‘Mercy!’ wailed Mrs Cameron. ‘What will become of us?’
Cameron tugged down the coach window, jerked out his head and shoulders and bawled up at the coachman: ‘Crack the whip! Shout them out of the way. Run them down if necessary. If you can’t get your mistress safely home you are no longer in my employ. Now, let’s be hearing from you!’
He thumped back in his seat growling, ‘How dare that rabble venture near my door.’
His words were all but drowned by the great screech of the coachman and the slashing of his whip and the whinnying of the horses, which was followed by a panic of screaming from all sides. But the coach moved forward and soon Felicity and Augusta were able to make a dignified exit across a path on the pavement cleared for them by the physical exertions of the footman and the coachman, the sharp commands of Cameron and the supercilious looks and disdainful flapping gestures of Lieutenant Fitzjames’s gloved hands.
Inside Cameron House the servants had been enjoying the procession from the drawing-room window and on hearing the jangle of the front door bell they scattered pell-mell down to the kitchen, leaving a breathless and dishevelled Tibs to open the door. She curtsied several times as the Camerons and the lieutenant entered, but none of them noticed her and she thankfully scuttled away to the nether regions.
The parlour bell rang as she burst into the kitchen and Fiona McPherson the parlour maid hurried past to answer it, intent on composing her coquettish tip-tilted features into a serious mask of polite enquiry.
‘McPherson, remove these and then bring tea,’ Augusta commanded as soon as the girl entered the parlour.
‘Yes, miss,’ Fiona curtsied low before gathering up the pelisses, the feathered hat, the topper, the high-crowned military hat and the gloves. She curtsied again, pertly, then quit the room.
‘Augusta, there is something about McPherson that I find distasteful.’
‘Do you wish me to dismiss her, Mama?’
‘Oh, I suppose not. It is such a nuisance to get decent servants nowadays. So many people are being lured away into factories. And now Mr Cameron tells me of steam monsters and railways and hundreds of men being employed to knock down buildings and dig through hills to clear a path for them. I really do not know what the country is coming to.’
‘What worries me,’ said Cameron, ‘is the noise. It will upset the cows and hens which means the country will be short of milk and eggs.’
‘I agree, sir,’ said Lieutenant Fitzjames. ‘Wholeheartedly. No railway will ever be allowed to cut through Fitzjames land.’
A tap on the door heralded Fiona with the tea. With excruciating care so that there was not the tiniest tinkle she lowered the tray on to the fireside table.
‘Shall I pour, Mama?’ enquired Augusta after the maid had wafted from the room.
‘Would you, dear? You will have noticed how invariably kind Augusta is, Lieutenant Fitzjames.’
The lieutenant gave a slight bow. ‘I am the most fortunate of mortals.’
‘I shall be brokenhearted and helpless without her,’ Mrs Cameron continued.
‘Madam.’ A slight movement of the fingers of one hand and another tiny bow indicated Lieutenant’s Fitzjames’s grief.
Cameron said, ‘Your parents will be mightily impressed with my daughter’s beauty and accomplishments when they meet her at Christmas, I’ll warrant.’
‘How could they be otherwise, sir?’ Fitzjames allowed himself the ghost of a smile in Augusta’s direction.
The fire burning brightly reflected warm movement in the shiny material of her dress although she was sitting now with perfect stillness, except when her white neck angled forward and her lips slightly pouted to sip her tea.
Sometimes she felt somewhat affronted by her fiance’s casual and often lethargic manner. On one occasion she had broached the subject to her mother, who had assured her that this was the sign of a true aristocratic gentleman. A circumspection of conduct must be observed at all times and to be ladylike Augusta must behave with the same restraint of decorum. She took another sip of tea. Then she forced her gaze safely away from the lieutenant’s polite smile.
Chapter Three
A mountain of luggage swayed on top of the Cameron coach as it rattled over the cobblestones. Nearing the Black Bull, it passed the early morning mail coach which was setting off along Trongate Street, carriage lamps flickering. It overtook a lumbering covered wagon driven by an old man who raised a hand in salute.
Gas lamps glittered coldly like blue diamonds and the hard frost made steam clouds of the horses’ breath. Gunnet dressed for the cold, wore leather breeches and black top boots, a five-tiered macintosh cape, top hat and hogskin gloves. Jim Jimieson, the lanky red-headed footman, was on the box beside him, similarly attired but with two tiers to his cape.
Inside the coach, looking like a red-faced bear, Cameron sat hunched up in a fur-collared coat. The Cameron ladies were not only well protected but well nigh invisible, in large poke bonnets, voluminous cape coats and enormous muffs enveloping hands and arms. A fur rug spilled across the floor and covered their feet.
‘I’ll be only too glad when we have arrived, Augusta,’ said Mrs Cameron. ‘I am looking forward to the prospect of spending the festive season in London with your dear lieutenant and his esteemed family. But I am certainly not looking forward to this journey.’
‘Would you care for a sip of brandy, my dear?’ enquired her husband.
‘Not at the moment, Mr Cameron, but I dare say I will be glad of its reviving properties before long. Mercy, I do hate these long journeys. I get so exhausted.’
Past the Cross now and away along the Gallowgate with work-people flitting like shadows. Past the houses. The flare of the coach lamps on the hedges. Beyond, the darkness of the unknown.
Gradually, as the blackness softened into grey streaked with orange, hills and trees took shape, floating out of the mist like wraiths. The coach kept up a steady speed, its regular movement rocking the Camerons off to sleep. But as daylight faded the coach lamps into insignificance, Felicity stirred.
‘Mr Cameron, you are snoring,’ she complained irritably. ‘Eh?’ he spluttered and jerked.
‘You were snoring loudly, sir.’
‘Sorry, sorry,’ he grunted, in none too good a humour himself.
‘Mercy, I ache all over. When do we reach an inn, for pity’s sake?’
Cameron peered from the window in an effort to judge where he was. Then he fished his watch from his waistcoat and studied it.
‘Any time now.’
Sure enough, the sound of voices was heard shortly afterwards, and Augusta could see a landlord with a white apron tied around his middle, waving a welcome. Behind him was a whitewashed building with brown shutters and a sign on which was painted a golden cockerel.
‘Hello there, Luther!’ the man was shouting. ‘How goes it?’
‘It’s like this, Ben,’ Gunnet’s deep voice answered. ‘I’d go a damned sight better after a tot of rum.’
The landlord laughed. ‘You’re not on the stage, then?’
‘No, this is the Cameron coach. I’ve Mr and Mrs Cameron and their daughter inside. See that they’re well served.’
‘That I will, Luther.’ He waited deferentially while Jimieson opened the coach door and they alighted. ‘Welcome to the Golden Cockerel,’ the landlord said. ‘If you would be kind enough to follow me.’
Inside the building they were led to a room with a cheerful fire and white walls on which hung rows of paintings of horses and coaches. A guard’s ‘yard of tin’ horn adorned the wall over the mantleshelf. In the centre of the room a round table covered with a white cloth was set with a platter of bread and a roast of beef.
‘Sit yourselves down at the table, Mr Cameron, ladies. I’ll see about vegetables. And a bowl of hot soup would go down well, no doubt.’
It was a simple meal but they were hungry enough to enjoy it and feel refreshed, and they returned to the coach in a cheerful frame of mind. Even the
sight of Gunnet enthroned high on the box did nothing to spoil Augusta’s good humour. Soon they were off at a brisk trot.
A frosty sun glittered over the countryside for a time but was eventually hidden by a curtain of sleet. Mr and Mrs Cameron nodded off again and Augusta did not bother to waken them to see the stagecoach that passed them travelling north. It had several people huddled together on the roof looking very miserable and bedraggled.
But some time later their own coach gathered speed and the horses’ hooves thundering madly awakened her mother and father.
‘Mercy upon us, Mr Cameron, he is racing. He is!’ Felicity’s voice climbed in panic.
‘There is no other coach on the road that I can see,’ said Cameron, fighting with the leather strap in his efforts to lower the window. ‘What the devil are you playing at?’ he bawled up at the coachman as soon as he managed to twist his head out.
‘There’s a steep hill ahead,’ Gunnet shouted back. ‘I need to “spring” the horses to give them a good start up the slope. It’s either that or you all get out and walk.’
Cameron thumped back on his seat. ‘There’s no need to worry,’ he said. ‘It’s all right.’
‘It is not all right!’ Mrs Cameron wailed. ‘He is going far too fast. He is unnerving me, Mr Cameron.’
In an effort to comfort her mother Augusta said, ‘Hold my hand and close your eyes. I will tell you when it is safe to open them again.’
Despite her brave words, her heart pounded with terror. However, after a while the horses had resumed their more even trot and the two women could relax again. With chatter about the Fitzjameses and their London mansions, they passed the time quite pleasantly.
The sleet whitened and fluffed into snow, making the countryside as pretty as a picture. Trees spread ermine tracery against a blue velvet sky. Before they knew it they had reached another inn and were refreshed by hot tea and toasted muffins and large portions of boiled ham before setting off again. This time the coach lamps were lit for it had grown dark, though a moon gleamed down and reflected on the vast silent expanse of snow.
At the next stop they slept overnight and set off early on a crisp white morning. Soon the wind began to rise, swirling the flakes before it like feathers. They began to pile up round the window and stick to the glass. Eventually it was snowing so heavily that it was almost impossible to see out of the coach, despite Augusta’s persistent rubbing at it with a gloved palm. The virgin white outside made the brown velvet interior darker and tinier. The odour of leather and dust thickened and became oppressive.
Augusta’s head ached as she struggled to subdue panic. She had never liked small enclosed places. Her father was dozing again, his chin sunk deep in his fur collar, his fleshy underlip sticking out.
Her mother was saying, ‘And of course the Fitzjameses will see that dear Roderick obtains a good position . . .’ and Augusta thought how she missed her brother now that he was away at university; on the rare occasions he came home it was obvious that he was Mrs Cameron’s favourite.
Abruptly Felicity stopped speaking, riveted her attention on the buttoned velvet of the coach and listened.
‘Why are we going so slow now? That driver is just being perverse.’
Just then the coach gave a lurch. Then it jerked forward and quickened, only to bump them about and make the seats feel iron hard.
‘Mr Cameron,’ cried Felicity in alarm, ‘Mr Cameron! Mercy upon us! Wake up, Mr Cameron. What is happening now?’
Cameron gave a start. ‘What is it?’ he darted a look around. He rubbed first one window, then the other, dodging his head about in an attempt to see. ‘Looks as if we’re in the middle of a blizzard.’
The coach jolted again, throwing the women backwards and forwards and almost dislodging their bonnets. They squealed in apprehension, which turned to alarm when Cameron opened the window and a gust of wind swirled snow all over them.
‘What are you doing, Gunnet?’ he yelled. ‘Can’t you be more careful?’
‘I’m doing my best,’ Gunnet hollered back. ‘I can’t even see the leaders, never mind the road.’
‘Well, you’d better stop at the first inn we come to.’
‘One thing’s certain—we can’t stop here!’
After the window was safely secured again Cameron busied himself ridding the ladies of the offending snow.
‘What is happening?’ complained his wife. ‘He was eager enough to hurry some time back. Why is he being so awkward? Surely there is no need to jostle us about like this? I thought he was supposed to be your best driver, Mr Cameron.’
‘To be frank, my love, it would be impossible for anyone to see where he is going in this weather. I’m afraid we’ll just have to suffer the discomfort as best we can until we reach an . . . .’
Suddenly the coach gave a terrible jump and seemed to slither sideways.
They heard Gunnet roaring at the horses, the sharp crack of his whip and the beasts whinnying. Then the coach swung wildly, flinging Cameron on top of the two women. It teetered at an alarming angle, then crashed over on to its side. Piercing screams welled up from the tangle of arms and legs as Cameron’s heavy body slammed his wife and daughter into the space between the seats.
Outside, all was chaos. The two lead horses were rearing up, shrieking with terror. The two ‘wheeler’ animals had been pulled down by the weight of the coach and were kicking frantically, trying to regain their feet. Jimieson who had fallen forward between them was being kicked by the flailing hooves.
Milk-white ground frothed into vermilion as Jimieson’s head was beaten to pulp by the iron-shod hooves. Gunnet, catapulted into the snow, lay for a moment stunned by the fall. Then he staggered up, shaking himself as if to clear his brain.
‘Christ!’ he groaned on seeing Jimieson, and raced over to pull him free. But the man was dead.
Going back to the coach Gunnet heaved himself up until he was on his hands and knees beside the door which was now the roof of the coach. Hampered by the snow and wind he nevertheless managed to jerk it open, and it crashed back to reveal a jumble of bodies heaped in the narrow space between the now vertical seats. Cameron was on top and beginning to struggle to raise himself. Gunnet reached down, grabbed his arm and dragged him out of the coach.
‘My wife,’ Cameron was almost weeping, ‘my poor wife . . . .’
‘I’ll get her.’ Gunnet leaned down again but Augusta was dazedly lifting herself from on top of her mother’s twisted body so, holding her round the waist, he hoisted her clear and deposited her on the snow, where she steadied herself against the roof, the wind whipping at her loose coat.
Her father was flat on his belly on the side of the coach with Gunnet who was hanging head and shoulders inside the open door.
‘I’ll have to be careful. She’s unconscious,’ he told Cameron.
‘Don’t touch her,’ Cameron interrupted. ‘I’ll see to my wife.’
‘All right. I’ll unhitch the horses.’ Gunnet leapt down.
Still in a daze, Augusta watched him struggle with the animals and afterwards go over to Jimieson’s body, bring back a pistol from inside the man’s cape, stride back and without hesitation aim and fire at the squealing horse that lay struggling on the ground. At this she broke into hysterical screaming and weeping which stopped just as suddenly with her astonishment at Gunnet’s passing words:
‘Be quiet, you fool!’ he snapped before clambering on to the coach again. Cameron had somehow managed to squeeze himself underneath his wife and cradle her in his arms. Felicity Cameron had regained consciousness and was sobbing wildly into his shoulder.
‘There don’t seem to be any bones broken,’ Cameron said, his eyes strained and anxious. ‘But she’s badly bruised and in pain.’
‘If you raise her so that I can get a proper hold of her we can get her out between us without . . .’ Gunnet suggested, but the rest of his sentence was engulfed by Mrs Cameron’s screams.
‘I can’t move! I can’t move!’
‘But, my love,’ Cameron pleaded, ‘if I could get you on one of the horses with me we could soon reach an inn and you could be properly attended to.’
‘I can’t move. I am in agony. How do you know that I have not broken every bone in my body? I cannot move and I will not move.’ Her voice rocketed into a scream again. ‘I will not move!’
‘Gunnet, where’s Jimieson?’ Cameron asked distractedly. ‘Can’t you send him for help?’
‘He’s dead.’
‘O God! My daughter—is she all right?’
‘Yes. Mr Cameron, it’s too risky to stay here. I know how snow can drift. The best chance for all of us is to take the horses and keep moving until we come to an inn.’
At this Mrs Cameron’s screams loudened.
‘I can’t move her while she’s in this state.’ Cameron struggled to make himself heard. ‘You’ll just have to go. Take my daughter. Make sure she’s safe then bring back help.’
Gunnet hesitated then shrugged, before securing the door and jumping down to where Augusta was hiding close to the roof, trying to protect herself against the storm.
Chapter Four
‘Fix your bonnet on properly and let’s go,’ said Gunnet.
As Augusta secured the bonnet back on her head she was telling herself no, her ears weren’t playing tricks, the coachman really was talking to her like that. She was about to burst out with an indignant objection but as she stepped out from her shelter the wind buffeted and frightened her and she was glad of his steadying fingers digging into her arm. When she realized he was leading her away from the coach towards where the horses were tethered, however, she began holding back.
‘Where are you taking me? I want to stay with Mama and Papa.’
‘Well, you can’t.’
‘What do you mean?’ she wept as he dragged her roughly towards one of the horses. ‘I want to go back inside the coach with Mama and Papa.’
‘There’s no room in the coach now. We’ll have to take our chances and make for an inn. Come on, I’ll give you a hand up.’
The Dark Side of Pleasure Page 3
