Lady Jane's Ribbons (12 page)

Jane entered quietly, going to stand by the open windows to look out at the gardens, still thinking angrily about Lewis’s unwarranted intervention in her private affairs. She took a deep breath, reaching out to touch the
moisture
-laden
blooms of the climbing rose growing against the wall by the window. She didn’t want to submit to his will in this way, but there was a secret part of her which thrilled very treacherously to the thought of being alone with him.

‘Jane? A penny for your thoughts.’ Charles was leaning on his cue,
smiling
at her as Henry prepared to play.

‘They aren’t worth a penny,’ she replied, turning. ‘I trust you’re winning and that Henry is soon to be trounced.’

He nodded at the marking board on the wall. ‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Charles, you’ll simply have to do better,’ she said lightly, forcing away thoughts of Lewis Ardenley and Brighton, and concentrating upon the state of the game.

‘I know, and it’s most disagreeable, since I came here to see you and instead end up being demolished on the green baize by your brother’s
superior
play. I think I should have remained in bed today; the idleness would have been much more comforting.’

‘You came to see me? What about?’

‘I thought it was time we toddled along with the rest of the
monde
to see Madame Vestris’s legs in
Don Giovanni in London.
I gather her pins are well worth a viewing.’

She smiled. ‘So I understand. The newspapers say the rest of the
production
is superior as well.’

‘But of course. What do you say then, are you ready for such a
succès de scandale
?’

‘Yes, and I think I shall manage without recourse to the sal volatile.’

‘Excellent. I’m afraid I’m dining with friends tonight, and tomorrow I have to visit my mother, but Monday is quite free.’

‘Oh. I – I’m afraid I can’t manage that day.’

Henry looked up from his game. ‘Can’t manage it? Why not? You don’t have any engagements do you?’

Telltale color was creeping into her cheeks. ‘I shall be away that night,’ she said lamely.

He was surprised. ‘Away? Why haven’t you said anything before? Where are you going?’

Her mind was racing. ‘Aunt Derwent,’ she said, plucking inspiration from nowhere.

‘You’re going to Beaconsfield? When was this arrangement made?’

Oh, this was dreadful. Henry had such penetrating eyes at times. She managed a light laugh. ‘Henry, is this an interrogation? It so happens that I received a letter from her this morning telling me that she felt it was too long since she’d seen me and hinting that I should put in an appearance there. The thought appealed to me and I dashed off a note straightaway telling her I’d be there sometime the day after tomorrow to stay overnight and then return the next day.’ She hoped she sounded light and any.

He was still looking at her. ‘Why didn’t you mention it to me earlier?’

‘You were somewhat preoccupied with other matters, as I recall.’

‘Yes, I suppose I was. Still, it seems a little odd to me that you’re going to scramble all the way to Beaconsfield only to stay for one night. Why not stay longer?’

‘I believe she’s going away herself,’ she answered, the whole fabrication becoming more and more elaborate as one fib led to another.

‘Ah, that explains it, I suppose.’

To her relief, he seemed satisfied at last, returning his attention to the green baize.

Charles was preparing to play, but he looked up at her. ‘Tuesday it is then?’

‘I look forward to it.’

He glanced at Henry. ‘Perhaps you and Blanche would come too, we could go on to dinner afterward.’

Henry nodded. ‘That’s a capital notion.’

As Charles bent over the table again, Jane decided to withdraw. ‘Well, I think I’ll go up and change. I stepped down into a puddle earlier and got my hem quite wet.’

‘Yes, you toddle off, sis,’ murmured Henry, his attention apparently firmly on the play.

She made her escape.

Behind her Henry leaned thoughtfully on his cue. ‘Charles, my old son, she’s up to something.’

‘Eh?’ Charles was distracted and played a poor shot, looking up a little crossly. ‘Up to something? Whyever do you say that?’

‘Well, to begin with, Lewis Ardenley was here looking for her earlier. Melville told him she was at Grafton House and he took off after her. I’ll warrant he found her, too, but she hasn’t mentioned it, has she?’

‘Perhaps he didn’t find her.’

‘Ardenley? He did.’

‘Then perhaps it wasn’t worth mentioning. Oh come on, Henry, let’s get
this wretched game finished.

Henry straightened. ‘I still say she’s up to something. It’s written all over her. I think I shall keep an eye on her from now on.’

‘An eye on the next shot might be more appropriate,’ said Charles a little drily.

‘All right, dear boy, don’t get in a pet. It mightn’t have anything to do with Lewis.’

Charles didn’t reply, but he lowered his gaze.

Up in her room, Jane had changed into a dry dress and was by the window watching the rain. Opposite, the roof of Alderman Wood’s porch was quite empty, and the street itself was deserted; it had always been like this, except for a few days’ interruption, but somehow it seemed as if those disturbances had gone on and on.

She turned away, pulling her shawl more closely around her shoulders and sitting down at her dressing table, where Ellen had placed the writing implements she’d requested. The maid withdrew then, carefully closing the dressing room door, so that should Henry enter the bedroom itself, he wouldn’t catch sight of his sister hurriedly composing a rather complicated explanatory letter to Aunt Derwent.

Having used her aunt’s name, Jane now had to make sure that Henry didn’t somehow stumble upon the deception and feel obliged to make embarrassing inquiries about what exactly his sister
had
been doing on the night in question. Lady Agatha Derwent was a lady whose inclination in the past to speak her mind in no uncertain terms had earned her the reputation of being eccentric and unpredictible. Widowed after only two years of an arranged match, her beauty had soon won her much attention, and very quickly there had been whispers of a liaison with the Duke of Wellington himself. These whispers had been given substance as far as Jane was concerned when her aunt had virtually insisted that Henry name his
newly-acquired
stagecoach the Iron Duke. Yes, it was certain that Aunt Derwent had a past, but she’d always been discreet, so no one knew the facts for absolute certain. One thing Jane did know about her, however, and that was that she had a sense of fun and adventure, and that she disapproved of Henry’s recent selfish conduct where his coaching was concerned. She must be drafted in on her niece’s side, and in order to achieve this, nothing less than a complete explanation would suffice. This meant not fibbing about the visit to Brighton, or the identity of the gentleman concerned, and it also meant taking the risk that her aunt would be so appalled by such
indiscretion
that she’d rush to tell Henry straightaway. Jane picked up her pen, wondering how to begin. Then she dipped it in the ink and started to write.

It took her an hour to compose the letter satisfactorily, and when it was finished she sat there thoughtfully. She had worked everything out. The day after tomorrow she and Ellen would set off in the traveling carriage, which would be driven by Thomas, the coachman, who happened to be very sweet
on Ellen and who could therefore be relied upon to hold his tongue about what really went on. Instead of driving his two passengers out to Beaconsfield, Thomas would take them to Snow Hill, and then he’d drive out alone to Aunt Derwent’s residence, give her the letter, and – hopefully – be allowed to remain there until the day after, when he’d return at an appointed hour to Snow Hill to wait for his mistress and Ellen to return. They’d then drive back to South Audley Street, for all the world as if they’d been to Beaconsfield all along.

She got up and went to the window again. Fair weather was spreading from the west now, and a rainbow arced magnificently against the leaden skies to the east. She thought again about what was to happen the day after tomorrow, and the mixture of feelings of earlier passed through her once more, a blend of apprehension, anger, and secret anticipation. It was against the last that she must be on her guard. She stared at the rainbow. She could only be on her guard if she had the will, and after the kiss in the gardens at Lyndon House, she knew that Lewis Ardenley still had the power to seduce her every sense.

The rain had long gone when the time at last arrived on Monday afternoon for Jane and Ellen to set off, ostensibly for Beaconsfield. The weather was bright and clear when at three o’clock the two women emerged from the house to climb into the waiting carriage. From the box, Ellen’s young man managed to give her a sly wink, which made her blush very much.

Jane had deliberated for a long time about what to wear, and in the end had chosen a plain, dove-gray pelisse over a white lawn gown, the pelisse being the least conspicuous garment in her wardrobe. There was a blue gauze veil attached to her straw bonnet, although for the moment it was tossed back, since she seldom covered her face and to suddenly do so might rearouse Henry’s curiosity about the visit. He hadn’t said anything more, but she knew that he was suspicious about something, although he hadn’t as yet managed to put his finger on what exactly it was. Her outfit was completed by a blue reticule and gray gloves, and in her reticule she carried the explanatory letter to her aunt.

As the carriage drew away, there was nothing in her manner to suggest that she was setting out on anything other than the stated visit. She smiled and waved to Henry, who stood at an upstairs window; then the carriage turned a corner and she couldn’t see him any more. A minute or so later, instead of driving west along the Oxford road toward Beaconsfield, the
carriage moved smartly eastward into the city, bound for Snow Hill and the Black Horse. Jane pulled the veil forward over her face, and as she did so it seemed that she drew on the strange blend of apprehension and anticipation which had descended intermittently over her ever since Lewis had first insisted upon this expedition to Brighton, except that now, with the final moment virtually upon her, the feeling was stronger than ever, and more confusingly mixed than before.

The city, always a crowded, congested place, was today worse than ever, its road choked with slow-moving traffic, its pavements thronged with people. Moving at little more than a snail’s pace, the carriage entered Snow Hill and passed the entrance of the Saracen’s Head, the inn owned by that same Mrs Mountain who was to be approached to build the new Swan stagecoach for the race. Jane wondered if Jacob had called upon her yet. She also wondered again about the matter of horsing the coach. How on earth was she going to manage it?

As the Black Horse loomed ahead, she put the race temporarily from her mind to concentrate instead upon the business in hand, crossing her fingers that all would go off without incident and that she would return to Town the next day with her reputation and character intact. Thomas maneuvered the carriage into the curb a short distance from the entrance to the inn, and then climbed down to assist the two women out and take their
portmanteaux
. He would have escorted them right into the inn, but Jane stopped him – a liveried coachman would almost certainly draw everyone’s
attention
, it would be much wiser to carry the little cases in themselves. She gave him the letter for her aunt and repeated her instructions that he was to be waiting in Snow Hill from noon onward the following day. Then she and Ellen took a portmanteau each and made their way along the busy pavement to the inn. Jane’s resolve almost deserted her then, and she hesitated before going in. What if she really was discovered going to Brighton with Lewis? But then she thought about the race and the need to defeat Henry at his own game, and with a deep breath she pushed open the door and went inside.

The contrast with the Feathers couldn’t have been greater, for all was noise and bustle. The inn was a thriving establishment, filled with travelers, waiters, and serving girls, with no one standing idle. There was only one table free in the coffee room, and Jane and Ellen made their way quickly toward it, for two gentlemen evidently had the same notion and were
bearing
purposefully down on it. The two women reached it first, sitting down firmly and placing their portmanteaux on the empty chairs to discourage any notion the men may have had of joining them. Taking the hint, the gentlemen moved away again, muttering beneath their breath.

Jane glanced around the busy room, half-expecting to see Lewis at another table, but they were early as yet and there was no sign of him. A waiter came to inquire if they wished to take some coffee and Jane nodded, but as it was placed before her and she automatically made to fling back her
veil, she realized that the coffee, delicious as its aroma suggested it was, would have to be foregone. Ellen wasn’t subject to any such restriction, however, and sipped hers appreciatively, much to her mistress’s secret chagrin.

The drone of conversation and the clinking of cups made a pleasant
background
noise as Jane gazed out of the window next to the table. It looked out over the courtyard, where two stagecoaches, the Birmingham Thunderbolt and the Lincoln Flyer, were preparing to leave. Got up in Chapman’s famous scarlet livery, the black horse emblems prancing proudly on the dazzling panels, they made a handsome sight, their well-groomed teams tossing their heads and stamping restively. Jane found herself
watching
the door on the opposite side of the courtyard, for she’d noticed earlier that it led to the room provided for the coachmen, who were the elite of the inn’s many employees. It was the Nonpareil’s whip Sewell she’d noticed, lounging with a number of other men at a large, circular table, his white top hat tipped rakishly back on his head, his lapel again adorned by a fresh nosegay. He was laughing and joking with his friends, but there was
something
about him which suggested, even from that silent distance, that he considered himself to be their superior.

As the final outsider settled onto his precarious place on the Birmingham Thunderbolt, two of the men in the coachmen’s room rose to their feet, simultaneously adjusting their hats and repinning their nosegays before draining their glasses of sherry and emerging into the yard, where an
expectant
hush had now fallen. An eager young gentleman approached the driver of the Lincoln Flyer, who gave him a condescending nod, at which the young blood hurried keenly to the coach, clambering up to the coveted seat on the box. As the coachman climbed up as well, Jane saw a half guinea change hands. The team waited in readiness. It was a quarter to four precisely, and both coachmen nodded at the stableboys holding the bridles of the leaders. The boys released the horses and at a barely perceptible instruction from the ribbons, the teams strained forward, hooves striking sparks from the cobbles. The guards put their bugles to their lips again, one playing ‘Cherry Ripe,’ the other ‘D’ye ken John Peel,’ then the outside passengers bent their heads, holding onto their hats as the coaches swept out beneath the low archway into Snow Hill. The bugles could still be heard long after the coaches had gone, leaving behind an oddly quiet yard, where everyone snatched a brief moment of rest before the departure of the Nonpareil itself, the jewel in Edward Chapman’s considerable crown.

In the coachmen’s room opposite, Sewell was alone now, enjoying a final glass of sherry before setting off. As Jane watched, he was joined by Chapman himself, his gaudily clad figure a startling contrast to the
coachman’s
natty attire. The two spoke quietly together, their heads close, their manner secretive; Jane didn’t need to be told what they were talking about, her every instinct told her it was the race.

‘A fine pair of honest, upright fellows, eh, Jane?’

Lewis spoke behind her and she turned quickly to see him standing by the table. He wore a brown coat and beige trousers, and his cravat, naked of jeweled pin, was full and unstarched. A cane swung lightly in his hand and he carried his top hat under his arm. His golden hair was a little tousled, giving him an air of nonchalance which on many men would have been
careless
, but which on him somehow managed to be graceful. He seemed
unconcerned
about being recognized, which wasn’t really surprising since his reputation would not suffer from discovery.

Behind her veil, she remained poised. ‘Good afternoon, Lewis.’

He smiled, evidently faintly amused by the deliberate coolness in her voice. ‘Good afternoon, Jane. I note that you’re in full disguise – are you hiding from the enemy without, or the enemy within?’

The veil concealed the blush which leapt to her cheeks, but she had the uncomfortable feeling that he could see it anyway. ‘You talk in riddles, sir, but then that’s nothing new, is it?’

‘The sharp edge of your tongue would seem to be accompanying us all the way to Brighton. How very tedious.’ He glanced toward the room
opposite
again. ‘How much would you wager upon the topic of that little
conversation
?’ he murmured.

‘Betting on certainties is hardly exciting,’ she replied.

‘Maybe not, but if it’s excitement you want, you’re about to have it in plenty.’ Again the faint smile. ‘Don’t look so alarmed. I’m only referring to the journey not my personal intentions.’

At that moment, the Nonpareil itself was brought through from the yard at the rear of the inn. It was a splendid sight, its panels somehow more gleaming and scarlet than those of the other coaches, its team not a
hotchpotch
of colors but splendidly matched skewbalds, their harness polished until it glittered in the afternoon sunlight. The black and gold lettering on its doors stood out almost challengingly:
Nonpareil. London and Brighton. Reigate. Ham/cross. E. Chapman & Co. License No. 3561.

As it halted by the ticket office and the passengers’ luggage was
immediately
carried out, Lewis beckoned to a waiter and told him to take the two portmanteaux out, his own being already in the yard. The guard climbed up to his place at the back of the coach, his bugle at the ready, and as the final two portmanteaux were placed in the boot and the lid closed, he raised the instrument to his lips and gave the usual warning note to summon the passengers.

Jane rose slowly to her feet, her nerve faltering again. She was quite mad to be yielding to this….

Lewis saw her hesitation and interpreted it correctly. He took her gloved hand and drew it firmly through his arm. ‘It’s too late now,’ he murmured, putting on his top hat. ‘Besides, just think of the mirth if your activities so far should get out.’

‘I find you quite odious,’ she replied, removing her hand and gathering her skirts to stalk out ahead of him into the yard, where the outside
passengers
had now taken their places and only the insiders had to climb on board. The hands of the clock on the wall of the inn pointed to almost four o’clock.

Lewis assisted Jane and Ellen into the coach, and they took their places, Ellen sitting next to the only other inside passenger, a large, extremely portly squire whose girth took up not only his own seat but some of the maid’s as well.

Jane hardly noticed the other passenger as she sat nervously on the
crimson
-and-beige striped seat, looking at the coffee room window where a minute before she had been sitting. There was someone else at the table now.

The hands of the clock moved to four. The guard put his bugle to his lips again, waiting just long enough for Sewell to take his place on the box. Then the coach moved forward, the team straining as they pushed into their collars. Jane was holding her breath. For a brief, dreadful moment she found herself staring out directly at Chapman, who stood hands in pockets in the yard, watching his pride and joy departing. He seemed to be looking directly at her, and she felt as if he could see right through her veil, but he gave no sign of recognition, and then the coach was sweeping out into Snow Hill, the bugle trilling proudly to the notes of ‘Cherry Ripe.’

Jane managed to make herself sit back on the seat, conquering the
overwhelming
desire to sit bolt upright. She glanced at the squire, who was settling himself comfortably, ignoring the fact that he was doing so at the expense of poor Ellen, who was pressing into her corner as much as
possible
to keep away from him.

Jane’s nose wrinkled disapprovingly, for he reeked of the curry and wine he’d consumed in the inn’s dining room, and he showed every sign of going to sleep, which would inevitably mean they would be subjected to his
snoring
. She glanced at the carved ivory timetable on the wall above his head. Four o’clock, Black Horse, Snow Hill. Nine o’clock, Black Horse Ticket office, Castle Square, Brighton. Five hours to go. The squire’s head was nodding already. A first snore rattled jarringly out. She gritted her teeth, praying that he wasn’t going all the way to Brighton.

Sewell was a master of the ribbons, moving the coach swiftly along
without
having to greatly check its speed in order to negotiate corners. The dazzling coach, bugle blaring with ‘Cherry Ripe,’ sped through the city toward London Bridge, threading its way through the maze of traffic as if possessed of some magic which kept the horses at a smart trot, while
everything
else on the road was in difficulties.

They crossed the Thames, where the sun flashed on the water of the pool of London, and a forest of masts swayed on the swelling afternoon tide. The towers of Southwark Cathedral rose splendidly to the right as the coach gained the southern shore, entering a high street which before the
improvements 
to the bridge and its approaches had been a place of gabled medieval houses and galleried, half-timbered inns, but which was now a broad, modern thoroughfare.

Jane glanced at the timetable again. It was fifty-five miles to Brighton, twelve to the end of the first stage at the Cock Inn, Sutton. After that there were stops at Reigate, Crawley, Handcross, and Bolney, before the final run into Brighton itself. She sighed as the squire’s snores intensified, shuddering through the coach like the roars of a disgruntled lion. Public transport wasn’t at all agreeable, she’d found
that
out already.

They passed Marshalsea prison and then the brown brick facade of St George’s Church, overlooking the junction of five busy roads, where London traffic seemed to flow endlessly to and fro. They passed through the St George tollgate and then drove on to an even busier crossroads at the Elephant & Castle, where they stopped briefly to take on another outsider. After that, they began to leave the older part of the capital behind. The road was now lined with houses built only five years before, after the battle of Waterloo, and behind them there were market gardens and the suggestion of open fields.