Perdita (2 page)

We were both wrong. In a few minutes, a queenly creature strutted forth from the inn door. She wore a great plate of a bonnet, with three curling ostrich plumes trailing behind. She also wore a fur cape, despite the warm breezes of spring. She carried a pug dog in her arms, and was accompanied by a dragon not unlike Miss Brodie. The group fell back to let her pass. The first carriage, the one with Tuck’s Traveling Theater printed on the side, was her chariot. A young urchin threw open the door, and she entered. Mr. Daugherty, with a last look over his shoulder towards our window, went and joined her in the carriage. The team were given the office, and they were off in a cloud of dust.

A wistful sigh escaped Perdita’s lips, as she gazed forlornly out the window at them “They are on their way to London,” she said, “with stops at Marlborough, Kingsclere, Farnborough and possibly Woking, if the theater manager there does not welch on his bargain. They play what is called in the theater ‘one night stands,’ Moira. Next year they will tour larger cities, and eventually they hope to play the Lane or the Garden. That is what theater people call Drury Lane and Covent Garden,” she informed me, having become an instant expert in matters dramatical.

“Mr. Daugherty gave you a quick lesson, did he?”

“Yes, he was very nice. He thinks I am a great dramatic tragedian, for I told him I am not at all interested in mere comedy. Tuck’s Players are comedians,” she added, in a condescending way.

I heard more of the wisdom of Mr. Daugherty over tea. I cannot believe he had time to tell her half the things she told me. It was nearly noon by the time tea was done, and still Aunt Agatha had not arrived. I went to the desk to inquire once more, beginning to feel like a pest. A note was handed to me, just arrived, the clerk said, though it was sitting under a bell, which suggested it had been there long enough to have found a home. I tore it open eagerly, to read the dreadful news that Miss Brodie was abed with a bad case of influenza, which she thought it unwise to transmit to us. She had just that morning had her doctor confirm the diagnosis, and he suggested we go home, and postpone our visit for a week.

I took the sorrowful news back to Perdita. Her bottom lip began quivering, while a great, crystal clear tear—really a diamond of a tear—welled up in her eyes, to tremble a moment on the brink, before oozing down her cheek. “They will make me marry Mr. Croft,” she said in pitiful accents.

“Indeed they will not. They will let us go to Aunt Maude, as we wanted to in the first place. Brighton will be much gayer than Bath. You’ll see.”

“No, they won’t. I
begged
Papa to let me go to Brighton, but he said it would be full of rakes and rattles, and I would fall into mischief. Oh, Moira, what am I to do? Mr. Croft will come around again, preaching of piety and pretending to Papa he is so holy, when I know in my bones he is
horrid.
It is all Lady Brodie’s doings, shuffling me out of the house, because she hates me.”

“You must do what your father says, Perdita. It will be all right. We’ll go to Bath next week. One week won’t make much difference.”

“I am not going back,” she said sullenly. “Let us go to Brighton. This is our chance. Mama’s sister will be able to talk Papa around to letting us stay, once we are there. He really admires Aunt Maude, you know. It is only that he does not want me to go and tell her how horrid his new wife is. That is why he won’t let me go, but once I have gone and told her, then there will be no point in making me come back.”

“Let me think a moment,” I said, sinking on to a chair. I really felt extremely sorry for her, and apprehensive for her future. Her father had been quite set on the match with Croft. To return might well precipitate a hasty wedding, for while Croft was in the boughs at the moment, he was still interested. Aunt Maude was the best of our relatives, my own cousin as well as Perdita’s aunt. My charge and I are related on the maternal side, which is how I came to be her governess when Mama died. Besides being nice, Maude is quite a strong character. She would give Sir Wilfrid a hard time, if she knew what was afoot. I had written her a letter informing her of Sir Wilfrid’s plans, but she never replied. I could not know whether she had been away on some holiday when it arrived, or whether, as I suspected later, the letter was never posted. I had left it with Sir Wilfrid’s mail in the silver mail salver at home. I could not like to barge in at Brighton if she were away, or unwell. What would we do if she were not there? No, it would be better to stay where we were till we had time to write again and ask Maude if we might come. There would be no trouble at home, in Swindon. They would think we were safely at Bath; for a few days or a week we could con them we were there, as it was not likely Aunt Agatha would rise up from her sickbed to write Sir Wilfrid.

I outlined my plan to Perdita. She was inordinately pleased. "You must not put too much hope in it, my dear,” I told her. "It is not certain Aunt Maude will be in a position to have us.”

"If she cannot, I’ll go to Alton’s,” she answered, undaunted. “John is in London for the Season. I can stay with him and his mother.”

“Your papa will not like your putting up with a bachelor, even if he is a neighbor.”

“His mother is there. Papa is only afraid I might marry him, but I never would. He is not at all romantic.”

John Alton was not rich or socially high enough to be eligible for Perdita, whereas Mr. Croft owned an abbey. “What I would do is find some other handsome gentleman to marry. So long as he was rich and preferably noble, Papa would not care in the least.”

“True, but that can be done from Brighton. We’ll try Aunt Maude first.”

“Promise me you won’t make me go back,” she pleaded.

“I shall do what I can. I can’t promise. If your Aunt Maude cannot have us at this time, we must go home, but I shall help you escape Mr. Croft. I promise you that.”

She looked at me, a half-disappointed, disillusioned look, but in the end had no choice but to accept it. I wrote to Maude, and Perdita left the letter off at the desk while I arranged for our trunks to be unloaded. The carriage must be sent home, to make Sir Wilfrid think we had made contact with Aunt Agatha, as arranged. We had to hire a sleeping room, as we would be staying for a night or two. Our trunks were taken above, and for the remainder of the day we enjoyed a holiday, walking around the town, looking through the shops, and discussing at length what form our future was likely to take. I could not like to worry her, but if Aunt Maude was not agreeable to have us, I would certainly be turned off from my post for having abetted Perdita in this scheme. It was not a detail to sit lightly on my heart. How should I help her, in that case?

Before dinner, I tired of walking and went to our room to go through my address book, canvassing other possible havens for us, if things turned out for the worst. Perdita became bored, and went belowstairs to get some newspapers. Later, we had dinner in our room, which looked out on the main street of the little town.

“There is one of those carriages from Tuck’s, still at the Red Lion,” I mentioned.

“There is to be no play tonight,” she told me. “Mr. Daugherty was going ahead to arrange the business and finances at Marlborough, then the others are to join him tomorrow, and put on their play at night. Do you suppose the woman in the ostrich feathers was his wife, Moira? He did not say he was married.”

“I have no idea. Is Daugherty not an actor after all, then?”

“Oh yes, the leading actor, also the manager, and he writes their stuff too, like Shakespeare. I wonder what the Tuck stands for. You would think he would call it the Daugherty Players.”

“I am surprised he does not call it the King’s Men.”

“He was not allowed. They made him change it last year when he went to London. Shall we go for a walk before we turn in for the night? It will be a long, dull evening in our room.”

“We cannot go on the streets unescorted. It is nearly dark.”

“The actresses are having a stroll.”

"Precisely!”

Instead of walking, we went to the window and observed the passing parade. It provided an excellent hour’s entertainment. I had not seen so interesting a spectacle since first clapping my eyes on the new Lady Brodie. The girls were not walking, but making up to any male pedestrian who passed by. As often as not, the man in question would enter the Red Lion with the actress. Before our show was called off because of darkness, I believe every one of the girls had picked up an escort in this highly irregular fashion. We had some difficulty in sleeping for the racket coming to us from across the road, where the windows were open, with singing, shouting, and the hammering of an out-of-tune piano blaring into the night.

Chapter Two

I awoke in the morning to the unusual sight of King George III in his parliamentary robes, glaring at me from the foot of the bed. He was in a frame, of course, hanging from the wall. By his side hung a hideous green parrot, done in clothwork. I was trying to decide which was the uglier when I became aware of something unusual. Glancing across at the pillow beside me, I saw it was empty. The imprint of Perdita’s head was on it still, but the girl was gone. No terror consumed my being. I knew she was not a late sleeper. She was up and dressed, probably in the dining room below having her breakfast. A look at my watch told me it was after eight, time that I arise and join her.

I rang for warm water, made a leisurely toilette, as there was really nothing to do all day long but wait. We could not expect to hear from Maude before the next day. My hope was that she would come in person to collect us. A half hour had elapsed before I entered the dining hall. Still no panic surged when Perdita was not there. She had finished and gone for a walk, before the town was bustling with activity. I had toast and tea, and stopped at the desk to see if the newspapers had arrived yet. The clerk, the same I had been badgering for word of Aunt Agatha the day before, was on duty.

"This time I have your message waiting for you, ma’am,” he said, handing me a white folded paper.

“Thank you,” I replied, wondering who it could be from. Mr. Daugherty popped into my head. Before I read a word, I recognized Perdita’s peculiar penmanship. Her somewhat childishly-formed letters were always ornamented with swirls and curlicues, while her i’s were dotted with v’s. And still, fool that I am, I thought only how considerate she was to have left me word in what direction she was walking, in case I wished to join her.

It was nothing of the sort. She started right off her epistle with a melodramatic outburst of how she could not
endure
this cruel life that was before her, and to free her soul of the fetters of constraint, she was fleeing ‘while still Time Remayned.’ Spelling was never her forte. Any word that was not given a capital was underlined to add force to her persuasions. No destination was named, but it hardly took a wizard to conclude she had run to Tuck’s Traveling Theater. I darted out the door to see if the carriage were still standing by. The roadway was empty.

I had to screw up my courage to enter the disreputable Red Lion alone to inquire when they had left. “The actors went last night, miss,” the proprietor told me. “It’s their custom to leave at night. In that way they can sleep in their carriages, and save a night’s lodging. Their regular way of carrying on,” he added in a disparaging, gypped tone.

“But they were here late last night. I heard them.”

“Aye, so did the whole town. They stayed drinking and hollering till past midnight, but they didn’t sleep over. I’m not sorry to see the backs of them.”

I asked, pink with shame, if a young lady had joined them, but he had no knowledge of my charge. While I had the ear of a local, I asked for the hours of the coach, only to learn I had missed one by fifteen minutes. Another would not be past till noon. He was kind enough to direct me to a hostelry that rented carriages.

I darted back to the George first to get my money, and have our trunks brought down for loading on a hired carriage. That was when the day’s second calamity struck. I was painfully aware too that mishaps generally occur in three’s. The maid had been in our room and made it up. I went rooting through the trunk for the precious stocking holding our money, to find our things had been thoroughly rifled. The money was gone, likewise a few small items of wearing apparel. I needed that money too desperately to do without it.

I stormed down to the desk, demanded the manager, made a great thundering brouhaha. Maids were called into his office, a search of their persons and rooms carried out, the whole of it using up a great deal of precious time and patience.

"Nothing for it, ma’am, we’ll have to call in a constable,” the manager said apologetically.

"I am in a great hurry. Could you not forward me some money? I don’t need the whole twenty-three pounds. Five or ten will do.”

The fisheye he raked me with was a revelation. He did not believe a word of my story. Suggesting less than the whole sum convinced him I was shamming it. "Afraid that is impossible. Go to the constable—if you dare,” he said, with a brazen look.

Before I left, he added one dim ray of hope. “Maybe your cohort took the blunt with her when she ran,” he said, in an odiously offending manner.

I hoped and prayed she had, but could not believe it. Perdita had not bothered to take her own things; why would she have taken my tippet with the mink tails, or my best lace collar, which items were also missing?

My next stop was the hiring stable. Having left it so late, there was nothing to be had but a whiskey. It hardly mattered. I could not have afforded a regular carriage, team and groom in any case. In fact, I had to leave my obligation at the inn unfulfilled, as I had less than two pounds to see Perdita and myself to safety. Our trunks were left behind as hostages. I would go after Perdita, come back to the George and sit tight till Maude got in touch with us. If she did not come in person, we were sunk.

The nag they hitched up to the whiskey was as old as Adam. Dawdle is too racy a word for her gait. I could have walked on my own two feet faster, though not so far. The old jade, Ginger she was named, hinting at a livelier youth, poked along at a frisky two or so miles an hour, till at last a road marker loomed ahead, at a crossroads. I was alert for the markers as the territory was not familiar to me, but I remembered Marlborough had been named by Perdita as the troupe’s next stop. The word Marlborough did not appear. Devizes, five miles, the marker said.