by M C Beaton
“My dear,” said Mr. Palfrey unctuously after Lord Arthur and Dolph had introduced themselves, “here is the baron.”
“What’s this?” cried Lord St. Dawdy, glaring awfully at Felicity. “Who’s this red-haired chit? Where’s my beauty?” And he pulled out the miniature.
“You have been sent the wrong picture,” said Felicity, striving for calm. Why did Lord Arthur have to be here? She could easily have extracted herself from this painful situation quite calmly had he not been looking at her with those amused eyes. “That is a portrait of my elder sister Maria, who married the Bishop of Exeter last year.”
“Oh, it is, is it?” raged the baron. “Well, let me tell you, Palfrey, the wedding’s off. You cheated me. You promised me a beauty, not… not this.”
Long afterward, Lord Arthur was to wonder why he had not remained silent. As it was, he said in glacial tones, “My dear baron, your wits must be wandering. Miss Felicity has a very rare beauty—quite out of the common way.”
Mr. Palfrey brightened. All might yet be saved. “Perhaps, my lord,” he said with a genteel cough, “you might consider marrying my stepdaughter yourself. Her dowry is…”
“You vulgar little man,” said Lord Arthur in tones of contempt. “Why don’t you take her to Smithfield Market and put her on the block? How dare you treat any gently-bred miss in this common manner?”
“Now you mention it,” said the baron with a wicked gleam in his eyes, “she’s quite a filly. Walk up and down a bit.”
“I am not in the ring at Tattersall’s,” said Felicity, gritting her teeth. “No!”
“Suit yourself,” said the baron. “Sit down. Sit down. Here’s tea.”
The little company arranged themselves round the table at which the baron was seated. It was not covered by a cloth, and because of the sloping floor it sloped as well so that guests and hosts were kept busy catching their teacups as they slithered to the edge of the table. The tea was weak and tasted dusty. The sandwiches looked as if they had been made some time ago, which indeed they had, the baron having entertained the vicar to tea two days before. He had ordered the housekeeper to keep the leftovers so that they might be served up again.
For once, Mr. Palfrey and his stepdaughter shared the same thought, but for different reasons—if only Lord Arthur Bessamy were not present!
Dolph began to chatter nervously about the Prince of Wales’s recent appointment as Regent and of the splendid party he had given in Clarence House. The baron’s brooding and lustful eyes fastened greedily on Felicity’s rounded bosom.
Felicity began to feel faint. The room was close and warm, and the smell from the baron was something quite dreadful. Lord Arthur’s exotic and unexpected presence upset her. If only he had kept quiet! Then the baron might have continued to be disappointed in her appearance.
But one thing sang in her head. She would not marry the baron, no matter what happened. She had dreamed of an old and fatherly man, not this horrible, gross creature. She longed for Miss Chubb’s reassuring company.
While Dolph rattled on, Mr. Palfrey and the baron exchanged looks and then the baron winked and nodded his head. Mr. Palfrey heaved a sigh of relief.
There was a smash as Dolph’s teacup hit the floor. The rest were managing the peculiar exercise of leaving their cups for a moment, then catching them just as they slid to the edge of the table.
“You’ll pay me for that,” said the baron. “Why don’t you take Miss Felicity outside for a walk, Dolph?”
Dolph jumped to his feet. Glad to escape, Felicity rose and accepted his escort. Lord Arthur followed them out.
They walked in silence through the sunny, tangled grounds, Felicity in the middle, Dolph on her left hand, Lord Arthur on her right. It was so bright, warm, and rose-scented that Felicity wondered bleakly why some of the sunshine could not light up the darkness in her soul.
“The weather is very fine, is it not?” ventured Dolph. Felicity lowered her parasol and withered him into silence with a look of contempt. Here she was, about to be forced into marriage with an old lecher, and this London fool was babbling on about the weather.
“Tell me,” said Lord Arthur, “have you ever met a tailor’s boy called Freddy Channing?”
“No, my lord,” said Felicity loftily, as if such a person were definitely beneath her notice.
“Strange,” he murmured, “in such a sparsely populated region, I felt sure you would know everyone hereabouts.”
“I do not go about much,” said Felicity repressively.
“Perhaps after your marriage…”
“You are in error. I shall not marry, and certainly not Lord St. Dawdy.”
“But your stepfather seems very determined.”
“So am I,” said Felicity. “What brings you here, Lord Arthur?”
“I came with my friend, Mr. Godolphin. He is Lord St. Dawdy’s nephew.”
“And do you visit your uncle often, Mr. Godolphin?” asked Felicity.
“From time to time,” said Dolph, struggling with his stock, which appeared to have become very tight. He thought this ferocious little girl was proving to be an uncomfortable companion.
“You do not seem to be enjoying our company,” said Lord Arthur, a mocking note in his voice.
“No, I am enjoying none of this,” said Felicity. “If you had not found it necessary to praise my appearance, Lord Arthur, then the baron might have cried off.”
“I am sorry, but then, I do find you beautiful, Miss Channing,” said Lord Arthur, a caressing note in his voice.
Felicity’s face flamed, and she rounded on him. “But you do not like me well enough to marry me,” she said evenly. “Only to praise me in order to bait the baron.”
“I say,” bleated Dolph helplessly.
Lord Arthur looked down at Felicity with something approaching dislike. He had been toying with the idea of doing something in the way of knight-errantry. He had been considering proposing to Felicity himself, for she fascinated and intrigued him, and he was sorry for her.
But because of his wealth and his title, he was used to people toadying to him quite dreadfully. No one had dared to criticize him for years, except perhaps Dolph, but Dolph was a man. Men who were friends were allowed the occasional remark—but females, never!
“I should not for a moment consider marrying such a broad-spoken termagant as yourself,” he said, and then wondered why he immediately felt like a coxcomb. “After all,” he went on quickly, “I have no intention of marrying anyone. Dolph here will tell you I am a confirmed bachelor.”
“Then, since you have damned me as broad-spoken,” said Felicity, smarting with hurt, “I shall go further and tell you that I do not like you one little bit, Lord Arthur. You are making a bad day horrible by your sneering and indifferent presence. I wish… I wish you would go away.”
He looked down into her furious eyes and saw all the pain and fear there. His heart gave a lurch. “Miss Felicity,” he began, but another aged and bent maidservant of the baron’s materialized at his elbow to say that Mr. Palfrey was ready to leave and would Miss join him immediately.
Felicity ran off in the direction of the house.
“Phew!” said Dolph. “I pity my uncle if he marries that shrew.”
“I behaved badly… very badly,” said Lord Arthur curtly. “We are going to ride over to Tregarthan Castle tomorrow so that I may make my apologies.”
“But, I say…” said Dolph.
“There’s going to be a storm,” said Lord Arthur, beginning to walk back toward the house. “Clouds are piling up in the west.”
Dolph looked over to the west and saw a mountain of great, fat purplish clouds climbing up the sky. Then he hurried to keep up with his friend’s long strides. Lord Arthur was behaving in a most odd way. Dolph began to wish he had not brought him.
Felicity and her stepfather each kept an icy silence on the road home. A great crashing peal of thunder rolled about the turrets of the castle as they entered the polished gloom
of the hall.
Felicity was about to stalk off up the stairs, but Mr. Palfrey seized her arm in a vicious grip and started to call for his servants.
The butler, the footmen, the maids, and the housekeeper came hurrying into the hall.
Mr. Palfrey addressed them, still keeping tight hold of Felicity. “My stepdaughter has disgraced me,” he cried. “She is to be whipped!”
Felicity managed to pull free, and stood white-faced, looking at the servants.
Not one of them moved to obey the command. They stood stolidly, in a circle, looking at their master.
“Whip her!” screamed Mr. Palfrey, beside himself with rage.
Anderson, the butler, cleared his throat. “No, sir,” he said. “That we cannot do.”
Another great peal of thunder rocked the castle.
Mr. Palfrey stood panting with rage. He could not fire them all. And he longed for their admiration and respect.
He forced a laugh. “I was a trifle overset,” he said with a ghastly grin. “Get to your room, Felicity. I shall talk about this later.”
Felicity flew up the stairs, straight to the nursery, where she threw herself against Miss Chubb’s well-upholstered bosom, and cried her eyes out. At long last, she calmed down and gave Miss Chubb the whole story.
“I have no hope,” said Felicity with a pathetic little sob. “No hope at all.”
“I have been talking to John Tremayne in your absence,” said Miss Chubb. “We have a plan. We are going to run away tonight—you, me and John.”
Chapter Five
“This is mad. Quite mad,” said Felicity Channing with a shiver. “How on earth did I agree to such a mad scheme?”
She stood on top of the cliffs, a little way away from the castle, while the wind howled and the thunder crashed and tumbled about the heavens. A blinding sheet of lightning showed a rope tied firmly to a rock. At the end of that rope hung John Tremayne, staging the “accident.”
Miss Chubb’s plan was being put into operation. The governess had been planning it for some time, never really thinking they would do it, until Felicity’s distress forced her to turn the dream into reality. The terrible weather conditions were perfect, and they might never again have such a good chance.
Felicity had left a note to say she could not bear to marry the baron and was running away with Miss Chubb and John Tremayne. They had packed one trunk with their clothes and another trunk that John had hurled over the cliff after opening the lid and removing some of the clothes.
They had gone to a part of the cliff that had fallen into the sea, the land broken away by the force of the deluge. John had noticed this section of cliff before and knew it was only a matter of time before it gave way. Before he had let himself down over the cliff, he had dug deep gouges in the earth with his hands to make it look like someone had desperately tried to save themselves. Now he was leaving torn scraps of clothing caught in rocks and bushes on the way down, as well as some of the contents of the trunk.
As abruptly as it had started, the storm stopped, the huge black mass of clouds sailing away overhead on a high wind. The moon shone down.
“Oh, hurry,” breathed Felicity.
But John’s head was already appearing back over the cliff’s edge. He clambered onto safe ground, untied the rope, and picking up the heavy jewel box, slung it up onto his shoulder. Felicity and Miss Chubb followed behind, carrying the trunk with their clothes between them.
Felicity and Miss Chubb were dressed in their men’s disguises. The going over the soggy, uneven ground was rough, and Felicity was beginning to wish they had thrown this trunk over the cliff as well when they came to a carriage and horses, hidden behind a thick stand of trees.
“Where did you get this carriage, John?” whispered Felicity, trying to stop her teeth from chattering.
“I went over to Baxeter and bought the lot. I gave a false name, of course.”
“But where did you get the money?”
“Miss Chubb’s savings,” said John.
“So, you had all this planned for some time,” said Felicity.
“Don’t talk,” said John urgently. “Get in the carriage.”
Felicity and Miss Chubb climbed in. The carriage dipped and swayed as John climbed up on the box.
“Where are we going?” asked Felicity as the carriage moved off.
“Falmouth,” said Miss Chubb. “It is at Falmouth that you take up your new identity.”
“New…? Miss Chubb, you had better start at the beginning and tell me what you and John have planned.”
“Well, it’s like this,” said Miss Chubb, her voice sounding oddly youthful and excited. “Although I hoped the baron might not prove to be too terrible, I heard no good of him at all. I remembered how you said we could escape with the jewels, but we would always be hunted and not be able to live openly, even though Mr. Palfrey did not know we had them. So John and I decided that if we could get you to London, and give you a new identity—one that would be grand enough, and would allow you to sell the jewels openly to the best jewelers—you could have a Season and find a gentleman to suit you.”
“And who am I going to be?”
“Princess of Brasnia.”
“That is ridiculous. There is no such place.”
“There is now,” said Miss Chubb cheerfully, “for I have just invented it. I used to attend the London Season in the old days with my charges, before I came here to work for the Channings. It always struck me as odd that English society was almost ignorant of geography. So, you are now Princess Felicity of Miadaslav, which everyone knows is the capital of Brasnia, and I am your companion, Madame Chubiski.”
“We’ll never get away with it,” said Felicity, wondering whether to laugh or cry.
“Rich people can get away with anything,” said Miss Chubb cynically. “I have enough of my life’s savings left to make a good show of it in Falmouth. You see, in our disguises, we arrive at the best inn, The Pelican. We say we are the menservants of the princess. She has just arrived in the country, and we demand the best rooms and a private parlor. Once in our rooms, we take off our disguises and put on our best clothes, and you, my dear, drape yourself in some of the showiest of the jewels. We stay two nights and then begin our journey to London—a slow, triumphal progress. By the time we arrive, everyone will know of our coming. Also, everyone will know that the princess did not come with money but with a great quantity of jewels, which she will trade from time to time.”
“I feel sick,” said Felicity dismally. “What if I am exposed as a fraud? I shall leave my head on a chopping block at the Tower.”
“Now, that is only for impersonating an English peer or pretending to be any member of the English aristocracy,” said Miss Chubb comfortably. “The only way you could face prosecution is by using a fake title to get money out of people, which of course you will not do.”
“I don’t like it,” murmured Felicity. “Good heavens! Lord Arthur Bessamy and his friend, Mr. Godolphin. What if I should meet them? They will recognize me.”
“You just stare at them haughtily and ask them why they are insulting you by suggesting you might be some country girl. Besides, the whole country will know of our deaths tomorrow. By the time the Season has begun, everyone will have forgotten about us—even Lord Arthur.”
“But Lord Arthur struck me as being clever. I am sure he will know there is no such place as Brasnia.”
“Nonsense! I assure you the English aristocracy cannot even point out on the globe the places they visited during the Grand Tour.”
“But what…?”
“Miss Felicity,” interrupted Miss Chubb sternly. “Do you want to marry the baron?”
“Oh, no,” said Felicity. She sat nervously biting her fingernails, a most unladylike habit, as she worried about her future. But even if the masquerade should only last a short time, what fun she might have. What independence!
In the darkness of the carriage, Felicity began to smile. “Madame Chubiski,” she
said, “you are a wonder!”
“I have a very vivid imagination,” said Miss Chubb ruefully. “Anyway, let us try to get some sleep before we arrive at Falmouth.”
Dawn was gilding cobbles of the town of Falmouth when John Tremayne brought the carriage to a halt outside The Pelican.
“Here we go,” muttered Miss Chubb.
Felicity could only stand by and listen in amazement as Miss Chubb, a hat pulled down to conceal most of her face, began to show a previously hidden talent as an actress. In heavily accented English, she grandly set about turning The Pelican on its ears.
The landlord, dazed at this unexpected visit of foreign royalty, set his servants running hither and thither. After all the fuss had died down and the best rooms had been prepared, he positioned himself in the yard to await the arrival of the princess. He was taken aback when Miss Chubb appeared, still in her male disguise, to tell him that the princess had slipped quietly into the inn during all the fuss, but would be prepared to give the landlord an audience, and thank him personally for all his efforts.
The landlord, Mr. Jem Peters, was told to attend the princess in half an hour.
Upstairs, as Miss Chubb darted in and hurriedly began to change into clothes suitable for a royal companion, Felicity threw open the lid of the iron box and blinked as diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires, and gold flashed up at her.
“Oh, my goodness,” said Miss Chubb. “What jewels! But we can admire them later. Put on the most showy, Miss Felicity, and quickly. The landlord will be here very soon.”
Mr. Peters eventually scratched timidly at the door. John Tremayne answered it, hoping the landlord would not notice that the princess’s attendant was wearing outdoor livery.
But the dazed landlord had eyes only for the little figure who sat on a chair by the window.
She was wearing a white silk gown. A diamond tiara blazed in her red hair, and a collar of huge diamonds was clasped about her neck. A rope of real pearls hung down to her waist and a yellow silk sash across her bosom was decorated with a large diamond and ruby brooch in the shape of a cross, which looked very much like an order.
