the christmas caper 3

 

III Departures and Meetings

 

Cecily waited for the house to go quiet. Whilst she waited, she packed a bag, including such cloths as she would need for monthly problems, two gowns, and underlinen. Her valise was not full, but she had ideas for the rest of it. Finally, all the creaks of movement settled down.

 If her father had left the key in the lock, all well and good; if not, well, that might be a problem.

Fortunately, he had done so.  Cecily tore a page from her commonplace book to push under the door, and used a paintbrush handle to push against the barrel of the key. She felt it shift, and slowly, slowly worked it out. It fell with a dull clatter. Cecily eased the paper back, glad that the sill was not large and was gently rounded. It took an hour to ease the key onto her side of the door. Cecily was almost sobbing with relief. She waited to make sure nobody had been disturbed, and unlocked the door. She almost screamed to see what looked like a tall, silent figure waiting on the landing; but it was no more than a curtain which had blown over a wall-mounted candelabrum and hung like a man in a hooded cloak. She breathed long and slow breaths whilst her hammering heart slowed down. She crept out of the room, locked it again, leaving the key in the lock. She headed for the servant’s stair, in stockinged feet, and made her way up to the attics.  Here she found a box room which, as well as the obvious boxes of the servants, contained trunks of old clothes. She knew what she was looking for, and uncovered the box of the schoolclothes of her dead brother, before whose demise life had been good, and Papa had neither drank nor gambled any more than any other man. She cut her hair in the gown she wore, which was soiled anyway, poking the hairs from her front ringlets and the hair long enough to make into a classical-style bun behind the water tank. Then she stripped to the skin, and put on the clothes which had once belonged to Christopher. The clothing seemed awkward, but she managed it at last, and was glad that one of the garments was a long, soft, woollen cloak, which was almost certainly wind and water-proof. She made her way back downstairs and into the kitchen, where she helped herself to a meal of bread, cheese, and ham, and emptied the servants’ fine box. It netted her no more than three shillings, but she hoped she would have enough to pay for a ride on a stage coach somewhere, anywhere, where she might get some kind of work. She went out of the back door, staying by the fence, in the shadow, to the walkway behind Gay Street’s houses.  She crossed the grassy square of Queen’s Square, which was supposed to be locked at night, but rarely ever was; then down past the theatre, down Westgate Street, and into Stall Street, and into the White Hart Inn. Her purpose for choosing this inn was that there were coaches coming and going at almost every hour of the day and night, and she hoped to lose herself in anonymity, as nobody could be expected to remember one more boy out of doubtless dozens.

She was lucky that one traveller, stopping for a hasty breakfast, had been called to the coach; the coaches did not wait on convenience. Cecily finished the barely-started hot cup of coffee, and ate the second coddled egg and toast that went with it.

The sky lightened as she sat back, feeling better, and another coach came into the yard.  A tall man came in, with a many-caped coat and a top hat; and Cecily might have thought him a gentleman, but for the yellow scarf worn instead of a neckcloth, with red, black, and white birds’ eyes patterns on it. She went over to him.

“Excuse me, are you the coachman for a stage coach, and do you have room for one?” she asked.

“I tell you what, you can ride on the box with me, and pay your way by talking to me so I don’t drift off into the killing sleep of cold,” said the man.

 “Thank you,” Cecily replied.

 

 

Beatrice could not afford a vail for someone to lug her trunk down for her, and must perforce do it herself. She went out into the yard of the Angel Inn, and checked the pocket book in her reticule, on which she had written the times of the coach to Cheltenham, where Mrs. Fenchurch and her hopeful progeny resided. A very fashionable looking young man on a high-perch phaeton of the most modern kind, painted pale yellow and picked out in dark blue, swept into the yard and came to a halt. He had crisp curly hair, as she might see, as he doffed his hat to her, as if she was a real lady, and under a heavy cloak, he wore a coat of dark blue superfine, with pale yellow Inexpressibles, matching his equipage’s paintwork. The colour echoed the colours of the waistcoats once worn by the now largely defunct Four Horse Club, and Beatrice wondered if it were deliberate. She sighed; partly over having to wait in the cold for her transport, as she was not about to drag her trunk back in, and partly over imagining that so smart a young gentleman had raised his hat to her as an acquaintance, not out of general politeness. The freezing air promptly enveloped her in a cloud of embarrassing condensation.

The young exquisite spoke up.

“I suspect the stages will be behind schedule on these treacherous icy roads; going up and down hill,” he said.  “Can I give you a lift anywhere?”

“It depends where you are going, sir,” said Beatrice, hoping he was heading north, and wondering about lying and going with him anyway wherever he went.

“Oh, I’m exercising my nags,” said the young man. “I can please myself. Or, indeed, you.”

“Oh, well, if you are going part of the way, I was heading for Cheltenham,” she said.

“Well, if you’ll hold my horse’s heads, I can load up your trunk and we can get going,” said the young man.

Beatrice was nothing loath to hold the horses’ heads; she had no fear of horses, though she had had very little opportunity to have much to do with them. She talked gently to them, and he lifted her trunk, and tied it down, over the rear axle in the shelf below the body of the phaeton.  She stepped away when he remounted and took up the reins; then he was leaning over to help her scramble in.

“Here,” said he. “There’s a blanket to put over yourself; it gets chilly.”

“You are very kind,” murmured Beatrice. Her heart hammered.

I am having an adventure and I am going to enjoy it, however horrid the Fenchurch children are, she thought to herself.

 

 

 

Lily ate her ‘doorstep,’ and felt much better for it. She had a few rather leathery roast chestnuts in her pelisse pocket as well, from the last time she had been out, and had had a penny for roast chestnuts, and had carefully saved about a third of them. It added to the meal. She climbed up onto the dresser, which gave her the height to reach the window. It was the work of a moment to be out of the window, with practised ease, and into the gutter behind the fancy stonework of the facade which hid the servants’ rooms. She went back through the window of the room next door, which was the box room. This was never locked, and was her way out of a locked room. It also had discarded and laid aside clothes in trunks in it. Lily helped herself to a couple of gowns which Annabelle had had put away the previous year to refurbish; she had worn each just once. There was no point travelling in finery, but it was worth having two decent gowns, even if they were last year’s fashion, and moreover, it deprived Annabelle of having them to have made over. This piece of petty spite heartened Lily considerably. She was not usually given to spite, but the demand to hand over her legacy had been the last straw.

She made her way downstairs, and let herself out into the area, rather than risk rousing the footmen at the back of the house. She ran up the steps on light feet, and headed up towards the centre of town, planning to go into an inn to eat, and then go to the bank to instruct her bank manager, and put it in writing if need be, that her legacy was never to go to her sister or her parents.

She was crossing the Market Square when a young man in a gig drove up beside her, and lifted his hat from sleek, dark locks.

“Excuse me, you look as if you need help,” he said. Lily gasped. One heard stories of dreadful rakes. But he appeared amiable.

“Oh! I should not... you look harmless,” she said.

“I am harmless,” he replied. “Where are you off to?”

“Milsom Street, number two,” she said, and then realised this was a stupidly trite answer. “I... I need to visit the bank before I do anything else.”

The young man fetched his watch out of his pocket in his sober, but rich waistcoat, and consulted it.

“It’s almost eight; there should be someone there. You are not leaving Bath?” he sounded disappointed.

“Oh! Yes, but I must see my bank manager first, so I am not defrauded.” She flushed, realising that she looked like some modern day Cinderella. “I know, I do not look as if I have much to be defrauded from, but now I am one-and-twenty, I resent my small portion being usurped.”

“Intriging!” The young man seemed genuinely interested. “And where to, after the bank?”

“Anywhere,” she said, recklessly.

“Hop up, then; the bank first, and then, my lady, your carriage awaits, and I shall hi you off to Lady Frideswide Wrothling, who is as senile as a coot, but has some entertainingly warm stories of her days at court,” said the young man.

“May I ask your name?” asked Lily.

“Simon Havershall, at your service,” said Simon.

“May I rely on you to put a notice in the Morning Post if anything happens to me, mentioning Lily Flowers and Cinderella? I am about to make my will and leave everything to my maid, Ella, who has been the only decent person in my life until you stopped to help me; but I do not think you are short of money, and it would make all the difference to her.”

“I’d be delighted,” said Simon. “And you can tell me the whole story on the way.”

 

Lily was glad that she was able to see her bank manager, and make a will, naming Simon Havershall, esq, as an executor alongside her bank manager.

“I was shocked when your father wanted me to draw up a document in which you handed all your inheritance to your sister,” he said. “I am happy to comply with your wishes, and to tie up the capital too tightly to be accessed by anyone but yourself, in person.  However, you will need an introduction to another bank to draw on the interest; if you are leaving Bath, I suggest that you carry a sum with you which will cover all immediate needs; perhaps one hundred pounds, in smaller notes, and some in coin.”

“Yes, I think that is a good idea,” said Lily. She told him about Simon.

“I am not acquainted personally with the young man, but I know nothing to his detriment, and if he is taking you to Lady Frideswide Wrothling, there can be no concern,” he said. “Mr. Havershall is a cousin of her great-nephew, Jeremy, Viscount Wrothlington, a young man about town, but of good reputation, like his other cousin, the Honourable Nicholas Derwent.”

Lily went out, beaming, and got into the gig with Simon.

“My bank manager has heard of you and knows nothing to your detriment,” she said.

“By Jove! I’m not sure if that’s a compliment or an insult!” laughed Simon. “There’s a soft furnishings store up here somewhere, need to buy you a quilt to keep you warm. Can you hold the nags?”

“I don’t know, but they don’t seem fiery, so I’ll do my best,” said Lily. “How thoughtful of you!”

“I don’t think much of people who treat family like Cinderella,” said Simon.

“I’m the ugly one,” said Lily.

“Ugly! Why, you’re beautiful!” said Simon. “And what glorious hair you have!”

“I... you mean it?” gasped Lily.

“I do; now give me a name for a name,” said Simon.

“Lily – Elizabeth, that is – Hendry,” said Lily.

“A Tiger-Lily indeed!” said Simon. “Here, hold the nags.”

He was in and out of the store quickly with an exotically patterned quilt.

“You outshine it, but it will not blush as much for being cast in the shade as some of the paler and plainer ones,” he said. “It has feathers in it so you should be warm. Why are you crying?”

“I’m not used to people being kind,” said Lily.

 

 

 

the christmas caper 2

 

II Three Ladies

 

Cecily Dacres

Beatrice Lockwood

Elizabeth [Lily] Hendry

 

 

“Don’t make such a fuss, Cecy!” snapped Mrs. Dacres. “It’ll soon be over. Then he’ll stop wanting you and you’ll be free to marry if you want. You can take a little knife into the marriage bed to make a small cut under your hair to simulate losing your maidenhead.”

“But I... I don’t want to sleep with Lord Ashdowne!” said Cecily. “And even if anyone did want to marry me afterwards, I would know! I would be sullied!”

“What a lot of fuss over nothing!” said Mrs. Dacres. “Men are disgusting, all of them, and you just have to put up with the bedroom side of matters from time to time. Once you’ve had a child you can deny a husband your bed and he’ll go find a mistress. Honestly!”

“Does Papa know you feel like this? Does he know you are trying to sell my virtue to Lord Ashdowne?” spat out Cecily.

“Oh, honestly, Cecy! Of course Papa knows; he suggested I should have a little talk to you, to bring you to heel, so that Lord Ashdowne does not forclose on the loans he made to Papa. He’s willing to write them off to lie with you.”

“Well, if it’s such a little thing, why don’t you lie with him?” asked Cecily.

“Don’t be silly, child! He wants to take your virginity and enjoy teaching you about how many ways he can humiliate you; I already know, so I would not be amusing to him.”

“I want to hear Papa say that this is what he wants,” said Cecily, shocked.

Mrs. Dacres sighed with relief.

“Of course, my sweet,” she said. “I knew you would see sense. I’ll ask Papa to come to you.”

Cecily sat on her bed, shocked beyond measure. She looked up when her father came in.

“Cecy, you cannot imagine how relieved I am that you are prepared to be practical,” said Mr. Dacres.

“You want me to give my virtue to Lord Ashdowne, because you owe him money; is that right?” asked Cecily.

“He has been buying up all my vowels, I had no idea how deep I was with gambling; but he will write them all off, just to have you to himself for a week,” said Mr. Dacres.  “And then we can start the New Year fresh and free from debt, and able to be happy again.”

“And am I supposed to be happy again when I have been... used... by that disgusting old man?” asked Cecily.

“Oh, Cecy, it’s a woman’s lot in life; just shut your eyes and put up with it, and then it will be all over.”

“Why don’t you let him use you, like you said men like Lord Byron do?” retorted Cecily.

“It’s not the same at all,” snapped Dacres. “Please don’t tell me you are going to be difficult about this.”

“Do I have a choice?” asked Cecily, bitterly.

“No, my dear, I’m afraid not,” said her father.

“Leave me alone, please,” said Cecily.

“Of course, my dear. You need time to come to terms with it. I will call upon Lord Ashdowne tomorrow, and tell him that you will comply.”

He withdrew from Cecily’s room.

He did remember to lock the door.

 

oOoOo

 

Beatrice Lockwood dragged her life packed into a travelling trunk into the Angel Inn, in Westgate Street, one of the cheaper inns, and dating back, it was said, to 1611 and with a resident ghost, named Alice. Beatrice wondered if the ghost was lonely, and whether she would welcome a companion; for surely if she committed suicide, she would be denied Heaven, and must wander as a ghost. And Beatrice had reached the point where she wondered if joining Alice would be preferable to her inevitable descent into prostitution, the only option for a destitute woman without a reference.

She was totally shamed. Could anything be worse?

Beatrice thought over the events of the last few days over and over in her mind. Last week, she had been a preceptress at a young ladies’ academy on Queens Square, a well-paid job, thirty guineas a year and her keep, and the option to stay on free during the long holidays and help the servants do a thorough clean. Beatrice had been there for nearly three years; and then Amelia Spottiswode came as a pupil. Amelia Spottiswode, a spoilt, selfish child, who bullied those she thought she could push around, demanded what she wanted, and did not take discipline. Beatrice had disciplined her for impudence by banning puddings for a week, and when Amelia grabbed the puddings of other girls, Beatrice had dragged her to the punishment table where what Amelia was fed could be watched.

And the child had calmly got up to grab someone else’s pudding! Beatrice had struck it from her hands and sent the child to bed; indeed, had marched the child up to her bedroom.

And then, there had been the accusation of theft, and Amelia’s bracelet found in Beatrice’s room.

“I know you didn’t take it, Beatrice,” said Mrs. Spenlowe, the head preceptress, “But if I don’t fire you, that wretched child will have her parents send to Bow Street. I cannot afford the bad publicity, nor the shame, and you would end up in prison, hanged for the value of that bauble, or transported at least, and what good would that do? You cannot prove she put it there, and nor can I. It is better if I let you go, and hope that associating with nicer girls will have an impact on Miss. Spotiswode.”

“And if she decides to do the same thing to you, Mrs. Spenlowe, to get her own way in something?” asked Beatrice.

“I am sure she would not go that far,” said Mrs. Spenlowe, comfortably. “I cannot, of course, give you a reference, but I can give you a couple of letters of introduction, and write privately to those I’ve given you notes for. Mrs. Fenchurch is one of my old girls, who has a full nursery herself, now, and finds them hard to control, and Miss Williams is a former preceptress here, who set up her own school and finds it hard to keep staff.”

“Sour milk and cabbages!” cried Beatrice, who remembered Miss Williams from her own days as a pupil, when there was some trust money left to educate her to be a governess.

“Dear me, that is what the pupils used to call her,” said Mrs. Spenlowe. “She is a trifle... nipcheese... but it is a place to start over and move on to better things.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Spenlowe,” said Beatrice, tonelessly.

“It will all soon blow over,” said Mrs. Spenlowe.

No, it will never blow over, thought Beatrice. I will always be ‘the governess who was sacked for suspected stealing; no smoke without fire. But she said nothing. What was there to say?

And now, she had to choose between Mrs. Fenchurch and her doubtless ill-conditioned children, because that would be Amy Durrel, whose wedding had been a matter of gossip in the school, and Amy had spoiled her pet pug to the point where the poor creature died crying of dropsy. Beatrice could imagine her children, fat, white slugs of children, as lazy and self-indulgent as their mother.

Beatrice sighed, lay her aching head on the thin pillow in this cheap room, and sobbed herself to sleep.

 

oOoOo

 

“Now you’ve turned one-and-twenty, Lily, here’s something you need to sign,” said Mr. Hendry, pushing a document into his daughter’s hand. Elizabeth, known as Lily, Hendry read it through, and pushed it away from her.

“Papa, that’s ridiculous! That paper says that I sign over my legacy from Great-Uncle Paul to Annabelle, in its entirety.”

“Well, yes, that’s the general idea,” said Hendry. “You won’t need a dowry; you’re the plain one, so you won’t be getting married, and doubling Annabelle’s dowry gives her a better chance of getting married, and then you can go to her as nursemaid and governess for her children, so you’ll be taken care of for life.”

“And what makes you think I want to be an unpaid skivvy to Annabelle and be governess to her children, Papa?” said Lily.

“Don’t be tiresome, Lily,” snapped Mr. Hendry. “Annabelle is our golden girl, and you know you’ve been raised always to do your duty to her; this is a continuation of that duty.”

“With two hundred a year from the funds, I intended to move out, and live quietly with a companion in an apartment, and never see you or Annabelle again,” said Lily.

“How could you be so selfish!  You don’t deserve a legacy; Uncle Paul never knew what a tiresome child you were, and how much training you would need to learn your place,” added her mother. “There are ways of making you sign, you know; if you are kept hungry and thirsty for a few days, you will soon sign.”

Elizabeth Hendry pulled the parchment back towards herself, smiled, and her parents relaxed.

“There’s a good girl. You do come round when you’ve had your little rebellions,” said her mother.

Lily’s little rebellions involved asking why Annabelle had treats, and she did not, and asking for ice-cream when Annabelle had some, or asking for a new bonnet or new gown.

This time was enough.

She rose in one fluid movement, and thrust the document into the fire, grabbing the poker to push it right into the blaze.

Her father slapped her so hard, she fell over, and was hard pressed not to fall into the fire herself.

“Bedroom!” he shouted. “And no food or drink until there’s another document to sign!”

“Then I will probably be dead before it can be signed, and, as I recall, the legacy reverts to an orphan asylum if either of us die intestate and unwed,” said Lily.

“You had better be ready to sign the next copy; I had to pay to have that drawn up, the blasted bank would not do so without you calling on them,” said her father.

Lily filed away that interesting fact, and took herself meekly to the bedroom at the top of the house next to the chamber-maid, a far cry from the pretty and luxurious bedroom of her younger sister, Annabelle. Annabelle pinched her as she went past her.

“You’re mean to me, Lily; stop being so selfish,” she said. “With four hundred pounds a year, I can have a decent life, and it’s not as if you’re fit for anything but to be a governess or superior sort of servant anyway.”

“Why?” asked Lily, swinging round. “Why is Annabelle the golden girl, and why am I not fit to be a proper daughter to you?”

“You’ve always been trouble,” snapped her mother. “I was ill all through my pregnancy with you, and you were a sickly child, and always causing trouble by being ill. And look at you! Straight ginger hair, freckles, green eyes like a witch, and you’ve always watched us, it’s uncanny.”

“Maybe because I was watching for a sign of when I was in trouble and trying to guess why,” said Lily.

“You’re always in trouble, because you exist,” said Mrs. Hendry. “Now, go up to your room; there are worse things than being a governess for your sister’s children, you could be put away.”

Lily retreated. That was a frightening threat. Though they would have to have her signature before doing so. She knew she would not have any food that night, and was resigned to it, but at least Ella, the chambermaid, was sympathetic and might manage to sneak her a bit of bread.

Knowing that her parents and sister would not be leaving the warmth of the parlour fire, and would probably loudly discuss her shortcomings for a while, Lily did something she had done at times, to be able to buy street food when she was hungry, and went into her sister’s, and then parents’ bedrooms to search through reticules and pockets for loose change. Her sister and parents were careless about loose change, and never knew exactly how much they had, and Lily was able to abstract two pounds eighteen shillings, which would feed her for almost three months, if she was frugal. A plate of meat or fish and potatoes was eightpence in a cheap eating-house, she could drink from horse troughs and most eating houses provided piped water free. Tea and coffee were much dearer.  A meal a day if she stayed at home, because Lily knew ways of getting out of her locked room. Or, she could stay in a cheap inn, when her expenses would rise to around three shillings a day, giving her a little under three weeks.

But she was of age, now, and could visit her bank.

She got up to her own attic room just before her father came up to lock her in.

“We’ll feed you, but don’t expect to eat like family,” he said.

“I’ve long since realised that you are relatives, not family,” said Lily.

This was risky, as he might take his belt to her, but he merely slammed the door, making spiders fall from the rafters, and locked the door.

Ella slipped in with a thick ‘doorstep’  of bread-and-dripping, and a carafe of water, unlocking the door with another house key; all the locks were the same, as was common.

“Hide the carafe in the ewer, same as always,” she said.

“Bless you, Ella,” said Lily. “This is goodbye; I’m leaving.”

“Ooh, miss, do take care,” said Ella. “If you can send for me, I’d take board and lodging to serve you, not them.”

Lily embraced her.

“I’d take you with me, but I’m not sure where I’m going, or if I can get somewhere safe,” she said. “But they’re threatening me with Bedlam, and I can’t take that.”

“No, miss, I should think not!” said Ella.

“They get the Morning Post from London; I can put an advertisement in that from anywhere, and I’ll say something about a Lily flower and Cinderella,” said Lily.

“Ooh, just like a novel!” said Ella, happily, able to read fluently enough to find that in advertisements.

 

The Christmas Caper 1

 

I three young gentlemen

 

Jeremy Wrothling viscount Wrothlington

Hon Nicholas Derwent

Simon Havershall

 

“Well?” demanded the Honourable Nicholas Derwent.

“You don’t have to ask; look at his face,” said Simon Havershall.

Jeremy Wrothling, viscount Wrothlington, flung himself into a chair in the suite shared by the young men in the ‘York House’ hotel in Bath. He was a blond young man dressed almost casually, but in perfectly fitting clothes of the finest quality, save for the bird’s eye wipe he wore instead of a standard cravat.

“You were right, Nicky,” he said. “Jessica threw my ring at me.”

“How did you frame it?” asked Simon. He was as dark as his friend was fair, small, neat of build, with eyes that missed nothing.

“As we agreed; I asked her how she would feel if there was a broken entail, meaning that someone else was the viscount, not me. She screeched at me about leading her on and that she would only marry a dull dog like me if she could be a viscountess.”

“Dull dog? But you’re a top-of-the-trees Corinthian, a sportsman extraordinaire, a whip of the finest,” said Simon. “Talk about dull, don’t she even realise that a title from your pater can’t be subject to a broken entail?”

“Nicky was right, talk to a female with legal terms, and most of the time, their eyes glaze over,” said Jeremy.

“Said she would,” said Nicky Derwent. Nicky was a cousin to both the others, through the female line, and had wavy golden-brown locks and a dreamy look. He was usually the least loquacious of the three, but wrote poetry which was better for not being addressed to women of his acquaintance. “Look how Amelia carried on about me being a younger son, and there not being much chance of Dan dying now the war was over. Deuced bad form. And she sneered at the Viking ring I dug up and wanted to give her as a love-token, because I thought she entered into my feelings about antiquities.”

“And I caught Lydia sneaking round with Caldicott and kissing him in the conservatory,” said Simon.

“Most people use the lips,” said Jeremy.

“Put your damned sarcasm away,” said Simon.  “And do you know what she said to me? She said a lady had to keep her options open, because there was no point settling for second best. I thought she loved me.”

“Caldicott’s a rake,” said Jeremy.

“He’s a damned loose screw,” said Nicky.

“Women seem to like dangerous men,” said Jeremy.

“Which is why those who know you’re a nonesuch throw themselves at you,” said Simon. “Are we going through with it?”

“Yes,” said Jeremy.  “We each go to a posting inn, and see if there is a lone young lady, and she must be a lady, and induce her to travel with us. Take her to my hunting box, that being the better part of three hours travel, twenty miles, and if the women like us for our own sweet sakes, we marry them, because they can chaperone each other. Besides, my Great-Aunt Frideswide lives there with her companion, which does for the look of it.”

“We won’t have to talk to them, will we?” said Nicky, in lively horror. “Your great-aunt is crazy and her companion is first cousin to the Grim Reaper.”

“Aggie isn’t that bad,” said Jeremy. “She just feels the responsibility of caring for Aunt Frid, who is in her second childhood. She has her meals in private, now, so you need not worry that she will take all her clothes off at dinner like she did last time. Or, at least, she might, but you won’t have to see it. She was a famous courtesan in her time, and knew a number of royal dukes intimately.”

“All very well, but it was a shock to know her a bit too intimately,” said Nicky.

“Aggie keeps an eye on her, and they have a brawny maid in case Aunt Frid goes wandering,” said Jeremy. “And it’s not like summer storms when she goes outside in her shift to dance. Poor old thing, if it gives her pleasure, why should we decry it?”

“Because it’s scary,” said Nicky, frankly.

“I don’t mind the old lady,” said Simon. “When she’s lucid, her tales are delightful. I have been keeping notes, and one day I will use them in a novel which I will dedicate to her.”

“She’d like that, if she understood,” said Jeremy, touched. “Good; we’ll set off tomorrow. I expect I’ll be slow, as I only have a carriage with me, bringing the mater and her bevy of dressers, maids, companions and vestals with her.”

“You can fit six in the family carriage, does that constitute a bevy?” asked Simon.

“It feels like a bevy,” said Jeremy, firmly.

“Yes, I imagine it probably does,” said Simon. “As long as you don’t have to carry her cicisbeo as well.”

Jeremy shuddered.

“I can’t stand him,” he said. “I couldn’t stand him when the pater was alive, either. I know it’s fashionable to take lovers, but I want a wife who is satisfied with me, and with whom I would be satisfied.”

“How uxorious of you!” said Simon, lightly. “Not that I disagree. And this is why we are kidnapping poor but virtuous ladies in the hopes that they will be more convivial than the gold-diggers we meet in society.  ‘Oh, Simon’s so safe and steady, he could keep me in comfort, but I want excitement as well,’ which is what Lydia said.”

“Put her from your mind, old man,” said Jeremy. “By the time she realises what a mistake she’s made, with luck, you’ll be safely married.”

“What if they’re under twenty-one?” asked Nicky.

“If they’re alone in the world, they won’t have a guardian,” said Jeremy. “Oh, well, there’s always Scotland.”

“In December? You have rats in the attic,” said Nicky.

“Hush! We write to an importer of whisky I know, and have him bring a consignment south; and a chaplain. Then, onboard ship, we are on sovereign territory of Scotland.”

“Does it count?” asked Simon, dubiously.

“If we talk very fast, and don’t back down it counts,” said Jeremy. “It’s a casuistry which has been used for making treaties.”

“Well, I don’t suppose anyone else knows, either,” said Simon. “So, they can’t refute it.”  He considered. “Are we going to choose inns so we don’t go to the same place?”

“Good thought,” said Jeremy. “I thought I’d go to the White Hart.”

“Isn’t it a bit prestigious for the sort of ladies we’re looking for?” asked Nicky.

“It’s the main posting inn,” said Jeremy. “Someone doesn’t have to be staying there to be there.  I thought I’d give it a day there, and then try The Three Tuns, in Stall Street.”

“Good idea, to have a second one to go to,” said Nicky. “I thought I’d go to the Angel Inn, Westgate Street, it’s respectable, but cheap. Then, oh, The Saracen’s Head in Broad Street.”

“I’ll try The White Lion, and The Christopher, in Market Place,” said Simon.

“A toast, to our success,” said Jeremy.

 

They set out the next morning, through frost crackling underfoot. It had not snowed much, but older folk said it was too cold to snow.

Jeremy drove to the White Hart, asked for his horses to be watered, and threw blankets over them. He went into the tap room, where visitors congregated, and propped himself up at the bar, ignoring the flirtatious wriggles of the tapster’s daughter and her low-cut dress.

There were not many people in there yet, but Jeremy’s eyes were drawn to a youth, in rather outmoded clothing, worn appallingly badly.

There was something about the way the youth moved that made Jeremy’s eyes narrow.

Then the youth came up to him. 

The voice was well-modulated, obviously educated.

“Excuse me, are you the coachman for a stage coach, and do you have room for one?” the youth asked.

“I tell you what, you can ride on the box with me, and pay your way by talking to me so I don’t drift off into the killing sleep of cold,” said Jeremy.

“Thank you,” the youth replied.

 

Nicky pulled into the Angel Inn, in his phaeton, as a young woman in dowdy clothing, but obviously a lady, pulled a trunk which was too heavy for her into the inn yard. She consulted a pocket book in her reticule, and sighed. The sigh condensed in a cloud about her.

Nicky raised his hat.

“I suspect the stages will be behind schedule on these treacherous icy roads; going up and down hill,” he said.  “Can I give you a lift anywhere?”

“It depends where you are going, sir,” her voice was softly modulated.

“Oh, I’m exercising my nags,” said Nicky. “I can please myself. Or, indeed, you.”

“Oh, well, if you are going part of the way, I was heading for Cheltenham,” she said.

“Well, if you’ll hold my horse’s heads, I can load up your trunk and we can get going,” said Nicky. The young lady did hold his horse’s heads, without fear, and she stepped away when he remounted and took up the reins, leaning over to help her scramble in.

“Here,” said Nicky. “There’s a blanket to put over yourself; it gets chilly.”

 

Simon hesitated at the Market Place, in his gig, deciding whether to go to The White Lion, or The Christopher, it still being very early, when he saw a young woman, dowdily dressed in clothes which had seen much darning, and she was carrying a cheap valise. Her clothes were those of the upper class, out of date, but once stylish. She might be a dresser, of course, gifted her mistress’s clothes.

Simon decided to take a chance on her.

“Excuse me, you look as if you need help,” he said.

“Oh! I should not... you look harmless,” she said. Her voice was definitely that of a lady.

“I am harmless,” said Simon. “Where are you off to?”

“Milsom Street, number two,” she said. “I... I need to visit the bank before I do anything else.”

Simon consulted his watch.

“It’s almost eight; there should be someone there. You are not leaving Bath?”

“Oh! Yes, but I must see my bank manager first, so I am not defrauded.” She flushed. “I know, I do not look as if I have much to be defrauded of, but now I am one-and-twenty, I resent my small portion being usurped.”

“Intriging!” said Simon. “And where to, after the bank?”

“Anywhere,” she said.

“Hop up, then; the bank first, and then, my lady, your carriage awaits, and I shall hie you off to Lady Frideswide Wrothling, who is as senile as a coot, but has some entertainingly warm stories of her days at court,” said Simon, who found dissembling hard.