Emily Goes to Exeter

5

Whoe’er has travell’d life’s dull round,

Where’er his stages may have been,

May sigh to think he still has found

His warmest welcome at an inn.

William Shenstone

Emily gasped and wheeled about, turning her back to the driving wind and snow and raising the hood of her cloak over her head. A craven voice inside her was telling her to go back, but a stronger voice urged her on. There must be some other hostelry quite near.

She turned around and put her head down and struggled forward into the raging darkness. Emily was typically English in that the occasional erratic savagery of the climate took her by surprise. This could not be England, she thought, this dismal arctic waste, this lower ring of purgatory. Soon the wind would drop and the stars would twinkle.

A snow-drift loomed up in front of her on the road and she waded right into it. She battled her way back out and shielded her eyes. Now any form of habitation would do. But there was nothing but the high eldritch screech of the wind and the blowing, stinging, blinding snow. No yellow candlelight flickered to mark even the lowest cottage.

She was very, very cold and becoming more frightened by the minute. She was about to turn and retreat the way she had come when she saw a light in front of her, flickering erratically in the dark.

She forged towards it and almost collided with a man carrying a lantern. ‘Oh, sir!’ cried Emily. ‘Where is the nearest inn?’

He held the lantern high and Emily saw a rough uncouth face and a mouthful of broken teeth. ‘Well, what ’ave we ’ere?’ said the man.

‘Nothing, nothing,’ said Emily, suddenly frightened. She backed a pace. He seized the front of her cloak and dragged her up against him. ‘Give us a kiss,’ he said.

His horrible breath fanned her face. With a whimper of pure terror, she kicked him on the shins and, as he fell back, she ran past him, struggling through drifts, plunging through them, heading ever farther away from the inn.

Lizzie Bisley came back into the kitchen followed by Mr Fletcher, who was wearing his old wig. Emily’s wig still lay by her place.

Hannah noticed Lizzie’s eyes were red from crying and wondered whether she had been crying over Mr Fletcher’s humiliation or her own predicament. Probably both, thought Hannah, sharply ordering Mr Burridge to pass the port.

Captain Seaton opened his mouth to say something, caught Lord Harley’s eye, and closed it again. Lizzie and Mr Fletcher were talking in low whispers. Something would have to be done about that lawyer fellow, thought the captain. When he had first been introduced to Lizzie, he felt he had discovered a gold mine. Here was a rich widow, frail and feminine, looking for a strong man. He had no intention of letting such a prize be snatched from him.

Hannah rose from the table. She was suddenly anxious about Emily. She felt the girl had had long enough to come to her senses. Excusing herself, she went up to the bed-chamber. There was no Emily, but her trunks were still there. Hannah was just about to go downstairs again when she decided to look in the wardrobe. She recognized Emily’s missing cloak almost immediately. She had noticed it particularly when she had hung it away the evening before. It was of thick wool and lined with fur.

Beginning to feel alarmed, she ran lightly down to the kitchen. ‘I fear Miss Freemantle has gone out.’

‘Gone out!’ demanded Lord Harley. ‘You cannot mean she has gone out in this storm.’

‘I am very much afraid so,’ said Hannah. ‘We had better organize a search party.’

Lord Harley rose to his feet. ‘No need to risk everyone else’s lives. I will go myself, and should I need help, I will get the post-boys and the rest of you men.’

He went upstairs and put on his greatcoat and hat and then went back down and collected a lantern from the landlord.

He saw the faint tracks of Emily’s feet in the snow that lay in the sheltered courtyard. Just at the gate where the great arch still provided shelter, he noticed the footprints turning off to the right.

So Emily had not gone out to find another inn, as he had first thought. The way to the right headed straight into the countryside, for the Nag’s Head was on the very edge of the town.

He cursed as the full force of the wind took him. He was becoming increasingly worried. The cold was bitter. If she had tumbled into a snow-drift, he would not find her until daylight.

‘Miss Freemantle!’ he shouted. But the roaring wind drowned his voice. He strode on, waving the lantern and shouting with all his might. He waded through a drift that came up to his waist. How on earth had the spoilt Emily managed through that? He had walked about a mile and was becoming hoarse with shouting when suddenly the wind dropped, roaring away across the countryside, leaving a moon-washed landscape of dazzling snow pitted with blue and black shadows. And then, far ahead, on a straight stretch of snow-covered road, he thought he saw a figure. He quickened his pace. Something made him remain silent, as if he knew that Emily might run off into the fields if she thought she was being pursued.

Emily was at the end of her tether. She felt like a sodden, freezing mass of exhausted misery. Only the thought of the long walk back to the inn and the humiliation that awaited her spurred her on, although she had begun to stagger from weariness. And then the wind dropped and she stood for a moment shivering, her eyes scanning the white landscape. For the first time, she realized she had taken the wrong direction. That was why no light had shone near the road. She gave a choked sob. There was nothing for it. She turned about. And then she saw the dark figure of a man striding towards her, the lantern bobbing.

It was the ruffian! He had come back for her.

Emily swerved off the road and into a small wood, running and stumbling and falling, dragging herself up only to run headlong again.

And then a hand seized her shoulder. ‘I have money,’ she screamed. ‘Do not hurt me. You may have it all. Please do not hurt me.’

‘I would like to wring your neck,’ said Lord Harley’s voice. He turned her round and shone the lantern in her face.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ said Emily and burst into tears.

He watched her impatiently and then put an arm round her and gave her a gentle shake. ‘Rally, Miss Freemantle. Rally! I fear this is only a lull in the storm. We’d best get back as soon as possible.’

‘I c-can’t go back,’ said Emily. ‘I am so ashamed.’

‘You were tipsy and tactless,’ he said. ‘Nothing out of the common way. Come along, Miss Freemantle. I do not want to present your parents with a block of ice as a daughter. Did you plan to walk all the way to London?’

‘No, I was looking for another inn. I went the wrong way and there was this ruffian, and he … he …’

‘He what?’

‘He tried to kiss me.’

‘You are on Bagshot Heath and lucky to be alive. Come along.’

His arm still around her shoulders, he urged her towards the road. He then put a strong arm about her waist and, almost lifting her from the ground, hurried her along.

He was amazed to feel his senses quickening at that contact and thought it absurd that such a thing should happen when he was cold and tired. But he held her closer to the warmth of his body. With a great almighty roar, the wind came hurtling down the road towards them and enveloped them in a whirling white snowstorm. Now it was not only blowing snow but falling snow they had to contend with.

They reached one of the largest snow-drifts on the road. He stopped and held the lantern high, looking for the passage he had made in it earlier, and the light fell on Mrs Bradley’s anguished face. And that was all that could be seen of Mrs Bradley, for the rest of her was buried in the drift.

He left Emily and went forward and began to scoop the snow away from Mrs Bradley with his hands. ‘I come out with me basket of medicines,’ said Mrs Bradley, ‘for to see if I could find Miss Freemantle, and I got so frit in the snow-drift, I couldn’t move.’

‘You can move now,’ said Lord Harley sharply. ‘You ladies walk behind me and keep close. We are nearly at the inn.’

When Emily at last saw the faint glow of the lamp swinging outside the inn courtyard, she experienced such a feeling of relief it almost warmed her. They turned into the courtyard to be met by an expedition party: the landlord, the guard, the coachman, Mr Fletcher, and the two outsiders, Mr Hendry and Mr Burridge, carrying staves and lanterns.

Hannah Pym, waiting on the steps like a field marshal surveying his troops, hustled Emily and Mrs Bradley into the coffee room, where a large fire was blazing. Hannah’s shrewd eyes studied them. Emily, for all her bad experience, was young and strong and would come about. Mrs Bradley was another matter. She was a bluish-white colour and her breathing was ragged.

‘Miss Freemantle, go to our room and change into dry clothes and then come down to the kitchen,’ ordered Hannah. She turned to Lizzie. ‘Fetch Mrs Bradley’s night-dress and wrapper and clean towels and bring them down to the kitchen. Mr Burridge and Mr Hendry, if you please, I need help in the kitchen to fill a bath.’

Mrs Bradley sat down by the kitchen table and drank a glass of brandy. Hannah had had to prise her precious basket from her wrist. A large copper pan and two kettles were already steaming on the fire.

‘Put the bath on the floor in front of the kitchen fire,’ Hannah ordered the men, ‘and help me fill it.’

Mrs Bradley drank brandy and shivered and watched curiously, thinking they must be getting water ready for a mammoth wash.

Lizzie entered with the night-things and towels. Emily appeared and was offered brandy. She did not know why Hannah had ordered her to the kitchen. Surely after such an ordeal, she should be allowed to go to sleep.

‘Right,’ said Hannah, hands on hips. ‘Off you go, gentlemen, and I thank you.’ She closed and locked the door behind them and then said to Mrs Bradley, ‘Off with those wet clothes and in the bath.’

‘Me!’ Mrs Bradley’s eyes were childlike with wonder. ‘I don’t take no baths.’

‘I know,’ said Hannah, wrinkling her nose. ‘But this is not an ordinary bath, this is a medicinal bath, Mrs Bradley, as recommended by Queen Charlotte’s physician.’

‘But I can’t strip down to me buffs in front of you ladies.’

‘You may keep on your shift,’ said Hannah, rightly thinking that that garment could do with a wash as well. Her eyes fell on Emily and gleamed with a green light. ‘Miss Freemantle, I suggest you go and do what’s right and then return and help me and Mrs Bisley.’

‘What’s right?’ echoed Emily faintly.

‘Work it out for yourself. Examine your conscience.’

Emily wearily left the kitchen. What did that fiend of a woman want her to do?

She went slowly up to her room, determined to climb into that soft bed and sink into oblivion. But on the bed was her wig, the one that had caused all the trouble. There was that stab of conscience, sharp and acute. She was too tired to worry about pride. She went down to the coffee room. The men, with the exception of the coachman and Captain Seaton, who were in the tap, were grouped around the fire. Lord Harley was standing, mixing a bowl of punch. He was grating lemons but stopped, looking curiously at Emily as she came into the room. Women’s dress of the year 1800 was not designed for warmth. Emily had only one wool gown. All her other dresses followed the dictates of fashion, namely, that everything should be flimsy and light enough to be rolled up and put in a pocket. She was wearing a gown of white muslin, cut low, and looped over the arm on the left to disclose one leg in a salmon-coloured silk stocking. It was quite a delicious leg, mused Lord Harley. Over her shoulders, she wore a Norfolk shawl, and in one hand, she carried the wig. She went straight to Mr Fletcher and said in a low voice, ‘I am most sorry for having caused you such embarrassment. I have no need of this wig and should never have had it in the first place. Be so good as to accept it as a present and also to accept my heartfelt apologies.’

‘Well, I … I …’ Mr Fletcher looked around for help.

‘A charming gesture, if I may say so,’ said Lord Harley.

‘Yes,’ said Mr Fletcher, and, sensitive creature that he was, suddenly realized the effort the apology must have cost Emily. ‘I am delighted to accept your gift, Miss Freemantle,’ he said, executing a low bow. ‘Not only is it an excellent wig and much finer than anything I could afford, but when I wear it, I shall have the joy of remembering your pretty face.’

He took the wig. ‘Stay and have some punch with us,’ said Lord Harley.

‘No, I thank you,’ said Emily faintly. ‘Miss Pym wants me in the kitchen.’

When she had gone, Lord Harley finished making the punch, urged the others to help themselves, and went through to the kitchen at the back and knocked on the door. Hannah opened it an inch. ‘Lord Harley?’

‘A word, if you please,’ said Lord Harley.

Hannah opened the door slightly more and slid through like an eel so that his lordship should not catch any glimpse of Mrs Bradley in her bath.

‘I wish to speak to you about Miss Freemantle,’ he said. ‘She is exhausted and has had quite an ordeal. I think you should send her to bed.’

‘She is young and robust,’ said Hannah. ‘I have dealt with many young housemaids, you know.’

‘But we are talking about a lady!’

‘Ho, yes,’ said Hannah, squinting down her nose. ‘Well, let me tell you, my lord, and this may come as a surprise, but servants can be every bit as frail and sensitive as their betters, but the reason they rarely go into declines or have the vapours is because they just have to get on with life. Miss Freemantle has been pampered enough. This is a blessed opportunity to lick her into shape.’

‘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 him. 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.