Chapter 13
Julian was going to the private parlour for breakfast when Joey came in.
“Beg pardon, milord, there’s a boy has rid in from Huntingdon.”
“You’d better sent the poor lad in to breakfast with us; and yes, you can join us, and I’ll pay him to help you take the nags back.”
Joey brought in the cold, wet lad, who was not averse to a pint of hot coffee and some food.
“Two men, in your phaeton, milord. My da knows your phaeton, and he knows your men, and like the sort o’ men you hire, these two ain’t, not nowise, he said,” the boy spoke around sausage and egg to get his tale out.
“Eat, lad, and tell your tale when you’re full,” said Julian. Young Pip, for such was the boy’s name, gratefully obeyed. He was not likely to get his fill of vittles of this quality in a hurry again, and he was hungry, being at that age when a boy grows almost overnight. Julian ate unconcernedly, as did Anne, so Joey did credit to the viands brought as well.
Pip gave a sigh of satisfaction, as he satisfied his needs, gulped down the rest of his coffee, wiped the back of his hand over his mouth, and delivered himself of his budget of news, not neglecting his father’s asides on the so-called gentleman and his whatever-he-was.
“Well, that puts them a day behind us,” said Julian. “As we had at best two hours’ start on them when we left, I’m not about to worry about that. Right, young Pip; here’s a guinea for your father for recognising my equipage and having the sense to send you on; and another guinea for you for your ride through the night. And Joey’s done well as well, so a guinea for you, lad, and ten bob each to get those horses back safely.”
It was largesse beyond Pip’s dreams of avarice, though Joey knew his lordship was generous to those who served him well. His father would get a nice bonus in his pay packet too.
Julian got out his map.
“We’ll make for Retford,” he said. “If the journey goes well, we might go on into Bawtry, but if not, it’s of no moment.”
“I place myself in your hands,” said Anne.
“If we can keep a day ahead, there comes a point at which those heading for Gretna turn to the west,” said Julian. “As we are keeping on, using the Edinburgh road, I think we shall give them the slip that way.”
“It sounds eminently sensible,” said Anne. “Where does one turn off to head west?”
“Just outside a village called Ferrybridge,” said Julian. “The road forks; the right hand way goes into York, the left hand way carries on north but starts to veer west, and then on to Carlisle, which is the last stop in England on that side of the country.” He turned to Pip. “What’s the weather like, Pip?”
“Frosty and clear, windless,” said Pip.
“Excellent,” said Julian. “Of course, it helps Denver, not having the Phaeton blown about, but I doubt he knows how to get the most out of it.”
“They got all their luggage up in front,” sniggered Pip.
“They have? Famous,” said Julian. “And two grown men in the front seat, too.”
“What does this mean?” asked Anne.
“It’s a very light vehicle, and that means it’s inclined to fishtail – waggle about on the road like a fish’s tail,” explained Julian. “It obviates the advantage of a light vehicle by slowing it down. And making it dangerous to drive. You need to put some weight under the carriage over the rear axle to stabilise it. Or sit someone on the rumble seat. It’s like ballast on a boat. I may not have a yacht, but I know how to row and how to balance the weight to get the best out of a cox’d eight.”
“And there’s Alconbury Hill,” said Pip, in delight.
“The phaeton is fitted with brakes,” said Julian.
“But does Mister Nastyface know that?” asked Pip.
“Good point,” said Julian.
He and his coaches were on the road by half past six, and with no regrets over losing a quarter of an hour for Pip’s budget of news.
“My, it’s all very red brick,” said Anne, as they swept out of the town. “I did not notice, last night. I think it was getting dark.”
“My sweet, I carried you in, still sleeping,” said Julian.
“You did? Oh! I scarcely remember. Yes, of course, you awoke me to eat,” said Anne. “Do not laugh at me!”
“I laugh because it was sweet,” said Julian. “You were curled up in the coach like a kitten with one paw over your nose, the way cats hold their noses in sleep, as if afraid of them dropping off.”
“Oh, Julian! I am glad you did not mind.”
“Not in the least,” said Julian.
oOoOo
Denver and Wilcox were later on the road, for having been exhausted from fighting the phaeton all the way.
“I don’t know why these young blades bother with such vehicles, they go sideways more than straight,” grumbled Denver, casting his luggage into the boot at the front.
The horses were more willing to tackle Alconbury hill this morning, though they did not like the way the phaeton wagged like a tail.
“You’ll have to get out and use the brake,” said Denver, at the top. Wilcox grumbled, but got out.
“There’s no brake,” he said, panicked.
“Well, then, hang on to the back,” said Denver. Wilcox grumbled under his breath but took a good hold of the frame. Denver, unaware of having brakes, kept the horses on a short rein; but it was not enough, and Wilcox lost his grip. The carriage, out of control, started to overtake the horses.
The team panicked, and ran, causing them to slither on the light frost of the steep hill, and the left-hand wheeler kicked back as hard as it might, and Denver leaped from his seat as the hooves crashed through wheel and frame.
The phaeton slewed round to the side, and the horses ran off the road, leaping the ditch, and coming to a halt as the lightweight vehicle tried to follow and smashed into smithereens.
“Well, that’s done it,” said Wilcox. “What now?”
“We shall have to ride,” said Denver. “How very inconsiderate of Ravenscar to have so flimsy a vehicle.”
“You know what? If you want to ride, you’re on your own,” said Wilcox. “I don’t ride.”
“You aren’t much bloody help,” said Denver. “Well, the horses seem fine; we’ll lead them on to the next place which has more than four shacks and a pigsty and see if I can’t trade a couple of them, and buy a curricle. Safer that a phaeton, anyway.”
The pair were lucky to limp into Sawtry after a little over a mile’s trek, a lively village which did well in the repairing of carriages which had come to grief in a relatively minor way; and a curricle rejected by its original owners on grounds of costing too much to repair was readily traded for a pair of horses.
By the time this trade was made, it was almost midday, and even with the faster vehicle the pair would be lucky to get further that day than Stamford.
oOoOo
Julian took the long incline of Gonersby Hill at a moderate pace, and permitted the horses to rest at the top, in Gonersby, in the sign of The Recruiting Sergeant.
“Probably named for Oliver Cromwell, who started off around these parts,” he said.
“Or for the farce of that name, if it was performed here,” said Anne. “It’s part, too, of the song, ‘Johnny, I hardly knew you.’
“A recruiting sergeant came this way
To an inn nearby, at the break of day,
Johnny came too with half a ring
He was off to be a soldier, to be fighting for the king…” sang Julian.
“That’s the one,” said Anne. “There are several versions.”
She joined him on the box and they drove on singing folk-songs to while away the journey to Newark, crossing the river with the picturesque ruined castle as their guide into the town.
“A royalist stronghold,” said Julian. “The church spire is the main claim to fame here; it’s not as tall as the one in Grantham but some hold it to be finer.”
Anne giggled.
“You sound as if you are selling it to me,” she said.
“Well, I did bone up on landmarks to try to entertain you,” said Julian.
“Oh, Julian! How sweet of you,” said Anne. “Thank you; I appreciate it. And here in the market square, we are spoiled for choice of inns.”
“Not the Kingston Arms,”[1] said Julian. “Byron likes it, and I have no very great opinion of Byron.”
Anne giggled.
“Oh, and yet, ‘There is a laughing devil in your sneer,’ when you are dealing with horrid people, just like Byron’s ‘Corsair.’”
“Madam! As someone you once called a Botticelli Angel, I must be wounded!” gasped Julian, dramatically placing his hand on his heart.
“Oh, do watch what you are about with the whip!” giggled Anne.
“I should have waited until we stopped to play high theatricals,” said Julian. “I believe the servants call it my ‘Stormcrow’ look.”
“Very suitable,” said Anne.
“We’ll go to the Ram Inn,” decided Julian. “It is by Beast Market Hill, by which we leave the town.”
“I will be guided by you,” said Anne.
“Up until the moment you disagree, I hope,” said Julian.
“Well, yes,” said Anne. “But I see no point disagreeing for the sake of it. And I cannot admire Lord Byron for his scandalous life even if he did not write poetry of such length that one endures it rather than enjoying it.”
“He’s paid by the word,” said Julian, slanderously.
Once down Beast Market Hill, and over the bridge, the land was flat, and the ‘thirty arms’ of the River Trent described by Milton ran through the landscape. Julian had retired inside with Anne.
“The scenery is nothing of note, and even Scarthing Moor as was has disappeared beneath cultivation,” he said. “Eight miles of boredom, and that’s why I pay Joseph and Robbie a good wage, to endure it.”
Joseph, opening the hatch, having heard this, chuckled.
“Boring landscape makes for easy to drive roads, and I ain’t about to complain,” he said. “I take it we’re pausing in Tuxford?”
“Yes,” said Julian.
“Well, my lord, if I go up the hill into the village, you can have the fun of going down and up thereafter,” said Joseph, with the daring of an old retainer.
Julian laughed.
“What, and then let you have Barnby Moor between Retford and Bawtry?” he quipped.
“I’ll endure it, my lord,” said Joseph.
“What happens on Barnby Moor?” asked Anne.
“A wind so lazy it goes through you, not round,” said Joseph. “Baking hot in summer, perishing cold in winter. But it’s a good way ahead. My stint to Tuxford, and his lordship to Retford, and doubtless resting the nags and eating nuncheon in one or t’other.”
“Rest them in Tuxford,” said Julian.
“You have to know a road to know when is the best time to rest the horses, don’t you?” said Anne, perching on Julian’s knee in the coach.
“Yes, or have read about the experiences of others,” said Julian. “Many people have traversed the Great North Road, and its ups and downs are well recorded, even if only in fiction, as by Sir Walter Scott.”
They were coming up the incline into Tuxford, when Joseph pulled over. He opened the hatch.
“Milord, two young gentlemen on foot who appear to be in some distress,” he said.
Julian opened the nearside door.
“Boys! Inside!” he said.
The two young gentlemen, who did not appear to be much older than boys, meekly climbed in, and doffed their hats quickly to Anne. One was fair, with a thatch of unruly hair, which may owe a nod to the Brutus cut until it outgrew it and became tousled; the other had smooth, dark brown hair.
“I’m Ravenscar; my wife, Anne,” said Julian. “Now then! What sort of a pickle have you got yourselves into?”
“It’s because of Lucy,” said the blond one.
“It’s usually because of Lucy,” said the other.
“And her parents, to be fair,” said the first. “Oh, I beg your pardon, my lord, my lady; I’m Peter Carstairs, and this is the honourable Toby Abingdon. And Lucy’s parents arranged a marriage for her with an old man.”
“That seems a little unfair, if she has two suitable suitors closer to her in age,” said Anne, sympathetically.
“Yes! We always swore oaths of brotherhood to accept which one she chose,” said Toby. “We grew up together, bit each other in our cradles, tore skeleton suits together, were thrashed for eluding our schoolmaster together, picked buckshot out of each other when poaching in our own woodlands and so on. Our lands march, and on the third side, is Lucy’s lands. And she was upset about this old man, and begged us to elope with her.”
“What, both of you?” said Julian, startled.
“Well, we were going to toss a coin,” said Peter. “Only then He turned up. Sir Arthur Fossingdean.”
“Fossingdean? He ain’t old, he’s about thirty,” said Julian.
They gazed on him with identical expressions of outrage.
“Thirty is quite ancient,” said Peter.
“I suppose to anyone not yet twenty it must be,” said Julian, meekly. “I fear I am four-and-twenty, so on the verge of decrepitude myself.”
“Sir! Most certainly not!” cried Peter.
“Had he been your age it might not have been disastrous!” said Toby.
“How old is Lucy?” asked Anne.
“Seventeen,” said Toby.
“Ah, my age,” said Anne.
“Well, there you go; still quite eligible,” said Peter. “We’re the same age, and we usually managed to get Lucy out of the scrapes we all got into, and they don’t whip girls…. Usually,” he added, seeing Anne’s bleak face.
“So, you are both eloping, and you managed to mislay her?” said Julian.
“Not exactly,” said Toby. “I found her running away, with her band-boxes exploding, and she demanded that I take her with me and drive north right away, and fortunately, I had been heading into town, and had an overnight bag.”
“And I came to see her, and came upon a furore with Fossingdean and her father setting out to pursue her, so I slung together a satchel and came on ahead of them, and I took some short cuts, and drove like a madman to catch up,” said Peter. “And there they were, with Toby’s equipage overturned, and Lucy bleating at him like a goat, and the axle broken. So, we put all the luggage in my curricle, and Lucy harnesses my horse in tandem with Toby’s, and hops into the seat while we were arguing about who was going to marry her, and drives away!”
“How very singular; in more ways than one,” said Julian. “From two husbands to none. Were you hoping to pursue her on foot?”
“We were going into town to decide what to do,” said Toby.
“We planned to lunch in Tuxford,” said Julian. “Perhaps you will join us; I suspect we may discover Miss, er, Lucy further along the road and can, perhaps persuade her to accept my wife’s protection whilst this is sorted out.”
“She’s Miss Denleigh. Are you going far, sir?” asked Peter.
“Scotland,” said Julian. “Yes, very well, we are eloping, because Anne’s father, who welcomed my suit, died, and her uncle hates the idea of losing her fortune, and he is the sort who would try to find some spurious just cause and impediment if we married properly with an ordinary licence.”
“Goodness!” said Toby. “How very sordid of your uncle!”
“My uncle is a sordid sort of man,” said Anne.
“Also a skirter,” said Julian. “But we aren’t going to Gretna, we’re heading out on the Edinburgh road.”
“Does it count?” asked Peter.
“Oh, yes! It’s Scottish marriage law, not anything special about Gretna,” said Julian.
“I’m not sure I want to marry Lucy,” said Toby. “She’s a wonderful girl, but she’d be hell to live with.”
Peter opened his mouth and shut it again.
Joseph pulled into the yard of the Newcastle Arms at this moment, just behind a young lady driving a curricle tandem.
She looked round at the coach, and leaped out of the curricle.
“Oh! Are you the stage? Have you room for one more? Do you wait here long enough for me to make myself comfortable?” she said.
“Staying long enough for a quick meal, miss,” said Joseph.
“Oh, good,” said the girl. “I must arrange for them to care for the horses and the curricle.”
“Lucy!” Peter jumped out of the carriage. “You wretch!”
Lucy squeaked.
No comments:
Post a Comment