by M C Beaton
“Gracefully said, Mr.… er… Channing. Hey, landlord, another bottle here.”
“We must leave, my lord,” said Felicity, trying to rise to her feet, but he pushed her back into her chair in the same autocratic manner as he had dealt with his offended friend.
“No, you must join me in a glass of wine. I insist.”
Miss Chubb groaned inwardly. In these days of hard drinking, she and Felicity were very abstemious, both of them preferring the taste of lemonade to wine. They only drank wine as part of their adventure, part of their masquerade. Both had admitted in the past that two glasses were definitely their limit. They had once experimented with a third but had found themselves becoming dangerously tipsy and inclined to relapse into their normal, feminine voices, instead of maintaining their adopted masculine ones.
Miss Chubb watched miserably as the bottle of wine was brought to the table. She knew she must rescue Felicity. There must be some way she could create a diversion. She rose to her feet.
“By your leave, my lord,” she said. “I beg to be excused.”
“But we have not broached the bottle,” said Lord Arthur.
“I shall return very shortly.”
“But where do you go?”
“To the Jericho,” replied Miss Chubb, an ugly flush mounting to her cheeks.
“My dear sir, it is raining like mad. There are plenty of chamberpots in the sideboard over there, and we are all men here. I suggest you avail yourself of one.”
“But the serving maids…” put in Felicity quickly.
“Are not in the room at present,” he pointed out amicably.
“I insist on going outside,” barked Miss Chubb truculently.
She hurried off. Lord Arthur watched her departure with raised brows and then turned to Felicity.
“Do you belong to these parts, Mr. Channing?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Channing… let me see. Ah, I have it. I have heard of a Mr. Channing of Tregarthan Castle.”
“Not him, nothing to do with him. Anyway, he’s dead.” Felicity took a great gulp of wine to cover her confusion.
“How odd to have two Channing families in the same neighborhood and yet not related. This room is warm. Do you not wish to remove your hat?”
But Felicity knew if she removed her curly-brimmed beaver it would reveal her long hair piled up on top of her head. It was the custom for gentlemen to keep their hats on if they only meant to stay somewhere for a short time.
“I must leave soon,” she said. “I have pressing business.”
“That being…?” Felicity surveyed this handsome lord with great irritation. Why did he ask so many questions? Then a thought struck her. If he could be made to believe she belonged to the shop-keeping class, he would probably remove himself from her table and go back to his friends.
“I am in the tailoring business, my lord,” she said. “Apprentice to a Mr. Weston.”
“But not the great Weston, as I can see from the cut of your coat. A tailor’s lad, hey? Your master spoils you. I have never before seen a tailor’s boy with such white hands.”
He filled her glass again.
“Tailoring is not hard labor,” pointed out Felicity. “But now that you know I am well below your class, you will no doubt wish to remove to…”
“You do yourself an injustice, Mr. Channing. I find your company quite fascinating. What is it like being a tailor’s apprentice?”
Felicity took a deep breath, another gulp of wine, and prepared to lie. Where on earth was Miss Chubb?
Miss Chubb had at first headed for the outside privy. The rain was falling hard. As soon as she was sure she was unobserved, she veered off in the direction of the stables. There had been no more arrivals since she and Felicity had come to the inn, so the stable boys were in the tack room, sitting around the fire. She put her head round the tack room door and said she would lead out their horses and the boys were not to trouble disturbing themselves—something they were glad to agree to, none of them wanting to go out into the rain when they did not have to. Miss Chubb then took her horse and Felicity’s and tethered them to a post in the yard of the inn over by the gate into the yard, but well away from the inn door.
Now, for that diversion.
Fear for Felicity sharpened her wits and made her brave. She returned to the stables and took a bale of hay and a small oil lamp. She carried the hay to the ground under the bay window at the side of the inn, behind which Felicity sat with Lord Arthur. The diamond-shaped panes of the windows were so old, so warped, and so small, she had no fear of anyone inside the inn being able to look out and see her.
She poured the oil from the lamp over the hay, took out her tinder box and tried to set it alight. The trouble with using a tinder box was that you had to be very lucky to get a light the first time. Often it took half an hour. Miss Chubb groaned. This looked like it would be one of the half-an-hour times.
Inside the inn, apparently enthralled, Lord Arthur Bessamy listened to Mr. Channing’s highly fanciful tale of life as a tailor’s apprentice. Rather muzzy with wine, Felicity kept talking and talking, frightened that if she stopped, he might ask more questions. And so this Scheherazade of The Green Dolphin launched into a long and complicated story about a fat man who had insisted on trying on a coat made for a thinner gentleman, insisting it must be the one he had bespoke because it “fitted him like a glove.”
She had just got to the interesting point when the tailor had challenged the fat man to a duel rather than let him take a coat made for another customer, when the room began to fill with black smoke.
Lord Arthur seemed unmoved. He kept his black eyes fastened on Felicity’s expressive face. But his friends had jumped to their feet.
And then through the thick, rain-smeared glass of the windows came the red glow of fire.
Not knowing Miss Chubb was responsible for it, Felicity saw, all the same, a golden opportunity to escape from Lord Arthur.
“Fire!” she screamed. “The stables are on fire.”
The tap room broke into an uproar, men fighting after Felicity to get out to rescue their precious horses.
Miss Chubb seized Felicity as she erupted out of the inn door.
“Straight to the gate,” she whispered urgently. “The horses are there.”
With remarkable speed for such a heavy woman, Miss Chubb darted off with Felicity speeding behind her.
Lord Arthur’s friends rushed straight to the stables. Only Lord Arthur, sauntering lazily to the front of the bay window at the side of the inn, found out where the flames were coming from. Or had come from. For the pounding rain was quickly reducing the once-flaming hay to a blackened mess.
He looked down at the hay, and then swung about as the clatter of hooves fleeing off into the night reached his ears. Then he returned to the inn.
Soon his baffled friends came back, exclaiming that they could not find the fire anywhere.
“Probably our imaginations,” drawled Lord Arthur. “More wine, gentlemen?”
Felicity and Miss Chubb reined in their mounts at the top of the cliff. The governess told Felicity of how she had set the fire to cause a diversion. “You are really very clever and bold, Miss Chubb,” said Felicity. “I declare, I am proud of you.”
Miss Chubb blushed with pleasure in the darkness. “I am glad I was able to be of help, Miss Felicity,” she said. “Lord Arthur Bessamy is a most terrifying man.”
“Indeed, yes,” agreed Felicity with a shudder, thinking of those clever, searching black eyes. “At least we need not trouble about him anymore and need not bother our heads about him again… thanks to you.”
But in her bed that night, as a fierce gale whipped round the castle and moaned in the arrow slits, Felicity lay awake, plagued by memories of Lord Arthur Bessamy. She had never met anyone like him before.
“And probably never will again,” said a gloomy voice in her head. “Not the sort of gentleman to be pressed into marriage with anyone, and a cut abo
ve your stepfather’s usual choice of husband.”
A large tear ran down her nose, and she brushed it away. She had drunk far too much and become maudlin, she told herself severely. Who in her right mind would want the terrifying Lord Arthur Bessamy as a husband? She pulled the pillows round about her ears to drown out the crying of the wind, and plunged down into an uneasy dream where she was sitting cross-legged on the floor of a tailor’s shop stitching a wedding coat for Lord Arthur Bessamy, who was to be married the next day to the Queen.
Before he set out the following morning, Lord Arthur Bessamy made inquiries in the village for a tailor’s assistant called Freddy Channing, but did not look in the least surprised to find no one had ever heard of the boy.
Chapter Two
For the next two weeks, life at Tregarthan Castle returned to normal—that is, normal for Tregarthan Castle.
Mrs. Palfrey lay on a chaise longue in the drawing room during the day, sleeping or reading novels, or writing long letters to friends with whom she often corresponded, saying she was still too ill to receive visitors. The physician had diagnosed “a wasting illness,” and had recommended quiet. In fact, Mrs. Palfrey would have been greatly cheered by a visit from some of her old friends, but Mr. Palfrey frowned on that idea, insisting that such excitement would be bad for her health, but privately thinking that his wife’s friends were blessed with too many children—children who might chip the gloss on the legs of the furniture and make slides on the glassy surface of the floor.
Felicity stayed in the nursery wing with her governess, sharing all her meals with Miss Chubb as usual, rather than face formal dinners with her stepfather in the chilly, polished dining room where only a very small fire was allowed to battle with the winter cold, as a large fire might create more dust and ash to sully the pristine surfaces of tables and glass cases.
Although she should have been glad that no sign of an arranged marriage had reared its ugly head, she was bored. Very bored. The brief meeting with Lord Arthur had shown her a glimpse of a heady world of sophistication, a world where ladies could expect to be allowed one Season in London and have at least a chance of finding someone suitable out of a selection of gentlemen. But Mr. Palfrey would never countenance the expense of a Season.
The rain had fallen steadily since her visit to The Green Dolphin with Miss Chubb. Both ladies had been confined to the castle. But at the end of the second week since their “great adventure” as Miss Chubb called it, the wind shifted to the east and then died down. Frost glittered on the lawns on the other side of the frozen moat and icicles hung down in front of the nursery windows.
Felicity and Miss Chubb were just getting warmly dressed, preparatory to going for a walk, when a liveried footman appeared with a message from Mr. Palfrey. Miss Felicity was to present herself in the drawing room immediately.
“Marriage!” whispered Miss Chubb as soon as the footman had left.
“I do not think so,” said Felicity. “No one has come to call.” She giggled. “They might leave wet footprints on Mr. Palfrey’s precious floors. I shall not be long. Meet me in the hall.”
Mr. Palfrey was seated in a wing chair in front of the small fire in the drawing room. Lying on the chaise longue drawn up in front of the window was Mrs. Palfrey, her eyes closed, a piece of half-finished embroidery lying on her lap.
“Come in, Felicity,” said Mr. Palfrey, “and sit opposite me. I have good news for you.”
Felicity sat down in a tapestried chair opposite. The pair surveyed each other cautiously.
Mr. Palfrey decided again that Felicity could hardly be classed as a beauty. There was something so… wayward about her appearance, and always a hint of rebellion at the back of those wide, innocent eyes.
Felicity was always struck afresh each time she saw him by how petty, nasty, and ridiculous her stepfather looked.
His sparse, graying hair was teased and combed back on top of his head. His blue morning coat was padded on the shoulders, and his cravat was built up high to cover the lower part of his face. He had a long thin body and very short legs, legs that were encased in skintight, canary-yellow pantaloons. With his thin yellow legs and his crest of hair, he looked like Mr. Canary in a children’s story book. He had a little beak of a nose and very pale blue eyes.
“What news, Mr. Palfrey?” asked Felicity. After his marriage to their mother, Mr. Palfrey had begged the little Channing girls to call him “Papa.” But not even the biddable elder girls had been able to call him that. He was so fussy, prissy, and spiteful that not one of them could view him in the light of father, so all had continued to call him Mr. Palfrey.
The castle was very quiet. The servants were expected to remain unseen and unheard as they went about their duties. If Mr. Palfrey came across, say, a housemaid, who had not time to run and hide, she was expected to turn her face to the wall and try to look as invisible as possible until he had passed.
The clock on the mantelpiece ticked a rapid chattering tick-tock, and a flame spurted out of a log in the fire and died, while Mr. Palfrey considered his reply.
“I credit you with a natural modesty and humility, Felicity,” said Mr. Palfrey. “So it may have occurred to you that you are not exactly pretty.”
“Not in a fashionable way, no,” said Felicity mildly.
“Not in any way at all,” said Mr. Palfrey sharply. “I have therefore had some difficulty in finding you a suitable husband.”
Felicity went very still and tense. Who? Who? Who have you found for me? chattered an anxious voice in her brain along with the restless chatter of the clock.
Mr. Palfrey made a steeple of his fingers and looked at Felicity over them. “There is, moreover, a shortage of young men. You cannot expect a young husband such as your more fortunate sisters have found.”
“Maria married the Bishop of Exeter,” said Felicity tartly, “and he is in his forties.”
“Enough!” said Mr. Palfrey, holding up one hand. “But you will consider yourself fortunate when you hear that I have found a suitable gentleman for you. A titled gentleman.”
“Who is?”
“Lord St. Dawdy.”
A faint moan came from the direction of the window. Felicity looked anxiously at her mother, but that lady still lay with her eyes closed, apparently asleep.
“You are not going to marry me off to anyone,” said Felicity in an urgent whisper, her eyes blazing, “least of all to an ancient gentleman who has been married twice before. Besides, he is abroad.”
“You have no choice in the matter,” said Mr. Palfrey. “The baron has returned and has honored me by accepting my proposal. You will marry him or be thrown out of here.”
“You cannot throw me out of my own home! Mama would never allow it. You would be the laughingstock of the neighborhood.”
“I weary of trying to cultivate the goodwill of the peasantry. They may think me hard-hearted, if they wish. Once you are safely married, they will come about.”
Felicity looked at him, appalled. She had never really dreamed he would go this far.
“Let me tell you this, Mr. Palfrey,” she said, leaning forward, her eyes flashing, “you have not yet taken my measure. I am not meek and quiet like my sisters. I shall not let you force me into marriage. I shall not let you!”
Her voice had risen. Mrs. Palfrey stirred and moaned again.
“Don’t, Felicity,” she said weakly.
Felicity ran to the window and knelt down by her mother and took one of Mrs. Palfrey’s thin, wasted hands in her own. “Mama,” she said, “he says I am to marry Lord St. Dawdy.”
Mrs. Palfrey’s eyes glittered with tears. “Mr. Palfrey,” she started to say, “I do beg of you…” but the rest of what she had been going to say was lost in a bout of asthmatic wheezing.
“Now look what you have done!” exclaimed Mr. Palfrey, fussing forward. “Leave us immediately.”
Felicity rose and stood looking mutinously at her stepfather, prepared to do battle. But her mother’s wea
k plea of “Yes, my dear, do leave us” went straight to her heart.
“I am going for a walk on the grounds with Miss Chubb,” said Felicity, “and when I return, Mr. Palfrey, and when Mama is not present, we shall discuss this matter further.”
She turned and ran from the room.
When she had gone, Mrs. Palfrey tried to struggle up. “Do not do this to Felicity,” she gasped. “You misjudge her. She has strength and spirit, very like her father.”
“That spirit is unbecoming in a young miss,” said Mr. Palfrey, extracting a Limoges snuffbox and taking a delicate pinch. “St. Dawdy will soon break her to harness. Now, do not distress yourself over the tiresome child. I am going to ride over to St. Dawdy’s to discuss the marriage settlement.”
After he had left, Mrs. Palfrey fumbled in her sleeve for her handkerchief and dried the tears that had begun to flow over her white cheeks. Then she rang a bell placed on a little table beside her.
“Giles,” she said to the footman who answered it. “Has Mr. Palfrey left?”
“Yes, ma’am, just this second. Shall I call him back?”
“No, no. I want you to go out on the grounds or even beyond, to find Miss Felicity, who is out walking with Miss Chubb. Bring her back to my bedchamber. Send Benson to help me upstairs.” Benson was the lady’s maid.
Meanwhile, Felicity and Miss Chubb had retreated to the one uncultivated corner of the garden by the south wall where a curtain of creeper drooped over a tangled mass of wildflowers, their winter leaves yellow and brown—mallow, foxglove, borage, and rosebay willow-herb. The rest of the garden about the castle was as manicured and ordered as the inside of the great building. Grass, cut into geometric patterns, surrounded the rosebeds; the roses were never allowed to grow to any height but were always ruthlessly pruned so that only a few regimented flowers were allowed to bloom each summer.
This one corner had, so far, escaped Mr. Palfrey’s notice, and Felicity found it a soothing place to go, a place mercifully free of his fussy, nagging perfectionism.
She had told Miss Chubb about the marriage that had been arranged for her, stoutly maintaining that she would not be forced into it, and Miss Chubb listened, her heavy face drooping and her doglike eyes sad, for she really did not think Felicity, as her stepfather had pointed out, had any choice in the matter at all.
