Springtime Pleasures

by Sandra Schwab

  Stifling a sigh, she lifted her carpet bag to her lap and rummaged around in it. “Good Dr Johnson,” she murmured as her gaze fell on Miss Pinkerton’s goodbye present.

  “Oh yes, good Dr Johnson, who even included some lines from our school song in his immortal poem.” Emma-Lee peered into Charlie’s bag. “Do you think we will ever actually use his dictionary, Charlie?” Click-clack, her needles went.

  “We-hell…” Charlie tried to imagine some useful employment for Dr Johnson’s dictionary. “If your husband has very large feet, you can use it as a darning egg for his socks.”

  The corners of Emma-Lee’s mouth quirked. “I hadn’t planned to wed a giant, you know. All Dr Johnson’s mighty tome has done, so far, is squish my knitting flat.”

  “And mighty fine knitting it is,” the lady with the cabbage heads cut in.

  “Why, thank you.” Emma-Lee flashed her dimples.

  Indeed, Emma-Lee had rather fine dimples. If she weren’t her bosom friend, Charlie would probably hate her for her dimples alone. For in contrast to sweet Emma-Lee, Charlie was tall, scrawny and almost as flat as a board.

  She adjusted her spectacles.

  Not to forget as blind as a bat.

  “Such fine stitches,” the woman with the cabbages cooed, leaning forward to admire Emma-Lee’s needlework. “Not many a gal who can work such fine stitches nowadays.”

  Charlie’s friend smiled and flashed her dimples some more. “Most of the girls at Miss Pinkerton’s academy can.”

  “That’s where we are coming from,” Charlie explained. “A finishing school.”

  “A finishin’ school?” the shopkeeper from Berwick cut in. “This far up north? And you’ve been in the coach before me, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, we took the coach from Edinburgh—”

  “Edinburgh!” The other three passengers gaped at the girls.

  “Why, but that’s in Scotland!” the shopkeeper exclaimed.

  The woman with the cabbage sadly shook her head. “Poor duckies, poor, poor duckies.”

  “Indecent, that is.” The man with the sausage snarled between bites. “Sending two young gals to the wild heathens!”

  Charlie and Emma-Lee exchanged a look. “But they’re not heathens,” Emma-Lee said tentatively. “Just—”

  The coach slowed down.

  “—people.”

  “Damn Scots!” the man with the sausage spat.

  There was some yelling outside, then a shot.

  The coach rumbled to a halt.

  Charlie opened her mouth. “Wha—”

  The door was flung open and a swarthy male specimen with greasy hair and what looked like a cravat obscuring his lower face held a gun into the coach. “Out!” he snarled.

  The shopkeeper from Berwick paled, the woman with the cabbages squealed, and the man with the sausage swallowed the wrong way and started to cough.

  “Oh dear,” said Emma-Lee, and frowned at her knitting. “And I had just reached such a critical point.”

  The highwayman waved his gun about. “Out!” he snarled again. “And be quick about it—or else…”

  The other three passengers scrambled out of the coach, leaving Emma-Lee and Charlie behind. With a sigh, Emma-Lee put her knitting things into her bag. “…dropped stitches and all…” Charlie heard her mutter under her breath.

  “Well, well, well. What have we got here?” Mr Highwayman looked the girls up and down and an appreciative gleam entered his eyes. “Two sweet chicks.” The carriage swayed a little as he stepped inside. “Sweet little chickies.”

  Emma-Lee stood. “Oh dear,” she said again, clutching the handles of her bag. “You are not going to hurt us, are you, sir?”

  He gave a raucous laugh and sat down next to Emma-Lee, trapping her against one side of the carriage. “Such a polite chickie you are. Don’t you worry, my sweet.” His arm sneaked around Emma-Lee so he could pinch her in an impolite place. “I’ll just prick you a little, and if you’re nice to Long John, he’ll have you squealing in no time at all.” He cackled.

  Charlie wondered whether that was an allusion to Delicate Things Not Suitable For The Ears Of Young Ladies, decided that it was, and promptly dropped her bag, letting the contents spill over the floor of the carriage. “Oh dear,” she said. “I’m so clumsy.”

  Momentarily distracted, Mr Highwayman frowned at her. “Get your things together, chit,” he growled. “And don’t forget any of your valuables.”

  Charlie dropped to her knees onto the floor and searched among her things. Apple… Dr Johnson… handkerchief…

  “Oh sir!” she heard Emma-Lee exclaim breathlessly. “What a… what a strong male voice you have!”

  Charlie rolled her eyes.

  …bag full of sticky sweets…

  “Oh, if you growl like that it makes me all aflutter inside!” Emma-Lee sighed.

  “John!” somebody shouted from outside.

  …box with tooth powder…

  “I’m busy!” Long John shouted over his shoulder, then turned his attention on Emma-Lee again. “I’ll have to take care of my sweet chickie, don’t I?”

  “Oh!” breathed Emma-Lee.

  …embroidery hoop with half-finished pillowcase…

  “All aflutter I make you inside, do I? If you’ll just lift your pretty skirt, my sweet, I’ll make you more than just aflutter.” From the corner of her eye, Charlie could see his gloved hand sneak towards the hem of Emma-Lee’s dress. Oh dear, oh dear, oh…

  …huswife!

  Charlie dived under the bench of the carriage to retrieve her needle case.

  “Oh sir!” Emma-Lee gave Charlie’s leg a kick. “How… how…”

  Fumbling with the ties, Charlie finally managed to unroll the dratted huswife and took out her embroidery scissors. They were beautiful scissors, formed like a stork. Beautiful, and very, very sharp. “Got it!”

  “Oh sir!” Emma-Lee simpered with renewed effort, trying to wriggle away from the man, who had managed to pull her skirt up to her knee. “But will you be gentle?” The bones of her hand played under her skin as she tightened her grip on her bag.

  Mr Highwayman cackled.

  Charlie eyed his boots.

  “Just a little prick…”

  She raised her scissors.

  “…a little prick is all it—”

  And thrust them into his boot.

  He yelled as the sharp scissors pierced his foot. Yet the next moment his screams were abruptly cut off when Emma-Lee swung her bag up and against his head.

  The highwayman dropped over the seats of the carriage.

  His weapon dropped into Charlie’s lap. “Blimey,” she said. “That’s a blunderbuss.”

  ~*~

  Ten minutes later the travelling company was assembled in the carriage again and the stagecoach bumbled over the turnpike road, leaving two bleeding, groaning highwaymen behind. The three travellers inside stared at the girls in petrified awe.

  “Well then,” Charlie said brightly. “Now at least we know what Miss Pinkerton meant when she talked about The Importance Of Carrying Your Needlework With You At All Times.”

  “Indeed.” Emma-Lee shuddered. “What a detestable man that was! And to think that you accused the Scots of being heathens!” She threw an accusatory look at their fellow travellers. “Why, we have never encountered any such ruffians in Scotland! Gah! The things he said…” She shuddered again.

  Charlie patted her hand. “At least you socked him quite hard against his head. No doubt in the future he will think twice before addressing a young lady in such an indolent manner again.”

  “Yes, that is a relief indeed. Though perhaps I should have squashed his manly parts as well.” Emma-Lee opened her bag and took out her knitting, which she eyed mournfully. “Just as I expected: dropped stitches. Legions of dropped stitches.”

  Leaning towards her friend, Charlie inspected the offending piece of needlework. “Not quite legions, surely.”

  Emma-Lee sighed. “Almo
st legions in any case.” Shaking her head, she looked into her bag once more and pulled out her paper-wrapped copy of Dr Johnson’s dictionary. Thoughtfully, she weighed it in her hand. “I suppose that the highwaymen were sent as a punishment for me not appreciating Miss Pinkerton’s gift.”

  Charlie snorted. “God does not send robbers, he sends locusts and fire and water and such things.”

  “Then I suppose it was a test of fortitude.”

  “If it was—” A smile curved Charlie’s mouth. “—then I daresay we’ve passed it with flying colours.” She patted the bulge of the highwayman’s gun in her bag, and her smile broadened.

  Chapter 2

  in which an offer of marriage is made

  & our heroine is baffled

  London, a week or two later

  The pretty little landau ambled along the pathways of Hyde Park at a leisurely pace. The two sides of the roof had been folded down so its two passengers could enjoy the few rays of spring sunshine. The driver on the box seat cut such a dashing figure and handled the horses with such expertise that nobody would have guessed he was only the under-groom.

  “It was good of you to come driving with me,” Izzie said.

  “Not at all.” Griffin’s voice was smooth and gave no indication how much the apprehension in her eyes bothered him. “You know you only have to ask.”

  She managed a wan smile. “Thank you.” Her fingers twisted in her lap, as she let her gaze roam over the bare trees, the evergreen hedges, and some early flowers. “A truly lovely day for an outing, is it not?”

  “Izzie…”

  “Winter is such a dreary time of year,” she said quickly, “don’t you think so? Spring is such an improvement with all its freshness and—”

  “Izzie.”

  She cast him a quick glance. “I hope this fine weather will hold, though it is not to be expected of course.”

  “Izzie.” Before she could prattle along more inane commonplaces, he caught her hands in his. As always, their slenderness came as a shock. Even through her white gloves he could feel the bones moving under her skin.

  So frail…

  Guilt made his stomach clench.

  “Oh no,” his sister said softly. “You are making that face again.”

  Impatiently, he shook his head. This was not about him. After all, he would carry this guilt as long as he lived. This was about her. She was precious to him, this sister of his, and he hated seeing her upset.

  He pressed her fingers. “There is no need for you to make polite conversation about the weather. Tell me what it is.” He looked at her intently, willing her with his eyes to tell him the truth.

  Isabella sighed. “But it is such a nice, safe topic, the weather.” At his frown, she gave a little, embarrassed laugh, returning the pressure of his fingers. “It is nothing, I assure you. A mere silliness on my part.”

  She sighed again, then drew her hands from his and leaned back in her seat, regarding him solemnly. “You will attend Mrs Featheringham’s ball next week, will you not?”

  “Most certainly,” he replied, more than a little surprised. What was the Featheringham ball to his poor sister? “As by the pater’s orders I am—” He grimaced. “—a-hunting for a possible spouse.”

  “So I have heard.” Thoughtfully, she put her head a little to the side and muttered something that sounded like, “It is a truth universally acknowledged... Though perhaps not,” she added more loudly. “You do know that our parents have been invited as well?”

  He nodded. It was only to be expected that his mother had secured an invitation since his father would want to keep a close eye on Griffin’s progress.

  “And I.”

  He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  With a little sigh, she let her gaze roam over their surroundings once again. Finally, she said, “I have been invited as well. Mrs Featheringham has convinced Mother that my prolonged absence from social events such as balls might give rise to the speculations that I am being kept under lock and key.”

  For a moment, Griff simply stared at her, struck speechless by so much want of tact and sensibility.

  “Naturally, Lady Featheringham only wishes to be able to say her ball was the first social event I have attended,” Izzie quickly continued. “It will be a… novelty, I assume.”

  Anger exploded in his breast, red-hot and all-consuming. How dared they! “That old, conniving—”

  But before he could finish, Izzie had laid her hand on his arm. “It will be alright, George, I swear it will.” Her tone was urgent.

  He took a deep breath to calm himself.

  Naturally, she wouldn’t want to attract any attention. And sharing a carriage with a roaring male inevitably did attract attention, no matter how early the hour and how empty the Park.

  Ruefully, he bowed his head. “I apologise.”

  “No, no, no.” Isabella’s hand tightened on his arm. “Don’t. I merely…” She bit her lip, and for a moment a suspicious sheen covered her eyes, which made him want to roar all over again. “I merely wanted to make certain that—”

  “Griff, old boy!” somebody shouted. “And Izzie! Tally-ho!” With a thunder of hooves the man who was rumoured to be the least well-favoured gentleman of all of London rode up to their landau. His light blond hair, or what could be seen of it below his hat, bore a strong resemblance to straw; his nose had once been called a potato-shaped appendage; and his hands were as big as the blade of a large—a very large—spade.

  Izzie blinked away the tears before she turned to him with a dazzling smile. “Boo. How very good to see you.”

  Their cousin, the Honourable George Fenton Cole, grinned, which marginally improved his appearance. “I heard him—” He pointed at Griffin. “—shout, so I came to investigate.”

  Griff felt his cheeks heat. Attracting attention—that was exactly what he hadn’t wanted to do.

  “For who knew?” Boo gave Isabella a wink. “I might have had to rescue the fair princess and—”

  “Oh, do shut up,” Griff grumbled. Thank heaven, it was only Boo and not any of the usual gossipmongers about Town.

  To Griff’s surprise, Izzie actually laughed. Light and trilling, it was music to his ears, and he felt himself relax. Perhaps she was right, and all would be well.

  “So.” Their cousin eyed them with interest, looking from one to the other. “Is anybody going to tell me what has caused the ruckus?”

  Griffin threw a questioning look at his sister. Would she want to tell Boo?

  Of course, she wanted to tell Boo. He was, after all, her childhood friend and champion.

  “We were talking about Mrs Featheringham’s ball on Tuesday next,” she informed him.

  “Ah, that ball.” He frowned. “I seem to remember having received an invitation.”

  This came as no surprise, as everybody made sure to include the Honourable Mr Cole on their guest list. For he was not only a bachelor, but also, and more importantly, one of the richest men in the kingdom.

  “Then you must come,” Griffin said.

  Bushy blond brows rose. “I must?”

  “Indeed, for it would seem that Mother intends to drag Isabella to said ball.”

  For a moment it looked as if his cousin was about to fall off his horse with astonishment. “Izzie!” he exclaimed, then his gaze fastened on Griffin’s sister. Disbelief was written all over his face. “Surely you jest!”

  “Unfortunately, I do not.”

  Izzie’s lips curved. “So you see, my dear cousin, I am in dire need of a champion. Will you be there?”

  “Of course I will,” Boo answered without hesitation. “I take it that Miss Smith will accompany you?”

  Isabella grimaced. “Oh no. It has been decided that she is not quite polished enough and would only be an embarrassment at Mrs Featheringham’s ball. Hence...” She lifted her shoulders in a seemingly careless shrug. “Hence it will only be me and my chair.”

  Griff winced. That chair! How he loathed tha
t thing! It stood for all that had been taken from his sister, from his family, and served as a visible and inexorable reminder of his own guilt.

  Boo’s mouth had tightened and he muttered something unintelligible. Cursing his muttonheaded aunt and uncle, most likely.

  For a while they rode in tense silence, the crunch of the carriage wheels, the clatter of hooves, and the twirping of birds the only sounds in the early afternoon.

  Then Griff saw his cousin shake himself like a wet dog, before he directed his attention to the passengers of the carriage. “Actually, there is a much easier solution to this dilemma,” Boo said.

  Surprise and hope flickered across Isabella’s face. “There is?”

  “Oh yes.” Boo gave cheerful nod. “All we have to do is to elope. To Gretna Green, of course. If you marry me, I promise that I will never drag you to any horrid ball.”

  Izzie burst out laughing. “You are incorrigible!”

  He shrugged. “We will move to a nice, snug house in the country where we’ll be as happy as two peas in a pod.”

  “No, we would not. We would start bickering after only three days and I would be forced to throw a pan at your head.”

  His head held high, Boo informed her loftily, “Given that I would not let you even near the kitchen, I find that very hard to believe.” Suddenly his expression became serious. “You do know that my offer is earnest, don’t you? You only have to say the word and I would marry you in a trice and you wouldn’t have a day’s grief ever again.”

  Izzie’s features softened. “You are the dearest friend anybody could have, Boo, and I wouldn’t dream of taking advantage of you in such a fashion.” She reached out to touch Boo’s hand, and Griffin saw the two of them exchange a small, very private smile.