Emily Goes to Exeter

8

For my part, I travel not to go anywhere, but to go. I travel for travel’s sake. The great affair is to move.

Robert Louis Stevenson

It was noon before the drugged inn became fully awake. And then there was uproar.

The landlord was accused of supplying bad drink. The punch was held to blame, for the servants had drunk what was left over, as they usually did.

‘And I,’ said Hannah Pym firmly to Lord Harley, ‘am convinced I was drugged.’

‘Which you were,’ he said, and drew her aside and told her of the adventures of the night, ending with the glad news that Mr Fletcher was awake and had no recollection whatsoever of what had happened. ‘But,’ went on Lord Harley, ‘if it is not Captain Seaton, then it is one of the others. But how shall we find out? Shall I gather them together and tell them all what happened and watch their faces to see if one of them betrays himself?’

‘No, let me think.’ Hannah screwed up her face dreadfully. ‘You say this villain left a letter which was supposed to be written by Mr Fletcher?’

‘Yes.’

‘And it was well written?’

‘Too well written to come from, say, the hand of our coachman.’

They were standing in the coffee room at the fire. The coachman came in to say that there was a fine drying wind so that, although the snow was melting fast, he was sure the road would be clear enough to take them on the morrow and without worrying about floods.

‘I had better find a livery stable,’ said Lord Harley, ‘and hire a post-chaise to take Miss Freemantle back to London.’

‘And you will go with her?’

‘Yes, I shall hire a horse and ride alongside.’

He found Hannah was watching him closely and asked sharply, ‘Is anything the matter?’

‘No, no,’ said Hannah quickly. But she had been hoping for some sign that Lord Harley’s adventures with Emily had given him an interest in her. ‘Leave the matter of finding out the identity of the villain to me, my lord.’

Dinner found the party all restored to health. Lizzie was not present. She had elected to take a meal on a tray in the Red Room with Mr Fletcher. Neither Lizzie nor Mr Fletcher had been told of the adventures of the previous night. Lord Harley did not want to alarm Mr Fletcher and cause any deterioration in his health, and he did not want Lizzie to be frightened either.

The conversation round the table was cheerful. Everyone was looking forward to going on with his or her journey. ‘Tired of sleeping with you,’ said Mr Burridge with a grin to Mr Hendry. ‘What possessed you to put the bolster between us last night?’

‘Because,’ said Mr Hendry, ‘in your sleep you sometimes appear to think I am your wife and one morning I woke up to find your arms about me.’

This produced a roar of laughter. And then Mr Burridge said, ‘Anything planned for this last night, Miss Pym? Charades or plays or the like?’

‘I have it,’ cried Hannah. ‘We will have a letter-writing competition.’

‘And I will supply the prize,’ said Lord Harley quickly.

‘I ain’t a strong hand at letter-writing,’ grumbled the coachman. ‘What’s the prize?’

‘Five guineas,’ said Lord Harley.

There was a gasp of surprise.

‘Well, for five guineas I’ll try anythink,’ said the coachman. ‘What’s this here letter to be about, Miss Pym?’

‘You are leaving this inn without paying your shot,’ said Hannah, ‘but you must make an excuse which will stop the landlord having you arrested at the next stage.’

‘Reckon I could try me hand at that,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘Five guineas. I need a new pig and I could get silk for a gown. When do we start?’

‘Right after dinner,’ said Hannah. ‘I am sure after your experiences last night, gentleman, you will be glad to join us ladies and forgo your port.’

Soon they were all gathered around the table in the taproom. Sheets of paper and quill-pens were handed out all round and a large inkwell was placed in the centre of the table.

Emily, who was suddenly aware of the reason for the letter-writing competition, looked at them all eagerly. Which one of them would produce the same handwriting as that on the letter supposed to have been left by Mr Fletcher?

She herself scribbled a short note complaining about dirty towels, barely caring what she wrote. She finished before the others and sat waiting. Then a thought struck her. All the guilty party had to do was to disguise his handwriting. Her heart beat fast. She muttered an excuse and left the taproom. She ran from bedroom to bedroom, looking for something with the handwriting of the occupants. Captain Seaton’s room was out, as was the Red Room. She searched the room occupied by the coachman and guard and then the room shared by Mr Burridge and Mr Hendry.

Downstairs, Hannah collected the letters and she and Lord Harley retired to a corner to study them.

‘Nothing like,’ said Hannah gloomily, surreptitiously comparing the letter from Mr Fletcher’s room with the others.

‘And I was so sure your plan would work that I sent the landlord to fetch the constable,’ said Lord Harley.

Then Emily quietly came into the room and handed Hannah a torn scrap of paper with writing on it and in a whisper told her where she had found it.

‘Come along there!’ called the coachman. ‘Who’s won?’

‘While Lord Harley makes up his mind,’ said Hannah, ‘I would like to tell you a story.’

‘Oh, I’d like that,’ said Mrs Bradley cheerfully. ‘Nothing like a good tale to while away a winter’s night.’

‘Once upon a time,’ said Hannah, ‘there was a pretty widow who had run off on the stage-coach with a military gentleman who was anxious to marry her and get her money before anyone else did.’ The guard glanced at the captain and nudged the coachman.

‘But on the journey, she met a lawyer, a nice, kind man, and fell in love. The stage-coach party found themselves stranded at an inn. To while away the time, they put on a play. In that play, the military man was supposed to pretend to fire a gun at the ladies, while another passenger fired his gun out of the window to make it all seem lifelike. But when the military man fired his gun, it went off, and as he had been pointing it at the lawyer, his rival, he was suspected of attempted murder, for the lawyer would have been most surely killed had not one passenger quickly put a metal tray in front of him to deflect the bullet.’

‘I never loaded that gun,’ shouted the captain, turning quite purple with outrage. Hannah ignored him and went on.

‘After the day of the play, the party decided to take a walk, for the storm had ceased. A young lady in the party started a snowball fight. Someone tried to injure the lawyer by throwing a snowball with a stone in it and everyone blamed the military gentleman.’

‘And they were wrong,’ growled the captain.

‘And they were wrong,’ echoed Hannah.

An air of tension crept into the group.

‘So our villain hit on another plan. He drugged a bowl of punch, being careful not to take any himself. While everyone was asleep, he went to his own room and pretended to be asleep, and when he was sure his companion was unconscious, he rose and dressed and went to the lawyer’s room. He dressed him and then left a note beside the bed supposed to be from the lawyer saying he did not want to marry the widow after all and was leaving. Then he lugged the body of the lawyer downstairs and put it in a handcart and wheeled him far out of town to a barn, where he left him with his hands and feet bound, meaning to release him the next day, when the cold had finished the poor fellow off. He left the lawyer’s portmanteau in the barn beside him.

‘But someone saw the villain leave the inn – a pretty young maiden who roused a handsome lord, one of the guests, and together they went out and followed the wheel tracks in the snow. As they found the lawyer, the villain locked them in the barn until he could think of a way of dealing with them. But they escaped and brought the lawyer back and set about discovering who this villain might be. And they did and they found out that we have a would-be murderer in our midst.’

There were sharp exclamations of alarm.

‘But surely you looked in the rooms,’ said Mr Hendry. ‘Anyone missing would have proved the identity of the villain.’

‘Apparently no one was missing,’ said Hannah, ‘and that, Mr Hendry, was because you put the bolster on your side of the bed and made it look as if there was someone lying in it.’

‘You’re mad! You’re lying,’ cried Mr Hendry.

‘Miss Freemantle found a scrap of paper in your luggage, part of a letter you had written, and with your signature, Mr Hendry,’ said Hannah sternly. ‘We compared it with the letter by Mr Fletcher’s bed, and the handwriting matches exactly. You wanted the widow for yourself. No doubt, given time, had your plan succeeded, you would have left evidence to point to Captain Seaton. I think that before the play, it was you that loaded that gun, but why he should so fortuitously point it at Mr Fletcher, I do not know.’

‘I know!’ shouted the captain, leaping up. ‘It was Hendry who told me it would be fun to give him a scare. That’s why I pointed the gun at that pip-squeak of a lawyer.’

‘Look out!’ screamed Mrs Bradley suddenly. ‘He’s got a gun.’

Mr Hendry backed towards the door, a small gun levelled at the assembly.

Behind him, the door slowly opened. A constable and two watchmen suddenly dashed in and pinioned Mr Hendry’s arms to his sides. He was led off struggling and screaming.

He left behind a shocked silence. ‘Well done!’ said Lord Harley suddenly, smiling at Emily. ‘If you had not found that scrap of paper, we would have been hard put to find evidence against him.’

‘Shall we all need to stay here until the trial?’ asked Emily.

‘No,’ said Lord Harley. ‘I shall take along that piece of paper and the letter as evidence and I will send my lawyer to be present at the trial.’

‘Reckon that letter-writing thing was all a hoax,’ said Mrs Bradley.

‘I’m afraid it was,’ said Lord Harley, ‘and so I shall give a guinea to you, one to Mr Burridge, one to our coachman, and one to the guard.’

‘Don’t Miss Freemantle get anything?’ asked Mrs Bradley. ‘Seeing as how it was her quick wits what trapped the fellow.’

‘I think Miss Freemantle will consider a journey home in a comfortable post-chaise reward enough,’ said Lord Harley.

They sat up late that night, talking over the attempted murder. Lizzie and Mr Fletcher entered and the whole tale had to be told over again.

‘Are you sure it will be safe to travel on tomorrow?’ Hannah asked the coachman. ‘Despite the good drying wind you described, such a quantity of snow will surely produce floods.’

‘We’ll get through all right,’ said the coachman, who, like most of his breed, was never happier than when seated up on the box. The prolonged inactivity at the inn was beginning to irk him.

‘We shall not be going on,’ said Lizzie quietly. ‘I see no reason to go to Exeter. Mr Fletcher and I will stay here until he has fully recovered his strength and then take the up coach back to London.’

‘It’s a hard business when a respectable man like me should first be accused of attacking that fellow and then have his promised bride go off with him,’ said the captain.

‘Mrs Bisley has made her choice,’ remarked Lord Harley, ‘and I suggest you accept it with good grace.’

‘I’ve never been so shoddily treated,’ grumbled the captain. ‘And now that the staff are back at the inn, I don’t see as how a gentleman like myself should be expected to dine at the same table as a coachman, a guard and an outsider.’

‘Now there ain’t no call for you to get uppity.’ Mrs Bradley looked into her basket as if hoping to find a medicine to cure snobbery. ‘Here’s his lordship, turned his hand to everything to help, while you sat about doing nothing. I know we don’t normally dine with them outsiders, but things is different this time.’

The outsiders, that is, the passengers who travelled on the roof, were always looked down on by the insiders, and landlords had learned never to put them at the same table. Mr Burridge, who was seated next to Captain Seaton, edged his chair away. ‘Would never dawn on you that I might be pertickler over which company I keep.’

‘It looks as if we shall have the carriage all to ourselves and the captain,’ said Hannah to Mrs Bradley. She turned to the coachman. ‘Surely you could allow Mr Burridge to travel inside with us until you take up more passengers?’

But here the coachman dug in his heels. The outsider had only paid an outsider’s fare, and there was no way he was going to allow Mr Burridge to travel on the inside.

They were all separating already, thought Hannah gloomily. Rank and pecking order were asserting themselves. And what of Emily and Lord Harley? He barely looked at her. Now that the staff were all back, there was no cozy kitchen to which to retreat for private confidences.

Lord Harley rose to his feet. ‘I am going to walk to the livery stables to make sure a post-chaise will be ready for the morning.’

‘I need a breath of fresh air,’ said Hannah quickly, ‘I shall accompany you.’ She ran to fetch her bonnet and cloak.

But as she walked through the slush to the livery stables, Hannah found Lord Harley rather distant and uncommunicative. Once more she felt like a servant and thought that any probing about his feelings for Emily might be treated as presumption.

After Lord Harley had ordered the post-chaise and they were returning to the inn, Hannah could not bear it any longer and said impulsively, ‘I feel Miss Freemantle’s parents had the right of it. You would make a very suitable couple.’

‘The difference in age and experience is too great,’ he said, his voice seeming to come from a great height.

‘But—’

‘Miss Freemantle does not love me, nor I her. Now let that be an end of the matter, Miss Pym.’

Hannah stroked the expensive material of her cloak, almost as if to reassure herself she was no longer a servant. He turned and faced her at the inn door. ‘I am grateful to you, Miss Pym,’ he said, ‘for all the help you have given, for all the meals you have cooked, and for your bravery and gallantry.’

Hannah looked up at him, bewildered at the sudden compliment. He smiled down at her and then stooped and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

It was a crying shame, thought Hannah, as he held open the inn door for her, that he could not, or would not, marry Emily Freemantle.

‘Please tell Miss Freemantle that we leave at six o’clock in the morning,’ said Lord Harley.

‘Would you not like to tell her yourself?’ suggested Hannah, faint but pursuing.

‘I see no need for that. Good night, Miss Pym.’

Emily was getting ready for bed when Hannah entered the Blue Room. ‘Lord Harley has hired a post-chaise and he will be ready to escort you to London at six o’clock in the morning,’ said Hannah.

‘Very well,’ said Emily in a quiet little voice. ‘As you can see, I have already packed. I suppose I had better wear that woollen dress again. I am sick of the sight of it.’

‘Never mind,’ said Hannah. ‘You will soon be back with your parents.’

‘Yes.’ Emily looked bleak.

Hannah awoke at five o’clock and busied herself getting dressed and then roused Emily. Emily herself dressed very quickly and Hannah noticed the girl did not pay any particular attention to her appearance.

She followed Emily down to the dining-room. There was no sign of Lord Harley. The landlord served Emily with toast and tea and told her that Lord Harley was already outside and waiting.

Feeling very low and sad, Hannah followed Emily out of the inn. Emily stood with one little foot on the step of the post-chaise. Lord Harley, already mounted on a large black mare, was waiting alongside.

‘May I have your address in London, Miss Pym?’ asked Emily. ‘I would like to write to you.’

‘Of course. One moment.’ Hannah ran back into the inn and came out with a sheet of paper and a lead pencil. She tore the paper in half and wrote her address on one piece and then said, ‘And your address, Miss Freemantle?’

As Emily wrote it down, Hannah called up to Lord Harley. ‘And where might you be found, my lord?’

She waited anxiously for his reply, half expecting a snub. ‘St James’s Square,’ he said. ‘Number twenty-seven.’

Emily handed over her address and climbed into the post-chaise. Hannah waved as the carriage drove off and then turned away sadly, for Emily had had tears in her eyes.

The coachman lumbered out and said he would be hitching up a team and would be obliged if Miss Pym could hurry the others up, as they had just started their breakfast.

But Hannah collected more sheets of paper and pen and ink from the taproom, where they had been left lying from the night before. She went into the Red Room and gently shook Mr Fletcher awake.

‘I need your help,’ she told the startled lawyer. ‘I have letters to write and do not have either the education or the necessary delicacy.’

Mrs Bradley was disappointed in Hannah Pym. The captain had not joined them. He had decided to stay at the inn and wait for the next coach back to London. Mrs Bradley and Hannah were therefore alone inside the coach as far as Salisbury, where they took up more passengers, but Miss Hannah Pym turned out to be a sadly silent companion. Even when they had to drive through a flood and the water came up as far as the windows, Hannah remained silent and morose.

But at Salisbury, Hannah asked the coachman where to find the mail coach, and on learning that it left the Angel, St Clement’s, at four, set off at a run. When she returned, Mrs Bradley found that Hannah was once more her talkative self and looking forward to the rest of the journey. On they went through towns and villages – Shaftesbury, Sherborne, Yeovil, Crewkerne and Chard – and each mile they went, the weather got better and the road firmer.

But when the Exeter Fly crossed into Devon and the end of the journey was in sight, Hannah Pym grew nervous and restless again. At one point she said aloud, ‘Oh, what have I done? What have I done?’

‘Whatever do be plaguing you, m’dear?’ asked Mrs Bradley anxiously, but Hannah only shook her head and said mysteriously that she must have been mad.

And Mrs Bradley, who had been going to ask Hannah for her address, decided that she really was mad and changed her mind. For Hannah said she was returning to London by the next up coach and had only travelled to Exeter for ‘the experience’.

At the Old London Inn, Hannah sat by the window of the coffee room wondering what had become of Emily Freemantle and whether she would marry her Mr Williams, and whether her experiences at the inn had made any change in her character at all.

While Hannah was sitting brooding in Exeter, Emily had just returned from a drive in the Park with Mr Peregrine Williams. She felt restless and bored and suffocated. Her parents had welcomed her back with open arms and crying with remorse. If Mr Williams was what she wanted, then she should have him. Lord Harley had explained the dangers she had endured with such fortitude. To think they had driven her to that! And all the time Emily had a nagging feeling that she would have felt more at ease if they had berated her for her selfishness. She had told Miss Cudlipp all about her adventures, but Miss Cudlipp had exclaimed in horror at everything and could not understand when Emily had tried to explain that some of the experiences had been fun.

Some new caution in her had made her tell her parents that it might be a sensible idea if she got to know Mr Peregrine Williams a little better before making any commitment and they gladly agreed.

And so she had.

But she could find nothing at all beneath the beautiful face to interest her. She was to make her come-out at the Season. She was to have the best of gowns and hats. It seemed as if her parents could not do enough for her, and Emily miserably felt she did not deserve any of it. At times, she thought of Hannah Pym and envied that lady her freedom. She did not think of Lord Ranger Harley. By a tremendous effort of will, she banished him from her mind. To think of him would be too painful. He had made her feel ugly and unwanted, and although her mirror and the doting Miss Cudlipp told her she was beautiful, she could no longer take any pleasure in her appearance.

‘Did Mr Freemantle give you your letter?’ asked her mother when Emily walked into the drawing-room.

‘No, Mama.’

‘It is over there, on the console table.’

Emily picked it up and looked at it curiously. There was a heavy red seal on it, but so mangled that she could not make out what it was supposed to represent. The paper was of quite poor quality, so it was probably from Hannah Pym, not Lord Harley. But Hannah was a connection with all those great adventures. Emily opened it and scanned the page eagerly. A blush rose to her cheeks and she read it carefully again, almost unbelievingly.

‘Who is it from, dear?’ asked her mother.

‘Just some lady I met on the journey. I must go up to my room and take off my bonnet.’

Emily fairly ran up the stairs and into her room and locked the door. Then she sat down and looked at that precious letter again. It was not from Hannah. She had only said that until she had time to read and reread the letter. It was from Lord Harley.

Dear Miss Freemantle [she read ], I felt I must write to you, for I find I lack the courage to call. I think of you constantly, of your charm and beauty. I was held back from declaring my interest because of the difference in our ages. I am thirty-two years old and feel like some elderly satyr in your presence. But love has given me hope. If you care for me a little, could you find it in your heart to meet me alone by the canal at the north end in St James’s Park at nine o’clock in the morning on Friday, the 31st of this month? If you cannot, then ignore this letter and be happy with your Mr Williams, but be always assured of my love, respect, and admiration. Harley.

Emily put down the letter. She felt such a glow of happiness and elation that she wanted to shout aloud. But two whole days to wait. How could she contain herself until then?

Lord Harley at that time had just returned from riding in the Park. He had been blessed by a glimpse of Emily and her cavalier. He thought bitterly that they made a handsome pair and considered himself to have had a lucky escape. He seemed to spend most of his days telling himself how lucky he was to have escaped the clutches of the Freemantle family. He picked up the morning’s post, which he had not bothered to read earlier, and carried it into the library. He flicked through it, pausing when he came to a letter written on cheap paper. He opened it first and then sat looking at it in amazement.

Dear Lord Harley [he read ], I can hardly find the courage to pen this letter to you. I have thought of you often since our adventures at the inn at Bagshot. I wanted to show you the warmth of my feelings towards you then, but was so afraid I had given you a disgust of me by my unruly and selfish behaviour. If you have any feeling for me, can find it in you heart to forgive me, please meet me at the north end of the canal in St James’s Park on Friday the 31st of this month at nine o’clock. Yr. Humble and Obedient Servant, E. Freemantle.

A bewilderment of feelings and memories assailed him; Emily’s lips against his own, Emily in the barn, bravely climbing up to the skylight, Emily wilful, Emily humorous, Emily with those huge violet eyes and glowing auburn curls. For a short moment, he felt quite dizzy with elation. Then he read the letter slowly again and that elation fizzled and died. He was all at once sure Emily had not written that letter. He turned it over and studied the frank. Salisbury. And Salisbury was on the road to Exeter and the travelling matchmaker had been on the road to Exeter. He threw the letter away from him and cursed loudly. He would find that crooked-nosed interfering spinster and wring her neck! She had probably sent the same kind of letter to Miss Freemantle and that gullible child would no doubt be waiting in St James’s Park on Friday, or would show the letter to her parents and ask them to tell him to leave her alone.

For the next two days, he buried himself in affairs of business, trying to put that trickster’s letter out of his mind. But by Friday morning, when he had heard nothing from Miss Freemantle, he realized that she had believed the letter she had no doubt got herself and planned to go to St James’s Park and keep that appointment.

The best thing he could do was to go himself and tell her gently that they had been tricked. She would no doubt be relieved.

It was a cold, frosty morning when he set out, driving his curricle. He reined in at the north end of the ice-covered canal, which was lined by rotting lime trees, and stood and waited, looking unseeingly at the red brick front of Buckingham House. Frost sparkled everywhere and it was bitter cold. Then he saw a hack approaching.

The hack stopped and Emily Freemantle climbed down and paid the coachman.

She was wearing her blue cloak and a very fashionable bonnet under which her short curls glowed in the sunlight.

As the hack plodded off she turned towards him, smiled shyly, and held out both her hands.

All his determination to tell her the letters were forgeries fled from his mind. He walked straight up to her and seized her hands and looked down into her face.

She stood there laughing and blushing and looking adorable.

He caught her in his arms and bent his head and kissed her and Emily kissed him back and it was all he had ever dreamt of. Senses reeling and deaf to the conventions and blind to the interested gaze of a park warden, they kissed and kissed with single-minded passion. At last he raised his head and smiled down at her. ‘Marry me,’ he said. ‘Very soon.’

‘How soon?’ demanded Emily.

‘As soon as we can. Let us go and tell your parents our news.’

Mr and Mrs Freemantle both cried with delight. Miss Cudlipp looked astounded and kept saying feebly, ‘But Mr Williams? Poor Mr Williams.’

But she was pulled from the room by Emily’s parents. The happy couple must be left alone for ten minutes to exchange their vows.

As soon as the door closed behind them, Lord Harley seized Emily in his arms and kissed her breathless. ‘Can you bear to be married to such an old man?’ he said at last.

‘You are only thirty-two,’ said Emily.

‘I am more than that, my child. I am thirty-three.’

‘But you said in your letter—’

He silenced her with another kiss and then said, ‘Do you have that letter with you?’

‘Yes, it is here in my reticule.’

‘Let me see it.’

Emily took it out and handed it over. He read it and then began to laugh. ‘The cunning old trout,’ he said.

‘Who? Oh, what are you talking about?’

‘My love, I never wrote that letter and I knew as soon as I got one supposed to come from you that you had not written it either. If I am not mistaken, both letters were sent by the interfering Miss Hannah Pym.’

‘But … but …’ said Emily desperately. ‘You came and you said you loved me … You were joking!’

‘My darling, not I. I bless Miss Pym and all her interfering ways. Kiss me again!’

Emily looked up at him nervously. In that moment, he looked a stranger, a stranger with thick black hair and black eyes and richly dressed. Then he smiled at her and her heart did a somersault. She wound her arms tightly about him as she had done in her dream and raised her face to his.

Her parents stood nervously outside the door, listening to the long silence from within. At last they opened the door. The couple were so wrapped up in each other that they did not notice them. ‘Do something,’ hissed Miss Cudlipp tearfully. ‘Poor innocent Emily!’

‘Go to your room,’ said Mr Freemantle savagely. ‘Our Emily’s growed up!’