by Edith Layton
After the guard loaded the passengers into the coach and made sure all were present and accounted for, he grasped hold of the carriage, preparing to swing himself up to his perch at the back of it. But before he could, he felt a light touch upon his sleeve. The elegant gentleman who had detained him smiled easily and handed him a coin which made his eyes widen, for the fellow wasn’t a passenger, and few of them tipped so handsomely anyway. But a calling card with the name and address of one “Warwick Jones” on it went with the coin, and the gentleman inclined his head toward the front of the carriage and said only, “See he doesn’t lose this, will you? There’s a good chap.”
“Aye,” the guard replied slowly, comprehension dawning as he looked the gent up and down, pricing him as he did, “I’ll see to it, for ’e’s a good chap too, you know.”
“Oh, I know,” the gentleman said lightly, and still smiling, went back into the inn.
It was only moments later, as the guard began to raise his horn to his lips, preparatory to blowing the first notes signaling departure, the tune of which would blend in with the echoing, fading sound of the Royal George’s tin, which had left only moments before, that the fashionably dressed blond young woman stepped into the courtyard and prepared to enter a private coach. She checked, and the stout blond gentleman with her hesitated as well. He turned to see what caused her sudden start and saw the fair coachman on his high box smiling down at her. The older gentleman paused only a second, and then, waving his hand to the fellow, cried merrily, “Good morning, and a fair trip to London, my lord!”
“Oh, Charlie,” the young woman wailed after she reached the privacy of their coach, “how could you?”
“Nothing to it,” he chuckled, but then, seeing her flushed face, regretted his impulse and so said with some impatience, “You make too much of it, it’s the sort of thing fellows do, Sukey. Why, you ought to get used to it, for you may be meeting up with the fellow again, and soon too. Can’t snub a chap and then expect to make his acquaintance with a pleasant how-do-you-do,” he grumbled as he tipped his hat over his eyes, not at all sure he was right, but he believed coach rides were for sleeping anyway, so the sooner he got to it and away from her accusing eyes, the better.
She had looked even lovelier in the daylight, the coachman discovered himself thinking as he threaded the reins through his left hand and raised the whip in his right one. She was certainly a spectacularly beautiful young creature, he mused as the guard blew three strident notes and then began to improvise on the theme of an old drinking song to delight the topside passengers and drive the guard on the Dart, which waited behind them, to despair, for the fellow couldn’t play half so well. Close up, the coachman continued to muse as the Thunder edged forward, he’d seen that she had the most amazing brown eyes, and skin that looked like it would be like petals to the touch…and then thinking of touching, he remembered to look back to the inn and wave a farewell to an upper window, and grinned as the slightly opened shutters there swung closed with an indignant snap.
As his route took him past the coach the flaxen-haired unknown had just entered, he glanced across to it, and seeing that lovely face at the window, and seeing the sudden surprise in it, he smiled the wider, and for the second time since he had first seen her he sketched a bow, only a briefer one this time, for he didn’t wish to give his cattle any wrong notions. And for the second time, she gasped and drew back, and having no door to shut in his face, drew her shade down at once over the sight of his impudence.
Two smiles, he thought on another smile, as the Thunder pulled away, and two windows closed on him for them. But his spirits didn’t sink, in fact they rose higher with every breath he took of the cool morning air and with each step his horses brought him closer to London. For he wasn’t thinking of either of the two females at all now, not the lovely blond girl who’d given him her admiration, nor the obliging brown-haired wench who’d given him all else, for they were negligible, each in her own way only a brief delight briefly noted. Instead he envisioned the cool, lovely countenance of a lady. His true lady, who lay in London and was completely unavailable to him and yet who drew closer to him with each milestone he passed. And soon, thinking on his lady, he delighted the topside gentlemen by raising a sweet tenor to join them, as they accompanied the guardsman in his rendition of “A Lover and His Lass.”
*
Miss Susannah Logan’s coach was one of the last to pull out from the courtyard, but if Mr. Warwick Jones noted it at all, he saw only the back of it as he glanced out the window again and drummed his fingers on the tabletop. He only knew that his was going to be the last to do so, and as he’d known it for the last hour, he was in a towering temper as the baron finally seated himself at the table and groaned, clutching his head, wondering if he might be able to make it to the coach. Mr. Jones wished he had some hemlock to give him so that he could be at least carried out, unprotesting, when the landlord obliged with a foaming drink that looked equally noxious, but seemed just the remedy the baron had been seeking.
Mr. Jones, a gentleman to his fingertips, as the two young women agreed as they drove back to London, insisted on giving them and the baron sole use of his coach for the journey. He himself, he claimed, would travel outrider style to see that no highwaymen lurked at Gibbet Hill, despite the fact that he knew very well that none had for over a decade.
Although Mr. Jones was the last to arrive in London, he was one of the first to reach his destination. Not only did he live in the heart of town, once he’d gotten there he’d dropped his passengers off and settled accounts with them with stunning speed and such grace that they didn’t know whether to be pleased or dismayed with him until after his dust had died down behind them.
Once ensconced in his favorite chair in his study in a dressing gown so old as to be a friend, he sat back and sighed with relief. A fire mumbled nicely in the grate; he looked about the room to all the curios and books and works of art he’d collected, and felt a great and deep content.
So it was odd that he soon felt restless, and rose from his chair and paced the room, and finally, with a deep sigh, rang for his valet to help him dress again. For the ormolu clock on the mantel insisted on reading only three.
But there was a book he wanted to buy, and he remembered the chore with rising good humor, and after he’d seen to that, a dinner to be had, and then various places to visit in the night—an opera, a play, and a lively possibility that he might find some attractive willing young person to help him pass the rest of it. This time, he mused, a quiet friendly one would be pleasant to have stay with him. Then he paused, and thought of what might actually be nicer, and laughed to himself, alarming his valet, but he was only thinking that not only was he being absurd, he must be getting greedy. He’d already located one real friend, and with any luck at all, would see him again soon.
*
The Logans reached their destination in London at the same time that Mr. Jones was gratefully sinking into his club chair, even though they’d set out earlier than he had. This wasn’t only because Mr. Logan was a cautious man who didn’t love speed for its own sake and was no expert judge of horseflesh. He was, above all, an excellent man at business, and however sturdy his horses or well-sprung his carriage, he reasoned that an overworked horse worked for less time in the long run, and a carriage jolted pell-mell over roads needed more repair than one that went at a reasonable clip. So it was a safe, sound two in the afternoon when the Logans’ coachman pulled up at number fourteen on a long gray street.
There was complete silence within the coach. Then the gentleman spoke, far too heartily.
“Well, puss,” he said jovially, “here we are. Don’t look so grim. She’s probably the cheeriest body imaginable. She’s a bit past her prime, but lively as can be, doubtless that’s why she welcomed a visit from a young person and seemed so eager to be back in the social swim again. It don’t look too promising here, but it ain’t a slum and she does have connections.”
“Oh, Charlie,�
�� Susannah protested immediately, shamed that he might have seen her disappointment at the sight of the row of unimpressive houses, especially after all her talk of disinterest in the social whirl, “it’s enough that she’s willing to take me in.”
“No, it’s not,” he replied, taken aback. “What would be the sense of having you come here otherwise? It’s shabby here, I grant you, but flash ain’t everything with the really old gentry. Respectability, Sukey, that’s the ticket. Come, we’ll give it a try,” he announced before she could resist further. “Faint heart never won fair lady, nor old lady, neither.”
He guffawed at his own humor as he handed her out, for a businessman has to have a thousand jests at his command and should always know when to put the light touch to a ticklish situation, and ought to laugh heartily at his own wit as well so that the other fellow doesn’t feel stupid or left out and knows it for a jest. But his Susannah never had a head for business, he remembered, when she didn’t reply at all but only gazed at him, troubled.
She didn’t know this relative her brother had discovered, any more than she knew London, she thought as she reluctantly went up the stair. And respectable or no, she suddenly wondered how Charlie expected some middle-aged lady, however genteel, to see her into the ton, or even into proximity of such dashing fellows as the Viscount Hazelton—unless she bought a seat on his coach for her.
She grew even graver when she reached the door and saw a black wreath hung upon the knocker. Her mood did not alter greatly when a wizened maid, dressed in what seemed to be layers of rusty black, opened the door to them. Only then did Susannah’s expression change, to one of astonishment, when the old creature squinted at the card she was handed and then snapped, “Dead. She’s dead.”
And closed the door in their faces.
They stood there too astonished to say a word, and it was only when Mr. Logan’s ears began to grow ruddy that the door was pulled open again.
A female of middle years and height, plump and plain and gray as a field mouse and dressed simply but all in that same hue, stood before them, her distressed round face showing her only color: two high red splotches upon her cheeks.
“I am so sorry,” she said at once in a pleasant voice. “Do forgive Agnes, she’s old as the hills, and we don’t get much company. She went to show me your card, you see, for she cannot read, and was so intent on it that she remembered only that she oughtn’t to leave the door standing open, for a cat once got in, and Mrs. Anderson loathed them, and she was scolded… I am so sorry,” she said suddenly, aghast, as though someone else were talking that she’d just gotten a chance to interrupt, “for there you are, still outside, while I ramble on. Do come in,” she pleaded, “and I’ll try to explain all.”
They were led to a small parlor, and after they’d seated themselves, their distraught hostess began speaking at once.
“Mrs. Anderson passed on a few weeks ago, and more’s the pity, for I know she was eagerly awaiting your visit. Of course, she was extremely old, you know. Or perhaps you don’t,” she said, watching their expressions closely. “But then, she was rather vain, and so I’m not surprised she never admitted it to you. But not in the least infirm, you understand, and as she’d once been very social—oh, yes,” she put in, seeing the young woman’s eyebrows rise slightly, “her husband was one of the Berkshire Andersons, they were always at court when the old king was in his right mind. Your proposed visit excited her enormously; it would have given her an excuse to renew old acquaintances, or at least discover which of them were still living. She had such a successful funeral, everyone was there, she would have been so gratified…” She sighed and then went on more firmly, “But the point is that her heart gave out suddenly, and so a great many plans have had to be changed. I’m a connection of her late husband, and was pleased to be her companion in recent years. But you’ve arrived just as I’ve done packing. I’m leaving today. Mrs. Anderson’s sister has inherited all, you see, and as she’d married out of their circle, and retired to the country and acquired, ah, a different style of life in the past years, I find I would not suit, and so have given in my notice.”
“But surely her sister will honor her obligations to us,” Mr. Logan objected, dismayed and clearly prepared to argue.
“Oh, certainly, decidedly,” the woman agreed, getting to her feet immediately. She began to say more, changed her mind, stood hesitant, and then with something very like a shrug said sadly, “Please wait,” and left the room.
“Too high in the instep,” Charlie said wisely, when she’d gone. “Likely that’s why she’s leaving. Just as well. Maybe Mrs. Anderson was too starched-up for you too. But her sister’s a connection of ours as well, remember, so this might even work out better.”
But as Susannah didn’t look any more convinced of this than he felt, he subsided. Enough time passed so that he was about to admit that the late Mrs. Anderson he’d dug up from family gossip was a very distant relative indeed, a cousin twice removed, and Susannah was about to tell her brother that Tunbridge Wells was not actually the end of the world, as it was on several stagecoach routes, when they both heard voices coming from the hallway that led to the parlor.
They both heard a voice, actually; the other accompanying sound was all made up of soft, broken, half-phrased apologetic cautions and only formed a pattering background for the great trumpeting main theme of noise.
“Good Lord,” the bass voice complained, “a party can’t close her eyes but she’s dragged up by the hair by some fools. Tessa, you’ve got no brains, jingle-brained creature, rousting me from a good rest to see some common… Don’t shush me, my girl,” the voice roared, impossibly enough actually able to pick up in volume in anger. “I don’t care who hears… Damnation!” the voice thundered after a crash was heard. “Who put that table there? Well, well, get on with it, where are they?”
Susannah and her brother were both standing when their relative staggered into the salon, supported by the gray-haired woman who’d greeted them at the door.
“This,” that unhappy lady said to them, “is Mrs. Anderson’s sister. Mrs. Pruit, here are the Logans.”
The massive woman she introduced teetered into a chair, and sank down there, her voice the exact tone as the protesting chair’s as she cried, “Well, get me something to drink, idiot. Meeting up with relatives is thirsty work, isn’t it?” she added, regarding her visitors at last and giving them a ferocious wink.
She was large in form and frame, and all her considerable person was wrapped in a varicolored day robe that gapped wide in every place a person viewing her wished that it would not. The strong aroma of lily-of-the-valley scent that came from that garment was still not strong enough to overwhelm the odor of alcohol which emanated from her, with the result that the small room soon began to reek as though it were springtime in a distillery.
“Eh, Tessa,” she bellowed at the gray-haired woman, “tell that lazy slut in the kitchen, the usual for me. And what’s your pleasure?” she asked her visitors good-naturedly.
“Do you possibly have a coaching schedule?” Susannah blurted anxiously.
*
The Logans waited in their coach and passed their time arguing spiritedly. Then, although Susannah deplored it, as soon as her brother saw the gray-haired woman leave the house, he sprang from the coach to join her on the stair. Susannah saw him tip his hat and talk animatedly, and after a time the gray-haired woman nodded slightly. Then Charlie signaled to the coachman, who went to secure the woman’s luggage, and to Susannah’s surprise and disquiet, the door to the coach opened and the woman joined her.
“This,” Charlie said happily, when he had seated himself again, “is the Contessa Miriam della Casandro, Sukey.”
“I’m sorry I neglected to introduce myself earlier,” the woman explained softly, inclining her head as a greeting, “but you see, I was in rather a hurry.”
“She’s graciously consented to be your companion during your stay in London,” Charlie added proudly. “And s
he ain’t doing it for the blunt, neither,” he cautioned his sister as she stared at the squabs and looked for a crack in the plump cushions that she could crawl into to die of embarrassment. “No,” he gloated, “for she’s got her pick of positions. She’s doing us a favor.”
“Indeed, I was once young too,” the contessa said, smiling at Susannah sympathetically, “although never so beautiful, I believe. Still, I had looked forward to your visit as much as Mrs. Anderson did, and am pleased I survived to facilitate it, for though I have no fixed residence at the moment, I too have some social connections. Now,” she asked comfortably, “the only question remaining is, where shall we stay for that visit? Mr. Logan?”
“Ah,” Charlie said, grinning fiercely, “tonight? At a hotel. And tomorrow? Why, that’s my little secret,” he said, tapping the side of his nose. And Susannah’s heart sank, for she’d grown up with Charlie and knew that thin-lipped grin was a sure sign that he was thinking rapidly, and the tapping meant that he was lying most creatively.
