Emily Goes to Exeter (7 page)

‘Do you know anyone in Exeter?’

‘Yes, an old school friend. He is in practice in the town. He said he could put some bits and pieces my way.’

Lizzie looked at his tired, sensitive face. ‘I am sure you will have better luck in Exeter. And do call on us after we are married.’

‘Never!’ said Mr Fletcher passionately, and then turned red and twisted the dishcloth in his hands.

Lizzie turned back to the sink and began to attack the plates as if they were personal enemies while Mr Fletcher looked miserably at her slim back.

‘I should not have said that. Please forgive me.’ Mr Fletcher waited anxiously.

Lizzie slowly turned around. ‘Very well, you are forgiven.’

‘What think you of our Miss Pym?’ asked Mr Fletcher, all eagerness to avoid painful subjects.

‘She makes me want to laugh,’ said Lizzie with a smile, ‘and that is unusual these days. She has those funny eyes and that odd way of looking down her nose. I think she must have been used at one time to managing a large household. She is monstrous efficient.’

They fell to discussing the other members of the party, with the notable exception of Captain Seaton. Out in the kitchen, Hannah was aware the couple were taking a very long time to wash the dishes and was pleased.

She herself was busy hoisting a leg of mutton on to the clockwork spit. She was glad the spit was operated by clockwork. She had a sentimental streak about animals and was always sorry for the dogs when she saw them in their cages turning spits. She saw Emily edging toward the kitchen door, and determined that she must not leave. A little housewifery was the way to a man’s heart.

‘I would now like you to make some tartlets for dinner, Miss Freemantle,’ said Hannah.

‘I do not know how to,’ said Emily loftily. ‘I am used to servants doing all menial work for me.’

‘As I am,’ said Hannah pleasantly, ‘but you must admit the circumstances are extraordinary. There is a recipe here’ – she held out a sheet of paper – ‘for jam tartlets. Very simple. You just follow the instructions and measure out the ingredients. Come. I will show you what to do.’

Emily sighed loudly but returned to the kitchen table. Under Hannah’s instructions, she mixed the ingredients for the pastry and made little cases in a baking pan, filled the cases with strawberry jam, and put little crosses of pastry across the top of each.

The storm howled outside. The kitchen fire blazed merrily. The air was full of the smells of cooking. For the first time in her life, Emily felt a sense of achievement as Hannah opened the oven and put those precious tartlets inside.

‘And now?’ asked Emily.

Hannah smiled. ‘And now I think you may repair to the coffee room and have a rest.’

Perversely, Emily was reluctant to leave. The conversation in the scullery had ceased. Lizzie Bisley was singing ‘Sweet Lass of Richmond Hill’ in a tuneless soprano, and then Mr Fletcher joined in in a light tenor.

‘Tartlets on their own are not very much for dessert,’ Emily said. ‘Can I try something else?’

‘There is fruit-cake,’ said Hannah. ‘Gentlemen love rich fruit-cake, but I fear that might be beyond your powers.’

‘But you could show me?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘May we try?’

How very pretty she was, thought Hannah, when whe was like this, all flushed and happy and unselfconscious.

Together they looked out dried fruit and flour and butter and eggs, cream of tartar and baking soda. Hannah took turns at beating the cake because Emily laughed and said her wrists were aching. How excited Emily was when the rich mixture was finally loaded into a round tin. She had forgotten about Lord Harley, about the storm. There was no way she was going to leave that kitchen until the results of her labours came out of the oven.

Hannah set her to grinding coffee beans to make coffee. Mrs Bisley and Mr Fletcher came into the kitchen and said they were going to tidy up the bedchambers and Hannah smiled on them in a maternal way. Lord Harley entered the kitchen with Mr Hendry and Mr Burridge but Hannah shooed them out, saying the ladies were too busy working, and Lord Harley looked at Emily with a flicker of amazement in his black eyes.

Lizzie and Mr Fletcher had to go through the coffee room to get upstairs to the bedchambers. In front of the coffee-room fire sat Captain Seaton, a glass of brandy in front of him.

‘Oh, there you are,’ he cried when he saw Lizzie, but his face darkened as he saw the little lawyer behind her.

‘We cannot stay,’ said Lizzie hurriedly. ‘We must do the bedchambers.’

‘Do the …? You sit down here, Mrs Bisley. It is time we had a talk. Let that poor fellow there act as chambermaid if he wishes.’

‘Take that back,’ shouted Mr Fletcher, fists swinging. Lizzie sprang between them. ‘Please go … for me,’ she pleaded with the lawyer. ‘I shall join you shortly.’ Mr Fletcher reluctantly withdrew.

‘Sit down, my sweet,’ cajoled the captain. ‘We have hardly had time to talk.’

‘There is work to do,’ said Lizzie. How gross and common the captain seemed. How could she ever have leaned on him for support? She had met him a month before by chance at the home of a friend. He had been low-voiced and courteous then in a sort of bluff way. He had seemed a tower of strength. The fact was that, much as Lizzie was convinced she had adored the late Mr Bisley, the man had been a household bully, not allowing her an idea of her own or any independence whatsoever. His death had left her alone and helpless, not really knowing who she was. The captain had seemed so masculine, so confident, so prepared to take all arrangements for living out of her hands.

‘Let the others do it,’ the captain was saying. ‘This bent-nosed spinster is common enough. She don’t mind. But a lady like you …’

‘Lord Harley does not mind dirtying his hands,’ said Lizzie, her voice trembling, for she had not been in the way of speaking up for herself or indeed of contradicting anyone whatsoever.

‘That’s different,’ blustered the captain. ‘He’s
amusing hisself at the moment. Another day and he’ll have you waiting on him hand and foot. I command you to sit down here with me.’

Lizzie slowly moved forward and then stopped still.

‘No,’ she said quietly, ‘we must all help. You have no right, sir, to command me to do anything.’

‘I am your fiancé, madam, I’ll have you know.’

‘We were never officially engaged,’ said Lizzie sadly. How had it all come about? He had suggested this journey to Exeter. He had said he had friends and family there. But he had made her promise not to tell her friends. Why? And why had she done such a stupid thing? ‘Because he ordered you,’ said a voice in her head, ‘and all your life you have obeyed orders without question.’

‘We will talk later,’ said Lizzie, her voice slightly squeaky with fright, ‘but I am leaving you now.’ And she darted from the room.

She ran lightly upstairs and found Mr Fletcher in one of the bedrooms, raking out the fire.

She hesitated in the doorway. He stood up and smiled at her with simple affection. She dreaded his asking her questions but braced herself for them.

Instead, he said mildly, ‘We will make up the fires this once, I think, and then announce at dinner that each must see to their own fires while the storm lasts. But there is no need for both of us to dirty our hands. Perhaps if you start to make the beds …?’

Lizzie agreed eagerly and was disappointed when the bulk of Mrs Bradley loomed in the doorway offering to help.

With the exception of Captain Seaton, who had done nothing, they all sat down to dinner at four o’clock in the afternoon feeling like brave adventurers. The men and Lord Harley had chopped wood and dug paths in the snow to the stable and to the front of the inn. All were tired from their exertions. Emily nursed burnt fingers. She had been so anxious to take that cake out of the oven herself that she had burnt her fingers on the knob of the oven door.

It was a simple dinner with no extra side dishes. There was soup to begin with, roast mutton, vegetables and potatoes as a main course, and Emily’s tartlets and the cake splendidly iced to make do for dessert.

The men praised Emily the most and Emily took it all as her due, forgetting Hannah had done most of the work. Once more, she was where she felt she belonged, the centre of attention. Normally, she would have drunk lemonade, but everyone was drinking fortified French wine – the English merchants strengthening wine with brandy. She began to talk about her adventures, about running away from home, at first frankly and then, as the wine went to her head, she began to brag.

It was too much for Mr Fletcher. Emily had reached the point in her narrative when she had taken over the whole running of the inn single-handed. ‘Now, now,’ he chided, ‘you are going too far, Miss Freemantle. You must admit Miss Pym organized the inside work and Lord Harley arranged all the outside work. Mrs Bisley here has been washing dishes and making beds and cleaning the bed-chambers for all of you.’

Stopped in mid-flight, Emily looked at him tipsily and then her eyes narrowed.

‘That looks very much like my wig,’ she said. ‘How did you come by it?’

‘I gave it to him,’ said Hannah, cursing inwardly. ‘You have no need of men’s clothes, my child.’

‘Just helping out the poor,’ jeered Captain Seaton.

Mr Fletcher leaped to his feet, his face scarlet. He tore off the wig, walked round the table, and laid it in front of Emily, and, looking like an angry fledgling with his short-cropped hair, he stalked out of the room.

Emily rounded on Hannah. ‘You had no right to
steal
from me,’ she snapped.

‘I meant to discuss the matter with you,’ said Hannah, standing her ground, ‘but I forgot.’

‘What di’ye think of your pauper lawyer now, Mrs Bisley?’ laughed the captain. ‘Can’t even afford a decent wig.’

Lizzie burst into tears and ran from the table.

There was a silence and then Lord Harley’s voice, dripping ice, said contemptuously, ‘You silly goose. How dare you humiliate poor Mr Fletcher so? You could have had a word with him in private. But not you. You were bragging and bragging and puffing yourself up and he rightly pointed out that everyone else had been working much harder. I’ll buy the poxy wig from you. How much?’

Emily looked at him white-faced. She could have stood his contempt, for she had cast him in the role of villain, but Old Tom the coachman was shaking his
head at her in a reproachful way, and cozy and fat Mrs Bradley was actually looking at her with dislike. Her only ally was the captain, and who wanted an ally like that?

‘I hate you all!’ she shouted. Hannah watched as she stumbled from the table and then from the room.

‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘Landlord, I shall leave you to serve the port.’

She went up to Lizzie’s room and knocked softly on the door. There was no reply. After a moment’s hesitation, she went in. The room was empty. She stood for a moment, baffled, and then went to the room Mr Fletcher shared with Lord Harley and leaned her ear against the door. She could hear Lizzie crying and the low sound of Mr Fletcher’s voice comforting her.

Perhaps it was the best thing that could happen, she thought. But what a silly child Emily is. I will never be able to make a match for her. And yet I wish Lord Harley could have seen her when she was alone with me in the kitchen. So natural. So charming. I will not go to her. She deserves to suffer a little.

She went back downstairs and determinedly began to talk of every subject she could think of to keep the conversation going.

Up in the Blue Room, Emily was putting on a warm cloak and a felt hat and gloves. Bagshot was a town. There was bound to be another hostelry, and surely the storm had abated. All she had to do was walk a little way, find another inn, and send them to collect the trunks.

Glad only that the rest of the travellers were still in the kitchen and not in the dining-room, she made her way softly to the main door of the inn.

Gently she opened it and then closed it softly behind her. She could hear the scream of the wind, but it had stopped snowing and a path had been shovelled through the courtyard to the gate.

She left the shelter for the high-walled courtyard and turned right.

And then the full force of the blown snow driven by the wind struck her. It was as if some white monster had been lying in wait for her, and then pounced. In the swinging light of the lantern over the arch to the courtyard, she could see long blown fingers of snow reaching out to her just before she was engulfed in a stunning white maelstrom.

5

Emily gasped and wheeled about, turning her back to the driving wind and snow and raising the hood of her cloak over her head. A craven voice inside her was telling her to go back, but a stronger voice urged her on. There must be some other hostelry quite near.

She turned around and put her head down and struggled forward into the raging darkness. Emily was typically English in that the occasional erratic savagery of the climate took her by surprise. This could not be England, she thought, this dismal arctic waste, this lower ring of purgatory. Soon the wind would drop and the stars would twinkle.

A snow-drift loomed up in front of her on the road and she waded right into it. She battled her way back out and shielded her eyes. Now any form of habitation would do. But there was nothing but the high eldritch screech of the wind and the blowing, stinging, blinding snow. No yellow candlelight flickered to mark even the lowest cottage.

She was very, very cold and becoming more frightened by the minute. She was about to turn and retreat the way she had come when she saw a light in front of her, flickering erratically in the dark.

She forged towards it and almost collided with a man carrying a lantern. ‘Oh, sir!’ cried Emily. ‘Where is the nearest inn?’

He held the lantern high and Emily saw a rough uncouth face and a mouthful of broken teeth. ‘Well, what ’ave we ’ere?’ said the man.

‘Nothing, nothing,’ said Emily, suddenly frightened. She backed a pace. He seized the front of her cloak and dragged her up against him. ‘Give us a kiss,’ he said.

His horrible breath fanned her face. With a whimper of pure terror, she kicked him on the shins and, as he fell back, she ran past him, struggling through drifts, plunging through them, heading ever farther away from the inn.

Lizzie Bisley came back into the kitchen followed by Mr Fletcher, who was wearing his old wig. Emily’s wig still lay by her place.

Hannah noticed Lizzie’s eyes were red from crying
and wondered whether she had been crying over Mr Fletcher’s humiliation or her own predicament. Probably both, thought Hannah, sharply ordering Mr Burridge to pass the port.

Captain Seaton opened his mouth to say something, caught Lord Harley’s eye, and closed it again. Lizzie and Mr Fletcher were talking in low whispers. Something would have to be done about that lawyer fellow, thought the captain. When he had first been introduced to Lizzie, he felt he had discovered a gold mine. Here was a rich widow, frail and feminine, looking for a strong man. He had no intention of letting such a prize be snatched from him.

Hannah rose from the table. She was suddenly anxious about Emily. She felt the girl had had long enough to come to her senses. Excusing herself, she went up to the bed-chamber. There was no Emily, but her trunks were still there. Hannah was just about to go downstairs again when she decided to look in the wardrobe. She recognized Emily’s missing cloak almost immediately. She had noticed it particularly when she had hung it away the evening before. It was of thick wool and lined with fur.

Beginning to feel alarmed, she ran lightly down to the kitchen. ‘I fear Miss Freemantle has gone out.’

‘Gone out!’ demanded Lord Harley. ‘You cannot mean she has gone out in this storm.’

‘I am very much afraid so,’ said Hannah. ‘We had better organize a search party.’

Lord Harley rose to his feet. ‘No need to risk everyone else’s lives. I will go myself, and should I
need help, I will get the post-boys and the rest of you men.’

He went upstairs and put on his greatcoat and hat and then went back down and collected a lantern from the landlord.

He saw the faint tracks of Emily’s feet in the snow that lay in the sheltered courtyard. Just at the gate where the great arch still provided shelter, he noticed the footprints turning off to the right.

So Emily had not gone out to find another inn, as he had first thought. The way to the right headed straight into the countryside, for the Nag’s Head was on the very edge of the town.

He cursed as the full force of the wind took him. He was becoming increasingly worried. The cold was bitter. If she had tumbled into a snow-drift, he would not find her until daylight.

‘Miss Freemantle!’ he shouted. But the roaring wind drowned his voice. He strode on, waving the lantern and shouting with all his might. He waded through a drift that came up to his waist. How on earth had the spoilt Emily managed through that? He had walked about a mile and was becoming hoarse with shouting when suddenly the wind dropped, roaring away across the countryside, leaving a moon-washed landscape of dazzling snow pitted with blue and black shadows. And then, far ahead, on a straight stretch of snow-covered road, he thought he saw a figure. He quickened his pace. Something made him remain silent, as if he knew that Emily might run off into the fields if she thought she was being pursued.

Emily was at the end of her tether. She felt like a sodden, freezing mass of exhausted misery. Only the thought of the long walk back to the inn and the humiliation that awaited her spurred her on, although she had begun to stagger from weariness. And then the wind dropped and she stood for a moment shivering, her eyes scanning the white landscape. For the first time, she realized she had taken the wrong direction. That was why no light had shone near the road. She gave a choked sob. There was nothing for it. She turned about. And then she saw the dark figure of a man striding towards her, the lantern bobbing.

It was the ruffian! He had come back for her.

Emily swerved off the road and into a small wood, running and stumbling and falling, dragging herself up only to run headlong again.

And then a hand seized her shoulder. ‘I have money,’ she screamed. ‘Do not hurt me. You may have it all. Please do not hurt me.’

‘I would like to wring your neck,’ said Lord Harley’s voice. He turned her round and shone the lantern in her face.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ said Emily and burst into tears.

He watched her impatiently and then put an arm round her and gave her a gentle shake. ‘Rally, Miss Freemantle. Rally! I fear this is only a lull in the storm. We’d best get back as soon as possible.’

‘I c-can’t go back,’ said Emily. ‘I am so ashamed.’

‘You were tipsy and tactless,’ he said. ‘Nothing out of the common way. Come along, Miss Freemantle. I do not want to present your parents with a block of
ice as a daughter. Did you plan to walk all the way to London?’

‘No, I was looking for another inn. I went the wrong way and there was this ruffian, and he … he …’

‘He what?’

‘He tried to kiss me.’

‘You are on Bagshot Heath and lucky to be alive. Come along.’

His arm still around her shoulders, he urged her towards the road. He then put a strong arm about her waist and, almost lifting her from the ground, hurried her along.

He was amazed to feel his senses quickening at that contact and thought it absurd that such a thing should happen when he was cold and tired. But he held her closer to the warmth of his body. With a great almighty roar, the wind came hurtling down the road towards them and enveloped them in a whirling white snowstorm. Now it was not only blowing snow but falling snow they had to contend with.

They reached one of the largest snow-drifts on the road. He stopped and held the lantern high, looking for the passage he had made in it earlier, and the light fell on Mrs Bradley’s anguished face. And that was all that could be seen of Mrs Bradley, for the rest of her was buried in the drift.

He left Emily and went forward and began to scoop the snow away from Mrs Bradley with his hands. ‘I come out with me basket of medicines,’ said Mrs Bradley, ‘for to see if I could find Miss Freemantle, and I got so frit in the snow-drift, I couldn’t move.’

‘You can move now,’ said Lord Harley sharply. ‘You ladies walk behind me and keep close. We are nearly at the inn.’

When Emily at last saw the faint glow of the lamp swinging outside the inn courtyard, she experienced such a feeling of relief it almost warmed her. They turned into the courtyard to be met by an expedition party: the landlord, the guard, the coachman, Mr Fletcher, and the two outsiders, Mr Hendry and Mr Burridge, carrying staves and lanterns.

Hannah Pym, waiting on the steps like a field marshal surveying his troops, hustled Emily and Mrs Bradley into the coffee room, where a large fire was blazing. Hannah’s shrewd eyes studied them. Emily, for all her bad experience, was young and strong and would come about. Mrs Bradley was another matter. She was a bluish-white colour and her breathing was ragged.

‘Miss Freemantle, go to our room and change into dry clothes and then come down to the kitchen,’ ordered Hannah. She turned to Lizzie. ‘Fetch Mrs Bradley’s night-dress and wrapper and clean towels and bring them down to the kitchen. Mr Burridge and Mr Hendry, if you please, I need help in the kitchen to fill a bath.’

Mrs Bradley sat down by the kitchen table and drank a glass of brandy. Hannah had had to prise her precious basket from her wrist. A large copper pan and two kettles were already steaming on the fire.

‘Put the bath on the floor in front of the kitchen fire,’ Hannah ordered the men, ‘and help me fill it.’

Mrs Bradley drank brandy and shivered and watched curiously, thinking they must be getting water ready for a mammoth wash.

Lizzie entered with the night-things and towels. Emily appeared and was offered brandy. She did not know why Hannah had ordered her to the kitchen. Surely after such an ordeal, she should be allowed to go to sleep.

‘Right,’ said Hannah, hands on hips. ‘Off you go, gentlemen, and I thank you.’ She closed and locked the door behind them and then said to Mrs Bradley, ‘Off with those wet clothes and in the bath.’

‘Me!’ Mrs Bradley’s eyes were childlike with wonder. ‘I don’t take no baths.’

‘I know,’ said Hannah, wrinkling her nose. ‘But this is not an ordinary bath, this is a medicinal bath, Mrs Bradley, as recommended by Queen Charlotte’s physician.’

‘But I can’t strip down to me buffs in front of you ladies.’

‘You may keep on your shift,’ said Hannah, rightly thinking that that garment could do with a wash as well. Her eyes fell on Emily and gleamed with a green light. ‘Miss Freemantle, I suggest you go and do what’s right and then return and help me and Mrs Bisley.’

‘What’s right?’ echoed Emily faintly.

‘Work it out for yourself. Examine your conscience.’

Emily wearily left the kitchen. What did that fiend of a woman want her to do?

She went slowly up to her room, determined to climb into that soft bed and sink into oblivion. But on the bed was her wig, the one that had caused all the trouble. There was that stab of conscience, sharp and acute. She was too tired to worry about pride. She went down to the coffee room. The men, with the exception of the coachman and Captain Seaton, who were in the tap, were grouped around the fire. Lord Harley was standing, mixing a bowl of punch. He was grating lemons but stopped, looking curiously at Emily as she came into the room. Women’s dress of the year 1800 was not designed for warmth. Emily had only one wool gown. All her other dresses followed the dictates of fashion, namely, that everything should be flimsy and light enough to be rolled up and put in a pocket. She was wearing a gown of white muslin, cut low, and looped over the arm on the left to disclose one leg in a salmon-coloured silk stocking. It was quite a delicious leg, mused Lord Harley. Over her shoulders, she wore a Norfolk shawl, and in one hand, she carried the wig. She went straight to Mr Fletcher and said in a low voice, ‘I am most sorry for having caused you such embarrassment. I have no need of this wig and should never have had it in the first place. Be so good as to accept it as a present and also to accept my heartfelt apologies.’

‘Well, I … I …’ Mr Fletcher looked around for help.

‘A charming gesture, if I may say so,’ said Lord Harley.

‘Yes,’ said Mr Fletcher, and, sensitive creature that he was, suddenly realized the effort the apology must have cost Emily. ‘I am delighted to accept your gift, Miss Freemantle,’ he said, executing a low bow. ‘Not only is it an excellent wig and much finer than anything I could afford, but when I wear it, I shall have the joy of remembering your pretty face.’

He took the wig. ‘Stay and have some punch with us,’ said Lord Harley.

‘No, I thank you,’ said Emily faintly. ‘Miss Pym wants me in the kitchen.’

When she had gone, Lord Harley finished making the punch, urged the others to help themselves, and went through to the kitchen at the back and knocked on the door. Hannah opened it an inch. ‘Lord Harley?’

‘A word, if you please,’ said Lord Harley.

Hannah opened the door slightly more and slid through like an eel so that his lordship should not catch any glimpse of Mrs Bradley in her bath.

‘I wish to speak to you about Miss Freemantle,’ he said. ‘She is exhausted and has had quite an ordeal. I think you should send her to bed.’