A Heart Too Proud

by Laura London

  The night before the Battle of Hastings came off even better than I had expected. First we showed the dour Normans, led by a solemn Christopher, spending the night offering fasts and paternosters in pious groupings around an altar of holy relics. On the other side of the stage, the Saxons were whooping it up, draining flagons supposedly full of hard liquor with cries of “Bottoms to the sky!” At one point, I, as King Harold, cried “Bring me my wench,” and a soldier led to me a simpering Caro, whom I greeted with a hearty buss on the cheek. I am afraid I maligned poor King Harold, but the scene was a crowd-pleaser. At this point, William the Conqueror buried his head in his hands as if in an ecstasy of prayer, because Christopher found it hard to contain his laughter.

  The battle scene went off smoothly, or as smoothly as a battle scene possibly could. Hugh of Montfort managed to cast the fatal javelin and I fell to the stage, twitching and writhing in my death throes, and Christopher cried, “Frenchmen, strike; the day is ours!”

  After the battle was over, Mrs. Goodbody made a surprise appearance as Edith Swansneck, Harold’s mistress, who was brought to the scene to identify Harold’s remains. A roar of appreciation came from the crowd as she took the stage.

  I was dragged from the scene in ignominious defeat, and watched the celebrations of the jubilant Normans from the wings.

  I was visited there by the Marquis of Lome. He came up behind me, giving me quite a start. When he spoke, I turned to see a light smile playing over his lips.

  “A production worthy of the Globe Theatre in the days of the Immortal Bard,” he said.

  I curtseyed in my bloodstained battle dress, and said, “I appreciate the compliment from a sophisticated theatergoer like yourself. Wasn’t Mrs. Goodbody an adorable Edith Swansneck?”

  “Quite charming, really. I saw you open one eye and peek when they were discovering your mutilated corpse.”

  “I was not peeking. I take great care not to peek. Christopher tried to make me laugh by blowing on my cheek when he leaned over my body, but I wouldn’t do it.”

  “Where is Christopher the Conqueror now?” he asked.

  “He’s made a firecracker that is going to go off in celebration of William’s coronation. I think he went to light it; he wouldn’t let anyone else take on that responsibility.”

  “Where is he?” With lightning speed his hands were on my shoulders. “Quickly.”

  I was bewildered by his urgency, but I told him as soon as I could choke out the words.

  Lord Dearborne left the stage at a run. I followed him, and saw, about twenty yards away, Christopher lighting the firecracker. The fuse had caught. I was now totally confused. The marquis shouted something incomprehensible to Christopher, reaching him in a great bound, grabbing him and pushing him across the yard. I was still following, moving toward Christopher to see what in the world was going on, when the marquis grabbed me too, and pushed us both onto the ground behind a tree with such force that my breath was knocked away.

  There was a very loud explosion then, followed by a rain of leaves, twigs, and clods of dirt.

  We stood and looked back toward the site of the explosion. The earth was scorched and smoking ten yards in every direction. Far above us was a dazzling display of shooting fire in the sky. The noise of the blast had temporarily deafened me, but I could still make out the cheering of the audience, who naturally thought the tremendous blast was all part of the play. But if Christopher had stayed where he was, he would have been blown to crumbs. There were tears of fright in my eyes as I turned to Christopher and my voice trembled as I said:

  “I thought you said that this was perfectly safe, Christopher. If it hadn’t been for Lord Dearborne, you would have been killed.”

  Christopher scrambled to his feet and drew me up beside him. He was looking almost as confused as I.

  “I swear that when I checked the thing over yesterday afternoon, it was completely intact. There was enough powder in there to make one-tenth of that blast. Just enough for a loud pop and fizzle.” Kit looked up uncertainly into his guardian’s eyes. I had never seen Lord Dearborne look so grim before.

  “Kit,” he said, taking Christopher by the arm, “did you leave that rocket out here overnight?”

  “Well, yes, it was on the platform and I didn’t want to move it…” The confusion left his face. “Someone must have tampered with it. Someone trying to kill me.”

  Chapter Nine

  Kit was right about one thing—our play was a howling success, if you can measure success in numbers of people telling you that they have never enjoyed themselves more. I had never enjoyed myself less. The blast from the altered bomb was a mere peep when compared to the explosion that came afterward. Lord Dearborne expressed himself with great eloquence on his general impression of our maturity and intelligence, which, I might add, was not favorable. It was a speech that would have done credit to a ship’s captain facing a mutinous crew, and Kit and I were effectively cowed, at least until the marquis was out of hearing distance.

  That night I was the victim of insomnia again. How could I sleep, worrying who had tampered with our rocket? It had to be someone who knew about the firecracker in advance. Someone connected with the play. Unthinkable. I’d known all those people since I took my first steps. Oh, there was Thomas, of course, but I remembered that he knew nothing about bombs; surely it would have taken someone with a certain skill to make it so deadly? And Thomas was recommended by Dr. Brent. Whatever my personal opinion of the man, there could be no doubt of a doctor’s honesty.

  My mind kept jumping back to the man that I’d first seen in the church crypt at Dyle, the man I’d christened Monsieur Sacre Bleu. That he was up to no good I’m sure of, but murder? I wondered where he was now.

  I discussed all my speculations with Christopher, who listened patiently but told me that I should leave the matter in the hands of Lord Dearborne and the other men from the War Office. A suggestion that we should make a secretive trip to the crypt of the Dyle church to search for further suspicious characters was vetoed with startling vehemence.

  “Elizabeth, ain’t one crack on the head enough for you? Can’t understand how such a gentle girl can be so heedlessly adventurous. These are ruthless men who wouldn’t think twice about wringing a neck or three, even as pretty a one as yours. Don’t like to tell you things that will frighten you, but you seem to be set on getting involved in this whole thing, and I’ve got to scare you away for your own good. Whoever fiddled with the firecracker obviously thought it was a golden opportunity, but if they were really serious about knocking me off, they would have waylaid me long ago. They were just taking advantage of my own stupidity.”

  When I was mulling over his statements that afternoon as I wiped the cottage candlesticks, I was interrupted by a bustling Mrs. Goodbody.

  “Oh, there’s so much to do, so much to do,” she was saying.

  “Well, whatever it is that needs doing I will certainly help you all I can,” I promised cheerfully.

  “I have been to see His Lordship today,” she puffed. “We are to pull up tents and go off to London with him.”

  “London? When? Why?” I gasped.

  “We are to leave as soon as we can make ready,” she said. “His Lordship only said we are all to have a taste of the Corinthian culture.”

  “It’s probably a hum,” guessed Christa, who was seated on our oak table, swinging her legs in the air and munching a peach snitched from the squire’s hothouse. “Lord Dearborne isn’t going to take an awkward squad like us to London with him.”

  “Off the table, Miss Mischief. ‘If you sit on the table, you’ll be married before you’re able.’ And I can see you’ve been stealing from the squire’s closed garden again,” Mrs. Goodbody sighed. “You get out the Bible right now and read God’s holy Ten Commandments to see what the Lord has to say on the subject.”

  “When you say the Lord, do you mean Lord Dearborne, Mrs. Goodbody?” asked Christa, a perfect picture of pert.

  “I�
��ve said it before and I’ll say it again. There’s nothing in the world so difficult as getting decent manners from a thirteen-year-old,” said Mrs. Goodbody, with resignation.

  “But Mrs. Goodbody,” I interrupted impatiently, thereby proving that nineteen-year-olds don’t always have very good manners either. “Are we really going to London? Is Christopher coming too? Are we going to stay there for a long time?”

  “Yes. Yes. And no. It’s only for a couple of weeks or so. Roger is bringing the admiral’s old trunks down from the attic for us to pack in. Oh dear, I haven’t had to pack like this since the last time the admiral went off on a sea voyage. Elizabeth, I can see that you have an eager I-want-to-help-Mrs.-Goodbody look on your face, but I promise you that my head’s in such a whirl that I’ll do better just now all by myself. Why don’t you run along outside and get a little country sunshine while you can?”

  My head was in a bit of a whirl itself, so I went off in search of Christopher to see what information might be gleaned from him. I tiptoed into Barfrestly through the kitchen door, after assuring myself, as always, that the marquis was nowhere about. I found Christopher quickly. He was stretched full length on a lounging couch in the library, reading a tattered copy of Turf-side Companion with rapt interest. He tossed it aside and sat up as I flew in at him.

  “Christopher, Christopher! London, London! Is it true?”

  “Elizabeth, Elizabeth! Yes, yes! I can tell you are excited because you sound like an echo.”

  “Why are we going? Why is the marquis making us go along?”

  “He got the royal summons from our illustrious Prince Regent. We are to be there for two weeks. He didn’t feel that he could leave us alone here under the circumstances, nefarious characters about and all that. You’ll love London; a person can have a great many adventures in town. The capital of Western civilization.”

  “But I won’t know anyone there except for you,” I said dejectedly. “And you’ll probably be out gaming and socializing with the people you already know there. You certainly won’t have much time to show me around.”

  “It’s not that I wouldn’t love to take you around,” said Christopher, “but I do have a more suitable companion for you while you are there. My sister Anne is going to chaperone you. Her husband’s out of England on an embassy mission. She’s had to stay on their country estate but will come to town to stay at Lorne. She’s all the crack in London town, and as thick as grass with Lady Sefton. Just the one to introduce you into society.”

  “Who is Lady Sefton?” I asked doubtfully.

  “She is one of the haughty patronesses at Almack’s. Almack’s is a private club for the haute monde. If they don’t give you the nod there you may as well turn in your christening papers and withdraw all pretensions to the smart life.”

  “I’ve never had any pretensions to the smart life and the thought of it makes me shake to the tips of my fingers. Don’t you think that I could just stay here at Barfrestly? I think that I’ll just be in the way if I come. How will your sister feel, having me foisted upon her?”

  “There’s no question of foisting. I told her all about you in my last letter to her and she’s dying to meet you. But if you’d rather not go, then why don’t you just go and tell Lord Dearborne that you disagree with his decision…?”

  “Yes, and while I’m at it why don’t I give him some advice on national diplomatic policy? You’re really a humorist.” The grin that greeted this shot showed me that Christopher knew very well that I wasn’t about to seek out the marquis and blithely tell him the what-for. Besides, I harbored no sincere desire to be told to stay at Barfrestly. I have wanted to visit London all of my life. Who has not?

  I could hardly contain my excitement for the three days that it took to complete the trip preparations.

  It seemed impossible that I could really be going to London, and I was ready at any moment for some mischance to intervene that would make it necessary to cancel the trip. I could hardly believe my senses when I sat in the marquis’s well-sprung traveling coach on the morning of our departure. My sisters, Mrs. Goodbody, and I were to ride in this comfortable vehicle while Christopher and Lord Dearborne rode beside us on their overspirited stallions. I watched with something approaching awe as Lord Dearborne gracefully retained his seat when his mount made a particularly determined effort to rid himself of his rider. Afterward I heard Lord Dearborne casually tell Christopher that “Jupiter was a bit playful this morning.” About as playful as a hell-hag. I’ll never understand why people enjoy riding the backs of such skittish, writhing, restless creatures.

  In the last century they say the roads were so filled with potholes and bumplets as to make travel troublesome, if not a downright penance. But Parliament has since permitted turnpike companies to collect tolls in return for maintaining the roads in good repair, so modern travel is quick and comfortable. As I looked out the coach window at the tamed Kentish landscape I felt the thrill of a sightseer discovering new vistas. This was not a feeling that I’d been privileged to enjoy many times before in my somewhat restricted life, and it put me in a state which Mrs. Goodbody rather unflatteringly referred to as a pucker.

  My sisters and I bounced around the carriage, pointing out minor landmarks to one another, telling each other riddles, and leaning perilously out the coach window to talk to Christopher. We did suffer a minor delay just outside of Maidstone when a flock of sheep took temporary possession of the roadway, to the frustration of the drivers of several natty vehicles. Mrs. Goodbody asked the marquis if we might have permission to stretch our legs while the roadway was being cleared of the fleecy invaders, so Caro, Christa, Cleo, and I set out on a narrow path through a golden wheatfield.

  Cleo led the way and Caro tagged behind, picking quantities of wild plants. Christopher was standing holding the bridle of his horse, talking with Lord Dearborne and Mrs. Goodbody in the shade of the coach, when we returned. Caro laid her collection of foliage down in the middle of this group and demanded that I identify every leaf and blade.

  “Um. Let’s see… This is timothy—it’s an edible hay. That is, edible for horses and the like—not for you.” I continued my perusal of the wilting specimens. “See this arching stem? ’Tis Solomon’s Seal, which has small white flowers when it blooms, which isn’t very often.”

  Christa kicked a large branch with the toe of her new kid boots.

  “What’s this, ’Lizbeth? Caro certainly did bring a big bunch of it.”

  I regarded the shiny sinister leaves. “Angels of faith defend us! Caro’s been picking in a burnweed patch. Oh, my poor little dear, ‘leaflets three, let them be,’ don’t you recall?”

  Lord Dearborne earned Mrs. Goodbody’s warmly expressed gratitude by transporting us promptly to an inn where we bathed Caro’s skin with gentle industry to arrest the effects of the irritating weed. As the hour passed, it became evident that it was already too late. Caro’s arms had become painfully swollen and one soft cheek was slightly puffy where a leaf must have brushed against it. It was decided in a conference between Mrs. Goodbody and the marquis that we would stay the day at the inn and continue on in the morning, after Caro had recovered from the most acute miseries of her botanical malaise.

  After Mrs. Goodbody and I shared a lunch in Caro’s sunny bedroom, Christa made several praiseworthy attempts to amuse her by tossing her afflicted twin my sawdust pincushion. Unfortunately, they were so noisy as to attract the disapproving notice of the occupant of the next room, who sent us, via a giggling chambermaid, an unfriendly request to quiet down. So Mrs. Goodbody enlisted the offices of Christopher to play a calm game of beggar-my-neighbor with Caro, and sent Christa and me out to take a walk.

  I was happy for the chance to explore, and I pulled off my traveling dress and slipped into a powder-blue gown of taffeta gauze. Impatiently threading a fine velvet ribbon through my hair, I hoped that Mrs. Goodbody wouldn’t catch me before I got outside and make me don a bonnet on this warm day. I see that I’m a bad influenc
e on my sisters, because when Christa met me at the front door, I saw that she had also shed her traveling bonnet in defiance of Mrs. Goodbody’s edict that we should look like ladies at all times. We shared one conspiratorial glance and snuck rather guiltily out the backyard of the inn, past the stone-built stable, toward the blooming cherry orchard. I had just stopped to pat an obsequious barn cat when Lord Dearborne came around the corner of the stables. I suppose that I should be used to seeing him by now, but I’m afraid that his looks still stun me a bit each time. Wishing that Christa hadn’t gone quite so far ahead of me, I set the kitten gently on the ground and walked woodenly by the marquis with my eyes focused on the ground, uttering “Good afternoon, Milord,” in my most repelling accents. Apparently they weren’t too repelling, because Lord Dearborne came to walk alongside me.

  “Has Mrs. Goodbody sent you out for a walk? I thought that it would come to that. The good landlord confessed to me that the noise from your bedchamber had gotten so loud that several guests asked of him if he had begun permitting orgies in his chambers. I suppose that I had better accompany you to see that you don’t encounter any of the smugglers, spies or corpses who throw themselves at your dainty feet wherever they trod.”

  I compressed my lips tightly and quickened my pace, still looking downward.

  “So shy today, Elizabeth? I remember once under a honeysuckle bush when you were warmer!”

  I stopped dead in my tracks and looked straight up into his face, gasping like a grounded trout.

  “Of all the unkind things you have said to me, that really takes the tribute! To remind me of something of which I’m so ashamed that I couldn’t even tell Mrs. Goodbody.”