by M C Beaton
‘Heigh-ho,’ said Belinda to Hannah, ‘we are travelling at some speed now.’
‘You arrived at the Bell Savage in an extremely handsome carriage,’ said Hannah. ‘I am surprised you took the stage.’
‘I am in disgrace, you see,’ said Belinda calmly. ‘My uncle and aunt said they had already spent a fortune on trying to marry me off and were not going to waste any money on me. I am being sent to my Great-Aunt Harriet in The Bath. She is a very religious old lady and is to teach me the folly or my ways.’
‘That folly being …?’
Belinda glanced at the sleeping occupants of the carriage and then leaned forward. ‘I ran away with a footman,’ she said.
Hannah looked at her sympathetically. Mrs Clarence, wife of her late employer, had done just that; pretty, witty, gay Mrs Clarence, whose going had sent Thornton Hall into a sort of perpetual mourning.
‘Tell me about it,’ said Hannah.
‘Are you not shocked?’
Hannah shook her head.
‘I had better tell you how it all came about.’ Belinda gave a little sigh. ‘I am nineteen years of age. Mama and Papa died of the smallpox two years ago. I inherit all their money when I am twenty-one or when I become married. Papa was a scholarly man and Mama was very pretty, not like me. My uncle and aunt, Mr and Mrs Earle – my uncle is my father’s brother – are quite different. They are very rigid and very high in the instep. My fortune impressed them with the idea that it would be simple to find a duke or an earl for me to marry. To that end, they brought me out at the last Season and then again at the Little Season. I did not take. Or rather, there were actually several gentlemen interested in me but they were not titled and so were discouraged. My aunt and uncle said there was a certain lack of necessary innocence in my appearance which attracted the wrong type of gentlemen. I tried to explain to them that when I reached the age of twenty-one, I would be independently wealthy and could travel and study and would not have to marry at all. They were shocked. They said it had been my dead mother’s dearest wish that I marry, and so they said that I must endure another Season this year.
‘It is so very lowering,’ said Belinda, ‘to have to sit at balls, propping up the wall. Of course, I attracted adventurers from time to time and, for some reason, elderly roués.’
Looking at that oddly passionate mouth, Hannah thought she knew why.
‘As I explained, my uncle and aunt felt I lacked the dewy innocence of appearance necessary in a debutante and hired Miss Wimple to school me in the arts of flirtation.’
‘How can a middle-aged spinster be expected to school a young lady in the arts of flirtation?’ asked Hannah.
‘Middle-aged ladies are supposed to know everything. Oh, I beg your pardon.’ Belinda coloured.
Hannah laughed. ‘Never mind my sensibilities. Go on with your story.’
‘In our household, there was this footman. His name was Patrick Sullivan.’
‘Irish,’ said Hannah sympathetically.
‘Yes, Irish, and with all the charm of that race. He had thick black curls …’
Hannah raised her eyebrows, momentarily shocked.
‘I saw him out of powder once when he was returning from a funeral,’ explained Belinda. ‘He always seemed to be asking leave to go to funerals. It was found out afterwards that he did not have one relative in this country, but liked to invent funerals so as to get free time. He had very merry blue eyes. He was most disrespectful behind Aunt and Uncle’s backs,’ said Belinda with a giggle. ‘He called them the Cod and Codess, and they are rather cold and fishlike, with pale eyes and thick lips.
‘I told Patrick I was becoming desperate at the idea of another Season and he startled me by saying, “Run away with me.” I must have been mad, and it all seems so very shocking now. But I thought he wanted to marry me. You see, with my money, he would be rich and he was so merry and bright, I thought we would have a glorious time.
‘I did not climb out of the window or anything like that. Patrick had it all arranged. He waited until my uncle and aunt were out walking, I packed a bag, and we simply walked from the house and took a hack to the City.
‘But when we got to the City, he tipped his hat to me and said he hoped I would be happy now that I was free, and started to walk away. I ran after him and said, “But we are to be married, Patrick.”
‘He said he had no intention of marrying me but was going on to a new position in Lord Cunningham’s household in Grosvenor Square. I said he had no need to work any more. As soon as we were married I would get my fortune. But Patrick had read the terms of my parents’ will in my uncle’s desk, which I had not. I was to have my fortune if I married before the age of twenty-one, but I had to marry someone of whom my uncle and aunt approved. “But where am I to go?” I asked him. He scratched his head and said, faith, I’d surely scores of relatives that were more congenial, and when I told him I had not, he said I had better go home before I was missed.
‘I shall always remember him walking away from me … clank, clank, clank.’
Hannah looked puzzled. ‘Clank, clank …? Oh, you are speaking metaphorically. Do you mean like a knight in shining armour?’
Belinda shook her head. ‘No, nothing like that. It was the spoons, do you see? He had stolen the silver.’
Hannah tried to keep a straight face but she began to laugh and Belinda started to laugh as well.
‘So,’ said Hannah at last, mopping her streaming eyes, ‘I suppose you must survive until twenty-one?’
‘So long away,’ said Belinda mournfully, and Hannah had a sudden sharp memory of youth, when the years had been very long. Now they seemed to speed by.
‘There is always the possibility of romance,’ said Hannah.
‘Pooh. How much better to be free and single.’ Belinda lowered her voice and glanced at the sleeping Judds. ‘Now there is a typical marriage.’
Hannah frowned. She herself thought the Judds’s marriage was indeed typical but she was not going to agree with Belinda. Young women should all get married and have children. That was Hannah’s firm belief. It was different for someone like herself. Ambitious servants knew they could not marry.
‘You might meet someone in Bath.’ Hannah had become tired of saying ‘The’ Bath. It sounded vaguely indecent anyway.
‘I shall never meet anyone,’ said Belinda firmly.
‘But think, my dear, although you may not have attracted certain titled gentlemen, was there no one you met during the Season who attracted you in the least?’
‘Not one.’
‘In any case, since you are here, I assume when you arrived home that day your disappearance had been noticed?’
‘Oh, yes. And oh, the folly of it. I had left a note, you see, telling them that I must have my freedom. And so it was decided to reform me.’ Belinda sighed. ‘Travel on the stage does seem a sort of purgatory.’
‘Is your great-aunt so very strict?’
‘Yes, she has turned Methodist, you see. I shall simply have to be patient until I am twenty-one.’
‘And then what will you do?’
‘I shall travel.’ Belinda gave a little laugh. ‘Comfortably. I shall have a travelling carriage built. I shall go to the Low Countries, to Italy, to Turkey.’
‘Foreign places?’ Hannah sniffed. ‘I prefer to see England.’
‘And what of Scotland?’
‘Full of savages in skirts.’
Belinda smiled. ‘Nonetheless, I am determined to remain cheerful. I shall endure the next two years planning my freedom.’
‘We may have an adventure on the road to Bath.’
Belinda sighed. ‘It is reputed to be the best road in the country. Oh, no. We shall travel sedately in this freezing cold and eventually we shall arrive, numb and miserable. I am sure my great-aunt considers fires in the bedchambers a sinful waste of money.’
Hannah looked out of the window. ‘It is beginning to snow,’ she said.
Light, feathery flakes were drift
ing down, dancing and spiralling. The sun had disappeared behind a bank of heavy grey cloud.
As the coach turned into the courtyard of another inn, the other passengers awoke. The dandified coachman, Hannah noticed with displeasure, had his hand out for tips before they were even seated round the table. He obviously did not think much of what he got, for he tossed the coins contemptuously in his hand before going off with the guard to the coachman’s room.
‘I do hope we will not land in a snow-drift,’ said Mrs Judd nervously, as they were drinking the inevitable rum and hot milk and nutmeg. They were all so cold that even Miss Wimple did not protest when Belinda raised the tankard to her lips. It was customary for the gentlemen of the party on the stage-coach to pay for the ladies’ refreshment. Mr Judd did not appear to find this courtesy necessary in this case, possibly because he was the only male passenger.
‘We shall not come to any harm,’ he said pompously. ‘I shall see to that.’
‘If it snows really hard,’ said Mrs Judd, on whom the rum was having an invigorating effect, ‘I do not know that you can do much about it.’
‘I shall take the ribbons myself,’ said her husband, quelling her with a frown. ‘I have a pretty hand with the ribbons.’
‘But I have only seen you drive a gig,’ exclaimed his wife. ‘Not a four-in-hand.’
He whispered something fiercely in her ear and she blushed, looked miserable, and said, ‘Yes, dear.’
It was an unusually long stop. The waiter filled their tankards several times. The heat from a large roaring fire was thawing them all out and no one showed any signs of being anxious to be on the road again.
Then the coachman could be seen, lurching through the yard. He appeared, Hannah observed uneasily, to be very drunk. She began to wish there were more male passengers on board.
She took up a collection this time to tip the landlord to put hot bricks in the coach. Mr Judd demurred, but Mrs Judd opened her reticule and paid over some money, much to her husband’s obvious fury.
She knows he don’t like to tick her off too much in front of an audience, thought Hannah, and she’s making the most of it.
As they all boarded the coach again, even Hannah began to feel sleepy. The coach rumbled on. There were three more stops that afternoon, and at each, hot drinks of brandy and rum and milk were served. Belinda requested hot lemonade and Hannah joined her in drinking it, noticing with amusement that the severe Miss Wimple was becoming tipsy. But her amusement died when she saw the state of the coachman. He could barely stand and had to be hoisted up on the box by the guard and a couple of ostlers.
Inside the coach again, Mrs Judd began to sing and was violently hushed by her husband, on whom alcohol had produced a morose effect.
‘You are a fuddy-duddy,’ said Mrs Judd with a laugh. She obviously liked the sound of the words because she kept repeating ‘fuddy-duddy’ over and over again and then tried ‘duddy-fuddy,’ all interspersed with laughs and hiccups.
Mr Judd sat huddled in his corner and glared at his wife. Hannah considered there was going to be one almighty marital row that evening when the Judds were in the seclusion of their bedchamber.
They finally rolled into Reading and found their rooms in the Bear and Bull. It was an expensive hostelry. Glad as she was of the comfort, Hannah began to wonder uneasily how long her inheritance would last. Five thousand pounds had seemed a fortune just a short time ago. But it was lovely to finally sink down on a feather bed with silk hangings and stretch out on lavender-scented sheets.
Her eyes were just beginning to close when she heard the sound of a thump from the next door, followed by a wail of pain.
Hannah sat up in bed.
The Judds were in that room next door. If a married man wanted to beat his wife, there was nothing she or anyone could do about it. But her heart went out to little Mrs Judd. There came the sound of another blow and then a thin, high wail of fear.
‘For what I am about to do, God,’ prayed Hannah Pym, ‘please forgive me.’
She rose and dressed and went downstairs and ordered two tankards of mulled wine. She carried the steaming tankards up to her room. Throwing back the lid of her trunk, she took out a box in which she kept various medicines. Into one of the tankards, she poured a dose of laudanum.
She then carried the tray next door and knocked. Mr Judd in nightcap and dressing gown opened the door. Mrs Judd was a huddled, sobbing figure on the bed.
‘I heard Mrs Judd cry out and was afraid she was suffering from nightmares. Is that the case?’ demanded Hannah, steely eyed.
‘Yes, yes,’ said Mr Judd testily.
‘I have brought you both some mulled wine,’ said Hannah in governessy tones. ‘It is the best thing to ensure a tranquil sleep and I shall stay here until you have both drunk it.’
She turned the tray deftly so that the drugged drink was nearest to Mr Judd. ‘Thank you,’ he said sourly. He was anxious to get back to the pleasures of tormenting his wife. He drained the tankard in one gulp and then took the tray from Hannah. ‘I will take this to my wife,’ he said. ‘Good night.’
Hannah followed him into the room and neatly caught the tray as he began to weave and stumble. ‘What the deuce?’ he mumbled. He fell into an armchair beside the fire and began to snore.
Hannah walked over to the bed and patted Mrs Judd awkwardly on the shoulder. ‘There, there,’ she said. ‘Do not cry any more. Your husband is asleep. Do not move him. He has had too much to drink.’
Mrs Judd sat up and dried her eyes. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered. ‘I am very weak and silly … about nightmares, I mean.’
‘Not silly at all,’ said Hannah compassionately. ‘Do try to sleep, Mrs Judd. We have a long journey tomorrow and perhaps a dangerous one if that wretched coachman don’t sober up.’
‘If only some highwayman would rise up from a hedgerow and shoot me,’ said Mrs Judd drearily. She lay down and buried her face in the pillow. Hannah looked at her sadly and then went out and quietly closed the door.
2
I never had a piece of toast,
Particularly long and wide
But fell upon the sanded floor,
And always on the buttered side.
James Payn
When the passengers struggled back aboard The Quicksilver in a freezing black dawn, the snow was still falling steadily. But there was no wind. Wind was what caused accidents to stage-coaches, wind that hurled snow up into high drifts. Miss Wimple, rather red about the nose and eye after the libations of the day before, said the weather was all the fault of the government’s encouraging balloonists. If God had meant us to fly, she insisted, he would have given us wings. It stood to reason that all these balloons bouncing into the clouds had disturbed the atmosphere and caused the snow to fall. Hannah’s comment that she had never heard of a ballooning expedition in winter was treated with disdain.
Mr Judd sat groggily in his corner. His wife poured a little cologne in a handkerchief and bathed his brow; he smiled at her weakly and said he would never touch strong drink again.
‘And neither will I,’ declared Miss Wimple. ‘And as for you, miss,’ she went on, rounding on Belinda, ‘you should never have had any in the first place.’
‘At the latter stages yesterday,’ said Belinda, ‘Miss Pym and I were drinking lemonade, which is why we are the only two who look at all human this morning.’
‘Do not address your elders in such a pert manner,’ said Miss Wimple and then put a hand to her head and groaned as the guard tootled ferociously on the yard of tin and the coach moved off into the snow.
‘I wonder how our coachman is faring this morning,’ said Hannah.
‘Disgraceful young churl,’ commented Mr Judd wearily. ‘He looked as if he had slept in his clothes.’
After Reading, the Bath road ran through flat pastoral country with barely a rise, past Sipson Green, where they changed horses again at the Magpie, and into Buckinghamshire, where it became broad, flat, and comfortable until New
bury. The day remained grey and threatening. There was no cheerful dawn, only the remorseless snow, which had begun to thicken. The horses had slowed to a walking pace. The bricks that had been placed on the floor of the coach that morning lost their heat and the miserable passengers began to shiver. Mr Judd lit the travelling lamp, not because he needed the light, but in the hope that it might disperse some of the biting cold.
‘We should have more passengers inside to keep us warm,’ said Hannah, trying to lighten the gloomy atmosphere when they alighted at the next stage. Everyone seemed to have forgotten the vow to give up strong drink, for every one of them was downing Nantes brandy like a trooper.
‘Can be miserable, that can,’ said the guard, a small, tough, wizened Cockney who had been passing their table and heard Hannah’s remark. ‘I mind when Jack Stacey was driving the Bath mail out o’ London. Well, as you know, the mails can only take four inside and a tight squeeze it is. One night, when the mail was about to leave and was full, a gentleman who was a regular customer come up to Jack and insisted on getting in, for he had to get to Marlborough. Stacey held a council with the bookkeeper, observing that it wouldn’t do to offend a regular. At last, the problem was solved by the gentleman jumping in just as the mail was leaving. What a squeeze that was. At the Bear at Maidenhead, where they changed the horses, Jack, he opens the coach door and says, “There’s time for you to get a cup of coffee here, gentlemen, if you’d like to get out.” No one moved, for, don’t you see, they was fearful they wouldn’t fit back in again. And they wouldn’t budge at any of the other stages. Jack says they were all as silent as the grave and that’s how they went on for seventy-four miles.’
‘And how is our coachman today?’ asked Hannah sharply.
‘Tolrol’,’ said the guard with a grin. ‘Flash Jack can handle the ribbons as good as any man in England, drunk or sober.’
‘I would rather have him sober, if you don’t mind,’ said Hannah crossly. ‘And is it not folly to travel on in this storm? If there are any ruts or obstacles in the road, he will not be able to see them.’
