The Covent Garden Ladies: The Extraordinary Story of Harris's List (51 page)

‘Ah, Dick,’ he sighed theatrically, ‘I fear the longer I sit beside Miss Ingerton the more attached to her I become. Madam, I have no doubt that by the time we arrive in London you will have agreed to be my wife, or else offer to perform the services of one.’

‘That, sir, is quite enough!’ barked Mr Fortune, springing to my rescue.

The young men reacted sharply. Tom bowed his head. ‘My apologies to you, sir, I did not think that she was—’

‘No, sir, you did not think at all and you have greatly offended Miss Ingerton.’

‘My apologies to you, madam,’ said my assailant, ‘for my baseness.’ He then locked his gaze on me in a hot, predatory manner. ‘You see, Miss Ingerton, I am very much in drink, and am no better than a beast. My passions have been raised and I mean to slake them in London.’ He finished his sentence with a loud belch.

‘Sir!’ exclaimed Mr Fortune, before pulling down the window. ‘Guard!’ he called out. ‘Stop the coach at once!’

The galloping horses were immediately reined in and the flying vehicle pulled to a halt. Mr Fortune shouted from the window, ‘There is a gentleman here unfit to ride inside and I beg you to take him on top with you. He is in need of air.’ With that, the odious Thomas Masham was ushered on to the roof to sit alongside the guard and his sobering blunderbuss.

With their ringleader removed, Tom Masham’s fellows held their tongues and stared at their shoes. Pleased to have played the role of a knight errant, Mr Fortune sat erect and smug the rest of the way to Royston. I was truly grateful for his assistance, but the reassurance I had felt in his company would be temporary. From the moment I stepped out of the coach, I would be left open to all sorts of approaches and possible indignities. I began to fret about what I might find upon the stagecoach and the difficult characters I might encounter.

The day was now disappearing. Along the final stretch of road the sun had faded into deep, rich shadows. I had not progressed as far as I had naively hoped and night would bring a further round of difficulties and pitfalls. Mr Fortune must have noticed my worried expression as I caught my first sight of the sign of the Bull. The coach pulled through the arch and into the inn yard but I could only look at the light-filled windows with trepidation.

‘Royston!’ announced the guard. I could not move. Something held me back. Perhaps it was the thought of entering yet another tavern alone, or the dizzying realization that, beyond this point, I had no further instructions. I did not know which stage to take or when it would arrive. I might have to spend the night here, amidst the noise and fray and the strangers sodden in drink.

‘Oh …’ I spoke to myself, clutching my bundle, tears welling in my eyes.

‘Miss Ingerton, this is Royston. You are due to disembark,’ said Mr Fortune, stepping out of the coach to assist me. ‘But your face, it is entirely white!’ he exclaimed with genuine concern, taking my hand. ‘No. No. This will not do,’ and with that, Mr Fortune ordered his box to be taken off the carriage. ‘I cannot leave you here in such a condition.’

I regarded him with gratitude.

As he escorted me away, I could hear Tom Masham muttering something rude to his associates about my protector. I was pleased I could not make out his precise words, though it might have served me well to listen.

The relief I felt at hearing their vehicle depart was great, nearly as great as my reassurance at being offered Mr Fortune’s arm.

Oh reader, I know what you are thinking. You are wondering how I could possibly have entered an inn at night with an unknown gentleman. Yes, here too I must pause and marvel at my youthful innocence. I am also reminded of that saying: that one goes out of the frying pan and into the fire. Did I not think myself in some danger? To be truthful, I suppose the possibility of danger did briefly fly through my feather head, but Mr Fortune seemed to be such an honourable, Christian man. He was genteel and sensible. He seemed no different from any other gentleman I had ever known while living at Melmouth. (You, Lord Dennington, I discount.)

Mr Fortune was a paragon of chivalry. He immediately ordered me a set of rooms where I could dine in private and later sleep undisturbed. He made all the necessary arrangements for my journey on the stage to Oxford the following day. He ordered that a roaring fire be lit in the hearths of both rooms. ‘I would not have you take ill from the cold,’ he said to me with a kind look. I watched as the wood was piled into the fireplace, Mr Fortune tipping the boy for each additional log he laid on to the growing pyre. By the time I sat down to dine the room was radiant with heat. It was then that my gallant protector made a motion to leave, claiming that he would take his meal downstairs in the public room.

‘Oh, but you must join me here,’ I said innocently to him, and to his credit, he offered several false protests before taking a seat at my table.

We dined well. In fact, I had not eaten so richly in days, perhaps weeks. He ordered the finest fare that the Bull’s kitchens could provide: quails with plum sauce, soused hare, roast capon, suet pudding, fritters and syllabub. Mr Fortune was a convivial man, who seemed most at home behind a plate heaped with food. The more wine he drank, the ruddier his cheeks glowed. His conversation, which revolved around London gossip and the races at Newmarket, was so entertaining that he succeeded in making me forget for a short while the pain that weighted down my heart. I was so charmed by his good company and manners that I was entirely unprepared for what transpired next.

It had grown late and the large meal, wine and heated surroundings had caused me to become sleepy. I expressed my wish to retire, whereupon Mr Fortune rose to his feet and graciously assisted me from my chair. I was not yet standing upright when I was grabbed fiercely, spun around and pinned to his chest. I screamed and struggled. ‘Release me!’ I demanded.

Retaining his hold on my wrist, he glared at me, panting. ‘Whatever do you mean by this?’ he snapped, obviously confused. ‘You have accepted my hospitality, even encouraged my advances, and yet you refuse me?’

‘No, sir, I did not mean …’

‘What, madam? You travel alone and have no protector. What would you have me think? You are an innocent miss?’ he leered. Then his eyes hardened on me. ‘Now you may give up this game and we shall get on with the deed.’

I shook my head furiously in utter disbelief. The shock of his sudden transformation bewildered me. I was speechless at his suggestion and terrified of what he might try. I began to panic. Twisting with all my might, I managed to pull free from his grasp and tear through the doorway into the adjoining room. How grateful I was for the bolt upon the door! It does not bear imagining what would have happened had there not been one. So many poor wretches have seen their ruin in such rooms, all on account of an innkeeper who would not pay the extra expense for a small bar of metal.

Dear Mr Fortune. The man who had once been my saviour and my only friend was now my persecutor. He pounded upon the door, demanding that I open it at once. Inside the Bull’s most costly bedchamber, I trembled. The door bounced on its hinges with each angry impact of his fists. Frightened that it might not hold against his battery, I dragged a tallboy with all my might until it rested against the entryway. Mr Fortune continued to hammer away, determined to claim his prize.

I backed myself towards the canopied bed and sat frozen upon it. This had been but my first day from Melmouth. What else might I have to endure? I lived on the faintest hope of what I might find when I arrived in Gloucestershire. But at that very moment I had nothing; no family, no home, no love, no prospects, not even a protector. The bleakness of my situation broke over me like a wave and I collapsed under it in a torrent of miserable sobs.

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THE COVENT GARDEN LADIES
Version 1.0 Epub ISBN: 9781448153916

First published 2005

Tempus Publishing Limited
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Stroud, Gloucestershire, GL5 2QG

© Hallie Rubenhold, 2005

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