Emily Goes to Exeter Read online

  ‘If she falls ill,’ he said grimly, ‘I must hold you responsible.’

  ‘Do that,’ said Hannah, grinning at him suddenly, and then slipped into the kitchen again.

  ‘Now, Mrs Bradley,’ said Hannah. ‘Out of the bath and into your night-gown.’ She picked up a huge huckaback towel and held it out.

  ‘Right you are, m’dear,’ said Mrs Bradley. She put both chubby hands on either side of the tin bath and heaved. Nothing happened. She stared up at Hannah, her eyes wide with consternation. ‘I be stuck,’ she moaned.

  ‘Fustian,’ said Hannah. ‘Miss Freemantle, take one of her hands and pull at the same time as I take the other.’

  Both tugged mightily, but the only result was a wave of dirty bath-water over the floor.

  Lizzie added her efforts but to no avail.

  ‘I’ll need to get one of the men,’ said Hannah.

  Mrs Bradley, who up until then had been restored by the warmth of the bath and a quantity of French brandy, turned almost as awful a colour as she had been when she came in out of the storm. ‘You will be quite decent,’ said Hannah. ‘Miss Freemantle, go to the linen press on the first landing and bring a thick sheet to cover her.’

  Emily did as she was bid and returned to find Lord Harley waiting outside the kitchen door. ‘What on earth is going on?’ he asked. ‘I’ve been told to wait here by Miss Pym until called.’

  ‘We are in need of your help,’ said Emily. ‘Mrs Bradley is s-stuck in the bath.’ She began to giggle helplessly, leaning against the kitchen door. Lord Harley began to laugh as well.

  The door opened a crack and Hannah’s cold eye surveyed the laughing pair. ‘Pull yourselves together,’ she admonished. ‘My lord, be as quick and deft as you can, for Mrs Bradley is sore embarrassed.’

  They followed Hannah into the kitchen. Not only Mrs Bradley’s body was covered by a sheet but her face as well.

  ‘Give me your hands, Mrs Bradley,’ ordered Lord Harley. Two hands appeared from below the sheet. He gave a great heave. The bath tilted and more water flooded on the floor but Mrs Bradley remained stuck fast.

  ‘I am sorry about this,’ he said, bending over the coffin-shaped tin bath to examine her more closely. He took off his coat and rolled up his shirt-sleeves and slid his hands into the water under the sheet and then, as a squawk of sheer outrage rose from Mrs Bradley’s lips, under her bottom. With one almightly wrench he lifted her clear from the bath and set her down on her feet.

  Panting and blushing, Mrs Bradley wrapped the sheet round her ample body.

  ‘Like Venus rising from the foam,’ said Lord Harley gently and kissed one plump cheek.

  ‘Oh, go on with you, me lord,’ giggled a newly coquettish Mrs Bradley.

  Lord Harley grinned, picked up his coat, and strode from the kitchen.

  Mrs Bradley submitted docilely, glad her ordeal was soon to be over, as Lizzie and Hannah began to towel her down. Soon she was dressed in her night-gown and wrapper, flushed and rosy.

  She moved to the door. ‘Wait till I tell my folks I had a lord’s hands under me bum,’ she said and went out, closing the door behind her.

  Emily began to laugh helplessly. Hannah and Lizzie joined in, and still laughing, the three women began to empty the bath and clear up the mess on the floor.

  Then Hannah set to brewing a posset for Emily to take to Mrs Silvers, the landlord’s wife.

  Mrs Silvers was sitting up in bed knitting. As soon as she saw Emily, she sank back against the pillow and groaned. ‘I feel so poorly,’ she whispered. Emily thought Mrs Silvers looked recovered and had a suspicion that lady was going to make the most of being waited on, but she simply handed her the posset and told her gently to drink it up.

  Emily returned to the kitchen to find there were dishes still to be washed and pots to be scrubbed. But she was too tired to protest. Hannah let her work for half an hour and then said, ‘You may go to bed now, Miss Freemantle.’

  ‘But both of you must be tired as well,’ said Emily.

  ‘We have not been out in a snowstorm. Off with you,’ commanded Hannah.

  Emily went upstairs. She had left her sodden clothes lying on the floor. She slowly picked them up and arranged them over a couple of straight-backed chairs in front of the fire. Wearily, she made ready for bed. All she wanted to do was sleep and sleep.

  But no sooner was her head on the pillow than she felt very wide awake indeed. Images of the evening flashed through her mind: the feel of Lord Harley’s strong arm at her waist, how they had stood laughing outside the kitchen door, how sweet Mrs Bradley had looked when he had kissed her. A great roar shook the inn. She climbed from bed and went to the window and drew back the curtains. She could see nothing but whiteness.

  She climbed back into bed. She wondered if Miss Pym had learned that Mr Fletcher had accepted that wig. What an odd woman she was. She was surely not a lady, and yet she had an air of authority. Then there was Mrs Bisley. Not only Mr Fletcher but all the men treated little Mrs Bisley with courtesy and kindness. And she was quite old. But Emily had to admit that Lizzie Bisley with her brown hair and pansy-brown eyes managed to look defenceless and fragile and much younger than her years. What a pity about the gross captain. Emily felt sure Mrs Bisley was making a terrible mistake.

  She fell into an uneasy sleep and awoke as Hannah Pym climbed into bed beside her.

  ‘I apologized to Mr Fletcher,’ said Emily sleepily, ‘and gave him the wig as a present, which he accepted most graciously.’

  ‘I knew you would,’ said Hannah.

  ‘Why?’ asked Emily.

  ‘Because I have discovered this day,’ said Hannah firmly, ‘that although you have been badly spoilt, underneath it all, you are a young lady of resource, courage and humour.’

  ‘Really!’ said Emily, experiencing a glow of pleasure.

  There was no reply. She twisted about and looked at her sleeping partner, but it seemed that Hannah Pym had fallen neatly and quietly asleep.

  Along the corridor, Mrs Bradley and Lizzie lay side by side in a big four-poster bed.

  Lizzie turned on her side and Mrs Bradley’s voice sounded in the darkness. ‘Reckon you’ve made a mistake with that captain, m’dear.’

  Lizzie sighed and said faintly, ‘I cannot do anything now. I gave my word. Oh, Mrs Bradley, I wish it would snow and snow and snow so that we might never reach Exeter.’

  ‘All it takes is a little courage,’ said Mrs Bradley comfortably. ‘Now, me, I ain’t got none, but if I was you, I would ask that Miss Pym for help. Her could take on a whole battalion of Napoleon’s soldiers.’

  ‘My late husband,’ said Lizzie, ‘was a strong man. He made all the decisions for me. I never even had a thought of my own. But you know how it is. My family were so proud of him. Everyone kept telling me I was lucky to have such a fine upstanding man as a husband, and so … and so …’

  ‘You felt it downright wicked to think anything else,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘Children might ha’ helped.’

  ‘Oh, but I have two sons, twins, of twenty-two. They work in the business. I mean, they are both lawyers. Everyone says they are the image of their father.’

  ‘Not comfortable for you. What did they think of the captain?’

  ‘They do not know,’ said Lizzie in a low voice. ‘Captain Seaton said it was no concern of theirs and that they might be angry at the idea of me remarrying so soon. He arranged everything and I just went along with it.’

  ‘You got a tidy bit o’ money then?’ asked Mrs Bradley.

  ‘Yes, I am fortunate in being comfortably off.’

  ‘How’s that come about? Thought your dear departed would ha’ left most to the sons.’

  ‘There were marriage settlements. I have my own money.’

  ‘And that’s what the captain wants, mark my words. Not that they all wants money. That Mr Fletcher would take you if you hadn’t a penny.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ asked Lizzie, her voice lightening. ‘I feel so comfortable with h
im. He asks me what I think. Most strange in a man.’

  ‘There’s still some good’uns around. Now go to sleep, there’s a love.’

  Lizzie fell almost immediately into a deep sleep and dreamt she was travelling on the stage on a sunny warm day with Mr Fletcher sitting beside her, holding her hand.

  In the Red Room, Mr Fletcher cautiously raised himself on one elbow. ‘Are you awake, my lord?’

  ‘Only just,’ said Lord Harley amiably.

  ‘I think it was noble and generous of Miss Freemantle to present me with that fine wig.’

  ‘It was the least she could do,’ said Lord Harley cynically.

  ‘No, I think not. She has obviously led a pampered life and she is so very beautiful, and in my experience beautiful young ladies think their beauty is enough to offer the world. And yet she made her apology with such sincerity and grace.’

  ‘Mark my words, Miss Freemantle was still shocked from her ordeal in the storm. She will no doubt be restored to her spoilt self on the morrow. I wish this storm would blow itself out.’

  ‘I think there is a change in the weather coming. I can feel it in my left leg,’ said Mr Fletcher.

  ‘Let’s hope your left leg is right. What a day. Running after that stupid female and then having to dislodge Mrs Bradley from the bath.’

  ‘Why, what happened?’

  Lord Harley told him and then began to laugh, not over Mrs Bradley’s predicament but becaue he remembered how infectious Emily’s laughter had been outside the kitchen door.

  Mr Fletcher began to laugh as well, until a thud from the next room and the captain’s voice roaring, ‘Quiet!’ effectively reminded him of his worries and his laughter died.

  ‘There is something nasty about that fellow,’ said Lord Harley. ‘Watch how you go.’

  ‘I shall. I shall indeed. What a gross individual.’

  ‘And I suspect a cruel one,’ said Lord Harley slowly. ‘Do not let yourself be alone with him.’

  ‘If he tries anything, I shall trounce him,’ said Mr Fletcher.

  ‘You cannot trounce a knife in the back,’ said Lord Harley.

  6

  Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe,

  Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast

  Is that portentous phrase, ‘I told you so.’

  Lord Byron

  Mr Fletcher’s leg proved a bad weather-vane. The storm was raging as viciously as before when the travellers met in the kitchen. Emily was subdued. She had put on her wool gown again after giving it a good brushing, muslin having proved too cold for even a well-fired English inn. It was all very well to wear delicate muslins and silks when there were gentlemen to charm, but who was there to charm among this odd assembly? Certainly not Lord Ranger Harley, unfeeling brute that he was. He must know she was delicate. He had seen her faint at the very sound of his name. Hannah had pointed out to Emily that her faint was probably due to overexcitement and lack of food, having noticed that ‘Edward’ had eaten nothing on the journey until they reached Bagshot.

  Emily was feeling martyred and rather enjoying it. She looked at her pink, burnt fingers with a certain amount of satisfaction. How her parents would exclaim at her treatment. There would certainly be no question of their frail and beautiful daughter marrying such an ogre. But then that old uncomfortable thought crept into her mind. Lord Harley showed no signs of wanting to marry her. As she began to clear away the dirty dishes, she cast him a sidelong look. He was sitting at his ease at the head of the table. He was wearing a black coat with silver buttons and a ruffled shirt. His black hair shone in the lamplight and his black eyes were lazy and amused. Lizzie, too, was helping to clear up. She had collected a heavy pile of dishes. Lord Harley promptly jumped to his feet and took them from her. He never would have thought of doing that for me, sulked Emily, stalking off into the scullery.

  ‘It looks as if we are allocated dishwashing duties this morning,’ came Lord Harley’s voice behind her. ‘I observe you have burnt your fingers. You had best let me wash and you dry.’

  ‘It is nothing,’ said Emily mournfully. ‘I am become accustomed to pain.’

  ‘Mortification is good for the soul,’ he said heartlessly. ‘When you return to your pampered life and that chuckle-headed governess of yours, you will appreciate all the cosseting as never before. You will tell your future husband times out of number of your dreadful adventures on this particular journey, for no more adventures will happen to you.’

  ‘And what makes you think that?’ demanded Emily, watching him take off his coat and roll up his sleeves.

  ‘You are not the kind to have adventures,’ he said. ‘You think too much about yourself. People who think of others somehow make for themselves an adventurous life.’

  ‘But I do think of others!’ exclaimed Emily, cut to the quick.

  He gave her a gentle push aside and lifted a bucket of hot water from the floor and poured it into the sink. ‘Who, for instance?’

  ‘For instance,’ whispered Emily, ‘poor little Mrs Bisley. She must not marry that captain.’

  ‘And how do you think that can be prevented?’

  Emily’s eyes shone. ‘You could challenge him to a duel.’

  ‘I do not duel with such as Captain Seaton. In fact, I go to extreme lengths to avoid duels.’

  He handed Emily a dish to dry.

  ‘So,’ said Emily, rubbing the plate vigorously, ‘you are afraid, my lord.’

  ‘What heroes of the corner chimney-seat you ladies are! If you yourselves were in danger of having a yard of cold steel or a bullet through you in the early hours of the morning, it might change your attitude. Besides, I do not wish to seem to brag, but I am an expert shot and a tolerably good swordsman. Although I have been in many battles, strange as it may seem, I do not relish killing, nor, for that matter, should I kill someone in a duel, would I relish having to flee the country.’

  ‘Well, you think of something,’ said Emily pettishly.

  ‘Intimacy, Miss Freemantle, will work its own charms. I have great hopes of Mr Fletcher.’

  ‘But Mrs Bisley is promised to the captain. It would not be at all convenable for her to give him his marching orders.’

  ‘You are hardly in a position to discuss the conventions. Not for one moment did you spare a thought for my feelings.’

  He turned round from the sink and looked at her mockingly. Emily’s eyes were round with surprise. ‘But you haven’t got any!’

  ‘Just because I have decided I have had a lucky escape, Miss Freemantle, I am not devoid of feelings. For example, my poor heart aches for Mrs Bisley … so vulnerable, so charming, so feminine …’

  ‘And so old,’ said Emily waspishly.

  He looked at her with amusement and went back to washing dishes. Emily surveyed his elegant back. She had a longing to throw a plate at his head.

  She continued her work in grim silence and yet felt almost sorry, although she did not know why, when the dishes and pots were all cleaned and put away.

  Hannah, Mrs Bisley and Mrs Bradley were all preparing dinner. ‘Why do we not keep town hours?’ said Emily. ‘We could have a later dinner and not have to start work as soon as breakfast is over.’

  ‘There’s nothing else to do,’ said Hannah placidly. ‘Do you want to help here or will you do the bedchambers?’

  ‘I will do the bedchambers,’ said Emily.

  ‘I’ll be along to help you soon as I’ve finished,’ said Mrs Bradley.

  Emily went upstairs. She started with the Blue Room. Hannah Pym never left anything lying around, and so all Emily had to do was empty out the washing-water, which she did by opening the window and pouring the contents out into the storm. She raked out the hearth and carried the ashes downstairs. Mr Fletcher met her and said he would take the ashes outside to supply some grit for the paths the men were digging.

  She went back to the Blue Room and got the fire ready and set for lighting in the evening. Then she went to the Red Room. The bed there
was made up and the fire cleaned. All she had to do was dust. Lord Harley’s clothes were hung away in the wardrobe. Two books lay beside the bed. She picked one up. It was in ancient Greek and she put it down with an exclamation of disgust. She had been hoping to find a novel she could borrow. There was a miniature beside the bed. She picked it up. The face of a very pretty woman looked out at her. ‘So that’s your opera dancer,’ she said aloud.

  ‘No, not my opera dancer,’ said an amused voice from the doorway. ‘My mother.’

  Emily blushed, feeling like a snooping serving maid. He was leaning against the doorjamb watching her. She was conscious of his masculinity, of a sudden sharp awareness of sexual tension, of the large bed behind her, and of the dead silence created by the muffling snow outside.

  ‘It is fortunately very tidy in here,’ she said rather breathlessly. ‘I had better check the other rooms.’

  She approached the doorway. She had to pass very close to him. Her eyes flew up to meet his, wary and cautious. He raised his hands and she shrank back.

  ‘Fear not, Miss Freemantle,’ he mocked. ‘My solitaire is coming undone.’ He retied the black silk ribbon that confined his thick black hair at the nape of his neck and then smiled at her.

  She darted past him and went into a small narrow room next door. Captain Seaton had the luxury of sleeping alone. His room was like a pigsty – clothes thrown here and there, ash spilling out of the fire, water spilled on the floor, and the blankets half pulled off the bed.

  ‘Leave it,’ said Lord Harley from behind her. ‘Let the pig stew in his own muck.’

  ‘It must be very soul-destroying to be a chambermaid,’ said Emily.

  ‘I think a local girl would count herself fortunate to have a job which did not involve work in the scullery.’

  ‘Perhaps. It is all very lowering. You do not seem to mind.’

  ‘I am older than you. In my day …’ Lord Harley paused, thinking he sounded ancient. ‘In my day,’ he went on firmly, ‘we were expected to do everything a servant could do and better. That applied to the ladies as well. These days, I doubt if the new breed of married lady has ever seen the inside of her own kitchen.’