‘Bless you, my boy,’ he said. ‘Your great sacrifice will not go unrewarded.’
Mr Pettifor pulled his long nose thoughtfully with his thumb and forefinger. He had been on the point of saying that marriage to Sarah was what he wanted more than anything in the world. He did not think her immoral. He thought she had been badly led astray by two such rake-hells as Guy Wentwater and Mr Armitage. The curate found his vicar’s coarseness and free and easy morals a hard cross to bear, but had gradually come to believe that God was testing his faith by sending him to work for Mr Armitage.
Desire for Sarah had given his thoughts a decidedly worldly turn, and he was sure that a girl with a love of pretty dresses and ribbons might reject a penniless curate, no matter how desperate that girl might be.
He said slowly, ‘It is indeed a great sacrifice. Let us hope Sarah will accept me.’
‘She’d better.’
‘I think she would be prepared for marriage to me had she a pleasant home to go to. As you know, I have a one-room lodging above the bakery. On the other hand, Mr Partridge died last month and you hold the lease of his cottage. It has a fine vegetable garden, and, provided you saw that I had enough money to support a wife and children, I think I might be able to persuade Sarah.’
The vicar scowled. He did not like parting with money unless it was put to some good use such as buying better hounds and better hunters.
‘You said my great sacrifice would not go unrewarded,’ prodded Mr Pettifor gently.
‘I meant by Him,’ said the vicar, pointing up to the roof with a sanctimonious expression on his face.
‘Ah, yes,’ said Mr Pettifor. ‘But you, Mr Armitage, are His humble instrument. Of course, perhaps He feels you should marry Sarah yourself.’
The vicar began to look alarmed.
‘Furthermore,’ pursued Mr Pettifor, ‘I think perhaps the sacrifice might be too great. After all, it was not I who seduced the girl.’
‘Anything you want, Pettifor,’ said the vicar hurriedly. ‘Money, cottage, garden … anything.’
‘Then perhaps you will come with me? Poor Sarah has been locked in her room by Mrs Hammer.’
The rain was so heavy by the time they reached the end of the short drive that led to the vicarage that they could hardly see the building itself.
They entered the hall and were met by Rose who removed their coats and urged them in a hushed voice to go into the parlour where the fire was made up – ‘but ’tain’t drawing too well.’
The vicar looked approvingly at Rose’s long sheeplike face. From now on, he vowed, any female servant he engaged would be the plainest he could find.
‘I think we should see Sarah first,’ said Mr Pettifor, showing budding signs of authority. ‘Please tell Mrs Hammer to unlock her room.’
Mrs Hammer came hurrying out of the kitchen, clutching a key in her hand, and pushing wisps of grey hair up under her cap. Her broad face looked disapproving and sullen. She led the way up the stairs.
The vicarage had been a pleasant home, reflected Mr Pettifor, when Mrs Armitage had been alive and all the girls unmarried. Now all signs of femininity were fled, despite the female servants, leaving it very much a bachelor residence, smelling of smoky fires, damp dogs and brandy.
Sarah’s room was in one of the attics at the top of the house. As they climbed higher, they could hear the rain drumming and pounding on the roof as if trying to get in.
‘Dreadful storm,’ said the vicar. ‘Better get this pesky business over and make sure hounds’ kennels ain’t leaking.’
Mr Pettifor primmed his lips in disapproval. Poor Sarah was probably breaking her heart while her hardhearted seducer worried about a pack of smelly dogs.
The vicar was prepared for a defiant, noisy Sarah. A great wave of guilt hit him when he saw the dejected figure sitting on the edge of the bed. Her eyes were red with crying and her hair was unkempt.
Sarah had had quite a time on her own to consider her dismal future. Mrs Hammer had dinned into her ears tales of the iniquities of Guy Wentwater and how he would do anything to get even with the vicar. She knew she could not even expect to get a reference. She had no family and no savings. A vision of the workhouse in Hopeminster rose before her mind’s eye.
As the vicar entered the room, she bowed her head, awaiting her fate.
‘Well, Sarah,’ said the vicar hurriedly, ‘seems you’ve suffered enough. Mr Pettifor here wants a word with you.’
The vicar backed to the door. Mr Pettifor sidled round him.
‘Miss Millet,’ said Mr Pettifor. ‘I would be honoured … deeply honoured … if you would present me with your hand in marriage.’
Sarah blinked, and then a hard, sullen look fell on her face. ‘He forced you to ask,’ she said, jerking her thumb in the direction of the vicar who was backing out onto the landing.
Mr Pettifor knelt in front of the maid and took her hand in his own.
‘No one could force me to marry anyone, Miss Millet. I love you, and I think you are the most wonderful lady I ever beheld.’
The effect of his words on Sarah was amazing.
For a moment, she sat and stared at the curate. Then it seemed as if the red left her eyes like magic, that her lank hair curled up about her head, that she seemed to shine from head to foot.
‘Oh, Mr Pettifor,’ she breathed. ‘Thank you, ever so.’
The Reverend Charles Armitage felt more lighthearted than he had felt for a long time. He cheerfully slammed the door on the happy couple and went off down the stairs, whistling ‘The Lass of Richmond Hill’.
He headed out the front door and made for the kennels. Now he could turn his mind to more serious matters.
FIVE
Frederica Armitage did not entertain any romantic ideas about the Duke of Pembury. She was too much in awe of him. In fact, she was too much in awe of everyone. She felt the unspoken disapproval of the Duke of Pembury’s servants, and, as far as the house guests were concerned, she barely existed.
Dinner was an agony of trying to think what to say. Lady Godolphin was flirting awfully with an elderly county gentleman and did not concern herself overmuch with Frederica. There were no men present whom Lady Godolphin considered of a suitable age for Frederica, and, therefore, she had planned to reserve her match-making energies until she got the girl to London.
Only Mary, the maid, remained the same, cheerful and willing, and excited at the prospect of going to London.
Shy and sensitive, Frederica did not realize the unfriendliness she sensed was not directed against herself. The house party was not a success. Normally, the gentlemen would have gone out hunting or shooting during the day and the ladies would have gone for picnics and walks.
But the rain fell heavily, steadily and unremittingly, so everyone was confined indoors. Since no one but Frederica and the duke read much, the guests ate too much and spent the afternoons in a somnolent state and then passed the long evenings cheating each other at cards.
As for the duke, he seemed too busy with the affairs of his vast estates to trouble himself much about his guests. By supplying vast quantities of food and drink, billiards and cards, the duke felt he was doing his duty as a host and never once thought of organizing amateur theatricals, games or charades, or anything else that might have relieved the boredom.
The duke himself did not enjoy house parties but felt it his duty to return hospitality by inviting as many people to stay at the one time, and so getting the boring business of returning entertainment over with in one go.
He was regretting his offer to escort Lady Godolphin and Miss Armitage to London. Miss Armitage had failed to hold his interest. Every time he saw her, she either had her head in a book or was sitting, dumb and embarrassed, at his dinner table.
As the rain continued to fall, the guests began to take their leave, tedium driving away even the most determined sponger.
At last, there were only Lady Godolphin and Frederica left.
The duke sent a message to L
ady Godolphin suggesting they make their departure for London before the roads became any worse. The servants and luggage were to precede them in two carriages so that they would be waiting at each posting house for the duke to arrive. Frederica was disappointed. She had hoped to enjoy Mary’s cheerful company on the journey.
They set out on a miserable morning with the rain pitting the lakes which had formed on the lawns in front of the house.
Frederica and Lady Godolphin were to travel with the duke in his carriage.
To Frederica’s relief, Lady Godolphin talked nonstop for most of the morning as the carriage rumbled through a rain-drenched countryside. Finally, the duke, seeming to become weary of trying to understand her malapropisms, fell asleep.
‘Such a handsome man,’ sighed Lady Godolphin. ‘Deep in the arms of Murphy, he is. I do hope he has made arrangements to break our journey soon for it is wearisome when you can’t see anything but rain and more rain.’
The carriage lamps had been lit because it had grown almost as black as night. A wind had risen and was driving great sheets of water against the carriage windows. Frederica began to feel sick with the lurching and swaying of the carriage. Lady Godolphin had fallen asleep as well, her turbanned head bobbing up and down as the carriage pitched like a ship on the high seas.
Frederica took out a book but found all she could make out was the whiteness of the page. The lamps inside the carriage had not been lit and she did not have a tinder box. All she could see of the duke opposite was the paleness of his face and cravat against the black of his clothes. He seemed to wear a great deal of black.
She wondered if the duke had ever been in love or if he had always simply ‘shopped’ for one. The face Lady James showed the duke was a very different one from the one she showed the servants. When he was anywhere on the scene, she became all soft voice and melting glances. Frederica gave herself a shake. She did not want to think of the duke with Lady James any more than she wanted to think about her father with Sarah.
Frederica fumbled in her reticule for her vinaigrette. She wished she had the courage to wake the duke and beg him to stop the carriage.
‘We have been travelling for hours,’ thought Frederica dismally. ‘He surely does not mean to drive until nightfall. Oh, if only this sickening motion would stop!’
Unconsciously, she had said the last words aloud. The duke’s eyes opened. ‘What is thematter?’ he asked.
‘I f-feel s-sick,’ stammered Frederica. ‘I am going to be sick.’
The duke picked up his silver-headed swordstick and pushed up the trap in the roof, letting in a small flood of water right on Lady Godolphin’s head.
‘Follicles!’ spluttered that lady. ‘What’s to do?’
‘Miss Armitage is sick,’ said the duke calmly. He called to his coachman, ‘Bob, hold the horses.’ There was a hoarse reply and to Frederica it seemed as if the whole shaking, swaying world had miraculously righted itself. But her stomach still heaved.
‘I had better get down,’ she said.
‘Nonsense,’ said the Duke of Pembury. ‘Stick your head out of the window.’
‘I can’t,’ protested Frederica miserably. ‘It is too undignified.’
‘God grant me strength. Very well. Get down.’ He jerked the strap and opened the carriage door. A groom jumped from the backstrap and let down the steps.
‘This man will catch his death of cold!’ exclaimed Frederica, looking at the sodden groom.
The duke gritted his teeth. ‘Are you going to stand there all day, Miss Armitage? Or are you doing to get down?’
Drawing a carriage rug tightly about her shoulders, for she was only wearing a thin muslin gown and a pelisse made out of one of Lady Godolphin’s gowns by that lady’s excellent maid, Frederica launched out into the storm.
If she went around the front of the coach, then she would make an exhibition of herself in front of the coachman. At either side, she might be seen by the duke or Lady Godolphin; at the back, by the grooms.
She headed for the side of the road and began to walk through a small wood until she was sure she was well out of sight of the carriage, although a few steps would have been enough to take her out of sight of any onlooker since the day was so black and the storm so wild.
It was then she realized to her chagrin that she was not feeling in the slightest bit sick, although she was now soaked and shivering. Feeling very silly, she started to make her way towards the carriage.
But where was the carriage?
There was only the sound of the wind tearing through the trees above and the pounding of the rain. She could not see the carriage lights, nor could she hear any voices. She did not want to cause further trouble by calling out for help, thereby forcing one of those poor servants to come and look for her. It certainly changed one’s view of life, having been a servant oneself, even for such a short time.
‘I must not panic,’ thought Frederica. ‘I am not the same as I was. I am Courageous and Resolute. The carriage is surely over there.’
Putting her head down, she ran off into the roaring blackness. She could vaguely make out that the trees were thinning. She must be near the road.
And then, all of a sudden, her foot slipped and she plunged down and down, finally crashing into a bush. Winded and terrified, Frederica lay still. She was sure she had broken every bone in her body. After a few moments, she cautiously moved her arms and legs. She was frightened to get to her feet in case she might fall again.
‘Help!’ she called as loudly as she could, although the wind seemed to snatch up her voice and tear it to shreds.
She peered upwards, narrowing her eyes against the rain, hoping to see the bobbing light of a lantern, for surely they must be searching for her by now. But the whole world had turned into a roaring blackness of rain and wind and there was no light in sight.
Frederica cautiously got to her feet, wincing with pain as her wet clothes clung to her bruised and scraped legs and arms. She tried to struggle up the slope, missed her footing, and started to slither downwards, grabbing frantically at grass and roots to try to slow the increasing speed of her descent.
At last she stopped as her feet struck against rock. Frederica no longer thought of trying to make her way back to the carriage. Her one thought was to find some sort of shelter, and try to stay alive.
She twisted about and looked down. Through the dimness, she could make out a stream, tumbling along just below her feet. Frederica took a deep breath. The stream must lead somewhere, and somewhere might lead back to the road.
Slowly and painfully, she began to pick her way along the tumbled rocks and grass beside the edge of the river. She began to talk aloud to keep her spirits up. ‘It is a miracle,’ said Frederica stoutly, ‘that I have not even twisted an ankle. I am very cold and wet and hungry, but I am sure I will find somewhere soon. I must have lost the carriage rug in my fall, but that is of no matter. It would have been too heavy and cumbersome.’
The rain gradually grew less and the sky grew lighter although the wind seemed to have increased in force. Frederica could now make out a thin path beside the river which twisted round the rocks and boulders and hummocks of grass. Now that she could see it, the going was easier.
The sky grew lighter still.
She looked up and saw with a kind of awe that the river was at the bottom of a gorge and realised she was very lucky indeed not to have broken her neck.
It was too steep on either side of the river to think of trying to climb up, so all she could do was plod along the path. She hoped the little track had been made by humans rather than animals like rabbits.
She was very tired, very cold, and very hungry. Why had no one come in search of her? Had the autocratic duke simply told his servants to drive on?
But Lady Godolphin would never allow that. Frederica thought rather tearfully of Lady Godolphin’s championship.
At last, she sat down on a rock and stared miserably at the rushing stream. The rain had stopped and t
he sky was clearing to the west. But it was growing darker again.
‘I must have been walking for hours,’ thought Frederica. ‘Night must be falling, and, oh, it is so cold. I must not sit here. My clothes are too thin. Get yourself up and keep walking.’
But when she rose to her feet, her legs trembled with fatigue and her teeth chattered with cold. Now, her progress was slow as her increasingly dragging steps followed the ever-rushing river.
Then, in the increasing gloom, Frederica saw the shape of what looked like a building.
Shelter!
She ran towards it, frightened it might turn out to be a square-shaped mass of rock.
But it was a building … of sorts. It was a stone square with two small boarded-up windows and a wooden door.
‘It must be a water bailiff’s hut,’ thought Frederica, disappointed that there were no signs of life. She tried the door. It was firmly locked.
That was when Frederica sat down and began to cry in earnest. For one blissful moment, she had thought her nightmare was over.
The wind whipped her wet clothes against her body. ‘Are you going to sit here and die of exposure, you silly widgeon?’ Frederica admonished herself. ‘Break the door down.’
‘I can’t,’ wailed the old timid Frederica. ‘I haven’t the strength.’
‘Of course you have,’ chided the new Frederica. ‘Pick up a rock and break the lock. Go on!’
Still sobbing, Frederica got up and picked up as heavy a rock as she could manage to handle. Holding it in both hands, she swung it sideways against the lock with as much force as she could muster. There was a satisfactory splitting of wood and the door slowly creaked open. Frederica felt her way into the black interior. She opened the shutters on one small window. There was no glass and the wind came whistling in. But the sky had cleared and a small moon was rising. From its weak light, Frederica was able to make out some objects in the room. There was a table and one chair. Some fishing rods were propped against the wall. On the table was the white stick of a tallow candle.
Frederica groped her way over to the table and felt across its surface with her fingers. They closed with triumph on a tinder box and an oily piece of cotton waste. She lit the cotton and then the candle, quickly shielding the flame from the wind blowing in the window. Then she set the candle on the floor, out of the draught, and closed the shutters.
Frederica in Fashion Page 7
