by M C Beaton
‘Perhaps you have the right of it,’ he said with false heartiness. ‘But no need for an early start. We can leave at noon and still be in Dover at the same time as the coach.’
‘That’s the last of the packing,’ said Hannah, slamming down the lid of her trunk, ‘except for my night-rail and a few other things which I can put in in the morning. You know, Benjamin, something awful must have happened between Lord Ashton and the twins. The earl was so elated, so happy at breakfast. Quite a different man. Then when he heard they had left, he became silent and moody.’
‘Mayhap Lord William talked Lady Deborah into going,’ said Benjamin.
‘Why would he do that?’
‘When I was on duty in the drawing-room last night,’ said Benjamin, ‘I couldn’t help noticing how Lord William was sort o’ glowering at his sister when she was talking to the earl. Didn’t like it a bit.’
‘We should have driven over and asked them,’ said Hannah impatiently. ‘Look in their rooms, Benjamin, before we leave in the morning. Despite my efforts, the old servants here are very lazy and I am convinced they will do nothing to clean out the guest bedchambers until other guests are expected.’
‘Very good,’ said Benjamin. He cocked his head to one side and surveyed her. ‘Strikes me you would be better thinking about making a match for yourself than bothering about all these other people.’
‘Benjamin!’
‘Garn! I got eyes in me ’ead. It’s Sir George, ain’t it?’
‘Get out of here, you impertinent jackanapes, before I throw something at your head!’
Benjamin went out grinning. Hannah sat down on the trunk. Now that she was far away from him, the very idea of a romance between such as herself and Sir George seemed totally ridiculous. Better to forget about him. Well, maybe she would see him just once more and then forget about him. Just one other outing. Just one more opportunity to see those blue eyes.
At five in the morning, the stage-coach passengers were roused and told to make ready for their journey to the Crown at Rochester to meet the coach. Benjamin suddenly remembered he had not searched the rooms. As Hannah had guessed, they had not been touched. There was no clue to anything in Lady Deborah’s room. In William’s, however, he looked thoughtfully down at the bed, which was still wet. That was odd. The very pillow was soaking. He looked about him. The grate was still full of cold ashes. And then Benjamin saw a spool of blackened paper sticking out between the bars in the grate.
He pulled it out and put it in his pocket just as he heard Hannah calling for him.
Despite the earliness of the hour, the earl was there to see them all off. He still looked sad and grim, thought Hannah.
In fact, what a sad lot they all were, she reflected wearily as they all climbed aboard the stage. Abigail’s eyes were red and puffed again, the captain was withdrawn and silent, and Mrs Conningham, who had finally been snubbed by the captain, was looking very down indeed.
They breakfasted at Sittingbourne, and Hannah asked if a Mr Fotheringay was still resident but was told that they did not know anyone of that name. She described Mr Fotheringay as an effeminate-looking man who had been taken ill and was told that was a Mr Crank who had departed the day before. So Hannah was left to enjoy what she could of a quite dreadful breakfast.
As she rose to leave, Benjamin remembered the spill of paper. ‘I searched those bedchambers,’ he said, ‘but couldn’t find nuffink except it looked as if someone had poured a jug o’ water over Lord William and this was stuck in the fire.’
Hannah unrolled the paper and read it, her eyebrows shooting up to her sandy hair. Deaf to the cries of ‘Coach! Coach!’ she sat down abruptly and smoothed out the paper and read it again.
Had this been written by the earl to someone? And had William found it and shown it to his sister? That would explain their middle-of-the-night leave-taking. But surely Ashton would never write this. Might think it, for all Hannah knew. But he would never put such words about the daughter of one of his friends and neighbours to paper.
‘God help me. I hope I am doing the right thing,’ said Hannah aloud. ‘Benjamin,’ she said, fishing in that huge reticule, ‘take this money, take all you need and hire a pochay and get back to Ashton Park this day and give that to Lord Ashton and tell him where you found it. If he has written it, he will merely thank you for it. If he did not, and Lord William was trying to trick his sister, then he may deal with it as he sees fit.’
‘But what is it?’ asked Benjamin. ‘I didn’t read it.’
‘Never mind,’ said Hannah. ‘Go like the wind!’
7
I can trace my ancestry back to a protoplasmal primordial atomic globule. Consequently, my family pride is something inconceivable. I can’t help it. I was born sneering.
W.S. Gilbert
By the time the Dover coach reached its destination and rolled into the yard of the Royal George, Hannah felt she was travelling with a party of strangers. Mrs Conningham had taken against the captain and was once more obviously looking forward to getting her daughter settled in marriage with Mr Clegg. Captain Beltravers was like a soldier carved out of wood, so still and set was his face, and poor Abigail seemed resigned to her fate. All were silent.
Only Hannah and Benjamin were to put up at the inn. The Conninghams were going straight to Uncle and the captain to his regiment to resign.
Like all inns in Dover, the Royal George was very well appointed and very expensive. Few stage-coach passengers could ever afford to stay there, the majority of passengers coming to town travelling in their own carriages or by hired post-chaise.
It was Abigail who made a desperate last stand to change her future. As Hannah and the captain were murmuring their goodbyes, she said, ‘But you must come with us to meet Uncle Henry, Miss Pym, and Captain Beltravers, too. We are all in need of supper and … and … Dover inns are so very expensive.’
With a surprised feeling of relief Hannah saw the captain bow and heard him say he would be delighted. Quickly she accepted herself. Mrs Conningham bridled and glared at her daughter, but then recollected that it would be pleasant to be accompanied by the majestic Miss Pym. In truth, she was afraid of her brother-in-law.
The evening was pale gold, gold light bathing the heaving sea and gilding the cobbles of the old town. Bad weather was coming, and up on the cliffs, black clouds were massed behind the castle. The streets were full of a mixture of fishermen, sailors, soldiers and the Quality, and a man with a telescope on the waterfront, trying to charge anyone who was interested a shilling ‘to look at Napoleon’. It was generally believed that the First Consul spent his time across at Boulogne, studying the English town he soon hoped to invade.
The lamplighters were going about their work as the sun sank lower in the west and the little party made their way up the narrow, winding, fish-smelling streets under the wheeling, crying seagulls to Uncle Henry’s house, a great square building above the town. It fronted onto the street, without a garden, its name, The Crow’s Nest, being chiselled into the brickwork.
Benjamin rang a ship’s bell outside the door, which was opened by a smart maid in a ribboned cap and muslin apron.
‘Mr Conningham has been expecting you this age, mem,’ she said to Mrs Conningham, and then led the way up a narrow flight of polished wooden stairs to the drawing-room, which was on the first floor.
It was a long narrow room with mullioned windows and beechwood panelling. The low ceiling was beamed and had oil-lamps hanging from it, and the whole had more the air of a captain’s cabin than a drawing-room.
Uncle Henry walked forward to meet them, listening gravely to Mrs Conningham’s breathless introductions. He was a puffy, wheezy, sententious man who had compressed his circumference into a very tight blue coat with buttons the size of tart plates. He was wearing buff breeches, also very tight, and gauze stockings through which the hairs of his legs bristled angrily. He had bulbous staring eyes, which gave him the appearance of always being in a temper. But he unben
t graciously when Hannah took her seat with Benjamin behind her, and remarked that Clara, Mrs Conningham, was indeed fortunate to have travelled in such distinguished company. He himself would never travel by stage-coach. ‘The Conninghams came over with the Normans,’ he said. ‘That is why we have the Nose. We are a proud family.’ He turned his profile to Hannah, exhibiting a rather fat pockmarked nose and Hannah found it hard not to laugh.
A man who had been sitting in a shadowy part of the room came forward and made his bow. ‘Mr Clegg,’ said Mr Conningham.
Hannah looked at Abigail’s dismal face. Mr Clegg was grey-haired. The miniature he had sent had been of himself as a younger man. He had watery green eyes and sharp features.
Wine was served all round and then there was an awkward silence. Mrs Conningham, who had been looking forward to bragging about her stay at the earl’s, found now that she could not open her mouth. Ever optimistic, she had hoped that Mr Clegg would prove to be superior to his miniature, but he had proved inferior and already her tired mind was running through household budgets, wondering how they would now manage, for she knew at least she could not constrain Abigail to marry such a creature. She threw one hurt and wounded look at the captain. He could have solved the whole problem.
‘So,’ said Uncle Henry, ‘we will go in to dine as soon as Jane is with us.’
‘Jane!’ cried Mrs Conningham. ‘What is she doing here?’
‘Why, some kind lady – why, I believe it was Miss Pym here – sent her her fare and told her she was needed in Dover.’
‘Miss Pym!’ exclaimed Mrs Conningham, high colour on her cheeks. ‘How dare you!’
Before Hannah could reply, Mr Clegg stood up and hitched his thumbs in his buttonholes and said, ‘You must not be angry, Mrs Conningham. What I have to say will warm your maternal heart. I beg leave to pay my addresses to Miss Jane. She has captured my heart.’
‘Well, my, goodness, what am I to say, sir?’ said poor Mrs Conningham. ‘You, sir, were promised to Abigail.’
‘Tush,’ said Uncle Henry. He turned to Hannah. ‘You did well, ma’am, to send such a priceless pearl to my friend, Mr Clegg. What comparison can there be between Abigail and Jane, I ask you? Jane has the Norman features of a true Conningham. We are a proud name, Miss Pym, a proud name.’
The door opened and Jane came into the room. Hardly a beauty, thought Hannah, but much as I expected. Jane Conningham had large, rather full brown eyes and great brown sausage curls on her head. Her plump figure was poured into a slip of white muslin. She was all dimples: dimpled cheeks, dimpled elbows – and dimpled who knows where else, thought Hannah sourly.
‘Jane, is this true?’ asked Mrs Conningham. ‘Do you wish to marry Mr Clegg?’
‘Oh, yes, Mama,’ said Jane, flashing a look of pure malice at her sister.
‘Then I suppose,’ said Mrs Conningham faintly, ‘that I must give you my permission, Mr Clegg.’
He took Jane’s plump hand in his. ‘You have made me the happiest of men,’ he said, and Jane giggled and blushed and looked triumphant.
When they filed in for dinner, Hannah took the opportunity to mutter to Abigail, ‘Do not ever let your sister know you are relieved or she might change her mind.’
Happy at last, Mrs Conningham began to tell of their stay at the Earl of Ashton’s home. She could not have hit on a better subject. Uncle Henry obviously got a great amount of vicarious pleasure out of the story. ‘We Conninghams only consort with the best,’ he said.
Hannah was seated next to Captain Beltravers at dinner. ‘And what are your plans now?’ asked Hannah.
‘I shall go to my regiment and start arrangements to sell out.’
‘And then?’
He smiled suddenly. ‘Why, then I shall take up residence in three months’ time in Travers’s place.’
‘You bought it?’
‘Indeed yes, Miss Pym, and the earl was right, a good bargain it is, too.’
Hannah felt like shaking him. Could he not have told Abigail? Abigail who had been so kind to him. Damn the man. She, Hannah Pym, was a failure as a matchmaker. She did not count Jane. The old housekeeper Hannah would have been amazed – for she considered herself a very hard-headed practical woman – if anyone had told her that, in the future, anything other than a love match was considered a failure by Miss Hannah Pym.
She turned to Uncle Henry on her other side and by way of a sort of self-flagellation asked him to tell her all about the ancestry of the Conninghams. The conceited old buffoon did just that until, behind Hannah, Benjamin stifled a yawn and Hannah herself thought she would die of boredom.
At least the tedious meal was over. Hannah said she had to leave immediately, she was fatigued after the journey, and the captain made his farewells as well. Although he kissed Abigail’s hand, he said nothing about seeing her again and Hannah’s soft heart was wrung by the disappointment and distress in the girl’s eyes.
They made their way out and back down the narrow twisted street under the flickering lamps. ‘Thank goodness, that’s over,’ said Hannah.
‘Pompous old windbag,’ commented Benjamin from behind her. For once, Hannah did not chide him.
‘Not a very pleasant set of future in-laws, I’ll grant you,’ said the captain.
Hannah seized his arm and stopped him. ‘What did you say?’ she demanded shrilly.
The captain looked surprised. ‘I said they were not a very pleasant set of future in-laws,’ he repeated. ‘But I shall make sure their visits are brief and few and far between.’
‘Do you mean you are going to ask Miss Abigail to wed you?’ screamed Hannah.
The captain backed away. ‘Ma’am, I thought that was obvious.’
Exasperated, Hannah seized the startled captain and shook him so hard that his long pigtail bounced against his back.
‘No … it … is … not … obvious,’ said Hannah between shakes. She let him go and looked at him in disgust. ‘There is poor Abigail, all set for a dismal night crying her eyes out because she thinks you have forgot her already. Go back there, sir. Go back there this minute and put her out of her misery, or I, Hannah Pym, will hit you with this umbrella until I beat some sense into your thick head.’
She raised her trusty umbrella threateningly and the captain backed farther away.
‘But this evening was not the time, Miss Pym,’ pleaded the captain. ‘She had just arrived … and …’
‘Benjamin!’ ordered Hannah. ‘Get his arm.’
The footman seized the captain in a strong grip and Hannah took his other arm. ‘Now, march!’ she ordered.
Abigail was sitting silently in the drawing-room while her uncle pontificated on about the glory of the Conninghams and her mother listened as if she were enchanted with every word and sister Jane flirted with Mr Clegg and kept flashing triumphant glances across the room.
‘It was such a pity I could not get our Abigail settled too,’ said Mrs Conningham when Uncle Henry paused for breath. ‘Captain Beltravers is a very warm man and was set on buying a large property near the earl, but he turned out to be most rude.’
‘He was not rude at all,’ said Abigail shakily.
‘Poor Abby,’ said Jane with a laugh. ‘Is that why you are so miserable? Or is it because I’ve got your beau?’ She rapped Mr Clegg playfully with her hand and laughed again gaily.
The door opened and the smart maid called out, ‘Captain Beltravers.’
Having found that the captain was a future man of property, Uncle Henry beamed a welcome. ‘Did you forget anything, sir?’
‘Yes, yes, I did,’ said the captain hurriedly. ‘Mrs Conningham, Miss Pym has persuaded me that there is after all no time like the present. I wish leave to pay my addresses to your eldest daughter, Abigail.’
There was a stunned silence. Hannah Pym should have been there to see how plain and sad Abigail became transformed into a happy, pretty young lady. Jane glared at her sister. Mr Clegg took Jane’s hand and she pettishly snatched her hand away.
‘Ma’am?’ The captain looked at the dazed Mrs Conningham.
‘Yes, of course.’
‘Then may I be allowed a few moments in private with your daughter?’
‘By all means.’Uncle Henry answered for her. ‘Mary,’ he said to the waiting maid, ‘show Miss Conningham and Captain Beltravers to the Blue Saloon.’
The grandly named Blue Saloon turned out to be no more than a small poky place full of dusty furniture. It was very cold.
‘Perhaps,’ said the captain when he was alone with Abigail, ‘the blue comes from the colour one turns if left here too long. Abigail, will you have me?’
‘Of course I will. Why did you make me so wretched? You never said anything.’
He laughed. ‘I had it all planned out in my head, you see. I was so sure you knew.’ He debated whether to say he was so disgusted by the mercenary blandishments of her mother that he had put off declaring himself, but wisely decided against it. He went on, ‘Miss Pym was about to assault me in the street when she heard I meant to propose and had not.’
She looked at him shyly. ‘I know I can never replace your wife and son in your affections …’ she began.
The captain looked at her in surprise. ‘But I love you,’ he exclaimed, as if making a great discovery. It was a good thing Hannah Pym was not present to witness such romantic clumsiness.
But Abigail’s face was glowing as she looked up at him and then stood on tiptoe to plant a shy kiss on his cheek.
He caught her to him and kissed her passionately and would have gone on kissing her all night had not Uncle Henry’s loud ‘ahem’ from the doorway made them start apart.
‘Now, now,’ said Uncle Henry, waving a playful finger. ‘Enough of that after you’re married.’
Out in the street, in front of the house, Hannah shivered. ‘Come along, modom,’ said Benjamin. ‘No need to wait.’
There was a bright flash of lightning followed by a peal of thunder and then the rain came bucketing down. Hannah unfurled her umbrella and commanded Benjamin to share its shelter. ‘I am going to wait here until I hear the happy ending, even if it takes all night,’ said Hannah. ‘Oh, if only things could work out well now for Lady Deborah.’
