Emily Goes to Exeter (4 page)

‘How come you did that there?’ demanded Mrs Bradley. ‘You’re like to kill us all with cold.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Hannah. ‘I was saying goodbye.’

‘To what?’ asked Edward Smith suddenly.

‘To my past,’ said Hannah grandly, and then smiled in what she hoped was an enigmatic way.

The snow began to fall, not very heavily, but in large, pretty flakes. The coach moved slowly on
through the winter landscape. Hannah’s head began to nod. Although she never slept very much, she had had no sleep at all the night before. She had a very odd dream. She was back at a servants’ dance in the servants’ hall and waiting for the arrival of Mr and Mrs Clarence to grace the festivities. When they came in, he looked, as usual, a brooding, handsome man, but Mrs Clarence was dressed as a Shakespearian page in doublet and hose and with a little cloak hanging from one shoulder. ‘Disgraceful,’ Mr Clarence began to shout. ‘How dare you dress as a boy!’

The coach jolted over a rut and Hannah awoke with a start. What a strange dream. It had been so vivid. And yet Mrs Clarence had never dressed as a boy. Hannah’s eyes fell on Edward Smith, now asleep opposite. Surely that was the reason for her dream, for Edward was pretty enough to be a girl masquerading as a boy.

Hannah’s head began to nod again.

The coach stopped at the Pigeons at Brentford, and the passengers alighted to take breakfast. A silly argument broke out between the coachman and the captain. The captain said Brentford was a fine town and the coachman said it was a filthy place. The captain said it was noted for the best post-horses. ‘Ho, is that so?’ sneered the coachman. ‘Well, let me tell you, sir, there war two posting-horses here what got so tired of the vile paving-stones what adorns this here town that they tried for to commit suicide by drowning themselves in the Grand Canal. And would
ha’ done it, too, pore things, had not a clergyman come along and told them it was wicked and that the horses’ hell was paved wi’ broken glass.’ The captain, who should have known that very few could out-talk a coachman, fell into a brooding silence.

The snow was falling thicker now. The talk among the passengers, however, was not of the snow but of the perils of Hounslow Heath, which lay in front of them. The captain, full of Nantes brandy and bluster, said he would down any highwaymen who tried to stop them and cursed Hannah under his breath when she said sharply that he had not been too ready to down the last one. Hannah had taken a dislike to the captain.

At the town of Hounslow, they were advised by the landlord of the George not to go forward, as the Bath Flying Machine up to town had been snowed up beyond Colnbrook, and that he had beds aired and ready for them. The coachman, full of valour, called for more brandy and joined the captain in the bar.

Inspired by a large quantity of brandy, the coachman now thought himself to be Jehu, son of Nimshi, and the Fly left Hounslow behind it at a good round six miles an hour.

The first thing to be seen on the notorious Hounslow Heath was the Salisbury coach in a terrific snow-drift; or rather, the coachman’s hat, two horses’ heads, the roof of the coach, and two passengers standing on their luggage, bawling, ‘Help!’ The coachman of the Exeter Fly seemed to regard this disaster as a mere landmark and drove on.

The snow was falling thicker and faster. The horses went slower and slower. The coachman tried fanning them, towelling them and chopping them – which, translated, meant hitting them hard, harder, and hardest. The six horses slowed to a walk and could only be made to go ahead by oaths and curses. The coach took nearly three hours to cover the seven miles from Hounslow to the Bush at Staines. In the language of the day, the passengers all gave themselves up for gone. But as they drew up outside the Bush at Staines, the sun broke through the clouds and the snow ceased to fall.

The landlord counselled rest and dinner, and the passengers, who had never before in their lives come so near to the experience of travelling in a hollowed-out iceberg, were inclined to take his advice. But success, stimulant and a lull in the snowstorm had made the coachman daring. ‘I be an Englishman,’ he growled, ‘and I be inning at Bagshot this here night, and any yellow-bellies can stay behind.’ Hannah looked to the aristocrat for support, but he was standing over by the window, detached from the group.

The party left the inn for the courtyard and voted on whether to go or stay. They stood outside the coach, beating their arms and stamping their feet as they made their votes. Only Hannah slipped away to arrange rescue for the Salisbury coach, the landlord of the Bush saying he would set out with his men himself, delighted at the possibility of guests now that it seemed as if the Exeter Fly meant to go on.

Emboldened by yet more brandy, the captain took the opportunity to show off to his wife and the party by saying, b’Gad, he, too, was an Englishman and would face any peril that the journey could offer. The others were reluctant to be left behind, and so the passengers boarded the coach again, and, to faint hurrahs from the half-frozen post-boys, they set out on the road. At Egham, one mile and three furlongs on, it began to snow again.

The coachman pulled up at the Catherine Wheel for another glass of fortifier and then the coach set out once more.

Now the snow was falling as it should fall at Christmastime, when men are snug in parlours in front of blazing fires and not out braving the blasts in a Flying Machine. The coachman, foreseeing the worst, since at every moment the snowfall was becoming heavier, tried to churn his horses into a canter as the gloom of a winter’s afternoon settled on Bagshot Heath. The guard beside him fingered his carbine delicately and stared anxiously about for highwaymen, but the coachman said no highwayman would be stupid enough to be out of doors in such weather. The guard said that it was due to the coachman’s stupidity that they were all out of doors themselves, to which the coachman replied that the guard always had been a milksop, to which the guard, mad with passion, screamed at the coachman: ‘I
’ates
you like pison!’ and fired his carbine in the air.

Captain Seaton, the effects of the brandy he had drunk beginning to fade, had been seeing a highwayman behind every bush.

At the sound of the shot from the roof, he wrenched open the door of the coach and jumped into a snow-drift. At the same time, the coachman drove into a rut a yard deep and the coach stuck fast.

The coachman doubled-thonged his wheelers, who dragged the coach out to the side of the road … and the whole coach slowly overturned into a gravel pit.

Chaos reigned inside the coach. Everyone was lying on top of everyone else in a jumble of arms and legs. The door above them opened, showing them the coachman’s ruddy face and the sky behind him. ‘Better come out o’ there,’ he said and disappeared.

He was replaced by the aristocrat, who lifted Hannah out, then Mrs Seaton, the youth, the lawyer, and then finally, with a great heaving, Mrs Bradley.

‘You are a Trojan, sir,’ said Hannah to their rescuer. ‘I am Miss Hannah Pym.’

He smiled and swept off his hat. ‘And I, Miss Pym, am Harley. Lord Ranger Harley.’

Behind Miss Pym, the youth gave a slight moan and fainted dead away.

‘Puny little fellow,’ said Lord Harley with contempt. ‘Move aside, Miss Pym, and I will rub some snow on his face.’

In a flash, Hannah remembered her dream about Mrs Clarence. Something made her say urgently, ‘No, leave him to me.’

Lord Harley strode off and cut the traces and led one of the wheelers free, mounted it and rode off in search of help. All the other horses were, amazingly, unharmed.

While Hannah knelt down beside the fallen youth, the other passengers and the coachman and guard stood around in half-frozen attitudes, including Captain Seaton, who was cursing and mumbling and swearing blind he had seen a highwayman.

Hannah loosened Edward’s clothing and discovered that her budding suspicions had been right. ‘Edward’ was in fact not a beautiful young man but a beautiful young woman. But something prompted Hannah to help this girl keep up her disguise. She held a bottle of smelling-salts under the girl’s nose and watched those violet eyes flutter open. Then the eyes became wider with fear. ‘Hush,’ said Hannah, ‘do not say anything. Help is on the way.’ She raised the girl to her feet and kept close beside her.

The coachman was now sitting on a mound of snow drinking brandy, occasionally putting his flask down and moving his arms as if driving phantom horses. The guard had replaced his carbine with a blunderbuss. A sudden movement in the snow made him shout, ‘Highwayman!’, and point his blunderbuss. And the curious shepherd who had approached from behind a bush to view the stranded party turned too late to flee and got his backside peppered with shot. Hannah was reluctant to leave the girl, but something had to be done for the poor man. Mrs Bradley, revived from her dismal frozen torpor by the sight of the accident, bustled after Hannah carrying her basket and rummaging in it for all sorts of medicines to relieve pain. The shepherd was given brandy by the guard and then the ladies placed the afflicted man next to the coachman.

Hannah returned to the girl’s side. She was standing huddled beside the overturned coach in the shelter of the shallow pit. ‘Do not worry,’ said Hannah, ‘Lord Harley will fetch help.’ The girl shuddered and turned her face away.

Just when Hannah began to think she would never be able to feel her feet or hands again, she saw lights bobbing across the snow. The rescue party had arrived and kept on coming despite the fact that the guard shouted, ‘Foot-pads!’ and fired in its direction.

There was no sign of Lord Harley, but there was the landlord of the Nag’s Head at Bagshot, who had been told of the travellers’ plight by Lord Harley, beaming all over his face at the thought of visitors, and leading stable-boys carrying torches and ostlers carrying staves. There was also plenty of brandy for the frost-bitten and a post-chaise for the wounded.

The coach was righted and the horses hitched to it again. The captain commandeered the post-chaise for himself and his wife and the shepherd travelled inside with the lawyer, consulting him about damages.

Freezing and weary, the travellers entered the inn at Bagshot to find themselves facing the best welcome an English inn could offer the storm-bound stage-coach traveller. A great fire blazed, and on a huge long table sat iris-tinted rounds of beef, marble-veined ribs, gelatinous veal pies, colossal hams, gallons of old ale, bottles of wine, raised pies, tartlets, fruit and jellies and custard.

Hannah was never to forget that welcome. No one wanted to change out of his wet clothes; they were all
too tired and hungry. Hannah could not ever remember being quite so ravenous. They all sat around the table. Lord Harley was already there. Having sent out help, he said he had seen no need to go along with it. There were the two other outside passengers: a round-faced farmer and a shabby gentleman with a pleasant face. The farmer said his name was Mr Burridge, and the shabby gentleman introduced himself as Mr Hendry.

They made a jolly party, Mrs Bradley telling all and sundry that she had a little jar of goose fat, the best thing for chilblains.

But as they ate themselves stiff and drank themselves silly, a certain acrimony began to creep in. The guard, still smarting from the coachman’s insult, started to mutter about the folly of being tied to a drunken sot.

The captain began to feel his nose had been put out of joint by this Lord Harley and began to talk darkly about adventurers and penniless younger sons who were no better than they should be. His wife tried to hush him; he snarled at her, and she looked at him in horrified amazement. The captain rallied and patted her hand and said he was the worst of beasts.

Lord Harley was studying ‘Edward’, and Hannah did not like the growing gleam of amusement in those dark eyes. He started to raise his glass to Edward, saying, ‘Take wine with me, Mr Smith.’ The custom demanded that Edward drink a glass of wine and raise a glass in return.

The landlord came in to say that the bedchambers were all ready and it was time to decide who slept in
the same bedchamber with whom, ‘And be sure the party is congenial,’ he joked, ‘for you’ve got to share the same bed.’

The first surprise was when Mrs Seaton said in a trembling voice, ‘I shall share with Mrs Bradley.’

‘Come now, my dove,’ said the captain, affecting a hearty laugh. ‘You have had too much to drink.’

‘I have not had too much to drink,’ said Lizzie in a wobbly voice. ‘I am not Mrs Seaton, I am Mrs Lizzie Bisley, widow, and we are not yet wed, Captain Seaton, and I will not share your bed until we are.’

There was a stunned silence.

‘We’re as good as married,’ said the captain, breaking the silence. ‘We’re to be married in Exeter.’

Good heavens, thought Hannah, her nose twitching with excitement. Lizzie is not Mrs Seaton, and Edward is not Edward. Whatever next?

‘O’ course you can share with me, my duck,’ said Mrs Bradley, her eyes flashing. ‘Fie, for shame, Cap’n. You pigs o’ men can’t wait to get your leg o’er a lass. Come along, come along. I’ll make you a posset and you’ll sleep like a log.’

The captain stared ferociously into his glass while Mrs Bradley led Lizzie away. ‘That’s a fine woman, a fine woman, Seaton,’ said the little lawyer, Mr Fletcher, with unexpected ferocity, ‘and deserving of every courtesy and kindness.’

‘Want to make something of it?’ sneered the captain.

‘Yes,’ said Mr Fletcher, jumping to his feet, his wig askew. He bunched his thin fingers into fists and panted, ‘I’ll draw your cork.’

‘Sit down,’ ordered Lord Harley. ‘No one is going to fight anyone. Have we not all endured enough? Back to the sleeping arrangements, if you please.’ His eyes glinted oddly at Edward. ‘I suggest Mr Smith and I will get along tolerably well.’

Edward turned milk-white. Hannah rose to her feet and leaned on the table and glared at Lord Harley. ‘That will not answer, my lord, and well you know it.’

‘Indeed, Miss Pym,’ said his lordship in a silky voice. ‘And may I ask why?’

‘I am not Edward Smith,’ said the girl in a voice that shook pathetically. ‘I am Miss Emily Freemantle.’