by M C Beaton
“Bad news?” said the earl with quick concern, noticing that the color had drained completely from his fair companion’s face.
“Oh, ’tis nothing,” said her ladyship with a shrill laugh. “I shall speak to this fellow. Pray do not leave.”
Lady Rennenord hurried into the house. The servant from the seminary was waiting in the hall. “I shall give you my reply directly,” said Lady Rennenord.
She went into the drawing room, sat down at a writing desk, and drew a sheet of paper towards herself. The door opened, and her brother ambled in. Lady Rennenord swung round. “I told you to keep out of the way, Harry,” she snapped. “Lord Berham was about to propose, and this arrived.” She held out Cassandra’s letter with a shaking hand.
Harry put up his glass and studied the letter. “Who’s Frederica?” he asked.
“Oh, of course you don’t know,” said his sister. Quickly she outlined the details of Freddie’s masquerade and the plot to keep her in the seminary until she, Lady Rennenord, became the countess of Berham. “What am I to do?” wailed Lady Rennenord. “She may already be on her way to Berham with that letter I wrote.”
“She’s probably dressed as a boy, since they ain’t been able to find her,” said Harry. “I ran into Cramble t’other day. Send him with two fellows to smoke her out. He knows what she looks like. They’ll get rid of her.”
Clarissa Rennenord looked at her brother in dawning admiration. “I did not know you could be so clever, Harry.”
“Well, there you are. Don’t worry. Cramble’ll hunt her down, never fear.”
“What if she should reach Berham before Cramble finds her?”
“Has she any money?”
“No. They always take any money away from the girls. Mrs. Haddington—you remember her—told me all about the place.”
“Then she’ll have to walk. She daren’t go to the authorities, and if she does, they’ll just hand her back. Probably starving to death in some ditch by now.”
“Let me write a reply to Cassandra Hope. Make yourself scarce, Harry. Berham has got to propose before he leaves here this day.”
But when Clarissa Rennenord returned to the garden, the earl was already on his feet and showing all the signs of a gentleman about to take his leave.
“Well, that’s finished with,” said Lady Rennenord gaily. “Do sit down. You were about to ask me something?”
But the moment had passed. Clouds had covered the sun, and the day had grown cold. Lord Berham’s mood also had changed in temperature. Somehow he did not want to commit himself yet.
“It was nothing of importance,” said the earl easily.
“But I am sure it was,” said Clarissa Rennenord with a certain edge to her voice which made the earl look down at her in surprise.
“It can’t have been very important,” he said, picking up his hat and cane, “for I have quite forgotten what it was I was about to say.”
She turned her head away and bit her lip, the movement showing the perfection of her bosom and the white column of her neck.
The earl hesitated.
“Hullo! Hullo!” said a cheerful voice. “Not interrupting anything, am I?”
Harry came strolling across the lawn. “You two got anything to tell me?” he went on, looking arch.
“No. Nothing at all.” The earl bent over Lady Rennenord’s hand, which trembled slightly in his grasp.
He made his good-byes, walked away round the front of the house, and climbed into his curricle.
When he arrived home, he picked up the letters which had arrived while he was out and walked into the library, turning them over.
There was one dingy and dirty one which caught his attention. The one shilling and one penny postage, which had been paid by his butler, showed that the letter had come from some distance. He broke the seal.
Dear Lord Berham, I have run away from the seminary because they starved and beat me. I am in hiding because the mail coaches and stagecoaches are being watched, since Miss Mary Hope has told the authorities that I stole the silver, which is a Lie.
I shall try to reach Berham by walking across country as soon as I think it is safe to venture forth. Your Loving Ward, Frederica Armstrong.
Lord Berham put down the letter. Then he picked it up again and read it carefully. He rummaged in his desk until he found the other letter which was supposed to have come from Freddie and compared them.
At last he shook his head in vexation. There was only one possible course of action. He must ride to Lamstowe himself.
It had taken Frederica and Miss Manson two days to travel there, because he had arranged for them to journey by easy stages. If he took his best team harnessed to his racing curricle, he could be confident of reaching Lamstowe some time before dawn.
If Freddie and Miss Manson had been more alert on all suits, they would have hired a carriage the night of Freddie’s escape and journeyed to meet the mail coach. That way they could have been nearly back at Berham before the alert was sounded.
But Miss Manson had some of the money that Lord Berham had given her, which amounted to ten pounds, and Freddie had her twenty guineas, and so they felt very rich. With Freddie dressed as a boy and no one knowing of Miss Manson’s presence, they were confident of passing unnoticed in Lamstowe. Both were quite giddy with triumph over Freddie’s escape. All Freddie could think of was lots and lots of food followed by a bath and hours and hours of sleep.
Miss Manson had already bespoken rooms for them at an inn in Lamstowe, telling the landlord that her “nephew” would be joining her and that they would require a very late supper, perhaps as late as one in the morning.
Since the inn served all the local fishermen, it was busy most of the night as well as the day. Lights were blazing in a welcome way when Freddie and Miss Manson arrived.
Freddie ate until she thought she would burst, paid grandly for the maids to fill up a tin bath with hot water, and then fell into a soundless sleep, not waking until the sun was high in the sky the next day.
Miss Manson had awakened earlier, but not very much earlier. She decided to go out and take a walk and see whether Freddie’s escape had occasioned any interest in the town.
She had only gone a few steps from the inn when she found that it had caused a full-scale hunt. She stopped beside the group of townspeople and asked them what the matter was, why there were men searching every house.
A terrible monster of a girl had escaped from that seminary up on the cliffs, they said. She had nearly murdered one of the principals and had made off with the silver. It would be a hanging matter when they got her.
Miss Manson felt a cold hand clutch her heart. She drew back into the shadow of the inn courtyard as she recognized the squat figure of Miss Cassandra Hope coming along the street with the two menservants from the seminary.
“She didn’t take none of her clothes,” she heard Miss Cassandra say as she passed. “Stands to reason she might be dressed as a boy. Though where she could have hid the clothes, I’m blessed if I know.”
Miss Manson ran back to the inn and erupted into Freddie’s room, babbling out the terrible news.
“I never thought of taking one dress,” groaned Freddie. “They took away all the clothes I brought from Berham and replaced them with two shabby gowns. I was glad to leave them. Now what am I to do?”
There was a commotion in the inn yard, and Miss Manson opened the window and looked down. The two menservants had just entered the inn yard and were questioning the landlord.
“Back into bed,” cried Miss Manson. “Quickly!”
She rummaged in her reticule, murmuring, “It is as well I am such a vain lady, for I never travel without my paint.”
“What are you doing?” cried Freddie as Miss Manson began to tumble pots of cosmetics over the coverlet.
“Shhh!” said that lady, “and let me work.”
Five minutes later there came a pounding at the door. Miss Manson opened it and stood barring the way, looking every in
ch the respectable spinster. The menservants from the seminary had not seen her before, and luckily Miss Cassandra was not with them.
“We’re looking for one of the young ladies that escaped from the seminary,” growled one. “Landlord’s given us permission to search the rooms.”
“There is only my nephew and me,” replied Miss Manson. “He is very ill, and I do not wish him disturbed.”
“Oh, well, in that case.” The man made to turn away, but his companion muttered something to him. They both faced Miss Manson.
“Well, madam,” said one gruffly, “if you’ll just stand aside and let us have a look at your nephew.”
“Of course I will not!” snapped Miss Manson. “It is a girl you seek.”
“A girl who might be dressed as a boy,” replied one of the men, grinning. “Stand aside or we’ll come back with the parish constable.”
Miss Manson stood reluctantly aside. The two men strode into the room and stood looking down at the figure in the bed. Freddie’s bright hair had been tied up in a linen bandage. Her face was chalk-white and covered with angry-looking red spots.
The men began to back away from the bed.
“What’s the matter with him?” growled one.
“I do not know,” said Miss Manson, fluttering her hands helplessly. “I am awaiting the physician. Let us hope and pray it is not the smallpox. I told the boy’s mother to have him immunized, but she would not listen.”
But Miss Manson said her last words to the empty air. The two men had fled after the sound of that dreaded word, “smallpox.”
“Now we must leave this town,” whispered Miss Manson urgently.
“I don’t think so,” said Freddie. “They’ll be searching everywhere. After a few days, the last place they will look will be here in Lamstowe. I must alter my appearance, and so must you. I shall give you a list. There is another inn at the far end of the town. We will move there under our new personalities.”
Later that day, the other inn, the Duke of Marlborough, found that it had two new guests, in the shape of Mr. Manson and his nephew. Mr. Manson was a tall, bony, finicky gentleman who walked with mincing steps and kept tripping over his sword.
His nephew was a spotty, fat-faced youth with dusty black hair.
Miss Manson had bought herself a suit of gentleman’s clothes, and Freddie had altered her own appearance by stuffing wax pads in her cheeks to fatten her face, leaving some of the spots painted on, and covering her red hair with a black wig. She was able to alter her slim figure with a generous amount of buckram wadding.
Both settled down to a quiet existence, going for long walks along the harbor and discussing endlessly how to get revenge on Mary and Cassandra Hope.
To Freddie’s disappointment her own file stolen from the seminary contained only the letter from Lord Berham which he had sent with the money for her tuition. It baldly stated that he was consigning his ward to their care. There were no other letters, only a paper listing a note of the Misses Hopes’ estimate of Freddie’s unruly character and itemizing the clothes she had brought with her.
The other letters were more incriminating. Money sent by parents to their daughters had been appropriated by Cassandra, and notes made to that effect. There was also evidence that the letters the girls wrote home never left the seminary, replaced by letters written by Miss Cassandra.
Thus, Freddie, despite Miss Manson’s assurances to the contrary, was still in two minds about Lord Berham’s character. The main stumbling block to thinking well of him was the earl’s courtship of Lady Rennenord. But then, her grandfather had told her that men only wanted one thing. Perhaps that explained it.
Freddie also was much troubled by the memory of the scenes she had witnessed in the brothel. Did all women behave so? Freddie found that she could not indulge in daydreams about future lovers without those terrible pictures of the facts of life dancing before her eyes.
At last she haltingly confided her fears to Miss Manson. Now, you cannot live for years in the countryside, particularly around harvesttime, and not have ample enough demonstration of the peculiar mating dance of the human race. Miss Manson, although she was shocked to the soul by Freddie’s grandfather’s behavior, tried to do her best to allay Freddie’s fears. That sort of thing, she said repressively, was necessary after marriage, though not in the raw, lewd state that Freddie had witnessed. Ladies never enjoyed that sort of thing, said Miss Manson wisely. The only women who did belonged to the Fashionable Impure. It was the cross womanhood had to bear in order to enter the security of a marriage and have children.
With that, Miss Manson dabbed the perspiration from her brow and felt that for a spinster, she had acquitted herself very well and had laid all Freddie’s fears to rest.
But after Miss Manson had retired for the night, Freddie slipped out of the inn and walked down to the harbor in the moonlight. She tried not to admit to herself that the handsome face and figure of Lord Berham were beginning to enter her dreams more than she could have wished. Her thoughts about him were gradually becoming upsetting, and the very idea of him made her body feel strange.
She sat for a long time on the harbor wall. The night was very still and calm. Stars danced and bobbed in the water, and far out to sea she could see the riding lights of the fishing boats. All at once Freddie decided that it surely would be safe now to go back to Berham. They could not still be watching the stagecoaches, and even if they were, she was sure that their disguises were perfect.
She wondered if Lord Berham would be glad to see her. What if he believed the principals of the seminary’s terrible accusations and turned her over to the authorities? She would hang or be deported.
Freddie sat for a very long time, remembering everything she could about Lord Berham. He surely would not keep a staff of such likable and contented servants if he were a hard and ruthless man.
Freddie was reluctant to go back into the inn. There was no one about. She was able to relax only when she could escape from people. In the daytime crowds, although she went out as little as possible, there was always the nagging fear that a voice would cry, “Stop, thief!” or that a heavy hand would fall on her shoulder.
Gradually the sky began to pale in the east. Soon the fishing boats would be coming home and the quay would be alive with men and nets and baskets full of their glittering catch.
A dawn breeze came up, blowing from the land, bringing with it the smell of wood smoke and evergreen and the damp feel of rain to come.
The pads inside her cheeks felt as if they had become larger and larger. Freddie took a quick look about. There was no one in sight. She took the pads out of her cheeks and then with one quick movement removed her wig and shook out her red curls, which had grown to a more girlish length since Berham. She placed the wig and the wax pads beside her on the harbor wall.
That is how Captain Cramble and his two ruffians hired for the search found her.
They had been drinking at the other inn, having returned to Lamstowe after diligently searching the surrounding countryside. They had become so noisy and vulgar that the landlord had ejected them, so they had gone in search of Lamstowe’s other hostelry, the Duke of Marlborough.
Captain Cramble saw the slim figure with the red hair sitting in the dawn light on the harbor wall.
“There she is,” he whispered excitedly. “Close in on her before she sees us, and make sure she doesn’t reach for her sword.”
His two companions looked at him with puzzled sneers. What was there to be frightened of? A mere girl with a toy for a sword?
But the captain had drunk too much. In his efforts to creep up on Freddie, who had her back to them and was dreamily gazing out to sea, he staggered and clutched at a pile of fishing baskets for support. The baskets gave way, and with a great oath, the captain fell on the quay.
Freddie started to her feet and swung around, pulling out her sword.
The two ruffians began to close in on her, eyeing the sword warily. But the captain, who had
risen to his feet, was determined to waste no time dueling with Freddie, who, he already knew, was expert in the use of the small sword.
He prized up a cobble and threw it straight at her. Freddie saw it coming too late. The heavy stone struck her full on the forehead, and she dropped unconscious onto the quay.
“Well, that’s that,” said the captain, rubbing his hands.
“What do we do with the gentry mort?” growled one of his ruffians. “Take ’er to the magistrate?”
“No,” said the captain. “One look at your phiz and he’d arrest you. We take her off to a place I know of and hide her away for as long as possible.”
One of the men bent down, picked Freddie up, and slung her light, inert body over his shoulder.
The earl of Berham’s curricle, driven by a stout groom sitting beside him rolled to a halt in front of the inn.
The earl jumped down, calling on his groom to hold his team. Pulling out a pistol, he headed purposefully towards the group on the harbor. He fired a shot over their heads.
“Berham,” shouted the captain. “Run for it!”
“The girl!” said the man who was holding Freddie. “What do we do with the girl?”
“Throw her in the water,” snarled the captain.
The man tossed Freddie over the harbor wall, and the three men began to race off down the quay.
The earl wasted no time running after them. Stripping off his coat, he stopped only for a moment to tug off his boots. Then he leapt to the top of the harbor wall and dived down into the sea, catching Freddie’s unconscious body as it slowly surfaced. He swam with her over to the steps and dragged her up onto the quay. He pumped her arms backwards and forwards until sea water gushed from her mouth and she gave a groan.
People were running from the inn, awakened by the sound of the shot.
