Emily Goes to Exeter

7

Werther had a love for Charlotte

Such as words could never utter;

Would you know how he first met her?

She was cutting bread and butter.

William Makepeace Thackeray

Hannah arose promptly at five. The first thing she became aware of was the utter silence. Then she realized what it was. The wind had ceased to blow. She drew back the curtains and opened the window and looked out. It was a clear, starry, frosty morning. But the fallen snow lay deep and high and hard and glittering. They would not be able to travel that day.

She turned and looked at Emily. The girl was lying asleep with a volume of the romance she had been reading lying open on her chest. Hannah gently removed the book. She firmly believed that reading novels was a very bad thing for a young impressionable girl to do. It gave her exaggerated ideas of romance. Hannah shook her head sadly, thinking of Mrs Clarence. All that love and passion that had fizzled away like a guttering candle, leaving two people bound by the ties of marriage who had nothing in common. It was much better, thought Hannah as she went to the kitchen, to find someone one liked and then, if one was lucky, love might follow.

She could see that wretched under-butler in her mind’s eye. His name had been Mirabel Flannagan. Mirabel had been a popular name among the aristocracy about fifty years before and, like all fashionable names, had died out at the top level and lingered on at the bottom. Men should have names like George, or John, or Harry, thought Hannah. It was Mirabel’s legs that had seduced her mind, Hannah remembered ruefully. He had splendid calves. Also it had been spring when he had begun to pay her attention, and spring was a dangerous time. Now Emily would be a perfectly suitable bride for Lord Harley. She was beautiful and had good bones, so her beauty would last. She was young and would change and grow as soon as she was removed from the doting affection of her parents and governess.

Whether Lord Harley might make Emily a suitable bridegroom did not enter Hannah’s head. He was not like the captain, he seemed reasonably kind, he was rich and handsome and a lord. Hannah was very much a woman of her age. Outside the servant class, the only career open to a woman was marriage. As a servant, you were lucky to get a job and asked only that your employer be tolerable. It was the same with marriage. It was just as well, thought Hannah with a little sigh, that everyone knew that life was merely a painful journey to future happiness. But what, nagged a treacherous little voice in her head, if there were no afterlife? What if Heaven had been thought up by the human race because people could not bear the idea that life, which was for most of them wearisome, and which ended in the indignities and pains of old age, was all there was?

She immediately banished the thought, looking nervously around, as if she expected some angel of judgement to fly into the kitchen and take the ungrateful Hannah’s legacy away.

The kitchen door opened and Emily walked in.

‘What got you out of bed so early?’ exclaimed Hannah.

‘I felt I should help,’ replied Emily primly, although the fact was that the lurid story she had been reading had given her nightmares, and when she had awoken in the dark room she had seen monsters lurking in every shadow.

‘I’ve made some tea,’ said Hannah. ‘Have a dish of bohea and then you may begin, although you’re supposed to be let off work for finding that slipper.’

She put a cup of tea down on the kitchen table. Emily sat down and picked it up and looked at Hannah over the rim. ‘Do you really think,’ ventured Emily, ‘that Lord Harley has no interest in me whatsoever?’

‘Not a whit,’ said Hannah cheerfully, kneeling down and stirring up the coals with great vigour.

‘Then what, think you, is he looking for in a bride?’

‘That’s the trouble with men,’ said Hannah. ‘They don’t think. One day, a man decides he wants children and so he enters into the matter like a business deal. That is if he is an aristocrat. He settles on some suitable female and then his lawyers settle the rest.’

‘So love does not exist?’

‘I think it does,’ said Hannah, pulling her nose. ‘But it’s usually a sham and a deceit and it don’t last. Hard on the lower orders because they’ve got to see the husband day in and day out, but for a young lady like yourself, well, the gentlemen spend most of the time in their clubs, or in Parliament or on the hunting field. Being a married woman would give you a lot of freedom. Settle for someone kind and complacent.’

‘How dull,’ said Emily, burying her nose in her cup. ‘So Lord Harley is not likely to fall in love?’

‘He’s probably been in love a score of times already,’ retorted Hannah cynically.

‘So why didn’t he marry one of them?’

‘Probably weren’t marriageable.’

‘Does it not seem odd to you, Miss Pym, that such as I must walk to the altar unsullied, and yet a man like Lord Harley can have scores of affairs without losing one whit of his reputation?’

‘It’s the way the Good Lord has arranged things.’ Hannah banged pots and pans with unnecessary noise because she thought there was a lot of truth in what Emily had said, but felt at the same time that a young lady should not even allow such thoughts to enter her head. Furthermore, she was determined not to encourage Emily to think Lord Harley might become interested her in any way. If Emily thought that, her wounded vanity might be satisfied. If she stayed puzzled and hurt by his apparent indifference to her, then perhaps, thought Hannah, she might make more of an effort to engage his attentions.

There came a stamping and shuffling from the yard and then the outside door, which led through the scullery to the kitchen, opened and three shivering maids came in.

‘Go tell Mrs Silvers some of her staff have returned,’ said Hannah to Emily.

Emily went through to Mrs Silvers’ room. As she opened the door, Mrs Silvers sank lower beneath the bed-clothes and demanded feebly, ‘Yes, what is it?’

‘Some of your maids have managed to return to the inn,’ said Emily.

‘Then I must rise and see to the lazy-bones,’ said Mrs Silvers.

‘Are you sure you are well enough?’ asked Emily maliciously.

‘I be proper poorly, but it be right bad for them girls to see gentlefolk in the kitchen,’ said Mrs Silvers. ‘They’ll be getting ideas above their stations, and that do lead to laziness.’

Emily returned to tell Hannah that Mrs Silvers was getting out of bed. The kitchen now seemed full of inn servants. It looked as if they had all returned.

‘Come along,’ said Hannah to Emily. ‘We can be ladies of leisure again.’

Emily found she was feeling disappointed. She wondered what she would normally have done with the time had the servants been there all along. Well, she would have read books or checked her clothes for holes and darned any stockings that needed darning and perhaps she would have read novels. How tedious it all seemed now.

Breakfast was served in the dining-room. The coachman had been out earlier and said gloomily that there was no hope of them getting on the road that day. The drifts were piled high and frozen hard.

After breakfast, Hannah suggested it would do them all good to walk for a little into the town. The servants had managed to walk to the inn, so there must be paths through the snow.

Only Mrs Bradley said she would stay by the fire and keep warm.

Emily was tired of her wool gown but did not want to venture out in muslin, even with a fur-lined cloak. She spent longer than usual brushing her hair and buffing her nails and putting on perfume, so that when she went downstairs again, the rest were already impatiently awaiting her at the inn door.

Lord Harley offered her his arm and she took it, glancing up at him in surprise.

‘Well, Mrs Bisley,’ came Captain Seaton’s heavy voice from behind them. ‘Are we set?’

He held out his arm. Lizzie shrank back a little. Mr Fletcher firmly drew the widow’s arm through his own.

‘Why, you …’ began the captain. Lord Harley swung around and the captain muttered something and fell back.

The sun was shining and snow glittered everywhere. ‘How beautiful it is!’ cried Emily. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were sparkling.

‘Yes, very beautiful,’ said Lord Harley, looking down at her face.

Emily was conscious of the pressure of his arm. She became quite breathless and then felt a flow of feeling from her own arm to his. She tried to stop it. She began to wish he would release her so that she could breathe properly again.

‘Look, there is a baker’s shop open,’ she cried and disengaged herself from him and ran forward.

‘You cannot want to eat again so soon,’ protested Hannah. ‘You have just had breakfast.’

Emily stayed gazing raptly into the baker’s window until she heard them moving on. She then turned around, but found Lord Harley politely waiting for her.

‘I do not want to appear rude, my lord,’ said Emily, ‘but I would rather not take your arm. You see, you are so very tall, I have to reach up, and … and … it is so awkward … and …’

He simply smiled in an enigmatic way and waited until she fell into step beside him. Then Emily discovered that the soles of her half-boots, always buffed and polished by the boot-boy at home, had hardly any grip on the rutted icy surface of the winding path between high drifts that led down the main street. She slipped and stumbled and then she had Lord Harley’s arm around her waist. The tumult of emotions that contact caused in her body almost made her gasp aloud. It was so dismal to have such a treacherous aching, yearning body when he probably felt nothing at all.

Lord Harley was thinking, if this is the effect she has on me when I simply hold her lightly at the waist, what would it be like if I kissed her now? I have kissed her before, but I would like to find out what it would be like if she kissed me back willingly. The more sensible side of his mind chided him for his folly. He was too old and experienced to ally himself to nothing more than a pretty face.

He fairly rushed her along until they caught up with the others, who were standing admiring giant icicles hanging from a roof. As they moved on again, Lord Harley neatly moved alongside Hannah. Mr Fletcher turned to take Lizzie’s arm again but found to his chagrin that Mr Hendry had been there before him. He offered his arm to Emily and both of them walked along in a disappointed silence.

After some time, Hannah suggested they turn back. The sun had gone in and the sky was turning grey again.

As they entered the inn courtyard, Emily, smarting at the way Lord Harley was ignoring her completely, dropped Mr Fletcher’s arm and bent down and scooped up a handful of snow.

‘What are you doing?’ asked Mr Fletcher.

‘Watch!’ said Emily gleefully.

Lord Harley was nearly at the door of the inn. Emily made a snowball and threw it with all her force. It caught him on the back of the neck. He swung about and saw Emily laughing at him.

‘Minx,’ he said, beginning to laugh himself. He made a snowball and flung it back at her.

‘Haven’t done this since I was in petticoats,’ said the coachman gleefully. He made a snowball and threw it at the guard.

Soon they were all indulging in a snow fight, shouting and laughing like children. Everyone was throwing snowballs. Hannah Pym threw snowballs overarm like a cricket bowler and Lizzie was shying the smallest snowballs anyone had ever seen.

And then Mr Fletcher let out a cry and put his hand to his head and collapsed on the snow, blood streaming down his face. Lizzie screamed and ran to him.

Lord Harley pushed her gently aside and loosened the lawyer’s neckcloth and felt his pulse. He then looked on the ground near where Mr Fletcher had fallen. There was a large snowball with a piece of something sticking out of it. Lord Harley examined it carefully and then his face grew grim.

‘I told you, you churl,’ he said, staring at the captain, ‘what I would do to you if you did not leave Mr Fletcher alone.’

‘What are you talking about?’ roared the captain. ‘I didn’t go near him.’

‘You didn’t need to,’ said Lord Harley. ‘You put a large jagged stone inside a snowball and threw it at him.’

‘That’s a damned lie!’ yelled the captain. ‘You’re persecuting me. You all hate me.’

And to everyone’s consternation, he sat down in the snow and began to cry.

‘Help me in with Mr Fletcher,’ commanded Lord Harley in tones of disgust. Mr Burridge and Lord Harley carried the slight body of the lawyer between them. Lizzie followed them up the stairs and insisted on staying with Mr Fletcher until a doctor could be found.

Hannah entered the bedroom quietly half an hour later. Mr Fletcher had recovered consciousness. Lizzie was sitting beside the bed, holding his hand.

‘I would like to ask the pair of you if you plan to wed,’ said Hannah.

Mr Fletcher made a feeble noise of protest, for he still had fears of looking like a fortune hunter, but Lizzie said defiantly, ‘Yes.’

‘I wish you both all happiness,’ said Hannah, ‘but I beg you, Mrs Bisley, to make an announcement of your engagement at dinner. Once Captain Seaton realizes all hope has gone, then he will trouble Mr Fletcher no further.’

‘I will do it,’ said Lizzie firmly. ‘Where is the captain now?’

‘Down below with Lord Harley, still protesting his innocence. Did you notice that great bruise on his chin this morning?’

‘Yes,’ said Lizzie. ‘I wonder what happened?’

Hannah was about to say she was sure Lord Harley had punched the captain, but then decided against it. Lizzie was too tender-hearted and might rush to the captain’s side and ruin everything.

‘I think he fell over when he was drunk,’ lied Hannah. ‘Don’t forget to make that announcement at dinner.’

The doctor arrived just after she had left and advised Mr Fletcher to stay in bed, after bandaging his head.

The rest of the party assembled around the dinner-table. Lizzie got to her feet and, in a trembling voice and without looking at Captain Seaton, announced her engagement to Mr Fletcher. No one knew what to say, for it was hard to offer hearty felicitations when the rejected lover was seated at the table. Mrs Bradley pressed Lizzie’s hand and said, ‘Well done, m’dear,’ and everyone else murmured some sort of congratulations, except the captain, who glowered into his wine. It began as a silent meal, for everyone was thinking about Captain Seaton at the same time as they tried to pretend he wasn’t there. The captain was indulging in what appeared to be a massive fit of the sulks. Emily found herself wishing the staff had not turned up, so that they could all be back in the friendlier atmosphere of the kitchen.

But the coachman, Old Tom, could not bear a silence for long. ‘You ladies and gents may think this here storm is a great occurrence, but us coachees is used to disaster and adventure. Yus. Why, I mind when I had a fight on me hands. I’ll tell you how it happened. ’Twas when I was driving the Exeter Defiance, the coach what belonged to Mrs Anne Nelson. That lady owned several of the Flying Machines, but it was me what took the Defiance on the Exeter run. Well, as you know, them toll-keepers is supposed to pay over the tolls they collect every Monday morning. But this here toll-keeper at Ilchester was a gambler, and so he had been using the money to play dice. So the trustees told their clerks to serve notice to the guards o’ the coaches not to pay the toll-keeper any money. Now that there toll-keeper, he was desperate for the money, and so to make sure he got it, he closed the toll-gates afore the coach arrived. As we was coming up to Ilchester toll, Jim Feathers here, he blew on the yard o’ tin, but them gates stayed tight shut. Well, what was we to do? Coach had to get through. So we paid this robber the three shillings. But he was in league with the other toll-keeper further on, so he got a pony and trap and rode ahead o’ us and told that there toll-keeper to bar the gates there.

‘I wasn’t having none o’ that. Enough’s enough. I got me tool-box and climbed down to chisel the bolt off the gate and them two toll-keepers come at me, one o’ them swinging a gurt pike. Jim Feathers here, he come up with the gun and smacks the one wi’ the pike over the head with the butt and I land me bunch o’ fives in the face o’ the other. There ain’t no stopping the Exeter coach.’

‘It is stopped well and truly now,’ pointed out Hannah. The coachman paid her no heed.

‘I never race my cattle,’ he said, ‘but there’s some can’t resist temptation. Now Harry Lyndon was the best coachman in the whole length and breadth o’ Engand and he was on the Portsmouth run and famous for being sure and steady. But one day at the Wheatsheaf at Liphook, disaster fell. He’d been a calm man all his life and was getting on in years, but just as he was changing his horses, two coaches passed him, one, the Hero, and the other, the Regulator, and as they passed him, one coachman cocked a snook at him and the other stuck out his tongue. Now Harry had a fresh team of thoroughbreds hitched up and he was determined to show these cheeky young fellers, as he called them, a thing or two. So he sprung ’em. He passed the Regulator as it was going up Rake Hill. Now he had t’other rival in his sights and he sprung them horses more than ever until a poor soldier on the roof was being thrown up and down like a shuttlecock on a battledore. There was a lady inside the coach screaming like a banshee, but Harry could see nothing but his rival and he drew alongside o’ him at the top of Sheet Hill.

‘Have you ever been to Astley’s Amphitheatre? Ever seen them Roman chariot races? Well, it was like that, said Harry. Down a steep hill they raced, neck and neck. At the bottom of it was a post-chaise, and that terrified post-boy only saved his neck by driving into a ditch. Now Harry, he saw a place on the opposite rise where he could safely pass the Hero. Victory was nearly his. But do you know what that young whippersnapper what was driving the Hero did? He pulled his horses right across the old coachman’s leaders’ heads and they pulled the coach all the way up a bank.

‘Fortunately, no strap or trace or buckle was broken, but Harry couldn’t get nearer the Hero but the back boot all the way to the next stage. But that young coachman lost his job, for three of the Hero’s horses never came out of the stable again. Old Harry, well, he never raced again.’

‘What became of him?’ asked Hannah, her odd eyes shining.

‘Died in harness, you might say. Up on the box, arter having brought his team safely home to London, and he snuffed it, just like that, with the reins in his hands. Had to wrench his hands open, he had such a grip on them reins. That’s how I’d like for to go.’

Conversation became general. Everyone began to talk about how they would like to die. Mrs Bradley said she would like to die in her sleep; Hannah, anywhere at all so long as it was quick; Emily said she would like to be so very old that death could come as a friend; Lord Harley glanced at her in surprise but said he would like to die in the arms of a pretty woman. He had meant to be flirtatious, but Emily, imagining him in the arms of some opera dancer, glared at him. Captain Seaton, who seemed unsnubbable, said he would like to die in battle, and the rest agreed with Emily.

Hannah suggested a game of cards after dinner provided no one gambled. There were protests at that suggestion, but it was at last decided it was better than doing nothing at all, and they moved through to a large round table in the taproom and played cards until the landlord brought in a bowl of punch and suggested they all have a nightcap, ‘courtesy of the house’.

‘And so he should,’ said Captain Seaton, ‘considering we have all been working as his servants without pay.’

‘All except you,’ said Hannah, but the captain was flushed with wine and had forgotten his earlier misery and paid her no heed.

Emily refused the punch. Hannah had made a jug of lemonade, which was all Emily had drunk at dinner and she felt the better for it.

Everyone began to yawn and an early night was proposed.

They all made their way upstairs, with the exception of Lord Harley, who sat clutching his head. He felt very groggy and was sure he had not drunk all that much. He also felt sure he would wake up in the morning feeling like the devil if he did not do something about himself. He went out to the privvy and was very sick indeed. He splashed his face with water from the pump and then made his way upstairs. Mr Fletcher was lying fast asleep.

Lord Harley still felt groggy. He undressed quickly and climbed into bed and was fast asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

Emily lay awake reading. She had had to help Miss Pym to bed, a Miss Pym who kept staggering and saying in a thick voice that she would never touch hard liquor again.

The lurid romance continued to hold Emily’s attention until late into the night. She put down her book, her heart suddenly hammering hard. There were sinister bump-bump-bump sounds coming from the staircase. Emily slowly sat up in bed. This was what came of reading gothic stories. They made even the most ordinary of household sounds seem sinister. She waited, listening. From downstairs came dragging sounds and then a door opened and closed.

She was just picking up her book again when she heard a sound like wheels coming from the inn yard.

Emily climbed down from the high bed and went to the window, which overlooked the inn yard. She drew back the curtains. She looked down and then stifled a scream.

The yard was flooded with bright moonlight. A man was pushing a handcart, and on the handcart lay a body.

Emily flew to the bed and shook Hannah. ‘Wake up!’ she cried. ‘Oh, please wake up.’ But no matter how hard she shook Hannah, that lady could not be roused.

Scrambling into her clothes and tying the tapes with trembling fingers, Emily wondered what to do. Then she thought that it was all very simple. She would rouse the men.

She ran to the Red Room and hammered on the door. Silence.

She opened the door and went in. The room was in pitch-darkness. She opened the curtains and let the moonlight flood the room and then drew back the hangings on the bed.

Lord Harley was lying there fast asleep, but there was no sign of Mr Fletcher. All at once Emily was sure that the body in that cart had been that of the lawyer and that the figure pushing it had been Captain Seaton.

‘Wake up!’ she shouted at Lord Harley.

To her relief, he did wake up and stared at her dizzily.

‘Get up!’ screamed Emily, jumping up and down in an agony of fear and impatience. ‘The captain has killed Mr Fletcher and has gone to get rid of the body.’

Lord Harley looked at the empty space in the bed beside him. ‘Get the others,’ he said to Emily. ‘I will join you shortly.’

Emily ran to the room Lizzie shared with Mrs Bradley but could rouse neither of the women. She tried the coachman and the guard with the same lack of success. Back she ran to the Red Room, gasping that there was something up with everyone, for she could not get them to move.

‘Drugged,’ said Lord Harley bitterly. ‘We’ve all been drugged. It must have been the punch.’

‘I didn’t have any. Oh, let us go. Perhaps poor Mr Fletcher is not dead but only drugged.’

‘Calmly,’ said Lord Harley. ‘What exactly did you see?’

‘I saw a figure of a man wheeling a handcart through the yard and there was a body lying on the cart.’

Lord Harley pulled on his greatcoat and grabbed a lantern. ‘Then there will be tracks of wheels in the snow.’

‘Wait a bit,’ said Emily. ‘I am coming with you.’

‘No, this is no work for you, young lady. The whole inn cannot be drugged. There must be at least some of the post-boys.’

‘Then I shall come with you until you find help,’ said Emily stubbornly.

But the inn and the stables proved to be like the palace of the Sleeping Beauty. The captain had done his work well. ‘They are so heavily drugged, it’s a mercy he did not kill them all,’ said Lord Harley.

‘Should we not check the captain’s room?’ ventured Emily. ‘It may have been someone else.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ snapped Lord Harley. ‘Who else could it be?’

They were standing in the inn yard. ‘Go back,’ said Lord Harley, ‘and wait for me.’

‘I am coming with you,’ said Emily, ‘and you cannot stop me. See! The marks of the wheels in the snow are very clear, and I shall not freeze. The weather has changed.’

And indeed there was a light warm breeze blowing and behind them came a soft thud as snow fell from the inn roof.

Emily found to her relief that the no longer frozen snow made it easier to walk. She hurried along, trying her best to keep up with Lord Harley’s long strides. The wheel tracks led them out of town and into the white arctic desert that was Bagshot Heath.

Three miles outside of the town, the tracks disappeared. Lord Harley swore under his breath.

‘There!’ cried Emily. ‘He has gone off the road. The tracks lead across that field.’

Too excited now to worry about possible danger, Emily plunged into the deep snow of the field. ‘It must have been hard going,’ she panted. ‘See where the cart has been pushed against the deep snow.’

‘Wait!’ commanded Lord Harley suddenly. The bright moonlight shone down over the field. ‘I think I see the cart. Get behind me.’

They moved cautiously towards the cart, but when they reached it there was no sign of anyone, dead or alive.

‘He carried Mr Fletcher from here,’ whispered Emily. ‘You can see the tracks in the snow.’

They ploughed on until the shape of a small barn loomed up against the surrounding whiteness. ‘I beg of you, Miss Freemantle,’ said Lord Harley urgently, ‘let me go ahead. If only I had remembered to bring my gun.’

He quietly approached the door of the barn. There was a smaller door let into the great doors, and it was bolted shut. Lord Harley slid the bolts back, opened the door and stepped in, holding up the lantern.

Mr Fletcher was lying on the floor among bales of hay. His wrists and ankles were bound.

Lord Harley set down the lantern on the floor and knelt down beside the lawyer, drew out his penknife and cut the bonds. Trembling, Emily, who had followed him in, came and knelt beside him as he bent his head and put it to Mr Fletcher’s chest. ‘Is he dead?’ she whispered.

‘No, thank God, only drugged like the rest. The wine from the table was sent up to him. Look, there is a portmanteau there. I bet it holds poor Mr Fletcher’s clothes. The captain could then let everyone believe he had quit the inn, so that there would be no search for him.’

‘And he could come and finish him off at his leisure,’ said Emily, as Lord Harley began to chafe the lawyer’s wrists and ankles.

‘I do not think he planned on the warmer weather. All he needed to do was to leave his victim here, or so he thought, for a night in the freezing cold, and exposure would do the rest. Then he would untie him and, with his portmanteau beside him, it would seem as if our lawyer had taken refuge in the barn. It would be assumed that Mrs Bisley had forced the engagement and that he was fleeing from her. It was she, if you remember, who announced the engagement. The captain could simply say that Mr Fletcher had begged him to take the widow back because he could not bear the idea of marriage. I think I should carry Mr Fletcher as far as the cart and then wheel him back to the inn. Then I shall rouse the parish constable.’

‘What puzzles me,’ said Emily, ‘is that the fellow I saw pushing the cart was quite slight in build, whereas Captain Seaton is heavy and gross.’

‘Moonlight can be deceptive. What was that?’

‘What?’

‘Shhhh!’

Emily clutched at Lord Harley and they both froze. A rising wind blew across the snowy fields outside, and far away an owl hooted mournfully.

‘Nothing,’ said Lord Harley. ‘Well, let’s get our lawyer out of here.’

And then the door banged shut.

Emily let out a squeak of fright.

‘Only the wind,’ said Lord Harley, ‘and if you continue to hold me so close, Miss Freemantle, I shall become persuaded that you love me after all.’

Emily disengaged herself quickly. He walked to the door and pushed it.

Nothing happened.

He pushed harder and then heaved at it with his shoulder.

Then he turned and looked at Emily.

‘Someone has locked us in.’

Emily ran to him. ‘Try again. Perhaps the wind did blow it shut.’

He shook his head.

‘The deuce. He must have been hanging about and heard our voices.’

‘Why do you not break the door down?’ asked Emily in a shaky voice.

‘Because it is solid English oak.’ He walked back and picked up the lantern and looked about.

‘Hurry! Hurry!’ pleaded Emily. ‘He will come back and murder us.’

‘Perhaps not. He will be hoping to make our disappearance look like a runaway as well, or I am not mistaken.’ He looked up at the ceiling. Far above their heads was a skylight.

‘Let me think,’ said Lord Harley, half to himself. ‘If I piled up bales of hay to a certain safe height, climbed up with you, and you then stood on my shoulders, you could get through to the roof, slide down, and open the door.’

‘Oh, I could, could I?’ said Emily, momentarily forgetting her fears. ‘Let me tell you, my lord, I have no desire to go back to London with two broken legs.’

‘The snow is piled around the barn in drifts and is now soft, and in any case, broken legs will mend. Oh, do not turn missish on me now, I beg of you.’

‘I am not missish. But you are expecting me to behave like a man.’

‘I am expecting you to behave like a woman of courage. I’ faith, why did the Fates land me in this pretty mess with you? Miss Pym would not have hesitated for a minute.’

‘A pox on Miss Pym,’ screamed Emily, feeling this comparison was the last straw. ‘Just get me out of here!’

He began to pile up bales of hay, putting a great number at the bottom to form a base. He had stripped off his greatcoat, coat and waistcoat, and was working away steadily in his ruffled cambric shirt, moving athletically and easily.

Slowly the piles of bales rose until he called down, ‘Up with you now. Be careful.’

Emily hauled herself up from one bale to the next, rather like a small kitten climbing a staircase, paws first and legs after, until she was at the top and facing him.

‘Now,’ he said softly, ‘I shall lift you on to my back. Open the latch of the skylight and then climb out. But put your head out first and look around and make sure he is not lurking anywhere about.’

She looked up at him, her eyes seeming enormous. ‘I am afraid,’ she whispered.

He caught her to him and put his arms around her. ‘We are all afraid at some time or the other, but we go ahead. Up with you. First, climb on to my back.’

He bent over and Emily moved behind him and began to scrabble up on to his back, one part of her mind registering that it was an indelicate and ridiculous state of affairs, particularly when she found she was sitting on the back of his neck and staring down at the little glow of the lantern on the barn floor. It seemed to be a million miles away.

‘Get on with it,’ said Lord Harley’s muffled voice crossly. ‘I cannot see a thing with your skirts over my face.’

She pulled her feet up on to his bent back and he steadied them with his hands. ‘Stand up in one swift movement,’ he commanded ‘and hold on to the latch of the skylight for support.’

Emily closed her eyes and sent up a prayer and then stood upright, her hands searching and scrabbling blindly for the catch. Her fingers found it and she hung on tightly.

‘Now,’ he said quietly, ‘open the skylight.’ Lord Harley prayed it would not prove to be rusted shut.

Emily lifted the latch and with one hand threw the skylight full open. It fell back on to the roof with a crash as she steadied herself with her other hand against the side of the opening.

‘Hold on tightly,’ he commanded, ‘and move your feet to my shoulders, and I will start to straighten up. Look out and see if you can see anyone about.’

Emily did as she was bid and soon her head was through the skylight opening. She carefully surveyed the empty fields stretching on either side in the moonlight. ‘No one,’ she said, twisting her head to look down at him. ‘But he may be hiding under the eaves where I cannot see him.’

‘That is a chance we will have to take,’ came Lord Harley’s voice.

‘You mean that is a chance I will have to take,’ said Emily.

‘Are you going to stand on my shoulders arguing all night, or are you going to get on with it?’

Restraining an impulse to kick him in the head, Emily grasped either side of the skylight opening and said, ‘Ready.’

He seized her ankles and hoisted her up and through she went. She rolled over on the sloping roof and began to slide, slowly at first and then faster, until she flew off the roof and landed headfirst in a snow-drift. Only fear that Captain Seaton might still be lurking about stopped her from screaming with outrage. She burrowed her way out and made her way around to the barn door and slowly pulled back the bolts and opened it. Lord Harley had already climbed down and was putting on his outer clothes. ‘Good girl,’ he said, looking at the small snowman that was Emily standing in the doorway. ‘Soon have you warm and dry.’

He picked up Mr Fletcher in his arms as easily as if the lawyer had been a child and carried him out of the barn. Emily went ahead, following the path they had made until they came to the cart. ‘Push the cart for me,’ said Lord Harley. ‘No point in putting him on it here, the snow is too soft.’

Emily remembered suddenly how, when she was younger, she had lit the nursery fire herself and the exclamations of horror that had produced from her mother. Her darling hands! She must never spoil them with such hard work when there were servants about. She pushed the cart resolutely to the road, where people walking during the day and a few light carts and wagons had already made something of a track. Lord Harley laid Mr Fletcher tenderly on the cart and then began to trundle it along the road.

‘I hope he does not die,’ said Emily.

‘I think our little lawyer is tougher than he looks. Besides, his love for Mrs Bisley will carry him through anything. Keep very close to me and do not leave me when we reach the inn. Our would-be murderer may still be about.’

‘Miss Pym would call this an adventure,’ said Emily, beginning to shiver with cold from her fall into the snow-drift.

‘No doubt,’ he said with a laugh. ‘I think she is destined to have many adventures. I think she will attract them. Now you, my kitten, will soon be back with your loving parents and this will all seem like a bad dream.’

Emily walked on in silence. She tried to think of her comfortable home and of Miss Cudlipp, but it all seemed so boring. She tried to think of the beautiful Mr Peregrine Williams but was all too conscious of the power and strength and masculinity of the man beside her.

When they reached the inn, he told her to open the doors for him and lifted Mr Fletcher into his arms. ‘I want you to come with me until I undress him and get him to bed. I do not want you to go wandering about the inn on your own.’

He followed Emily up the stairs. She opened the door to the Red Room and lit the candles and stirred up the fire, carefully keeping her eyes averted from the bed where Lord Harley was stripping the lawyer and putting him into his night-shirt. At last he said, ‘You may look now. All is respectable.’

‘Now what?’ said Emily.

‘Sit by the fire. I will lock you in here for a moment. I will see if that dog Seaton is in his room. He may have returned and be pretending to be asleep.’

He went out and turned the key in the lock. Emily went over to the bed and felt the sleeping Mr Fletcher’s brow. It was reassuringly cool and he slept deeply. Then she noticed a letter on his bedside table with ‘Mrs Bisley’ written on it. She broke open the seal.

My dear Mrs Bisley [she read ]. I never was a man of courage and am not yet ready for marriage. I have decided to set out on my own now that the storm has broken rather than stay and face you. Be assured at all times of my admiration and respect. Yr. Humble and Obedient Servant, Fletcher.

Emily was standing with the letter in her hand when Lord Harley came back into the room.

‘I cannot understand it,’ he said. ‘Seaton is in his room and drugged dead to the world. I slapped him and shook him, thinking he was feigning, and I even stuck a pin in the fellow. I am afraid Seaton is not our man. What have you there?’

Emily held out the letter to him and he read it. ‘This is most odd. Mark you the correct grammar and neat hand? I doubt if Seaton even knows how to spell.’

‘He may have an accomplice.’

‘That we shall endeavour to find out. I shall come with you to your room to make sure all is well.’

‘I am so very hungry,’ said Emily.

‘Well, change your wet clothes first. I’ll keep this letter. But first, we had better lock Mr Fletcher in safely.’

He went into the Blue Room before Emily but found only Hannah Pym in a drugged sleep. Then he waited outside while Emily changed her clothes.

‘I shall have a whole new wardrobe made of wool and flannel when I return to London,’ said Emily. She was wearing a lilac muslin gown with a spencer and with a Norfolk shawl draped about her shoulders.

They went down to the kitchen together. Lord Harley took a lantern and went on down to the cellars to look for a bottle of wine. Emily took out a loaf of bread, a slab of butter and some Cheddar cheese.

When he opened the kitchen door, she was standing by the table clumsily slicing bread, her short auburn curls gleaming in the candle-light, her eyelashes lowered. He felt a sudden wrench at his heart. She looked so very young, so very endearing. He thought of all the women he had known and for the first time in his life felt old and slightly soiled. What Miss Emily Freemantle deserved was a fresh young man of her own age.

She looked up at him and then the smile died on her lips as she saw the bleak expression in his eyes. Something in him had retreated from her. She found that she had been hoping their adventure had brought them together, that it had proved she was not a pampered ninny. Her expression grew as bleak as his own.

‘So who do you think our would-be murderer is?’ asked Emily, accepting the glass of wine he was holding out.

‘I think I might hit on a way to find out.’

‘And will you call the authorities, the parish constable?’

‘Our villain is clever, whoever he is. Were they not all in their rooms? I am sure we finally looked in every room but the captain’s because we were so sure it was the captain. I think I have a plan, but you are looking tired, my child. Finish your bread and butter and go to bed.’