Regency Debutantes (7 page)

Mrs Raithwaite was much impressed by this novel behaviour, attributing it to Mr Raithwaite’s firm stance. It seemed that her daughter had at last overcome her initial reservations to an alliance with Mr Praxton. Not that Clara Raithwaite had an inkling of comprehension as to just why Georgiana had taken such an apparently unprovoked dislike for that perfectly respectable gentleman. He seemed to Clara a most handsome fellow with commendable prospects.
And
he had so far managed to ignore Georgiana’s stubborn tendencies.

Mrs Raithwaite’s delight abounded when her daughter entered
a conversation regarding Madame Chantel and her wedding dress. Quite clearly Georgiana had resigned herself to the marriage and the Raithwaite household could at last breathe easy. They, therefore, were most understanding when two days later Georgiana complained of the headache and was forced to retire early to bed. Mrs Raithwaite ascribed it to a combination of excitement and nerves, which she proclaimed were perfectly normal in any young lady about to be married. And when Georgiana hugged her mother and told her that she loved her and hoped she would be forgiven for being such a troublesome daughter, Mrs Raithwaite knew she was right. For once, Clara Raithwaite’s diagnosis of her eldest daughter’s emotional state was accurate.

Georgiana had forced herself to lie still beneath the bedcovers, feigning sleep when her mother came in to check on her. Only once the door had closed and her mother’s footsteps receded along the passageway did she throw back the covers and set about her activity. With all the precision of the best-planned ventures, Georgiana moved without sound, aided only by the occasional shaft of moonlight stealing through her window. Her actions held a certain deliberation, a calm efficiency rather than a frenzied rushing.

From beneath the bed she retrieved her looted goods and set about stripping off her night attire, never pausing even for one minute. Time was of the essence and there was none to spare. With one fell snip of the scissors, purloined from Mrs Andrew’s kitchen, her long braid of hair had been removed. Georgiana suppressed a sigh. This was not the time for sentimentality. At last she had finished and raised the hand mirror from the dressing table to survey the final result. An approving smile beamed back at her, and deepened to become
a most unladylike grin. The effect was really rather good, better even than she had anticipated. Now all she had to do was hope that the coachman and postboys would not see through the disguise.

She loosed the few paltry coins that she could call her own upon the bed and, gathering them up, tucked them carefully into her pocket. The rest of her meagre provisions were stowed within a rather shabby bag that she’d managed to acquire from one of the footmen. Everything was in place. It was time to go.

She could only hope that Mama would forgive her. It wasn’t as if she was just running away. No. She’d never been a coward and didn’t mean to start now. It was advice and help that she needed, and Lady Farleigh had offered both. The trouble was that Mirabelle Farleigh had gone to Collingborne. And so it was to precisely that same destination that Georgiana intended to travel. Fleetingly she remembered Nathaniel Hawke’s concern.
Who are you afraid of? If Mr Praxton has done aught that he should not have …
Would it have come to this if she’d told him the truth? Too late for such thoughts. One last look around her bedroom, then she turned, and slowly walked towards the window.

If a casual observer had happened to glance in the direction of Number 42 Tythecock Crescent at that particular time, a most peculiar sight would have greeted his eyes. A young lad climbed out of the ground-floor window, a small bag of goods clutched within his hands. From the boy’s fast and furtive manner it could be surmised that he was clearly up to no good, and was acting without the knowledge of the good family Raithwaite, who occupied that fine house. Alas and alack that the moral fibre of society was so sadly lacking.

Georgiana sped out along the back yard, down Chancery Lane, meeting back up with Tythecock Crescent some hundred yards down the road. Even at this time of night the street was not quiet, and she was careful to keep her head lowered in case any one of the bodies meandering past might recognise Mr Raithwaite’s daughter beneath the guise of the skinny boy. It was not far to her stepfather’s coaching house, the Star and Garter, and she reached its gates within a matter of minutes. Fortunately for Georgiana, there was still room upon the mail to Gosport, and she soon found herself squashed between a burly man of indiscernible age, and a well-endowed elderly lady. Ironically, no member of the Raithwaite family had ever travelled by mail, and it was not far into the journey when Georgiana came to realise the reason. The burly man was travelling with two other men seated opposite; all three smelled as if they had not washed in some time and insisted on making loud and bawdy comments. As if that were not bad enough, the straggle-haired one opposite Georgiana spotted the young woman positioned further along and proceeded to eye her in a manner that made Georgiana feel distinctly uncomfortable, and profoundly glad that she had had the foresight to disguise herself in Francis’s clothes.

‘Come on, darlin’, give us a smile.’ The man flashed his blackened teeth at the woman who, seemingly completely unaffected, did not deign to reply.

The burly chap beside Georgiana sniggered. ‘Won’t even smile at some fellows that are bound for sea to keep out that tyrant Boney! It’s us seamen that saves the likes of you, missy, our bravery that lets you sleep easy in your bed at night.’

‘Yeh!’ his companion grunted in agreement. His beady eyes narrowed and his expression became sly. ‘If you won’t
give us a smile, darlin', maybe you’ll give us one of your sweet kisses instead?’

Georgiana felt a rough elbow dig into her ribs, and a boom of laughter. ‘What do you ‘ave to say about it, young master, eh?’

Georgiana’s heart leapt to her chest and she didn’t dare to look round.

The man persisted. ‘Oi, with all that fancy clobber, he thinks he’s too good to talk to the likes of us. Is that it?’

‘No, sir.’ She forced the voice as a low rumble, and shook her head.

‘Want to give that lass a kiss?’

Georgiana looked at the floor and shook her head. ‘No, sir.’

The third sailor spoke up at last. ‘Leave the lad alone, Jack. He’s still wet behind the ears, just a young ‘un. Let’s get some sleep on this bloody coach while we can.’

‘I was only ‘avin’ a laugh,’ Jack protested, ‘weren’t I, lad?’

The journey seemed long in the extreme, although it took little more than three hours. By the time they arrived in Fareham, close by Portsmouth, Georgiana was cold, hungry and tired, having been exhausted by excitement and nerves. And she had yet to travel to Havant from where she could catch the mail in the direction of Petersfield, thus allowing her to make her way to Collingborne. To make matters worse, the first stagecoach to Havant did not leave until early the next morning. After all this she could only hope that at the
end of her travels, she would not be turned away from Collingborne House and that Mirabelle Farleigh would offer her the help she so desperately needed. Pray God that it would be so.

Captain Nathaniel Hawke stood on the quarterdeck of the
Pallas
and surveyed the busy commotion on his ship. The
Pallas
was a frigate, a long, low sailing ship, the eyes and ears of the navy. Before the quarterdeck a chain of men were hauling spare spars, placing them down beside the rowing boats on the open deck beams. Others scoured water casks ready for refilling. Shouts sounded from those up high checking the rigging, climbing barefoot and confident, white trousers and blue jackets billowing in the strong sea breeze. The smell of fresh paint drifted to the captain’s nose, as the men dangling over the bulwark on their roped seats, brushes in hands, applied the last few strokes of black across the gunport lids of the broadside. The black coloration contrasted starkly with the ochre yellow banding around the gunports themselves, setting up the smart so-called ‘Nelson’s Chequer’. In the distance, beyond the forecastle, the finely carved lion figurehead glinted proudly in the sunlight. ‘How fares Mr Hutton with his repairs?’

‘He’s completed all of the gunports on the starboard broadside and is halfway through those on the larboard. Mr Longley is continuing with caulking the hull and estimates that the job will be complete by this evening.’ First Lieutenant John Anderson faced his captain, resplendent in the full naval uniform that he had so recently purchased. He held himself with pride and eyed Captain Hawke with a mixture of respect and admiration. ‘The men are working hard, Captain, and all should be ready in two days. We’ll meet the sailing time.’ There was a strength and enthusiasm in his voice.

Nathaniel turned from his view of a chaotic Portsmouth Point and faced his second-in-command. The lad had everything that it took to make a good first lieutenant except experience. And that was something that would not be long in coming if Nathaniel had his way. ‘Indeed, Lieutenant, they’ve worked like Trojans, we all have. You’re right in your estimation of the work. But it’s not the repairs that threaten to postpone
our departure.’ He glanced away, out to where the open sea beckoned. ‘We both know the real problem—our lack of manpower. We’ve not enough crew to properly man this ship and I cannot take her out as we currently stand. The men that we have are good and true, all came forward willingly to serve on the
Pallas
because she’s widely known to be a fair and lucky ship.’

Don’t be misled, sir. The men are here because Captain Nathaniel Hawke is reputed to be one of the best post captains to sail under and all that have sailed with him previously have been made rich with the prizes he captured. But the lieutenant knew better than to speak his thoughts.

Nathaniel’s face had grown grim. ‘But for all that, we’ve insufficient numbers to sail. It seems that we’re forced once more to turn to Captain Bodmin to supply the extra men needed.’ The knowledge curled his top lip.

Lieutenant Anderson sensed the captain’s reticence in the matter. ‘Most of the ships that sail from here require Captain Bodmin’s services and a good proportion of their crews comprise pressed men. It’s no reflection on you, Captain. Be assured of that.’

‘Thank you, Mr Anderson.’ He clasped his fingers together. ‘It seems that we’ve no choice, for if we’re to sail we must have men, even pressed men who’ve never set foot off land before and lack any seafaring skills. Not that that is what presents the biggest problem. They’ve no desire to be on board and so will cause any manner of trouble to illustrate the point. Little wonder when they’ve been forcibly deprived of their freedom. God knows, Mr Anderson, the Press Gang is very much a last resort. Better one volunteer than three pressed men.’

Both men turned and looked once more out across the crowded harbour of Portsmouth.

Georgiana was not feeling at her best as she huddled in the yard of the Red Lion. She felt as stiff as an old woman and she’d long since eaten any vestige of food contained within the bag pressed against her chest. The delicious aroma of hot mutton pies wafted from the pie seller just beyond the courtyard gates.

‘George, fancy a pie?’ The gruff voice surprised her.

Georgiana looked down and shook her head. ‘No, thank you, sir,’ she uttered in as manly a tone as she could manage. Her stomach protested with a fierce growl.

Burly Jack, as she’d taken to calling him, although not to his face, whispered to Tom, ‘Lad’s not the full shilling, but he’s ‘armless enough. Reminds me of me nephew.’ He straightened up and raised his voice in Georgiana’s direction. ‘Come on, now, boy, don’t be too proud for your own good. You must be starvin'. I ‘aven’t seen you eat nothin’ all night.’ Jack advanced, carrying three steaming pies, and thrust one towards her.

An audible rumbling erupted from Georgiana’s stomach.

Tom laughed. ‘Don’t try tellin’ us you ain’t hungry. They must have heard that stomach growl in the streets of London!’

The pie loomed before Georgiana, all hot and aromatic. She felt her mouth fill with saliva and could not help but lick her lips.

‘Come on, lad.’

The pie danced closer, calling to Georgiana with an allure that she had never experienced before. Her hand reached out and enclosed around the vision of temptation.

Burly Jack delivered an affectionate blow to her arm before the trio headed off towards the closest tavern.

Georgiana slumped against the wall. She bit through the
pastry until delicious gravy spurted into her mouth, so hot that she could see the wisps of steam escape into the coolness of the surrounding air. Squatting down, she leaned her back against the rough-hewn stone behind her and chewed upon the heavenly chunks of mutton. It was strange just how contenting the simple act of filling one’s empty belly could be. Gravy trickled down her chin and she lapped it back up. She was just wiping the grease from her fingers down Francis’s brown woollen breeches when it happened.

Yells. Thuds. The sound of Burly Jack’s voice raised in anger and fear.

Georgiana started up like a scared rabbit, peering all around. The voices came from the other side of the wall. Darting through the gate she ran round and into the narrow alleyway. ‘Jack!’ Her voice rang out clear and true.

In the gloom of the alley her travelling companions had been set upon by several men. There was much flying of fists and kicking of legs, but Georgiana could just see that Burly Jack was being thoroughly bested. Without pausing to consider her own position, she launched herself upon Jack’s attacker, ripping at his hair and boxing his ears for all she was worth.

‘Run, lad!’ Jack’s voice echoed in her ear. It was the last thing she heard before she was felled by a hefty blow to the back of her head. And then there was nothing.

Georgiana awoke to a giddy nauseous feeling. There was an undoubted sensation of swaying that would not still whether she opened her eyes or closed them. Not that it made any difference to what she could see within the dense blackness of where she now found herself.