Owen will be along in a trice, I'm sure.”
&n
bsp; #
Chapter 15: Home
The sun woke her, peeking straight in through the curtains of her new bedroom, which looked out over the lower slope of the orchard. It would be her very own. Her grandmother's bedroom, the largest in the house, faced the lake, but she'd chosen this one for herself, with its yellow and pink drapes and its view of the trees. She and Maria had spent most of the day before in a whirlwind of introductions, meeting the people who lived and worked on the estate. The small staff seemed happy and quite informal in their distinctions of rank. She wondered what it would be like as a school and tried to imagine how two dozen or more girls and young women might find a place here. Already, it felt like home to her, but she did not want to be lonely here.
She would miss the lights of London and her shipboard companion. He might have a house just across the valley, but he would probably spend most of his time in London. He would be a world away, wherever he was. In a few years, they might be able to meet in the village and say hello without thinking too much of what might have been. She would have her school, and he would have his family, and it would all be well enough, she tried to tell herself.
Out in the orchard, one of the gardeners was walking amongst the trees, inspecting them. Below stairs, she could make out a few rattles from the kitchen. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she made her way to the writing desk, already supplied with paper and ink, thanks to Mrs. Owen. She wrote first to her father, to let him know that she had moved to her grandmother's old estate. Next, she wrote to George, omitting all details about the highwayman, except to say, “We even saw a highwayman outside London!” She penned a terse note to Aunt Celia, assuring her that she had arrived safely, and asking that her trunk be sent along after her.
Looking out the window, she saw the gardener making his way back towards the house for the servants' breakfast. She ought to go down, herself, but she wanted to let Thomas know that she'd arrived, too. She couldn't write to him. She wouldn't. She wrote to Georgiana, instead. “My dear friend,” she wrote:
“I arrived yesterday at Lindley Hall. I was surprised to learn that it is only a short distance from Lawton. Lindley is charming. There is a lovely orchard, and as far as I can tell it is in good repair and quite large enough for a small school, perhaps some twenty students, if they are two to a room. It would be a modest establishment, in any case. I plan to speak with some of the staff about the possibility later today.
Our journey was not without incident. Though most of it passed calmly enough, we met with a highwayman on our first day of travel, not too far from London. He made off with the contents of all our purses, which included my grandmother's necklace, the one I wore to the Spencers' ball last Saturday. I had wanted to bring it with me, which was foolish, I suppose. I feel that I ought not to have lost it, and worse, that the thief might have followed me from London – how or why, I do not know.
Do you think it would be possible to hire a Bow Street runner to see if it makes an appearance in a jeweler's shop? I don't mean to impose, but I don't know who else to ask.
Sincerely,
Miss Hyacinth Grey
There, Hyacinth thought. That would do. She was still distressed about the loss of the necklace – it had such weight, such magnificence, that it must be worth something, but looking out at her new home, it seemed a world away. Perhaps that was why her grandmother had chosen to live so far from London, in the end. Here, Hyacinth felt, she could build her own life, and she was going to set out to do just that.
#
Thomas mounted Polaris on a fine morning a few days after the ball. He had a change of clothes in his saddlebags, a good pistol at his side, and a warm, rugged greatcoat. Although it was a fine coat, it was not too fine, and simple enough to let people assume he was in some nobleman's employ, and not the owner of the horse, himself. The coattails settled across Polaris's haunches as they rode out of London.
He did his best to travel quietly, but Polaris attracted attention on the road, just as Hyacinth's grandiose gem had drawn stares and comments at the ball. Thomas acknowledged them all, and did his best to deflect attention away from himself where he could. He rode from first light to dusk, resting where Polaris needed to pause, and settling in at whatever inn was nearest at nightfall. He ate in taverns, listening to the now-unfamiliar accents of his home country, musing.
In some ways, it was reassuring to be home. Here, despite his fine horse, he could sit in the corner of a crowded taproom and fade into the walls, into the crowds, in a way that had been impossible in India. Though he'd prospered and even been a bit happy in his time there, he'd never had this feeling of being loosely akin to the people around him, whether they were commoners or aristocrats. Here at last, he needed no translators; there were no wholly unfamiliar languages to make sense of; and besides, he looked like everyone else. In London, muffled in his family's pomp, he hadn't had time to see it, but now that he rode alone, he did. He hadn't known he was missing this, all those years.
On the fourth day, in the late afternoon, he reached the edge of the valley. Lindley Hall sat just down the road, if he remembered correctly. The little village of Grantley nestled by a bend in the stream, looking very much as he had last seen it ten years ago, if a little shabbier here and there. Just over the far ridge, and about two miles more along the road, was his father's house, or rather, his mother's house, though she seemed to have abandoned it. If he pressed on, he might reach it by sundown. Polaris shook out his mane.
“All right, boy,” Thomas said. “On we go. It'll be a warm stables for you tonight, or my name's not Tommy.”
The horse seemed to roll his eyes.
“Well, Tommy or Thomas Sir Pently future Sir Pently of Lawton and heir presumptive to Windcastle.”
Polaris nodded, and trotted on down into the valley. At the village, Thomas and Polaris slowed to a walk. Here, as elsewhere, people noticed Polaris as a rare specimen of equine perfection. A few men, standing outside the village inn, hailed him.
“That's a fine horse you've got there, Sir,” one of them said.
Thomas nodded. “Thank you,” he said, “I'm just...” He hesitated. He'd been telling lies along the way, saying that he was only delivering the horse, but here, he was too close to home for that. The smell of a hot roast over a fire wafted out on the late afternoon air, and the ale in the men's tankards looked strong and as good as any he'd had in the past few days.
“I'm just traveling over to Lawton tonight,” he said. “Is there a swift lad here who could carry a message ahead for me?”
“Sure there is,” one of the men said. “I'll go fetch my Jimmy.”
Thomas thanked him, then dismounted and led his horse around to the stables. While he saw that Polaris was supplied with fresh water and a bucket of grain, as well as a rack of clean-smelling hay, a pock-marked boy of about sixteen appeared.
“My dad said you wanted a message delivered up to Lawton,” he said.
“I do, but I haven't had time to write it down,” Thomas said.
“Don't worry,” the boy said, tapping his head. “I can keep it all in here.”
“I'd rather...” Thomas would rather write a note, and remain anonymous just a little while longer, but if he kept the message simple, it would do. “No, I suppose you can keep the message in your head, can't you?”
“I can,” Jimmy said, proudly. “And I'll only deliver it to Mr. Fowles himself.”
“Fowles!” Thomas said. “Is he still with us?”
Jimmy looked confused.
“To be sure,” he said. “He's only thirty. Took over from his father five years ago.”
Timothy Fowles had been Richard's age. They'd all played together as boys. When Thomas had last seen him, he'd been on holiday from his college. It was not surprising that he'd taken his father's post as butler, even at that young age.
“And what's your message then, Sir?” Jimmy asked. “I've got to be back by full dark, or not too long after, or my mother'll worry.”
“V
ery well, tell Tim this: Tommy... no, Thomas will arrive later tonight, prepare a bedroom and the best stall in the stables for his new horse.”
The boy repeated the message. “Is that your name?” he asked. “Thomas?”
“It is, now get along.” Thomas handed him a shilling.
“That's too much!” the boy protested.
“Take it,” Thomas said. “Tell them I'll be along soon.”
#
Thomas carved his meat at the common board in the village inn, surrounded by people he'd seen often, as a child. He was a stranger here now, but he wouldn't be for long. He felt the villagers eying him, heard the murmur of their speculative whispers. Finally, as he was sopping up the juices with a piece of crusty bread, the man who'd first spoken to him outside took the stool across from him at the table.
“My boy, Jimmy, said your name was Thomas,” he began. “It seems to us,” he said, with a nod to the group he'd just left, “that the Sir Pently's second son was named Thomas, and you have a bit, just a bit, of the look of that family.”
Thomas shrugged. “I hope I've gotten the better part of it, not the worst.”
The man chuckled. “I'm Griggs, the miller. It's up to you if you want to introduce yourself. We heard the second son got lost at sea on his way to India, but seems it was only a bit of a rumor.”
“When was that?” Thomas raised his brow.
“Ah, now you look more like the family,” Griggs said. “It was years ago, not long after we last saw the boy. Would that be you?”
Thomas took a deep breath. “It would.”
Griggs slapped his thigh in satisfaction. “Ha! Then let me be the first to say, welcome home.” He laughed, and waved to his friends. “You owe me a pint!”
The other men came to Griggs, hovering behind him for a moment before pulling up their own stools. A thin one, a farmer by the look of him, set his hand on Griggs's shoulder. “Don't mind Griggs if he's been impertinent, please,” he said, a little nervously. “He's had a few pints already.”
“No, no, I don't mind,” Thomas said hurriedly. “Truth is, I've been traveling alone all the way from London, and I could do with a bit of friendly company. Besides, I wouldn't mind knowing what's been happening in the neighborhood while I've been away.”
