She said nothing although she glanced at her companion. The Countess, wrapped in a fur rug, leaned back in her corner with her eyes closed. Honoria was not sure whether she was asleep or merely wished to give that impression.
When the carriage at last drove into the town of Dover, she opened her eyes and observed, “We have made good time. I have a boat moored here, which will take us across to Calais. I like to travel at all times in my own carriage – and my own boat. You may have noticed that there is no coat of arms upon the side; it’s my belief that the anonymity this provides offers some protection from any soldiers or other rough persons who may still be wandering around looking for trouble. We will leave these horses here and acquire a fresh set on the other side. We will be obliged to wait for the rest of my party before we embark for we only want to make one crossing but we can pass the time in eating luncheon.”
The carriage deposited them at the entrance to an exceedingly grand hotel up whose steps the Countess trod, followed a step or two behind, as she thought seemly, by Honoria. There was a fresh wind blowing and she already felt the want of a pelisse.
When they had been conducted to a private room and furnished with a bottle of wine, her ladyship observed, “You look quite blue already and we have barely begun.”
“It is the wind,” Honoria explained.
“Yes, at present it is; soon, it will be wind and snow. I noticed that you bridled a good deal when I commented upon the paucity of your warm clothing earlier and I have no wish to criticise you, but it has occurred to me that, while we are sitting here beside the fire, someone could go out and purchase some additional clothes for you. Would that be acceptable?”
“Goodness – could they indeed? Should I go out myself if you think it so important?”
“No, for you cannot walk about the town by yourself without giving rise to all sorts of gossip, much of which will no doubt make its way back to your family in due course. Then they will know that you were in Dover and draw the correct conclusion as to what you were doing here. We can ask the landlady to send someone to find a choice of thick pelisses, a pair of boots – I suppose you have only those riding boots which I notice you are still wearing, a few more warm gowns and perhaps some shawls. What have you precisely in your baggage?”
Honoria listed the small collection of items which she had decided to pack. The Countess wisely refrained from either asking to see them or making any comment about the girl’s choice. Receiving permission to send someone to find a few additional garments, she rang the bell and issued instructions. She then poured two glasses of wine and drank her own with what seemed remarkable speed to Honoria.
They were eating their luncheon – an excellent meal much larger than the rather exiguous nuncheon to which Honoria was accustomed – when the female deputed to make the purchases returned, followed by a manservant carrying a number of boxes. The contents were examined by both women and a preliminary choice made.
“You had better try on the gowns – and indeed the boots – for it would be no use if they did not fit and we have not time enough for them to be altered. Pray take my young friend upstairs and help her with these garments,” the Countess told the woman who had chosen them. “You can finish your luncheon when you have done,” she added to Honoria, “for she must take back those you do not want and we must pay for those you do – and all before the tide turns.”
Honoria obediently rose and accompanied the housekeeper and the manservant, still carrying the bags, up to one of the bedchambers. A fire was already burning in the grate and the room felt warm and comfortable. Gazing out of the window at the sea, which, on closer inspection, was not only grey but also unnervingly vigorous, Honoria wished she could stay there.
She tried on all the gowns, the boots and the pelisse but waved away the stockings and warm undergarments which the Countess had ordered.
“How did you know my size so exactly?” she asked.
The woman smiled. “One has only to look at you, Miss, to gauge your size and, since you are more or less perfectly proportioned, I did not expect there to be any nasty surprises. Will you keep them?”
“How much does the whole lot come to?”
“Oh, they are not so very dear and the shopkeepers will give me a discount. Her ladyship can afford it.”
“I daresay she can but I will pay for them myself.”
“In that case, since you’re a dear little thing and – by the looks of you and your apprehensive glances at the sea – on your first trip abroad, I’ll ask for an extra discount.”
“That is very kind of you,” Honoria said. “The only difficulty that I can see is that I have only a very small valise.”
“Oh, I thought of that, Miss. I got an extra bag too. I’ll fetch it now and we can pack it together.”
Chapter 22
Honoria rather wished she had eaten a little less of the excellent luncheon when the boat left the shores of England. The horrid bucking and rolling and the way the horizon tilted was perfectly awful. She clutched the arms of her chair and swallowed repeatedly while trying to fix her mind on happy anticipation of the joys ahead.
The Countess stretched out upon a day bed and opened her book; she seemed to be unaffected by the way the floor heaved or the waves crashed against the windows. After several minutes she looked up, saw the white face of her companion and reacted with alarm, ringing a small hand bell beside her and jumping up with the sort of energy which her conversational style had exhibited but to which, so far, her physical movements had given no clue. She snatched up a large vase filled with lilies, whose scent Honoria found unpleasantly cloying, flung the flowers to the floor and presented the vase, still half-filled with water, to her guest.
“Here, you look as though you’re about to cast up your accounts. Pray make use of this.”
“Oh!” Honoria groaned, clutching the vase to her bosom and staring wildly at the Countess.
“It is the movement of the boat which is making you feel ill,” the Countess explained. “If you think you can do so without falling overboard, you would feel better if you went outside. The air usually revives one.”
The door opened and her ladyship’s maid, a thin, disapproving person by the name of Dent, appeared in the doorway.
“Miss Ford is unwell. Please escort her to the deck. You can hand her over to one of the men if you do not wish to remain out there yourself. I daresay they will be able to prevent her from falling into the sea. Go along with Dent, my dear, take the vase with you in case you are overcome before you reach the edge of the boat, and take some deep breaths when you get there. You must look at the horizon to steady yourself.”
“But it keeps moving,” Honoria complained, standing, swaying and grasping hold of the back of her chair.
“Yes, of course it does if you sit still. But if you fix your gaze upon it and go with the boat – rather like riding – you will feel much better. Take her arm, Dent. You will grow quite accustomed, you know,” she added to Honoria. “I was sick the first time but now, as you see, I do not notice it at all.”
Honoria, determined not to make a practice of entrusting herself to a wooden vessel which seemed at the mercy of elements determined upon its destruction, staggered out of the room, still clutching the vase, under the guard of the handmaiden.
Drawn up a narrow set of stairs from the bowels of the ship by the maid, who seemed to be a good deal stronger than she looked, Honoria was driven back by the force of the wind as they emerged. But almost immediately she felt better so far as her stomach was concerned, although the wind hitting her face brought on a headache, no doubt partly caused by lack of sleep.
“There, Miss,” Dent shouted above the wind. “Hold on tightly to the rail and you’ll be better directly.”
Honoria reached out one hand to the rail, the other still being engaged in holding the vase. It was an extraordinary sight and an even more stupefying experience to stand there on the bucking, rolling deck, with the wind flying towards her and t
he spray from the waves soaking her. There was now nothing to be seen but the sea, heaving – oddly in more than one direction, the white foam as the waves broke and the matching sky, more uniform and less troubled than the water. She stood there, fascinated, unable to detach her gaze from the waves, which were almost mesmerising.
Dent stood beside her and Honoria was glad of the company. If the maid had turned away she knew she would have done so too because it would have been too frightening to stand so exposed beneath the billowing sails.
At this time of year the days were short and darkness fell while she and Dent stood in the spray. A sailor brought a lamp and fixed it to the rail, taking the vase from Honoria when she held it out. She no longer had need of it for she could have been sick over the side of the boat but, although her head still ached, she was not now queasy. It was Dent who took her arm again and urged her to go below as the last light drained from the sky and the swelling water became inky black.
“I am afraid I shall feel unwell again if I go below,” Honoria murmured, hanging back.
“No, you’ll be all right now,” the maid told her. “You’ve learned to go with the movement of the boat and, if you stay here much longer, you’ll freeze to death.”
When they reached the cabin, it was to find the Countess still reading. She looked up as Honoria came in.
“Ah, you look much better now. Will you join me in a glass of wine?”
“Perhaps I had better not; I would rather not begin to feel unwell again.”
“Oh, you will be perfectly well now; you have gained your ‘sea legs’ I daresay. In any event, a glass of wine will be bracing. We will be there soon and will eat our dinner when we disembark.”
As she spoke the boat slowed and shuddered and the rolling ceased. Indeed, they seemed almost becalmed.
“Here we are,” the Countess said with some satisfaction. “Go and look out of the window if you like.”
Honoria did and saw her first glimpse of France. It was quite dark so that all she could see were lanterns bobbing up and down as men ran backwards and forwards, bringing the boat in and tying her up, but, beyond all this activity, she could see the shadow of tall buildings rising up behind.
“You’ve never been here before, have you?” the Countess asked, amused at the way Honoria pressed her nose to the window and strove to see what was going on.
“No. Is France very different, my lady?”
“Exceedingly. Thank goodness they have stopped chopping people’s heads off all the time. I have been coming this way for many years but there was a time when I hardly dared set foot on French soil in case they decided to round up English aristocrats as well as their own. I came via the Netherlands then. It is no more miles to Bavaria that way – indeed, I believe it is slightly shorter, but the crossing is longer and I own I do not much enjoy being cooped up for such an excessive period.”
Honoria realised that the Countess must be considerably older than she looked for the French revolution and the wholesale guillotining of aristocrats was now nearly thirty years ago. If she had been travelling this way for some years, she must be nearer fifty than forty – even if she had been almost a child then.
It was not long before the captain arrived to escort them on to the shore and into the capable hands of a Frenchman who appeared to have been awaiting their arrival. He greeted the Countess in French with much bowing and many exclamations of delight at seeing her again. She, speaking the same language with great fluency, introduced her young friend, telling Honoria, “This is Monsieur Lestrade, who is the proprietor of the Coq d’Or at which we will spend the night. Monsieur, a room will need to be prepared for my friend, whom I am escorting to her family in Vienna.”
Monsieur pronouncing himself delighted to meet such a charming young lady, the party walked across the road and into the warm, bright interior of the hotel where Madame, who bustled forward at once, immediately sent a maid to prepare another room and herself escorted the two ladies upstairs.
The next morning Honoria rose early and saw that the weather was no better in France than it was in England. The sky was grey and the wind was still raging. She was thankful that she would not have to face the sea again just yet even if she had acquired her ‘sea legs’.
She found the Countess already eating breakfast in a private room. Her ladyship called for brandy and, when it came, raised her glass to Honoria, saying, “I thought we should celebrate twenty-four hours of acquaintance. How do you feel this morning?”
“Much better, thank you. I slept as one dead and woke this morning confused as to where I was. Am I really in France?”
“Yes, indeed. You may have noticed that they speak a different language here – I daresay you have some knowledge of it – and that they do not find it in the least odd if one asks for brandy at breakfast.”
“My knowledge of French is excessively sketchy, I am afraid, and I am not at all sure that I can drink brandy at any time. I am not accustomed to strong liquor.” As she spoke, she remembered with a pang that last evening at Lenham Hall when she had drunk a little too much Madeira; she wondered now if that had been to blame not only for her inability to sleep that night but also for what, in the cold light of a grey day in France, seemed deluded fears. It was quite possibly also responsible for the bravado which had led her to run away in the middle of the night.
“No, I don’t suppose you have; young girls are always expected to drink lemonade or orgeat or something of that nature. You need not have brandy habitually but I think we should toast our good fortune in meeting each other. You and I are going to have a great deal of fun together as we journey across Europe. Is that one of the new dresses you purchased in Dover?”
“Yes; I like it; do you?”
“I do – and it likes you, as they say here. You look charming. Now, eat up your breakfast and we will be on our way.”
Less than an hour later the two women were comfortably installed in her ladyship’s carriage, the bricks for their feet freshly heated, the fur rugs disposed about their persons and the French horses stepping out energetically.
The Countess, as seemed to be her wont, fell asleep almost as soon as the carriage reached the open road but Honoria sat, at first fascinated, later bored, by the passing scenery. France, it appeared, seemed to go on in much the same way for mile after dreary mile. Occasionally they drove through a village and every few hours they stopped to change the horses but for the most part the Countess, at these stops, merely sat up, yawned, sighed and disposed herself for sleep once more. Honoria began to think that the ability to fall asleep apparently at will and to remain thus, like a cat, for hours on end was what made the Countess able to contemplate such a long and tedious journey with equanimity. For her part, Honoria was already well and truly bored.
It was not until daylight, such as it was, began to withdraw that the Countess awoke. She yawned, stretched and peered out of the window at the darkening landscape.
“We are no longer in France,” she explained with a tiny humorous downturn of her mouth. “We are in the United Kingdom of the Netherlands, I believe. It is difficult to keep up with the constant changes in the borders – indeed for all I know it may by this time have an entirely different name and a new king. It is ruled – or was, when last I looked – by a gentleman calling himself King William I. In any event, you are in a different country from the one where we came ashore.”
“Do they speak another language?”
“Not in this part but they do use several others in various regions. However, we need not trouble ourselves with them as anyone we are likely to meet will be able to speak French. We will stop for the night soon and you will see if you notice any changes from last evening’s establishment. The truth is that expensive hotels are all dispiritingly similar. One might be anywhere. You would have obtained a much more accurate – and interesting – impression of Europe if I had refused to let you come with me.”
“I am excessively thankful to you, my lady, for taking pi
ty on me,” Honoria said humbly.
“Are you? You would be if you had the faintest idea of what you were escaping by sheltering under my wing. Why, you would probably have been abducted and sold into slavery by now.”
“Are you jesting?”
“No, not altogether. How did you intend to travel once you had crossed the Channel?”
“I suppose I thought there would be some kind of equivalent to the mail.”
“Yes, of course there is but you would have been obliged to change frequently and it has not escaped my notice that you know little about what is going on in the world and even less about geography.”
“You are perfectly right – and I am truly grateful.”
“Good. I own that setting myself up as a charitably inclined lady is quite a departure for me; I am known to be excessively selfish; I can only suppose that it is old age creeping up on me. The truth is that you are enlivening my journey enormously.”
“I am very glad that I can be of some service to you.”
“Are you? I suppose it puts you under less of an obligation and I have always found that a sense of obligation is quite fatal to friendship.”
“I wish you would allow me to pay for my own room and dinner,” Honoria said.
“No, I cannot do that. I am not in the least short of funds and, although you have told me that you will come into a fortune in a few months’ time, you are not yet in possession of it, and the money you have brought will not last indefinitely. When we part company, you will need it, although I am wondering what to do about that.”
“What do you mean?”
“That, when I reach my destination, which is a good way from yours, I am not quite comfortable with sending you off by yourself. There is still a strong likelihood that you will be abducted and sold into slavery between Würtzburg and Vienna.”
Honoria Or The Safety 0f The Frying Pan Page 18
