The Regency (29 page)

It was the quiet time of the day when the servants had their
dinner, and the yard was deserted. Sophie stood staring at her
own short shadow under her feet, until a movement in the
corner of the yard made her turn her head, to see Monsieur
Barnard coming out of the kitchen door. He stopped when he
saw her, and Sophie saw that his face was drawn with tragedy,
and that his eyes were red. It occurred to her that, in some
way she didn't understand, his grown-up sorrow was harder
to bear than her child-grief. For a long moment they regarded
each other, and then Sophie ran to him and put her arms
round him, glad to have someone to comfort.

He hugged her hard, and she pressed her face into his
apron, smelling the clean-laundry smell of starch, and a faint,
delicious aroma of fried onions which always seemed to hang
about him. Finally he released her, gave her a watery smile,
and reaching into the long pocket of his apron, drew out a
twist of paper which he held out to her.

‘
Treacle toffee. I made it for him, for the journey, but they
left before I could give it to him,' he said in French.

Sophie took it and undid the paper, selected a lump and
put it in her mouth, and offered some to Barnard. He took a piece, and then thrust the paper back at her, nodding for her
to keep it. They sucked in silence for a while.

‘
Why did they have to take him away?' Sophie asked at
length.

Barnard shook his head, as though the ways of the world
were too complex for him to understand. 'You'll miss him,
too,' he observed. Sophie's eyes filled inexorably with tears.
‘Do you like treacle toffee?' She nodded. 'It's a Yorkshire
recipe.' He sighed. 'I've been here so long, I can hardly
remember France. Les Landes! — I cooked for a Duc there. I
used to do a dish —
poulet aux gousses d'ail —
with tarragon
— But you can't grow tarragon here. It's too cold.’

Sophie looked up at him, understanding what was unspoken.
‘I've never been to France,' she said.

Though most of his life had been spent isolated in kitchens
amid mountains of food not for his own consumption, he
recognised love when it was offered. His rare smile lit his face,
and he returned it, with interest, in his own coin. ‘Do you like honeycomb?' he said. 'I'll make you some honeycomb
tomorrow.’

*

Fanny would have liked to take Honey out, but that would
have involved co-operation from one of the grooms, for she
could not abstract Honey's tack without being noticed, so she
turned instead to her old friend Tempest. He was enjoying a
semi-retirement in the orchard, in the company of the donkey
who turned the water-wheel for the American Garden, but he
came at once when Fanny called him, glad of the company,
and eager to go out. Fanny fashioned a halter for him out of a
piece of rope she had taken from the laundry-room, led him out of the orchard gate, and scrambled on to him bareback.
They had known each other so long, that she could almost
guide him with her thoughts alone.

Riding towards Shawes or Twelvetrees was likely to bring
her to someone's attention, so she turned Tempest instead towards Hob Moor. If she rode as far as Chaloner's Whin,
there was an outlying cottage there where the weaver would
be bound to give her something to eat. She knew all the
houses out that way. There was Marsh Farm; and Eastfield
Farm – although she was not very well liked at Eastfield since
she let the pig out into the vegetable garden; but that was
long ago, before Miss Rosedale came, and they'd probably
have forgotten about it by now; and the Quaker's cottage at
Dringfield; and best of all, at the edge of Acomb Wood, there
was the gamekeeper's cottage. Black Tom had all sorts of
interesting things to drink, and he had promised once, long
ago, to teach her how to cure a skin. He had a gamekeeper's gibbet in his garden, and if there were enough moleskins, he
might s
^p
ew her how to make a pair of gloves. She bet even
Miss Rosedale didn't know how to make a pair of gloves out
of moleskins.

On the whole, she thought she had better go straight there.
She cantered Tempest across Hob Moor, and took the
Acombmoor track which eventually came out on the road to
Askham Bryan. She skirted Acombmoor Cottage, and beyond
it the thick, dark woods came right up to the track. This was
supposed to be a bad place — footpads and poachers and bad
men were said to hang about here — but Fanny had no fear.
She was Miss Morland of Morland Place, and the world
belonged to her. Besides, if anyone came near her she would
gallop away on Tempest too fast for them to catch her.

Nevertheless, it did give her a start when someone came
out of the woods onto the track in front of her; just for a
moment, until she saw that whoever it was, it was a gentle
man, not a ruffian. He was driving a dog-cart, and the horse
that drew it might not he, to Fanny's critical eye, up to
Morland standards, but it was a road-horse, not a farm-horse.
The gentleman himself was dressed in a double-breasted,
square-cut blue coat, tight Hussar boots, and a
demi-bateau
hat, under whose upturned sides could be seen the glossy
locks of his fashionable Brutus crop.

Reassured, Fanny now rode on. She saw the gentleman
looking at her, reining-in his horse, putting his hand politely
to his hat, and recognised the man she had spoken to at
Mathilde's ball; and she suddenly became aware of how she
must look, and wished she had been riding Honey, and
properly clad in riding-habit. Fanny's vanities were many and
various, but this was a new one. The man, though driving
what appeared to be a job horse in an undistinguished vehicle,
and though undoubtedly less thrilling out of his red coat, was
still very handsome, and the fashionableness of his attire
impressed Fanny.

For his part, Hawker had been equally taken aback to find
anyone on the path when he emerged from the wood; seeing
that it was a child, had determined to cuff it for its impudence
in scaring him; and then at the last moment recognised the
little hoyden of the staircase. What was her name? Heiress of
Morland Place, she had claimed to be, and his subsequent
enquiries had confirmed her story: everything had been left in
trust for her by the old lady, the last owner. Miss Morland, he
supposed she must be. Well, there was no harm in exercising a
little of his charm, just on the off-chance that it might one
day be useful.

Then another thought occurred to him. What the devil was
the child doing riding about the countryside unattended, and
particularly in such a place as this? It might do him more
immediate good if he were to escort her back home, and claim
the credit for having saved her from who-knew-what danger.
There might even be a little material gratitude in it for him,
and God knew he could do with that. He touched his hat, and
fixed an ingratiating smirk on his face.

‘
Miss Morland!' It had to be Miss Morland, didn't it? Yes,
the Morlands of Morland Place, now he remembered, were
spoken of as an ancient family. 'Well met indeed! I trust you
remember me, ma'am?' In his experience, children of that age
were flattered by being spoken to as if they were adults.
‘Lieutenant Hawker, at your service. I had the pleasure of
making your acquaintance at the ball.’

Fanny checked Tempest, and looked at him doubtfully.
‘Yes, I remember you. You had a flask.’

He gave a rueful smile. 'Is that the only thing I am remem
bered for? Too cruel, Miss Morland! Did I leave so little
impression on you?’

Fanny felt puzzled, but vaguely excited. She had never
been flirted with before, and though she recognised it
instinctively for what it was, and knew she ought to like it,
she couldn't yet see why she should. 'What else should I
remember?' she said, and then feeling that some kinder
return was expected of her, she added, 'You had a red coat
on then.'

‘
The clothes make the man, so the saying goes,' Hawker
said with a theatrical sigh. 'Well, that seems to have been true
in my case. But Miss Morland, what are you doing in this
dangerous place all alone? Is no-one with you? This is not
right, ma'am.’

Fanny frowned. 'It's all right. Everyone knows me. I was going to Black Tom's cottage.' Hawker flinched, but Fanny
didn't notice it. 'I'm going to make him teach me how to
make moleskin gloves.’

Hawker gathered himself together. 'Why, there's a coinci
dence,' he said with a light laugh. 'I have just come from there
myself. But you will waste your labour, ma'am, for he was
going out as I left to — to look round his traps. He won't be
back for hours.'

‘
What did you go there for?' Fanny asked bluntly. She
stared at the dog-cart, noticing that the flap to the underseat
compartment was not properly fastened, and that there was
something inside. Black Tom had a terrier bitch that was a
famous ratter. 'Did he give you a puppy? Is it in there?’

No — no, not a puppy,' Hawker said, glancing down
nervously. He kicked the flap closed with his heel, and cursed
inwardly at the faint musical clink which followed. No, I
was commissioned by my mess-mates to get some pheasants
for our dinner. Black Tom has the best-hung birds in the
country.’

It was the first thing he could think of, and a pretty frail story, but Fanny, fortunately, was not interested enough to
pick holes in it. Hawker hastened to distract her attention,
and to press on with the rest of his plan. 'I do think, though,
ma'am, that you ought not to ride alone, even if you are well-
known. In fact, that in itself could be a danger. Suppose you
were kidnapped and held to ransome? Miss Morland of
Morland Place would fetch a handsome price, I imagine.’

Fanny considered this intriguing possibility. 'They'd have
to catch me first,' she objected. 'And Tempest is very fast.'

‘
They might leap out from the trees and overpower you,'
he said, and then felt it was a ridiculous conversation. He
hurried on, 'Won't you let me escort you home? Allow me to offer you a seat in this humble conveyance. We can tie your
pony to the back of the cart.’