Yvonne Goes to York (16 page)

The marquis had pressed for a quick wedding, for his passion for Yvonne was growing with every kiss. Monsieur Grenier was elated with happiness at being safe at last and at the sight of his daughter’s joy, but Sir George decided bitterly that the Frenchman’s elation was caused by love for Hannah Pym.

The day of Mrs Clarence’s wedding arrived. It was to take place in the farmhouse, which had been decorated with garlands for the occasion. No
neighbours
had been invited, all believing that she and John Hughes were already married. Mrs Clarence had explained she would tell her sons sometime in the future when she thought the moment was right. Even
the servants and farm-hands had been sent away for the day.

Hannah had been gowned in shot silk by Mrs Clarence for her role of bridesmaid, and Sir George reflected she had never looked better. When the simple service was over and they sat down to the wedding breakfast, served to them, in the absence of other servants, by Benjamin, Sir George found that Hannah had been placed next to him while Monsieur Grenier was on her other side. Hannah meticulously conversed to Sir George and Monsieur Grenier, giving each an equal share of her time, but Sir George could not help hearing how easily she chatted to the Frenchman while all her conversation with him was awkward and stilted. He felt quite old and dried up. In the past week, he felt he had aged daily while Hannah appeared to have grown younger.

He suddenly rose to his feet and announced to the surprised assembly that he had the headache and needed some fresh air. When the door had closed behind him, Monsieur Grenier said quietly to Hannah, ‘My dear friend, I feel you have made that gentleman miserable enough. Why do you not go after him?’

Hannah looked at the little Frenchman and coloured guiltily. How did he know? How had he guessed? She opened her mouth to protest she did not know what he meant, thought better of it, and quietly left the room.

She stood a few moments later at the entrance to the garden. Sir George was sitting on the rustic bench by the river. He was hatless and his hair gleamed like
silver in the sun. The air was sultry and warm and, to the west, great black clouds were piling up against the sky as if climbing on top of each other. From the distance came a menacing growl of thunder.

Hannah walked forward and sat down beside him. ‘Is your head better?’ she asked gently.

‘Yes, I thank you.’ Sir George looked at the silver buckles on his shoes as if they were the most fascinating things he had ever seen.

‘Perhaps I can fetch you something from the house? A posset, perhaps?’

‘No, no. It would be better to leave me alone, Miss Pym.’

‘Very well.’ She rose sadly to her feet.

‘I mean, no, sit down, I mean, well, I did not mean to sound so harsh … I mean … I am a trifle overset.’ He waved a hand at the sky. ‘Storms affect my nerves, I think.’

Thunder growled and rumbled, nearer now, and a sharp puff of warm wind ruffled the surface of the river.

Hannah sat down primly, bottom on the very edge of the seat, back ramrod-straight. Her violet silk gown was shot with gold and glinted and shone oddly in the now gloomy green light of the garden under the fast-approaching storm.

‘You seem to … to … be very friendly with Monsieur Grenier,’ said Sir George.

‘He is a charming and sympathetic gentleman,’ said Hannah. ‘He likes talking to me, I think.’

He turned to her. ‘Miss Pym, as your friend and advisor, I must take it upon myself to counsel you to be
cautious. Marriage to a foreigner can be … well … cannot be a good thing for an Englishwoman.’

‘English royalty marry foreigners the whole time,’ said Hannah flatly.

‘What the bleedin’ ’ell’s goin’ on?’ shouted Benjamin, jumping up and down in frustration behind the backs of the watchers now crowded around an upstairs window of the farmhouse that overlooked the garden.

‘Nothing yet,’ said the new Mrs Hughes over her shoulder. ‘And if they don’t come in soon, they are both going to get very wet.’

‘You know what I mean, Miss Pym,’ Sir George was saying. ‘I am concerned for your welfare, your future.’

‘Do not worry, Sir George,’ said Hannah, ‘I am surely old enough to look after myself.’

‘Oh, indeed, madam? And what would have become of you in that hut if I had not come along? You lead an irresponsible life. Traipsing up and down the length and breadth of England with that popinjay of a footman.’

‘Now, sir, you go too far. Benjamin is a brave and loyal servant and I will not have a word said against him. He has volunteered to settle down with me in some poky cottage in the country, and that is a great sacrifice for such a clever and fun-loving fellow.’

Sir George looked at her, appalled. ‘I was wrong. It is not Monsieur Grenier you plan to marry but your own footman.’

‘What are you about?’ raged Hannah. ‘What has
come over you? You know you are talking fustian. What on earth is the matter with you?’

‘I’m in love with you, demme,’ roared Sir George, ‘and I don’t know what to do.’

Hannah looked at him in sheer amazement. ‘Well, you could try marrying me, for a start.’

‘Miss Pym … Hannah … do you mean you would accept me?’

A great crack of thunder sounded overhead. ‘Sir George,’ said Hannah patiently, ‘I think I have been in love with you since that morning when you found me standing by the window of Thornton Hall, watching the stage-coach go past.’

He drew her into his arms and bent his head and kissed her gently on the mouth. Another crack of thunder drowned out the cheer from the farmhouse window behind them. It was pleasant kissing Hannah Pym, thought Sir George dreamily, settling her more comfortably in his arms, warm and sweet like the air around them and lit with flashes of lightning like the sky above.

The rain began to pour down on the kissing couple, at first in great warm drops and then in a steady flood.

‘Come away immediately,’ said Monsieur Grenier sternly, drawing his giggling daughter away from the window.

‘Quite a goer is our Miss Pym,’ said the marquis in wonder, ‘and who would have thought an old stick like Sir George would have all that fire locked up in his diplomatic bosom?’

The watchers tactfully withdrew from the window.
Benjamin lingered and took a peek outside and then executed a couple of cartwheels down the corridor before following the rest of them downstairs.

Two months had passed by the time Hannah, now Lady George Clarence, returned to Thornton Hall after a quiet wedding in a London church. It was to be the first night of her marriage. Benjamin had stayed behind at South Audley Street to pack everything up.

Hannah undressed with quick agitated fingers,
feeling
it all very strange to find herself back at Thornton Hall and mistress of it now.

She felt very nervous and frightened of the night to come but had been unable to bring herself to say anything to Sir George. She could not explain that she felt like a virginal seventeen-year-old. She put on the delicate lace-and-cambric night-gown which had been a present from Mrs Clarence, now Mrs Hughes, and climbed into bed and lay straight and flat like a patient on a surgeon’s table. She was cold with nerves. Her hands were cold and clammy and her feet were like ice.

Sir George came in and went about the great bedchamber blowing out the candles. He climbed into bed and gathered Hannah in his arms and all fear and coldness fled at his touch.

She awoke automatically early in the morning and climbed from the bed. She drew back the curtains and opened the shutters and stood at the window.

Along the Kensington road came the Exeter mail,
the horses steaming and pounding the flat road, the roof passengers hanging on to their hats.

‘Come back to bed, Hannah,’ came Sir George’s amused voice. ‘You’re home now. Your journeys are over.’

She turned and smiled shyly at him and went back into bed and into his arms as the coaches continued to move out from London, along the dusty roads of England, to other loves, other meetings, and other happy endings. 

Titles by M.C. Beaton

The Travelling Matchmaker series 

Emily Goes to Exeter
 

Belinda Goes to Bath

Penelope Goes to Portsmouth
 

Beatrice Goes to Brighton

Deborah Goes to Dover

Yvonne Goes to York

The Edwardian Murder Mystery series

Snobbery with Violence

Hasty Death

Sick of Shadows

Our Lady of Pain

The Agatha Raisin series

Agatha Raisin and the Quiche of Death

Agatha Raisin and the Vicious Vet

Agatha Raisin and the Potted Gardener
 

Agatha Raisin and the Walkers of Dembley

Agatha Raisin and the Murderous Marriage

Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist

Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death

Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham

Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden

Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryfam

Agatha Raisin and the Love from Hell

Agatha Raisin and the Day the Floods Came

Agatha Raisin and the Curious Curate

Agatha Raisin and the Haunted House

Agatha Raisin and the Deadly Dance

Agatha Raisin and the Perfect Paragon

Agatha Raisin and Love, Lies and Liquor

Agatha Raisin and Kissing Christmas Goodbye

Agatha Raisin and a Spoonful of Poison

Agatha Raisin: There Goes the Bride

Agatha Raisin and the Busy Body

The Hamish Macbeth series 

Death of a Gossip

Death of a Cad

Death of an Outsider

Death of a Perfect Wife

Death of a Hussy

Death of a Snob

Death of a Prankster

Death of a Glutton

Death of a Travelling Man

Death of a Charming Man

Death of a Nag

Death of a Macho Man

Death of a Dentist

Death of a Scriptwriter

Death of an Addict

A Highland Christmas

Death of a Dustman

Death of a Celebrity

Death of a Village

Death of a Poison Pen

Death of a Bore

Death of a Dreamer

Death of a Maid

Death of a Gentle Lady

Death of a Witch

Death of a Valentine

Death of a Sweep

M.C. Beaton
is the author of the hugely successful Agatha Raisin, Hamish Macbeth and Edwardian murder mystery series, all published by Constable & Robinson. She left a full-time career in journalism to turn to writing, and now divides her time between the Cotswolds, Paris and Istanbul.