Meg Alexander

by The Gentlemans Demand

  Sophie was intrigued. ‘How did you hear about the inn?’ she asked as she served them with a sixth bottle of wine. ‘We have only just reopened.’

  They all beamed at her. ‘Word gets about, ma’am.’ The speaker’s eyes had strayed to Nancy, who was engaged in clearing the tables. ‘I suspect that we shall become your most faithful customers. Brighton can be dull, you know.’

  Sophie laughed at him. ‘Surely not? There are so many diversions…’

  ‘But none that include the company of the most beautiful women in this part of Sussex.’ The speaker gave her a gallant bow.

  ‘Nonsense, sir! I suspect that your stomachs are your main concern. Have you enjoyed your meal?’

  A chorus of approval convinced her, and Sophie beamed at them. ‘We had not expected company today,’ she told them. ‘Next time you must let us know your wishes.’

  ‘Ma’am, they have been more than fulfilled.’ The young man bowed again. ‘The Prince himself could not have dined with more pleasure.’

  Sophie laughed. ‘I doubt if his Royal Highness will venture along these country lanes in winter. You may not know that Sussex roads are said to be the worst in England.’

  ‘And why is that, ma’am?’

  ‘The county lies on clay. You were fortunate that we had frost last night, so that the ground is firm.’

  ‘How true, Mistress Firle!’ Hatton had entered the room. ‘Yet this weather cannot hold. The wind is bringing rain from the west.’

  The six young men looked up at him and he favoured them with a pleasant smile. ‘Just a warning, gentlemen,’ he told them smoothly. ‘The clay is a serious hazard. In summer it bakes to the consistency of rock, but rain turns it into a morass. In the past it has taken as many as twenty oxen to drag a wagon free.’

  The young men looked at each other. They seemed reluctant to leave the comfort of the inn. One of them walked over to the window.

  ‘No rain as yet,’ he announced. ‘Sir, won’t you join us in a game of cards before we leave?’

  Hatton nodded. ‘As you wish. You stay in Brighton, so I hear. What brought you out into the country?’

  Their leader grinned at him. ‘My dear sir, it was a need to practise our driving skills. Ned there almost overturned the mail coach last time he took the ribbons. It cost him a small fortune to soothe the driver’s feelings.’

  His friend objected strongly to this slur upon his abilities. ‘His lead horse was almost blind,’ he insisted.

  ‘And so were you when you took that corner, Ned,’ the man beside him teased.

  Ned maintained a dignified silence as he shuffled the cards. Then there was a pause as each man studied his hand.

  Sophie left them to their game. She had enjoyed the company of these unexpected customers, feeling quite at ease with them. They had reminded her of the sons of family friends known to her since childhood. How long ago it all seemed now, the parties, the picnics, the village fêtes and the balls when young men such as these had presented themselves at her father’s house, all vying for her attention.

  She’d lost her heart to none of them, much to her father’s satisfaction. His choice for her was William Curtis, the neighbouring landowner, whom Sophie had always held in keen dislike. For a time she had had an ally in her mother who pleaded Sophie’s youth, but that excuse had worn thin as the months passed and she reached her seventeenth birthday.

  Then she had met Richard. It was just a random trick of fate that he’d been sent to ask her father, a local magistrate, for a date when certain captured smugglers might be tried.

  And my head was full of nonsense at that time, Sophie thought sadly. She’d been reading about the Vikings, half-thrilled and half-repelled by their exploits, but always intrigued. The splendid creature who rode up to her father’s door might more fittingly have stepped ashore from a Norwegian galley.

  She could remember every detail of that first encounter. She’d been standing at the foot of the steps about to mount her horse. The groom was already bending with locked hands to help her into the saddle. Then he’d been thrust aside, and Sophie turned to look into the bluest eyes she’d ever seen.

  And I behaved like an idiot, Sophie thought bitterly. Richard must have found her the easiest of conquests. She had positively gaped at the impossibly handsome vision before her, marvelling at the sculptured perfection of his face, the wonderful curves of a mobile mouth, and the way the sunlight gleamed upon his blond head. She had discounted Viking ancestry immediately. This man looked more like a Greek god.

  A wry smile lifted the corners of her mouth. Susceptibility to good looks had always been a weakness in her character, but from that day she had never looked at another man.

  She’d braved her father’s wrath, the indignity of being locked in her room and even threats of a diet of bread and water and serious beatings, until Richard had come for her that fateful night.

  She’d gone with him without a backward glance, untroubled by the fact that she scarcely knew him. Their meetings had been few and, of necessity, fleeting. Love at first sight was true romance, as he had assured her, and she hadn’t doubted the truth of it.

  They had married on the day of her escape and, lost in dreams of happiness, Sophie could see no clouds upon the horizon.

  Had not Richard assured her that once they were wed her father would relent? If she showed herself penitent and begged the forgiveness of both her parents, she would be restored to the bosom of her family.

  It had not happened. Richard had reckoned without her father’s implacable opposition to the match. It had been a body blow to him. Sophie had been the child of his heart, but she had spurned his wishes and his love. Even the thought of her was like a dagger-thrust. His only solace was to forget that she existed.

  Richard had refused to believe at first that he had married a pauper, rather than an heiress, but as the truth came home to him, his manner towards Sophie changed. She’d been terrified by his coldness. How was she to live if he decided to abandon her? She loved him still, rejoicing when she found that she was pregnant. That, surely, would bring him back to her.

  It didn’t. Only when disgrace and dismissal from the Revenue Service threatened to crush him had he turned to her. She had stood by him, refusing to believe the accusations levelled against him, but troubled even as she defended him.

  Richard seemed to lead a life apart from her, marked by mysterious meetings and frequent absences. When she’d tried to question him he’d frown, surly and abusive. On that last day of his life she had looked at him clear-eyed, wondering, not for the first time, how this man, handsome beyond belief and with the physique of an athlete, could have failed to live up to all she had expected of him.

  Sophie shook her head, as if to rid it of troublesome thoughts. She could not change the past. Now she must think about the future. She looked up as Hatton entered the room.

  ‘Your game is over?’ she asked in surprise.

  ‘Yes, your guests are leaving. I told them again that they must not underestimate the poor state of the roads. I reminded them that the oxen, the swine, the women and all the other animals in Sussex are noted for the length of their legs. It is said to be from the difficulty of pulling their feet from the mud… It is thought to strengthen the muscles and lengthen the bones.’

  Sophie laughed in spite of herself. ‘I had best come and bid them farewell,’ she said. ‘I enjoyed their company, and they enjoyed their meal. We shall have made a splendid profit.’

  ‘Congratulations!’

  Sophie detected a sardonic undertone and she stared at him.

  ‘Mr Hatton, you can’t suspect these young men. I should have thought them harmless.’

  ‘But then, you are easily deceived, are you not, Mistress Firle?’ Hatton saw her angry look and relented. ‘No, you are right. These puppies are not the men we seek.’

  Sophie saw to her surprise that he was booted and spurred. Over his arm he carried a cloak with many capes.

  ‘Do you go w
ith them to Brighton?’ she asked.

  ‘No, my dear. My duties take me elsewhere. I shan’t be away above a day or two.’

  Sophie was horrified. ‘No!’ she cried. ‘You can’t! You promised us your protection. You shall not leave us now.’

  ‘Your concern for me is touching…’ Hatton’s tone was sarcastic. ‘Do you believe that I shall be lost upon the roads?’

  ‘I don’t care about you,’ she cried wildly. ‘I am thinking of my servants and my son.’

  Hatton took her hand and drew her down to sit beside him. ‘I wish that you could learn to trust me, ma’am. Believe me, you are not in danger for these next few days. With all this rain upon the western wind the roads will be a quagmire within hours. Wagons cannot move in such conditions, and the consignment in your cellar is too large to be carried by packhorses. In any case, some approach is certain to be made to you beforehand.’

  Sophie was unconvinced, and her pallor alarmed him.

  Hatton took her hands in his once more. ‘You have done so well,’ he told her gently. Absentmindedly, he was stroking the back of her hand with his thumb and she found the sensation disturbing. She drew her hand away as if she had been stung.

  ‘When…when will you return?’ she cried. She was torn between her dislike of him and an urgent wish for his protection.

  ‘As soon as possible!’ Unexpectedly he raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them. ‘You are not without protection, Mistress Firle. You have both my men and your own. Jem is someone to be reckoned with, I feel…’ He was smiling down at her.

  Pride stiffened Sophie’s resolve. ‘Very well, then, go if you must,’ she snapped.

  ‘Sophie, please!’

  ‘I don’t recall giving you leave to use my given name, Mr Hatton. I see your promises now for what they are…completely worthless!’ She turned on her heel and left him.

  It was but the work of a moment to bid farewell to her guests. Then she stalked away without another glance at Hatton.

  She heard the carriage leaving, to be followed by a single horseman, and she felt bereft. Beneath a ridiculous temptation to burst into tears she was furious. Hatton had drawn her into his plans, ignoring all her objections. Now, when it suited him, he was quite willing to leave her alone to face whatever dangers might be in store, and she was terrified.

  It was all very well for him to claim that the servants would protect her. They might be willing to do so, but they knew no better than she did herself from which direction that threat might come.

  Now she could only hope that he’d been right about the weather. For the next three days she blessed the leaden skies and the constant rain. Not a single customer had crossed her threshold. The greyness was depressing, but she could cope with that. What she feared most was the sudden arrival of strangers.

  She tried to banish Hatton from her mind, telling herself that he wasn’t worth a thought, but she found it difficult. She had grown accustomed to his teasing and that lazy smile and the comforting sight of his enormous figure about the place.

  On several occasions during those few days she was tempted to pack her bags and leave with Kit, but where could she go? She had no money, and with a small child at her heels she would find it difficult to gain employment.

  Try as she might, she could see no way out of her predicament, other than to stay where she was. Oh, if only Hatton would return! As the days passed she missed him more and more.

  Of course, it was simply that he had promised to protect her. On this occasion, at least, she could not berate herself for being swayed by a handsome face. Hatton was no Adonis. His features were too strong for that. In repose his expression could be daunting. Not a person to whom one would readily apply for mercy, she thought rebelliously.

  Well, she, at least, was not afraid of him, and when he returned she would give him a piece of her mind. Sophie spent much of her time thinking of sharp set-downs and crushing retorts which would reduce him to abject apology for his ill behaviour. That is, if he ever came back again. The sudden notion that he might not do so filled her with despair. Then common sense returned. Hatton had laid his plans with care. He would not abandon them now, however little he cared for her own welfare, or that of her child. It would be duty alone which drew him back to the inn, and she should admire him for his dedication.

  But she didn’t…at least, not altogether. Duty was important, naturally, and she would be the first to admit it, but other things were important too, such as consideration and affection.

  Alarmed at the direction which her thoughts were taking, Sophie picked up her book. The small volume of poems had been left behind by a casual visitor some months ago. The beauty of the language, the various rhythms and the rich imagery of the work had proved to be a solace in the past, and now she knew many of the poems by heart, reciting them to herself as she went about her daily routine.

  Her eye fell upon some lines penned by William Blake, an author new to her:

  Tyger, Tyger, burning bright

  In the forests of the night.

  What immortal hand or eye

  Could frame their fearful symmetry?

  In the past the raw power of the poem had delighted her, but now it brought Nicholas Hatton forcibly to mind. Man and animal seemed as one in their predatory quest.

  Sophie thrust the book aside. She must be losing her sense of proportion. Most probably the poem was not about an animal at all, but a symbol of some deeper meaning.

  As for Hatton? He was just a man, possibly more ruthless than most, but a man for all that, and not a wild animal.

  Yet the image stayed with her and she could not shake it off. That night she dreamed that she was running through a jungle, with some beast in hot pursuit.

  She wakened with a cry, to find that her room was flooded with moonlight. The skies had cleared, and the rain had stopped at last.

  Sophie lay there trembling. Now Hatton must return. He would know, even better than she, that once the roads were passable his quarry would return to the inn to collect the contents of her cellars.

  The London men behind the trade would be growing impatient. They’d wait no longer for their profits on the vast cargo.

  Further sleep was impossible. She waited until the first grey fingers of dawn had lightened the eastern sky and then she summoned Abby to fetch her water and help her dress.

  ‘You are up betimes, Mistress Firle.’ Abby was still half-asleep, and clearly unappreciative of Sophie’s sudden desire to be up before the birds.

  ‘I thought I’d go for a walk,’ Sophie told her. ‘I’m tired of being forced to stay indoors.’

  ‘Can I come too?’ A small face peeped around her door.

  ‘Of course you may,’ Sophie corrected. ‘But first you must eat a good hot breakfast and let Abby dress you in your warmest clothes.’

  ‘You’ll catch your death,’ Abby predicted in gloomy tones. ‘There’s been a frost, and the ground’s like iron.’

  This statement did nothing for Sophie’s peace of mind, but she thrust aside her fears. Perhaps they would have no customers today.

  When the sun was up she took Kit by the hand and set off down the lane. It was good to be out of doors on such a perfect winter’s morning. A white rime clung to the verges of the road, untouched as yet by the weak rays of the sun as it glanced off trees and hedgerows bejewelled by the frost.

  Sophie pointed to a solitary robin which regarded them with interest. Now she handed a bag of crumbs to Kit. The bird seemed almost tame. He hopped towards them, pecking eagerly at the bread.

  ‘I bet I could train him to sit upon my hand. That is, if we could catch him, Mama.’

  ‘No, we can’t do that. He’s a wild creature. It would be cruel to put him in a cage. Why not look for him when you are out of doors? He may stay close if you feed him every day.’

  ‘That’s a good idea!’ Kit looked up at the sky. ‘Will it snow, do you suppose? Reuben is making me a sledge.’

  ‘I think it is too
cold for snow. See how the ice has formed upon this pond. No, my dear, don’t put your weight on it. It is too thin, as yet.’

  ‘If it gets really thick, Hatton has promised to teach me how to skate,’ Kit said with pride. ‘He’s very good, you know, he can do twirls and jumps, and he can skate backwards…’ Clearly, this last astonishing achievement outweighed all the others in Kit’s mind.

  ‘Good gracious, how do you know all this?’

  ‘He told me,’ Kit said simply. ‘He showed me, too. Just watch!’ Kit ran along the icy lane and jumped in the air with his arms spread wide.

  Sophie’s lips twitched at the thought of the redoubtable Mr Hatton displaying his skating skills on dry land for the benefit of her son. She would have given much to have seen it.

  ‘Of course, it’s easier on the ground,’ Kit told her gravely. ‘The ice is slippery and first I have to learn to balance.’

  ‘I expect it’s rather like learning to walk,’ she agreed.

  ‘Well, I did that, didn’t I?’ Kit chuckled at his own joke and ran ahead of her.

  She didn’t keep him out of doors for long. The east wind was too cold, and she might have been naked for all the protection her warm clothing offered.

  She hurried indoors to the comfort of a roaring fire, praying that the change in the weather had come too suddenly for the smugglers to have made their plans.

  She had few customers that day. A carrier selling fish from the coast stopped by to ask for trade. Bess bought generously, knowing that the fish would keep well in the icy temperature of her food cellar. The man stayed only long enough to drink a tankard of mulled ale. Then he pushed on, clearly anxious to be rid of his load before nightfall.

  Sophie ran to the window as a single horseman rode up to her door, but it was only a stranger, asking the way to Brighton. He was followed by the occupants of a carriage. A lady and two gentlemen came in to warm themselves and take refreshment, debating as they did so whether or not to continue with their journey.