by Joan Aiken
“No, you are in the right,” said Juliana after some reflection. “Little though I like it, I fear that an elopement is the only solution for us.”
Captain Davenport’s eyes sparkled. He said, “You agree? You really mean that? Too good—too excellent creature! I am unworthy of you, indeed! This readiness to take a step which must affront you—which must be abhorrent to your sense of propriety—makes me admire you—nay, worship you—all the more!” And he raised her hand to his lips.
“But how should we set about it?” Juliana inquired, doubts and scruples now beginning to rear themselves in her mind. “Is it, for example, really necessary to travel all the way to Scotland?”
“I fear it is—for you are a minor, my love, are you not?—and no marriage performed in this country without your guardian’s consent will be legal. I know, my sweetest angel,” he said, “you are distressed as to the impropriety of our undertaking such a long journey together before our marriage—and indeed, it is not at all what I like myself. Every feeling must be offended at the thought.”
“I own, it is that aspect of the scheme that troubles me,” Juliana said. “My grandfather would be so afflicted if I committed such an impropriety, and I cannot bear the thought of his distress. Already he deems me a hoyden, and this would confirm his worst misgivings about me—might, indeed, incur his lasting displeasure. Which would grieve me, I must confess! If only there were some lady, some person of repute and discretion, to whom we might confide our problem; in whose company I could make the journey north, and then meet you at Gretna.”
She thought wistfully of Miss Ardingly. But Captain Davenport exclaimed, “Why, what a muttonhead I am! My sister! She would answer capitally.”
“Your sister? I did not know that you had a sister.”
“Oh, she is the very pink of married sobriety—I hardly ever see her! She lives with her husband at Horsham. I will take you there, you may remain with her as long as it takes her to ready herself for the journey north, and then we may all three travel to Scotland without the least indelicacy.”
“Yes, that would certainly answer,” said Juliana, her hopes beginning to rise. But then she added in a graver tone, “Only, do you think your sister would be willing to set out for Scotland at such short notice?”
“To be sure she will! She delights in a frolic.”
“What about her husband—her children? She can hardly leave them so suddenly.”
“Children she has none, and as for her husband, he is a sad stick, and spends all his time cultivating his fields—he will hardly notice her absence.”
This plan certainly appeared to resolve all their difficulties, and, once agreed on, it only remained to fix on the time and decide the details.
“I can hardly drive up to the door for you in a chaise and pair,” said the Captain. “How would it be if you were to walk a short way into the forest, tomorrow morning, and meet me at the stone cross which lies a mile to the north of here, on the Winchester road?”
Juliana knew the spot, and agreed that this would be an excellent scheme.
“For I am out-of-doors a great part of the day in this weather, walking and riding and sitting in the garden, so that the servants may hardly notice my absence until suppertime.”
“By which hour you may be safe under my sister’s roof, if we leave early,” Captain Davenport said in a triumphant tone.
“What is your sister’s name?”
“Bracegirdle—Amelia Bracegirdle. But now I had best leave you, my own love, and make arrangements to hire a chaise… One last thing—do you think it might be possible, my dearest, for you to assume some slight disguise—say, the garb of a milkmaid or servant girl? Then, if we should be observed along the way—if any inquiry is set on foot regarding your departure—”
“Nobody will connect the milkmaid in the mobcap with the missing young lady from Flintwood,” said Juliana, laughing. “That will be the easiest matter in the world, for I have been helping Mrs. Hurdle make new mobcaps and aprons for the maids, and I may carry a pair into the garden without the least difficulty, as if I intended to do my sewing here.”
“Capital! Till tomorrow then—at ten sharp—by the stone cross.”
“One thing—” said Juliana diffidently. “I do not quite see how I can bring my baggage with me; a cap and apron may be tucked into my pocket, but if I were to walk into the forest carrying a cloak bag, the servants would think it decidedly strange.”
“Oh, do not trouble your pretty head about that!” cried Captain Davenport in a buoyant manner. “My sister can lend you what you need for a night—you and she are much of a size—and after that, it will be my delight to rig you out in the first stare of the mode! Adieu, my dear, dear girl—until tomorrow!”
Kissing his hand to her, he galloped away at full speed.
Left to herself, Juliana could not but feel some doubts and qualms—some pangs of conscience and anxiety. If only it might have been possible to marry with her grandfather’s consent and approval! If only he could have been brought to meet Captain Davenport and see how exceptionable he was. She was distressed at the thought of her grandfather’s disgust. And she detested having to deceive Mrs. Hurdle and the other servants at Flintwood, who had all been most uniformly kind to her.
She spent the evening rather unhappily, composing two notes, one for Mrs. Hurdle, saying merely that she had been called away by a sudden emergency, and one, written and rewritten many times, for her grandfather. This she left in Clegg’s office for him to send with the rest of the estate papers.
My dear Grandfather:
It fills me with the deepest Sorrow to be obliged to pen these lines. Only the knowledge that you have already written to Captain Davenport, refusing his suit in such severe and unqualified terms, has brought me to a Step which I must regret even more keenly than you, for besides deploring its Impropriety, I am aware of what Pain it will give you. Tomorrow I set out for Scotland to marry Captain Davenport. Truly, dear Grandfather, he is the most Excellent young man, and if only you could have brought yourself to meet him, I am persuaded that you would have thought so too! I need not refine upon the Respectability of his Connections or station in Life, since he assures me that he gave you all this information in his letter to you. I do most Sincerely believe that, once you have abandoned your scheme for marrying me to your friend, you will find Captain Davenport a perfectly unexceptionable match in every way, and I am in Hopes that you will be prepared to extend your Forgiveness and Blessing to your distressed but ever-hopeful Grandchild.
Grandfather will think me just as headstrong and foolish as my father, she reflected sadly, as she laid this epistle upon Clegg’s desk. But at least I have not made such a disastrous choice as poor dear Papa! And when my grandfather discovers what a noble and eligible character Captain Davenport has, he must surely relent.
Juliana rose early next morning, but found it hard to partake of any breakfast; a cup of chocolate was all that she could swallow.
“You’ve no appetite, miss,” said Abigail. “You was up too late a-poring over them books in the library. I saw your candle shine! You’d best take a nice walk in the forest—look for white violets and primmyroses.”
“Yes, that is an excellent suggestion,” said Juliana, feeling that matters were being made almost too easy for her. She put on her worn old pelisse, over the brown worsted dress that she had worn all through France, which was by now quite shabby enough to belong to a milkmaid. In her pocket she tucked an apron and mob-cap, she hung a small basket over her arm and, so equipped, left her grandfather’s house.
It wanted still nearly two hours to ten o’clock, but she was far too restless to remain within doors.
The forest calmed her, as she walked quickly and lightly northward along the Winchester road. Tiny vivid leaves were uncurling on the oaks and beeches; the pale yellow of primroses gleamed among mosses and last year’s
leaves at the side of the track. Birds were shrilling and chattering overhead, and she sometimes caught a glimpse of distant deer and fawns slipping silently between the bushes.
Half an hour’s walking brought her to the stone cross where four ways met. Consulting her father’s watch, which she wore pinned to her belt, she discovered that she had nearly an hour and a half to wait, so, in order to avoid notice, she retired some distance from the road, and sat herself on a grassy bank, where she could inhale the sharp cool fragrance of the primroses. For half an hour she was very happy in the dappled sunshine. Then, unfortunately, the sun retired behind a bank of cloud, and Juliana began to feel rather chilly. Presently rain set in; a gentle spring rain at first, which increased by degrees to a drenching downpour. By the time Captain Davenport’s carriage came into view, Juliana was decidedly damp, for at that time of year the trees afforded but little shelter. However, her lover’s face was so radiant at the sight of her standing by the roadside that she had not the heart to point out that he was quite half an hour behind the time specified. He was driving the chaise himself, and jumped down from the box to greet her.
“My dear, dearest creature!” He wrapped his arms round her and swung her off her feet. “I had such a fear that you would not have come, after all! I cannot describe how rejoiced I was to see you here!” He set her down, not appearing to notice how wet she was. “At last we are truly alone together!” he murmured, gazing deep into her eyes, and he set his lips on hers. Juliana could not help being startled, and a little disturbed, at the violence of his kiss. It seemed so unlike him! She had experienced nothing like this! Would Charles the First, she fleetingly wondered, have thus saluted his soaking-wet ladylove in a storm of spring rain, on the high road, at a time when it was critically necessary that they should leave the vicinity without delay? As Captain Davenport’s lips explored hers with greater and greater urgency, Juliana, out of breath and swayed almost off her feet, could not avoid the feeling that Charles the First would have comported himself far otherwise. Captain Davenport, she was obliged to admit to herself, seemed today in some way different from her previous imaginings.
At this moment—perhaps fortunately—the passionate embrace was interrupted by a shrill, indignant voice from the inside of the chaise, which called out, “Do not do so! How dare you do so!”
“Oh, devil take it!” exclaimed Captain Davenport, relinquishing his hold of Juliana.
She, greatly shaken, turned to see a small dirty face, framed in pale flaxen curls, gazing disapprovingly out of the carriage window. It appeared to be that of a child of three or four years old.
“Who in the world is that?” demanded Juliana, in a tone of the liveliest astonishment.
“Deuce take the brat!” he growled. “I had almost forgot her. I thought she was sleeping. Quiet, you!” he called to the child.
“But who is she?” inquired Juliana. “And why have you brought her along?”
“Why,” he said, “do you not think it is a clever notion? Persons along the way who see a couple with a child will never think that we are eloping!”
“No—that is true,” Juliana was obliged to acknowledge. However, it seemed to her that the complications of traveling with such a small child might well outweigh the advantages. “Whose is she? How did you come by her?”
“Well—in point of fact,” he admitted in a lower tone, “I did not bring her expressly for the purpose of deceiving onlookers; she is the offspring of—of a servant of my friends in Southampton who suffered an accident and was unable to look after the brat; so, as I was coming in this direction, I agreed to convey the child as far as Petworth, where some uncle or cousin is supposed to take her off me and carry her to the farm of her grandfather, which lies thereabouts.”
“I see,” said Juliana. “That was very good-natured of you. But should we not be on our way? The rain is rather heavy; also it grows late, and I am a little afraid of being observed by some of my grandfather’s people along this portion of the road.”
“Oh, very well,” he said rather shortly. “It is not my fault! I was delayed—the roads are so miry that the horses made wretchedly slow work of it. I suppose you had best travel inside the carriage—why in the world did you not provide yourself with a thicker pelisse? Did you remember to bring a cap and apron?”
“Yes—I will put them on,” she said, somewhat chilled by his tone.
“Do it in the carriage—if you are so anxious to be off!”
He opened the door for her, slammed it when she had got in, sprang to the box, and lashed up his pair of horses into a quick canter. Juliana, feeling a little low-spirited, sat herself down inside and, with some difficulty, due to the swaying motion of the carriage, discarded her soaked pelisse, and drew from her pocket the cap and apron she had purloined. She tucked all her hair inside the cap, pulled the strings tight, and tied them in a bow on top of her head. The ample cotton apron covered her gown and reached to her ankles.
All of her actions were studied with what seemed acute hostility by the child, who sat curled up in one corner, with her arm tucked through the seat strap. She was a skinny little creature, thin-faced and freckled, neatly enough clad in a gingham dress, white cotton stockings, buckled shoes, and a sunbonnet, but she looked somewhat puny and underfed, and was evidently suffering pain from a spot on her sharp little nose, a large inflamed red carbuncle which looked excessively sore.
“What you doin’ that for?” she presently demanded with scorn as Juliana put on the apron. “You can’t sweep in here. There bain’t a broom.” Her accent was somewhat rough, though she spoke clearly enough.
“I am putting these things on in exchange for my pelisse, which was wet,” Juliana replied, hanging the latter garment from a hook. “What is your name, my little girl?”
“Shan’t say” was the reply, accompanied by a very disagreeable grimace.
“Don’t be saucy to the lady,” called back Captain Davenport sharply—he could hear their conversation, for the slide window was open. “The child’s name is Prue,” he told Juliana.
“How old are you, Prue?” Juliana persevered, hoping to overcome the little girl’s unfriendliness, but all she had in reply was an outstretched tongue and the words “Shan’t tell you!”
Captain Davenport, evidently irritated, lashed up his horses to a yet faster pace. The carriage swayed about so much that the child was presently dislodged from her perch and thrown to the floor, where she banged her nose and wept exceedingly. Nonetheless, she furiously repulsed Juliana, with small dusty fists, when the latter would have attempted to comfort her.
“Go ’way! I don’t like you! Go ’way!”
“I believe it may be better if you do not drive quite so fast,” Juliana suggested to Captain Davenport.
“What now?” he demanded angrily. “First you complain because I am late; and now you say do not go so fast. There seems to be no pleasing you!”
Nine
Juliana, though far from welcoming the presence of a rude, unfriendly little girl on what ought to have been her romantic elopement, nonetheless felt sorry for the child, and somewhat concerned about her. Plainly some of these repulsive manners might be due to anxiety about what was to happen to her, missing her mother, or pain from her injured nose.
“I daresay you will enjoy visiting your grandfather’s farm,” Juliana told her hopefully. “Have you been there before?”
“Shan’t say.”
“There may be ducks and geese; perhaps lambs and pigs—shall you like to play with them?”
No reply—unless a very vulgar noise could be counted as one.
“I am sorry that your mama is ill,” Juliana persevered. “What is the matter with her?”
“Tillie? She fell downstairs and broke her leg,” called back Captain Davenport, who appeared to be following the conversation with a close ear. “She will be laid up until it mends.” He sounded as irritate
d as if the wretched Tillie had done it on purpose, or as if he himself had undergone the mishap. Juliana supposed that he was now greatly regretting the good-natured impulse that had prompted him to bring the child. He continued to whip along his horses at a punishing pace. The carriage, an old, hired one, was exceedingly drafty; rain and wind blew in through various cracks, as well as through the sliding panel that gave onto the box. Juliana, in her worsted dress, felt decidedly chilly, and was of the opinion that the child, clad only in gingham, must be half frozen.
“Have you no cloak, my dear? I do not believe you should be out driving in just that thin dress and pinafore.”
Prue made no reply to this until asked twice over, but at last she answered sulkily, “Have got a cloak.”
“Where is it, then? It is best that you put it on.”
Prue unwillingly pulled it from under her; she had been sitting on it in order to give herself height to see out of the window. Searching about, Juliana discovered an old horsehair-stuffed cushion under the seat, which she substituted for the cloak, earning a scowl, perhaps of surprise, from the child, who muttered, “I ain’t a-going to put on that cloak, not whatever you says. That be all torn—and it don’t fit me neether.”
It was, in fact, not a cloak but a pelisse. Since it was nowhere near Prue’s size, and was, moreover, in a sad state of disrepair, Juliana inferred that it had been hastily acquired and thrust in at the last minute.
“Well, it certainly is torn, and much too large for you as well, I can see,” she agreed, critically holding it up. “But I believe these faults can be remedied. How very lucky it is that I always carry a needle and thread in my reticule. If I take large tucks down the seams—like this and shorten the sleeves by turning them up at the cuffs—so—and move these buttons across the front—and turn up the hem—which, by good fortune, does away with the worst of the rents—I think it may be made to fit you quite tolerably.”
She was accompanying her words by taking the appropriate measures. At first the child deliberately ignored her, turning a hostile shoulder and staring out of the window at a line of grass-covered hills which they were now passing on their left. But presently she wriggled round, and began to watch what Juliana did with a kind of amazed attention.
