The Original Miss Honeyford (3 page)

“I am perfectly capable of managing on my own,” said Honey.

“We will see. There is still a little time. Now go to your room and pack only the things you think will be suitable for London.”

“What about Jasper and Casper?” Jasper and Casper were Honey’s pet foxhounds.

“They will do to keep me company.”

“Oh, Papa, why don’t
you
come with me?”

“Because the two of us in London would be just too much expense. Please do not make it hard for me, Honey. You
must
go.”

Honey went and knelt in front of him and looked pleadingly up into his face. “If I try very hard to dress prettily and look like a lady,” she said, “then I might marry someone locally—perhaps like Captain Jocelyn.”

He ruffled her short curls, and sighed, “No, my child. Captain Jocelyn and the others would still see the Honey of the hunting field. Do not tear my heart any longer with your pleas. You are going, Honoria, and that is that!”

The servants who were to travel to London with Honey, that is, the coachman, Jem Judkin, and the two grooms, Peter Dasset and Abraham Jellibee, were more concerned with the niceties of fashion than was their mistress.

They complained their waistcoats had horizontal stripes and no decent coachman or groom wore
those;
only indoor servants wore
those
. Vertical stripes were the thing. They protested they could not appear in “Lunnon” looking countrified with such passion that Sir Edmund relented and delayed Honey’s departure until new liveries could be run up by the three-shilling-a-day man. Since Honey was to be furnished with a new wardrobe in London, he quite forgot she might need new clothes for the journey, and so it was a very unfashionably young lady who at last took the road.

And yet Honey felt she had done her best. Under her gown of blue kerseymere, she wore a long linen corset and two petticoats. The very discomfort of her underwear convinced her that she was suffering to be fashionable since the length of the corset made it impossible to lounge, and the only way she could achieve any modicum of comfort was by sitting bolt upright. Over her gown, she wore a mantle of white bombazine, and, on her head, a cavalier hat ornamented with a rather tired-looking ostrich feather.

She bade her father a tearful farewell and set out on the road to London.

The spring weather was fine. The new wheat formed a green haze over the fields. The long line of Lombardy poplars at the edge of the six-acre field showed their new leaves, more yellow than green, giving the trees an odd autumnal air. The flowering spikes of the horse chestnuts stood up proudly against a pale blue sky. Coots were quarreling beside the village pond, and the first bluebells were growing in patches in the woods. Small white butterflies performed their zig-zag dance over the early bracken.

Skylarks were rising straight up from the fields until they were mere dots against the sky, sending down burst upon burst of song.

Everything was new, fresh, and bustling. With the resilience of youth, Honey dried her eyes and began to look forward instead of back.

If she did not manage to find a husband, it would not be so very terrible. They would manage somehow. They had always managed in the past.

But, then, there just
might
be a husband waiting for her, a man perhaps like Captain Jocelyn, or, rather, as Captain Jocelyn had been before the arrival of Amy.

So Honey dreamed the first day’s journey away, thinking of some man with whom she could share the winter evenings, the two of them on either side of the fire, drinking brandy and smoking cheroots, not realizing she only wanted someone like her father, only wanted things to be as they had always been.

Honey was glad her father had not been able to find a maid to accompany her. How much pleasanter to dream without being interrupted by some silly female.

She had only been as far as twenty miles from Kelidon before. Then she had gone to a large cattle market with her father. She remembered with amusement the coaching inn called The Blue Boar. She certainly did not need the company of some lady’s maid to give her ton at any such English hostelry.

She remembered their meal being interrupted by the arrival of the coach. The passengers who traveled inside were very conscious of their superiority, and no “outsider”—the ones who traveled on the roof—would dream of finding a seat at the table before the insiders were seated. The coach passengers were only allowed half an hour to eat, and most complained bitterly about the menu, which was made up of pork in various shapes, roast at the top, boiled on the bottom, sausages on one side, fried bacon on the other. Then the coachman, a large strong-smelling man in a mountainous greatcoat, indicated with a bob of his head and a sort of waltzing motion of his hand behind his back that tipping time had come. The passengers had barely time to eat before they were shrugging themselves back into their husks, accompanied by dives into pockets and reticules for the needful, and everyone wondering how little he could tip without getting a snubbing from the coachman. Then a monstrous cry of, “All right! Sit tight!” was heard, showing that the coach was out on the road again. Hardly a tonnish scene, thought Honey. Putting on airs would be a waste of time.

But, until this journey, Honey had never stayed at a really good posting house, and her heart sank a little as The Magpie hove into view.

It was a modern building with a glistening white portico and glossy green shutters. There was a very fine traveling carriage being led around to the stables, and, in the light of the big oil lamp that swung over the inn door, Honey could make out a crest on the panels.

Her servants were so used to Miss Honoria’s taking charge, that, once they had seen her safely deposited in the hall of the posting house, they went off to the stables to make arrangements for the new team to be harnessed in the morning.

Honey looked about her nervously, at the bright fire in the hall crackling before the solid brass fender, at the polished floorboards, and then at the very superior individual in black knee breeches and a swallowtail coat who turned out to be the manager.

The manager explained he had set up a truckle bed in Miss Honeyford’s room for her maid, and raised his thin eyebrows superciliously when she explained she had not got one.

He eyed Honey’s clothes with a quick, practiced glance. Honey defiantly turned away from him and straightened her hat in the long mirror on one side of the hall. She blushed as she saw that Jasper’s and Casper’s enthusiastic farewell had left its mark—or marks. On the white of her bombazine coat were four black paw prints.

“Have my bags taken upstairs,” said Honey, turning around, “and show me to my room.”

The manager turned and walked upstairs, presenting to Honey’s gaze the most insolent-looking pair of shoulders she thought she had ever seen. It was as well, she thought ruefully, that Papa had bespoke her room at this inn by sending a letter by the mail coach, otherwise, she felt sure, the supercilious manager would have turned her from the door.

The room was better appointed than most country house bedchambers. There were pretty rose and white chintz curtains at the window and the bed hangings were of the same design. Brass-bound cans on the toilet table held piping hot water, and there were two unused cakes of Joppa soap.

Honey dismissed the manager after he had told her supper would be laid for her in the dining room as soon as she cared to put in an appearance. His manner was a little more polite. Honey was used to giving orders and her self-confidence had been restored by the comfort of the room.

She
changed her gown for a dark brown silk of old-fashioned cut after having sponged her face and combed her hair. She consoled herself with the thought that they were not yet on the main London road, and so, with any luck, she would have the dining room to herself.

The very quietness of the posting house added to this hope as she went down the stairs. There were no noisy voices resounding from the tap. It was easy to find the dining room because each room had its sign in curly letters over the door.

Honey bumped into a chair which was awkwardly placed just inside the door, and, being under the impression that the dining room was empty, she relieved her feelings by cursing loudly.

“No, no, no,” urged a gentle voice. “Pray don’t swear, ma’am. Spoils the shape of the mouth.”

Honey, who had bent down to straighten the chair, jerked upright and stared.

Lit by two tall candles placed on a small table by the bay window sat a gentleman. As Honey stared, he took out his quizzing glass and calmly surveyed her from head to foot.

Honey flushed and put up her chin. Lord Alistair Stewart dropped his glass and gave her a bewitching smile.

Then he blinked and his heavy lids came down to veil the expression in his blue eyes. For Lord Alistair, youngest son of the Duke of Bewley, was not used to being viewed with just that gleam of contempt that he had caught in the hazel eyes which were studying him from the doorway. He gave an infinitessimal shrug and poured himself another glass of wine. It did not really matter what some country schoolgirl miss with an outlandish coiffure and a dowdy dress thought of him.

Totally unaware that she was being very rude, Honey continued to stare. He was everything, she decided, that she detested in a man. He was too tall, too handsome, too indolent. From his guinea-gold hair to his gleaming hessian boots stretched out under the table, he was an exquisite example of expert valeting and Weston’s tailoring. A large sapphire ring flashed on one of his long white fingers. His cravat rose in snowy folds to a strong chin. His mouth was well-sculpted, but his blue eyes were lazy, and he looked, in fact, just the kind of man who would call simpering misses like Amy Wetherall “adorable,” thought Honey, forgetting that all the men in Kelidon had thought Amy adorable.

“Beg pardon, ma’am,” drawled Lord Alistair, “but didn’t your mama ever tell you it was rude to stare?”

“I am sorry,” she said stiffly. She looked about her for a table, and saw to her dismay that the only other table that was laid for supper was next to the lazy gentleman’s on the other side of the bay.

The gentleman had obviously finished dinner, for the cover had been removed and a decanter of port, a bowl of walnuts, and a bowl of fruit were reflected in the gleaming mahogany of the table.

Honey sat down, stared resolutely at the drawn curtains over the window, and waited. And waited. At last, she got to her feet and rang the bell, every movement feeling stiff and awkward as she was aware of the gentleman’s eyes on her.

Another long time passed. Lord Alistair took pity on her. He rose languidly to his feet and sauntered to the door, opened it, and shouted loudly, “Waiter!” He strolled back and a waiter erupted into the room at his heels.

“Serve the lady,” said Lord Alistair, and returned to his port.

Soon Honey was served with mulligatawny soup followed by wine-roasted gammon and sweetbreads
“à-la-daub.”
She ordered a bottle of Teneriffe and then turned stiffly to the tall gentleman. “I thank you sir,” she said gruffly. “Without your help, I might not have been served.”

“Think nothing of it, ma’am,” he said lazily. “Fact is, I had to do something about it. You see,
I
could have wanted something and so I share the insult.”

Honey could really think of nothing to say to this, and so she merely inclined her head and then concentrated on finishing her meal as quickly as possible.

But she gradually felt bolder after drinking most of the wine, and decided to ring for brandy. The waiter jumped to its summons this time. The cloth was removed and the brandy, fruit, and nuts placed before her. She searched in her reticule and brought out her cheroot case, extracted one, and turned to her companion of the dining room. “Your permission, sir?”

He nodded, a flash of amusement in his blue eyes, and somehow Honey knew that
he
knew she was well aware that young ladies did not smoke cheroots in a public dining room—or anywhere else for that matter—and was only doing it as an act of bravado.

“You are very young to be traveling alone, ma’am,” he said.

“I am not alone,” said Honey. “I have my coachman and two grooms.”

“But no maid or female companion?”

“Sir,” said Honey patiently, “you have reminded me of my manners this evening and now it is my turn to remind you of yours. We have not been introduced.”

“Easily remedied,” he said, rising to his feet and making her a bow. “Lord Alistair Stewart, bell-ringer and waiter-caller, at your service.”

“I am Miss Honeyford,” said Honey in a flat sort of let-us-finish-this-conversation-now voice.

“There you see, now we are acquainted. Are you fleeing the seminary, Miss Honeyford?”

“I am nineteen years, my lord, and no schoolgirl. What on earth gave you the impression I was fresh from the seminary?”

“The cheroot,” he said, waving his quizzing glass to and fro on its long gold chain. “It makes you look like a naughty schoolgirl.”

“On the contrary, my lord, I often smoke cheroots of an evening when I am cozing with my father.”

He raised his thin eyebrows and relapsed into silence.

“And
drink brandy,” added Honey defiantly.

“And swear as you did when you entered the dining room?” he asked at length.

“I did not know there was anyone here. I am not in the habit of swearing—except on the hunting field.”

“So you hunt, Miss Honeyford.”

“Yes,” said Honey with a toss of her curls. “I like it above all things. You hunt yourself, of course.”

“No, I have no taste for it.”

“I thought not,” said Honey, looking at him with contempt.

“Not the fox. I have hunted with the harriers. I looked very fine in my scarlet coat.”

“You do not wear your pinks to hunt the hare,” said Honey loftily.

“Ah, yes, that I discovered to my mortification. There I was, a veritable advertisement for Asher. And there
they
all were, all the myrtle-green gentlemen in their white cords, or twilled fustian frocks. Tell me, do you enjoy the kill?”