Fourpenny Flyer

by Beryl Kingston

  ‘Yes,’ John said, his heart sinking at the sight of them. ‘That is Mrs Sowerby, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘So we may safely assume that the gentleman beside her is her husband,’ Cosmo observed.

  ‘Unless she has taken a lover,’ Mr Brougham laughed.

  ‘Which don’t seem likely,’ Nan said wickedly, ‘given the face she’s got on her. My heart alive! Who’d be enamoured of that?’

  And John laughed with the others, cheered by her irreverent humour, despite his apprehension.

  ‘Hasten you down, Mr Jones,’ she said, turning to the clerk who was standing behind her waiting for his orders. ‘Honoured guests, remember. Don’t ’ee forget to bow and scrape. And bring in the sherry after five minutes.’

  Mr Jones touched his forelock and grinned back at her, enjoying the charade, before he strutted off to do her bidding.

  And John left too, his anxiety gathering about him like a storm cloud as he paced along the corridor towards his own solitary office, with the wind howling at him through the windows. This should have been an honest confrontation, he brooded. Something could have been settled by an honest confrontation. But this meeting his mother had arranged was theatrical and false. It would achieve nothing. If only I could have been present, he thought. I should have insisted. They are terrible cruel people and they should be told the truth about themselves.

  And certainly the Sowerbys looked as theatrical in their black clothes as the setting prepared for them. Their rage was real, though, and there was no disguising that. It pinched their long noses and hardened their eyes and reduced their mouths to gashes.

  ‘I cannot wish a good afternoon to you, ma’am,’ Mr Sowerby said brusquely in answer to Nan’s greeting, ‘since we are not here to exchange pleasantries. We are here to take possession of our daughter.’

  ‘Pray do be seated,’ Mr Brougham interposed smoothly, rising from behind Nan’s desk to greet them. ‘Your concern for your daughter does you much credit, Mr Sowerby. Pray allow me to introduce myself. Brougham, barrister at-law, and at your service.’

  They were impressed, although they tried not to show it. Mrs Sowerby’s eyes grew quite bright. ‘Well sir,’ she said, ‘’tis a relief to see that someone appreciates our position.’

  ‘Oh entirely, ma’am,’ he said, indicating the chair she should occupy by the merest motion of his hand. ‘You must be most distressed. How could it be otherwise given the great love that exists between mother and child?’

  ‘Very true,’ Mrs Sowerby said, seating herself with some satisfaction and glancing at her husband to show him that he should sit in the chair beside her. ‘You have no idea of the anguish we have suffered.’

  The sherry arrived, was offered and indignantly refused.

  ‘Now dear lady,’ Mr Brougham continued, ‘we must decide what is to be done about this, must we not?’

  ‘Our daughter is to be returned to us forthwith!’ Mr Sowerby said angrily, determined to get his own way as quickly as possible.

  ‘Indeed. Indeed,’ Mr Brougham soothed. ‘There should be no difficulty with that, Mr Sowerby. The child is under age I presume?’

  ‘Under age?’ Mrs Sowerby said.

  ‘Why yes, of course. ’Tis a mere formality to enquire, howsomever these small details must be cleared from our path, as I am sure you appreciate. She is not yet sixteen?’

  ‘She is just sixteen, sir,’ Mrs Sowerby admitted readily. ‘A mere child and stolen away from her mother.’

  ‘Ah!’ Mr Brougham said calmly. dipping a pen in the inkpot and handing it across to Cosmo Teshmaker who was sitting at his left hand.

  ‘And when was this?’

  ‘In January, sir. You see how young she is. How much she needs our protection.’

  ‘And could we have the exact date, if you would be so good.’

  ‘The thirty-first.’

  It was recorded. ‘Thank ’ee kindly,’ Mr Brougham said. ‘And she has lived with you all her life, I presume.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Of course. And she left your house…?’

  ‘She was stolen from our house on September the sixth,’ Mr Sowerby said. But he was speaking with less venom now, soothed, despite his resolve, by the warm fire, the comfortable armchairs and the barrister’s obvious calm and helpfulness.

  ‘Quite, quite –’ waiting while that answer was recorded too. ‘So naturally you wish her to be returned to you. That is so is it not?’

  Vigorous nodding. And triumphant looks darted at Nan, thoughtful in her own chair beside the fire.

  ‘At this point,’ Mr Brougham said, turning towards Cosmo, ‘it might be advantageous to ascertain the young lady’s opinion in the matter, always supposing that she has one and that it is known. Is it known, Mr Teshmaker?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Brougham,’ Cosmo said blandly. ‘Miss Sowerby has communicated her opinions to us. She does not wish to return home.’

  ‘Nonsense!’ Mrs Sowerby said crossly. ‘She is a stupid, foolish girl let me tell ’ee. No one should take any notice of what she says.’

  ‘Quite possibly,’ Mr Brougham said, in tones which implied that given a choice he would certainly agree with her sentiments, ‘howsomever, should the matter come to court, which you have given me to understand might well be the case, the law would require her opinions to be sought and taken into account. Since she is over sixteen, you understand, dear lady, she is accountable by law.’

  ‘Do you mean to tell me, sir,’ Mr Sowerby said, ‘that a magistrate would take the word of a child – a mere child – a runaway child – against the word of her parents? I cannot believe it.’

  ‘It is the law nevertheless,’ Mr Brougham apologized calmly. ‘Howsomever many other matters would also be taken into consideration as you will appreciate. The young person would have to prove to the magistrates that she is competent to earn a living, and that she has some acceptable place of domicile, which since she is a runaway will hardly obtain in this case, I imagine.’ And he glanced at Mr Teshmaker, raising his eyebrows slightly.

  Cosmo took his cue. ‘With respect, Mr Brougham,’ he said, ‘I believe the young person could satisfy the magistrate as to both these conditions.’

  ‘Indeed? Well you do surprise me.’

  ‘She has found employment with a clergyman and his wife,’ Cosmo said, ‘as nursemaid and companion. They are very well pleased with her services and say that they would be – ah –’ He pretended to consult a letter – ‘loathe to let her go.’

  ‘Ah! I see!’ Mr Brougham said, assuming a serious expression. ‘Well now, Mr and Mrs Sowerby, I should tell ’ee that this puts quite a different complexion upon the matter. A clergyman you said, Mr Teshmaker? Yes indeed, quite a different complexion.’

  ‘Complexion or no,’ Mr Sowerby said, ‘we mean to have satisfaction. There’s a law against child-stealing.’

  ‘Indeed there is, sir,’ Mr Brougham agreed, ‘but I feel I should point out to you that it only applies if the child is younger than sixteen years which, on your own admission, your child is not.’

  Now and too late Mr Sowerby realized that this unassuming man sitting so quietly behind his expensive desk was actually in charge of everybody in the room, that his smooth talk wasn’t helpful at all, quite the reverse in fact, and that he was a devilish kind of advocate.

  ‘Well well,’ he said tetchily, ‘that’s as may be, sir. We shall see when we come to court, sir.’

  ‘So you are prepared to take the matter to court?’

  ‘Indeed we are, sir! If ’tis the last thing we ever do.’

  ‘And are prepared for the costs you will incur, doubtless?’

  ‘Indeed.’ But a flicker of concern passed across his narrow face.

  ‘It is truly quite scandalous,’ Mr Brougham said mildly, ‘how costs do accrue in these cases. Is it not, Mr Teshmaker?’

  ‘Indeed it is, Mr Brougham.’

  ‘I should estimate that costs in this case would be somewhat in the region of, say, one t
housand pounds for both parties,’ Mr Brougham said with splendid aplomb. ‘For which you would undoubtedly be prepared Mrs Easter, would you not?’

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ Nan agreed, smiling horribly sweetly at Mr and Mrs Sowerby. ‘They are the sort of costs a company like Easter’s could most certainly withstand. Especially in a good cause.’

  Mrs Sowerby exploded into temper. ‘Oh I see how ’tis,’ she shouted. ‘Our daughter is to be ruined and we made fools of because we cannot pay your fancy fees. What sort of law is that I ask you?’

  ‘The law of the land, ma’am,’ Cosmo said.

  ‘A fig to the law of the land!’ Mrs Sowerby screeched. ‘I don’t give that for the law of the land. The law of the land is a villainous law, I tell ’ee, if it allows my poor dear daughter to be ruined and we powerless to prevent it. What is to become of her, once she is ruined, eh? You tell me that, sir! If she en’t ruined already.’

  Mr Brougham remained magnificently calm before her onslaught. ‘Is your daughter ruined, ma’am?’ he said mildly. ‘I do not recall any mention of ruin before this moment.’

  ‘If she en’t ruined, sir,’ Mr Sowerby shouted, catching his wife’s hysteria, ‘then she very soon will be, sir, being in the hands of a young rake, sir. We all know very well what young rakes are. What else is like to happen I ask you?’

  ‘Nobody gives a thought to the suffering of our poor Harriet,’ Mrs Sowerby said, now heavy with self-pity. ‘She is to be stolen away it seems, and used and ruined and we powerless to prevent it. Powerless. And when he’s had his way with her and ruined her and she comes running home to us what will become of her then, sir? Who will marry her then? Soiled goods, sir!’

  ‘Am I to understand that your purpose in this matter is to ensure a suitable marriage for the young lady?’ Mr Brougham enquired.

  ‘What else would concern any mother, Mr Brougham?’

  ‘Quite so,’ he said, smiling at her again. ‘Well then, dear lady, I do believe we have a possible solution to all our difficulties. I am safe to assume, am I not, that a suitable husband would be a satisfactory solution to you, Mrs Sowerby?’

  She was still stuck in her complaint. ‘Who would have her then? Soiled goods!’

  But her husband saw the advantage they were being offered. ‘Did ’ee have a particular husband in mind, Mr Brougham?’ he asked, reassuming his usual meek expression. ‘If such is the case, sir, we would be pleased to hear of it.’ And he scowled at his wife to warn her to desist.

  ‘There is a young gentleman,’ Mr Brougham admitted cautiously. ‘Howsomever I do not know whether his family would empower me to tell you his name. And, of course, he would be in no position to marry your daughter unless you were happy to give your consent.’

  By now Mrs Sowerby was interested too. ‘Well now, sir,’ she said, ‘as to that, we would need to be certain that the person was quite suitable, as you will appreciate. He would need to be of good family.’

  ‘I can assure you, ma’am,’ Mr Brougham said, ‘that the person is of quite excellent parentage.’

  ‘And would marry her if we gave our consent?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘How may we be sure?’ Mrs Sowerby said cunningly. ‘We all know what young men are like. They may give their word one day and withdraw it the next, and what sort of surety is that for a young girl?’

  ‘The young gentleman is my son, Mrs Sowerby,’ Nan said, ‘and I can tell ’ee the young fool would marry her tomorrow so he would, were I to give permission. Which I don’t, there being no need for him to marry the girl.’ She was playing her part to perfection, looking angry and disdainful and every bit the disapproving parent.

  ‘With respect, Mrs Easter,’ Mr Brougham said, assuming an artful expression and making sure that Mrs Sowerby noticed by giving her the full benefit of it before he looked at Nan, ‘it ain’t your permission that is in question, since your son has come of age, has he not, and may therefore marry whom he pleases.’

  Smug looks from the Sowerbys.

  ‘No, no,’ Mr Brougham continued. ‘’Tis Mr Sowerby’s permission that has to be sought in this particular matter, is it not, Mr Sowerby?’

  ‘Mr Sowerby would not wish his daughter to marry my son,’ Nan said tartly. ‘That I do know. En’t that right, Mr Sowerby?’

  ‘He is prepared to marry her you say, Mr Brougham?’ Mr Sowerby asked, and his face was quite peaked with artfulness.

  ‘Without question.’

  ‘Then we will permit it,’ Mr Sowerby said. ‘Will we not, Mother? ’Tis the right and proper thing for him to do, when all’s said and done, seeing ’twas he that stole her away in the first place.’

  ‘I am most happy to hear it,’ Mr Brougham said. ‘And if I may advise you, I should suggest that you put your consent in writing just as soon as ever you can.’ And he gave a meaningful look at Nan.

  ‘I would do it now if I had a pen.’

  ‘I am sure Mr Teshmaker could provide a pen.’

  ‘I could do better than that, sir,’ Cosmo said. ‘By a lucky chance I just happen to have a letter of consent in this drawer. One which I drew up for another party yesterday, but which I am sure would serve.’ And he pulled it from the drawer and handed it to Mr Brougham, who glanced at it and pronounced it excellent and handed it across to Mr Sowerby.

  ‘Do ’ee think this wise?’ Nan said, scowling at her adversaries to encourage them with discouragement.

  ‘Wise or not, ma’am,’ Mrs Sowerby said with ugly triumph. ‘’Twill be done! Make no mistake about it.’

  They signed at great speed and in high fury, one after the other, the pen spurting and scratching beneath their anger.

  ‘We wish ’ee good day, ma’am,’ Mr Sowerby said to Nan when the paper was returned to Mr Brougham. ‘Good has triumphed over evil you see. You need not think you can ever force us, ma’am. Good has triumphed.’

  ‘Aye,’ Nan said coolly, as they made a dramatic exit, ramrod stiff, ‘so I see.’

  But she didn’t laugh or crow until their footsteps had died away down the corridor. Then she threw her arms in the air and squealed with pleasure. ‘Oh ’twas better than a play,’ she said. ‘Did ’ee see the face on ’em, Cosmo? “Good has triumphed.” Oh my heart alive!’ And she rushed at her happy colleague to kiss him warmly on both cheeks. ‘’Twas downright magnificent,’ she said, her wide mouth spread wider than he’d ever seen it, so huge was her delight.

  ‘Most happy to have been of service,’ Cosmo said.

  But she’d already turned to kiss Mr Brougham, first on one cheek and then on the other, with her arms about his neck. And Mr Brougham caught at her flying hands as she turned and began to spin away from him, still chortling, and, leaning down towards her, kissed her in his turn, first on one cheek and then on the other, pulling her to him so that they were eye to eye in their happiness.

  It was a moment, no more, but she was suddenly and dizzyingly aware of him, breathing in the scent of his flesh, glimpsing rather more than mere regard in those close, smiling grey eyes.

  And then she was off again, running to the door on tiptoe, skipping down the corridor to tell John, calling to Mr Jones as she ran that he was to ‘hasten to the sorting room and fetch Mr William’.

  They could hear her voice quite clearly even above the noise of the wind. ‘Johnnie, my dear! We’ve won! We’ve won!’

  ‘What an amazing lady she is, Mr Brougham,’ Cosmo said admiringly.

  ‘She is without equal, Mr Teshmaker,’ Frederick Brougham agreed.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The gale blew all that night, bringing rain with it, howling down the chimneys and flailing the tall trees and spitting out roof tiles like broken teeth. Harriet Sowerby lay awake all night listening to it. Not that she would have slept very much had the night been peaceful. She had too much to think about.

  If only she knew what Mrs Easter’s lawyers had arranged! Would they send her back to her parents or let her stay here with Mrs Hopkins? And would her dear Mr East
er really propose to her? Oh if only he would! By the time the first green edge of dawn lightened her eastern window and the tumult finally died down, she was so full of nervous energy she couldn’t stay in bed a minute longer.

  She got up and washed herself carefully, shivering under the impact of water cold from the ewer, and dressed in silence, while the dawn chorus began to pipe and carol most joyfully in the garden below her. Then she crept down the dark stairs and, taking her black cloak from its hook behind the kitchen door, lifted the latch and stepped out into the pale light of early morning.

  The rain had stopped but the garden was awash with moisture, the long grass swishing wet underfoot and the branches of the yew dropping raindrops upon her as thick as a shower. She picked her way past the holm oak and through the wet gate into the open churchyard where the high stone flanks of St Nicholas’s church rose above her, damp and dark against the grey sky. The village was still sleeping in its hollow, black-thatched by rain and spouting water from every shabby gutter, but the birds were now in full song, thrushes and blackbirds calling clear, a robin shrill and sweet, hedge sparrows a-twitter, magpies clattering like wooden rattles.

  She walked round the side of the church and arrived at the south porch, where she paused for a second with her hand resting on the rough flints, looking down at the village. Then she took her uncertainties into the church.

  The peace and silence of the place surrounded her like a benediction, calming her and giving her strength. She walked quietly past the font, touching its odd carved faces with gentle reverence, and up the aisle past the box pews towards the communion table, its cloth as green as glass in the dawn light, and there she stopped before the altar rails. The bottom half of the east window was still in darkness, but the figure of her gentle Christ was glowingly visible, His hands upraised. And in the peaceful light of that early morning it seemed to Harriet that He was looking down with total understanding, straight into her eyes.

  She dropped to her knees before Him and began to pray, speaking aloud in the urgency of her dilemma.