by M C Beaton
His cambric shirt was so fine it was almost transparent, the edge of the frills being rolled and delicately stitched.
There was something awesome about such an amalgam of exquisite tailoring and barbering and manicuring. And to Minerva, something decadent and repellent and, yes, foreign.
‘I shall see you presently,’ said this Exquisite to his friends, without once removing his eyes from Minerva’s face. ‘I shall take this lady into the inn and deposit her shopping in some convenient place. Allow me, ma’am.’
‘Really, Sylvester,’ came the voice of one of the ladies. ‘Must you concern yourself with doing the civil to yokels? We should return as soon as possible. I, for one, have no desire to spend the night here.’
‘Leave me alone, all of you,’ said Minerva, now thoroughly incensed.
‘You heard the lady,’ said the tall gentleman languidly. ‘Leave us alone. Now, ma’am, if you will allow me …’
He began to walk towards the inn and Minerva had perforce to follow him.
‘You shall answer to my father for this insult,’ she said to his uncaring back.
‘Charmed to make his acquaintance, ma’am,’ was the lazy reply. ‘I shall perhaps be staying here after all.’
Minerva’s conscience stabbed her. She had been unfair. This man had not insulted her. His companions had, but that was another matter.
It was her Christian duty to give him a full apology.
Minerva shrank back momentarily at the entrance to the inn. It seemed full of wild drunken masculinity. Her companion patiently held her parcels while she looked in the coffee room, in the tap and in the dining room. Of the vicar, there was no sign.
Her eyes stung with tobacco smoke, her ears were deafened with noise, the low beams of the old inn seemed to press down on her.
‘I must find the landlord,’ she said wildly to her tall companion.
‘I shall call him for you,’ said the Exquisite patiently.
‘But you will never be heard above all this hubbub.’
‘Yes. I think I will.’
They were standing in the small entrance hall. The tap was on one side, the coffee room, leading to the dining room, on the other.
The tall gentleman deposited Minerva’s parcels on a small table which held a brass jug of wilted flowers, a riding crop, and a beer tankard, and dug a hand into the pocket of his coat – which was, of course, in the pleats of the tails - and drew out a handful of money. Some he threw into the coffee room and some into the tap.
The silence was sudden and immediate. No matter how loud the noise may be, no matter how rowdy the company, no matter how engrossed in conversation, there is nothing that effects a silence so much as the sound of falling money.
‘Landlord!’ shouted the gentleman, into the hush.
A small, thin, wiry man came bustling up.
‘Mr Boyse!’ said Minerva thankfully, to the landlord. ‘Have you seen Mr Armitage?’
‘I sees vicar a whoiles back, Miss Armitage. He says he’s taken a private parlour and he’s bespoke two rooms for the night. Seems he’s selling an’orse to some gennleman.’
‘I don’t understand,’ said Minerva, looking bewildered. ‘He came to buy … Oh, very well.’
‘So if you can find your way, miss. It’s upstairs, second door on the roit. Thank ’ee, and I’ll tell missus to fetch the tea tray or sumpin’. Dinner’ll be soirved as soon as vicar comes.’
Minerva marched to the narrow inn stairs and started to mount. At the third stair, she remembered her parcels, her escort, and that she owed him thanks and an apology.
She turned around. He was standing at the foot of the stairs, holding her parcels, which he had picked up from the table.
Her family would have recognized in Minerva’s fixed stare and lofty profile that she was about to make one of ‘Merva’s noble apologies’.
‘Sir,’ she said, throwing back her head. ‘I owe you an apology. I was abrupt with you, forgetting that any insult I may have received in the inn yard did not come from you. I thank you also for your kindness and service to me.’ She stretched out her arms, rather in the manner of a maiden on a Greek urn to receive her parcels.
She had not realized that changing from the thrown-back attitude to the Greek-goddess-receiving-sheaves-of-corn-stoop was too sudden a switch of posture to make on a steep inn stair, and she tumbled forwards down the stairs on top of him.
He simply subsided gracefully under her weight so that he was lying full length on the inn hall floor with Minerva on top of him while several rowdy bucks and bloods roared and cheered their encouragement, some going so far as to suggest the positions ought to be reversed.
‘Unhand me, sir,’ said Minerva, blushing furiously.
‘Damme,’ complained the tall gentleman, looking up into her eyes. ‘How can I unhand you when I haven’t even got you? It’s you, ma’am, who should unhand me. I can’t move, you know, with a chest full of lady and my arms full of parcels. Now can I?’
Minerva scrambled to her feet, wishing she were dead. It was all a nightmare. She, the stately organized Minerva to whom the whole Armitage family turned for sage wisdom and advice, to be made to look so ridiculous.
‘Papa!’ she cried thankfully, seeing the familiar burly figure in the doorway of the inn.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ said her father cheerfully. ‘Evening Comfrey,’ he added to Minerva’s companion, who had risen to his feet. ‘I’m fair sharp-set. Let’s above for dinner.’
And to Minerva’s confusion, her father reached a plump arm up to the Exquisite’s shoulder and pulled him towards the stairs.
But the tall gentleman disengaged himself, murmured that he would first have to make his apologies to his friends, bowed to Minerva, handed her her parcels, and withdrew, saying he would join them in ten minutes’ time.
Minerva could barely contain herself until they were in the private parlour with the door closed behind them.
‘Papa! Who is that gentleman?’
‘Oh, that’s Comfrey. Lord Sylvester Comfrey, the Duke of Allsbury’s youngest. All the crack, y’know. Rich as Golden Ball and some say he’s got more social power than Brummell.’
‘If that is the sort of man with whom I am to consort when I make my come-out in London, then I would rather not go,’ said Minerva, removing her bonnet.
‘Well, see here,’ said the vicar sternly. ‘I ain’t forcing you to marry him this evening. I’m trying to sell him one of the bays he’s got his eye on. Says there was nothing at the fair to match it, and there wasn’t. He’ll pay a good price, so I don’t want any of your missish airs. If you don’t like him, keep quiet. He can do you a power of damage in London if he takes you in dislike.’
‘I do not like Dandies,’ said Minerva in a low voice.
‘Here! He ain’t a Dandy, and don’t you go a-calling him one, see? He’s an out and outer. Apart from Alvaney, I wouldn’t give any of them Dandies house room.’
‘Surely Mama will be worried if we do not return home?’
‘No, she won’t, ’cos I sent a boy to the vicarage for our clothes. We’re staying here tonight and that’s that. I can smell snow, but let’s hope it holds off until tomorrow. Shhhh! I hear a step on the stairs.’
The door opened and Lord Sylvester stood surveying the vicar and his daughter through his quizzing glass. Then he let it fall and walked lazily into the room.
Minerva could not understand why she disliked this man so much, but dislike him she did.
Nonetheless, she managed to present a pretty picture during dinner, while the two men discussed horseflesh and blood-lines. She had glanced in the looking-glass before sitting down and knew she was looking her best. The cold of the afternoon had brought the roses to her cheeks and her black hair gleamed with health. But not once did Lord Sylvester glance in her direction and after some time Minerva began to feel unaccountably piqued.
And yet she sensed his brain seeking out her own. She sensed he was observing her somehow, althou
gh he did not look in her direction. She put this fancy down to the fact that the wine was heavy and fortified with brandy, and to the heat of the room. But as the meal went on, she began to feel increasingly nervous, so that when he at last addressed her, she dropped her fork with a clatter on her plate.
‘I believe we are to have the pleasure of seeing you in London next Season, Miss Armitage?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘And are you looking forward to all the balls and parties?’
Minerva was overcome by a childish desire to appear different; to make an impression. In short, to show off.
‘No, my lord,’ she said. ‘I would I could stay at home, caring for my brothers and sisters and attending to the wants of our parishioners. It is by helping others that we gain pleasure for ourselves.’
‘Indeed! Then why plunge into the fleshpots of London with such gay abandon?’
‘I must,’ said Minerva, half-shutting her eyes … another irritating mannerism. ‘My family demands it of me.’
‘Why?’
Minerva met her father’s fulminating glare and blushed. She could not possibly explain that she had to catch a rich husband to save the Armitage fortunes.
She bit her lip and said nothing.
‘I mean,’ pursued that infuriating voice, ‘one would think you were being forced to go. Is that the case?’
‘There must be some way of breeding in cry without breeding anything out,’ said the vicar, ruthlessly changing the subject. ‘Mostyn’s hounds are quite remarkable for their muteness. But Beaufort’s pack would give you palpitations of the heart – the best pack in England after Belvoir.’
Lord Sylvester picked up the conversational lead and turned to hunting. Soon there was nothing for Minerva to do but retire to her room and leave the gentlemen to their port.
‘Your traps are in room six,’ said her father. ‘I shall be in room two if you need anything. We shall not stay late. I am tired and I am sure his lordship is as well.’
Minerva kissed him on the cheek, curtsyed to Lord Sylvester, who bowed in return and then held the door open for her.
‘Good night, Miss Armitage,’ he said softly.
Minerva’s gray eyes flew up to his face. His green eyes watched her with that steady gaze, and despite herself, her eyes fell to the beautiful curve of that sculptured mouth, before she muttered a hasty ‘goodnight’ in reply.
Once she reached her room, she knew sleep would not come. The elegance of Lord Sylvester and his friends had made London seem like a formidable place. Who were those haughty ladies who had been with him? Was he attached to either? Was he married? Oh, what did it matter! For the sake of her brothers and sisters, she must train her mind constantly to higher thought.
She drew out a small leather bound volume called Meditations on the Destiny of the Soul and proceeded to read, sitting in a battered armchair in front of the dying fire.
Try as she would, she could not concentrate. It was not that Lord Sylvester had disturbed her in any way, she told herself firmly. The horrendous noise from the tap below was enough to wake the dead.
The next thing she knew, the steeple clock was chiming two in the morning. She had fallen asleep.
Minerva felt stiff with cold. She threw a shovelful of coal on the embers of the fire, and opened up the battered trunk to lay out her nightclothes.
A crumpled gray flannel shirt, a Kilmarnock nightcap, and a roll of gentleman’s small clothes met her startled gaze.
Then she realized with some irritation that the inn servant had given her her father’s trunk by mistake and had no doubt given her father her own.
She felt tired and gritty from having slept in her clothes and, after some hesitation, decided to find her father’s room and exchange luggage, wondering all the same why her father had not discovered the mistake himself.
Picking his trunk up in one hand and the bed candle in its flat stick in the other, she pushed open the door, searching along the narrow inn corridor for room two. The room numbers were scrawled in lead pencil on the whitewashed walls of the corridor beside each door.
After bumping the trunk up several stairs and down several stairs, she found room two and tried the handle. The door swung open.
‘Papa!’ whispered Minerva, advancing towards the bed and holding the candle high. The bed was empty.
She lit a branch of candles on the mantelshelf with the bed candle and, in the sudden blaze, saw her own trunk standing by the bed.
Where could the vicar be?
The curtains were not quite drawn.
Minerva went to the window, opened it, and looked out into the inn yard which was brightly lit by moonlight.
As she watched, two figures appeared under the light of the lamp which hung over the arch leading into the courtyard of the inn.
One was her father, the other that of a woman. Her father said something and the woman’s loud coarse laugh rang out on the night air. Then the vicar stooped and gave his companion a hearty kiss and a slap on the bottom.
He shouted good night and walked towards the inn.
Minerva drew back from the window.
Now she knew why her father had so mysteriously managed to book two rooms and a private parlour on the day of the horse fair, seemingly at the last moment. He had, in fact, booked them well in advance. The whole expedition had been planned to look like a sudden impulse. Taking his eldest daughter had been camouflage. He had had an appointment with a lady of the town.
Minerva knew that her father was sometimes unfaithful to her mother. Men were like that. But never before had she seen an actual demonstration of the fact.
She felt lost and bewildered and hurt. She also did not want to see her father when he returned to his room.
Grabbing her own trunk, she blew out the candles on the mantel, picked up her bed candle, and hurried back along the way she had come. She thought she would never find her room again, when suddenly she saw a bumpy six on the whitewash and, with a sigh of relief, pushed open the door, and walked in.
Her nerves were by now quite overset. She gave herself only a perfunctory wash, noticing that the cans were only half full and that the towels were damp, and resolved to complain to the landlord about this sloppiness in the morning. The room appeared larger than she remembered and smelled slightly of brandy. Furthermore the bed curtains were drawn and she was sure she had left them drawn back.
She changed into her nightgown, brushed out her hair, and tied a pretty lace nightcap on her head.
Minerva turned and faced the bed.
Sanctuary!
To plunge down on that feather mattress and pull the covers over her head and sleep the trials and tribulations of the world away!
As she had done when she was a little girl and frightened of the dark, Minerva blew out the candle, made a rush for the bed, and dived headlong through the bed curtains.
‘Oooof!’
The breath seemed driven out of her body as, for the second time since she had come to Hopeminster, she landed flat on a masculine chest.
‘Manna from heaven,’ murmured an amused voice. Before she had time to recover her wits, one firm hand pressed down on her back, one other firm hand forced up her chin, and a hard mouth covered her own.
She jerked her mouth away and opened it to scream but she was neatly rolled over onto her back and the full weight of a man’s body pinned her to the bed, and that seeking, demanding mouth found her own.
Far back in Minerva’s throat came a choked little sound of pure fright.
Immediately her lips were freed, and the heavy body rolled off her.
‘Don’t scream,’ came a languid drawl that Minerva now recognized as that of Lord Sylvester. ‘Let me light the candle and see who I have in my bed.’
A little yellow flame sprang up, a hand pulled the bed curtain further back, and Lord Sylvester’s handsome face looked down into Minerva’s frightened one.
‘How dare you, my lord,’ said Minerva, recovering her courage, an
d realizing she had only to scream to bring her father and the inn full of servants. ‘How dare you lurk in my room!’
He leaned back against the pillows and clasped his hands behind his head. ‘On the contrary, Miss Armitage, this is my room.’
Minerva shut her eyes tightly and then slowly opened them hoping that there was some mistake. But his lordship was right. It was undoubtedly his room. Now that she looked clearly, it was indeed larger, and the furnishings were slightly different.
In alarm, she hopped from the bed and walked around to stand, shivering, on his side. In a halting voice, she explained about the trunks, and about how she was sure it had said ‘six’ on the wall.
He lay, propped up on the pillows, quite at his ease, his nightcap at a rakish angle on his head, and his face looking almost translucent against the white lace of his nightshirt.
‘There’s no need to keep clutching at yourself like that, ma’am,’ said his lordship. ‘That thing you’re wearing conceals your figure, shape and form to perfection.’ He raised his quizzing glass. Dear God, the man slept with it! ‘In fact,’ he went on, ‘it’s flannel, I would say. Keep the winter chills out.’
He smiled at the trembling Minerva in a comforting sort of way and half closed his eyes.
There was one thing about Minerva. She knew where her duty lay and she would perform it no matter what the cost.
Aware that he was speaking the truth and that her nightdress was more concealing than any ballgown, she dropped her arms to her side, threw back her head, half closed her eyes, and declaimed, ‘I am willing to marry you, sir.’
His lordship’s eyes flew open. Then they half closed again like the eyes of a drowsy cat. ‘Getting deaf,’ he murmured. ‘I could have sworn you said you were going to marry me.’
