Toblethorpe Manor (15 page)

Chapter 9

On Saturday morning, after a leisurely breakfast, they set off for Arnden, which was not more than forty miles distant. Richard rode Flame, as the new carriage was fully occupied by the two ladies, Miss Carstairs’ abigail, and Mary, who was so excited that but for her awe of Miss Florence, she would have chattered all the way. She had never before been farther afield than the fair at Harrogate. The sight of the City of York in the distance, with the Minster towering over the old stone walls, finally overcame her ability to hold her tongue.

“Ooh, miss, be that Lunnon?”

“No, Mary, that is York. London is much larger.”

Mary, her eyes popping, looked disbelieving.

“Be we a-goin’ to drive through that there City o’ York?” she queried.

“Not today, I believe. On Monday, we shall do so.”

“Ooh, miss!” A disapproving glare from the very proper abigail silenced her, but as the turn of the road hid the city from sight, she craned her neck out of the window to catch a last glimpse.

The lane wound down the eastern flank of the Pennines. Arnden was situated on the plain of York, some five miles from the city, near the pleasant village of Otterwold. A charming brick-built house, considerably smaller than Toblethorpe Manor, it seemed to erupt with children and dogs as they drew up before the door.

“Cousin Richard!” shouted a fresh-faced youth of sixteen or so, “may I ride Flame? You promised!”

Other voices joined his, contradicting and expostulating, and, not to be outdone, the dogs chimed in, barking madly. A harassed governess stood at the top of the steps, ineffectively trying to calm the chaos.

Aunt Florence had only to show her face for quiet to descend. As she was introduced, Miss Fell realized that there were only four children present, and the canine mob resolved itself into a spaniel and two terriers. They seemed to be the responsibility of ten-year-old Tommy, judging by Miss Carstairs’ strictures.

The boy shook her hand gravely. “Will you shake hands with the dogs?” he asked appealingly. “I have just taught them how.”

Miss Fell agreed and Patch, Silky and Amos were solemnly presented to her.

She did not feel at all fatigued. They had stopped for an hour at noon, taking luncheon at a hotel in Harrogate Spa. The wagon with their baggage, having left at dawn, had already arrived, so she allowed herself to be led to her chamber by Anna and Lydia, and after changing her clothes and parrying their eager questions, she went down to the drawing room.

Richard had been dragged off to the stables by the young man who had hailed him. The other children, under the eagle eye of their aunt, were removed by the governess. Miss Fell and Miss Carstairs relaxed over a tea tray.

“The young people seem very fond of Mr. Carstairs,” observed Miss Fell.

“He spoils them abominably,” said Miss Carstairs with disapproval. “Christopher positively worships him. One can only hope that it will dissuade him from the sartorial excesses of his elder brother.”

“Indeed, I am most anxious to meet Mr. Edward Carstairs. The man who dares to appear in a cerise coat in such comfortably rural surroundings must be brave indeed.”

“Counter-coxcomb “ snorted his aunt.

Richard and Miss Fell spent a restful Sunday at Arnden. Miss Fell was delighted with the family and the house. Mary was not so easily pleased, in fact she was most scornful of the household arrangements; however, she did not seem at all homesick.

They set off again early on Monday morning. Miss Carstairs kissed Miss Fell’s cheek, much to that lady’s surprise, and bade her not permit Richard to go too fast.

“For though he is in general a most considerate person,” she added, “gentlemen are always in a hurry.”

Miss Fell could not wait to relay to Richard his aunt’s unwonted praise.

The sky had clouded over, and there was a chill wind from the north, so Richard was glad to join Miss Fell and Mary inside. He debated leaving Flame to be brought on later by his uncle’s groom, then decided he could not involve him in such expense. Geoffrey Carstairs had a large family and only a moderate income, but he would never accept any assistance from his nephew. The most Richard could do was to keep his cousins supplied with horses of a size suitable to their changing ages, and pay occasional tailor’s bills for Edward.

It was fully sixty-five miles from York to Newark. The road was in good condition after nearly a week of fine weather, so they made good time. At Doncaster they paused for an hour to eat and rest the horses. Richard asked Miss Fell if she would like to stay longer.

“It is early yet,” he said. “You may lie down for a while.”

“Thank you,” she replied gratefully. “However, I am not at all fatigued and had rather arrive early in Newark.”

As they drove through Nottinghamshire, Miss Fell was silent, staring pensively out at the flat plain to the east. It was lushly green and dotted with fine oaks and elms, yet uninteresting after the high moors they had left behind.

After some time, Richard asked her what she was thinking.

“Oh, simply that this is excellent pasture, but I prefer the fells. I think I must have lived in the north.”

Richard cast a warning glance at Mary, who was glued to the opposite window, anxious not to miss any detail of these foreign parts.

Miss Fell understood his look. “The servants all know the truth,” she said. “They  would not spread it, I am sure. You have a very loyal staff.”

“No doubt you are right,” he admitted. “Was it difficult to keep it from Aunt Florence?”

“Not at all. Anna and Lydia are another matter!”

“A pair of chatterboxes, as bad as Lucy, and inquisitive also.”

“I found your cousins charming. It must be delightful to have such relatives.”

“They have their points,” Richard conceded. “However, before you praise them too highly, I should tell you that Christopher had been sent home from school for spreading glue on half the pews in the chapel!”

“How reprehensible! It must have been very funny.”

“I felt it my duty to give him a scold, but when he described the ripping sound that ensued when the congregation arose, I must confess I could not keep a straight face.”

“Will his papa be very wroth?”

“Oh, Uncle Geoffrey is no heavy-handed father. In fact, he is shockingly easygoing or he would not permit Edward to make such a cake of himself.”

“I mind Mr. Edward,” volunteered Mary. “Him that come at Christmas last? He be a real dandy, fine as fivepence.”

Richard and Miss Fell laughed.

“My curiosity to see Mr. Edward Carstairs grows by leaps and bounds,” she said.

They reached Newark before dark, and Richard ordered dinner in their private parlour.

“I hope you think it unexceptionable,” he apologized. “You look a little tired, and I would not expose you to the racket in the coffee room. Mary shall stay with us.”

“You are very thoughtful,” she thanked him. “I am a trifle weary. I shall retire early.”

Richard was concerned to see that she barely touched her food. He made her drink a glass of wine, which brought the color back to her cheeks. She ate very little though, and retired shortly after dinner.

Worried by his charge and bored by his own company, Richard joined a convivial party in the coffee room and drank a good deal of brandy. Wakened early the next morning, he found he had a headache and his temper was not improved when he looked out and saw that the dark mass of cloud overhead had a yellowish tinge that threatened snow.

He had half a mind to remain in Newark for twenty-four hours, but the idea of a day of inaction, coupled with the possibility of being snowed in; persuaded him to carry on. He hoped the storm would not follow them southward.

Entering the private parlour, he found that Miss Fell was down before him. He was glad to note that she looked rested. To his inquiry she replied that she had slept extremely well and was ready to go.

“We had better leave as soon as possible,” she added. “I do not like the look of the sky.”

He grunted.

“You do not look at all the thing yourself,” said Miss Fell candidly. “Are you unwell?”

“I overdid the brandy last night,” he confessed wryly. “Just a trifle on the go, but I have a devilish head this morning.” He wondered why he had told her. Never would he have admitted such a thing to his mother or sister.

She smiled at him with sympathy. He looked like a guilty small boy. “Have some black coffee,” she suggested, and poured him a cup.

She had recovered her appetite and he forced himself to eat, but breakfast did not take long. They were soon on the road again, driving toward Stamford at a good pace. Richard rode for a while, which helped clear his head, but the icy air soon forced him inside to the comfort of hot bricks and fur rugs.

Their breath fogged the windows so that they could not see out. Richard produced a pocket chess set and he and Miss Fell became so engrossed in their game that the thirty miles to their next stop passed unnoticed. As they rattled over the cobbles of the innyard in Stamford, Miss Fell looked up.

“We’m stopping, miss,” announced Mary.

“Saved in the nick of time! Another five minutes and you had my king, Mr. Carstairs.”

When they descended from the coach, they discovered it had been snowing for some time. The air was warmer, but a white carpet a good inch thick covered the ground. Old Ned, climbing slowly down from the box, had a layer of snow on his cap and each shoulder. His nose was cherry red.

“Go warm yourself, man,” said Richard, “and be sure they dry your coat. We’ll not stay long. I’ve no mind to be caught here, and it’s only twenty-five miles to Huntingdon.”

“Don’ ‘ee worry, Mr. Richard,” answered the old man gamely. “What’s a bit o’ snow to a Yorkshireman?”

They left within the hour. It had stopped snowing and the clouds thinned enough to show a trace of blue sky.

“Bain’t enow to make a sailor a pair o’ breeches,” said Mary forebodingly, but Richard was optimistic.

“Maybe we should push on to St Neots,” he proposed. “We shall see how you do at Huntingdon, Miss Fell.”

Shortly after they passed through the village of Wansford, Mary was proved right. Without warning they were surrounded by whirling snowflakes. The road was well marked, so they continued. Within half an hour the horses were struggling through drifts eighteen inches deep. Richard consulted Ned.

“They’ll do,” said the coachman. “Take us mebbe two hours ‘stead o’ one, s’all.”

So they plowed on. Richard, unwilling to sit doing nothing, saddled Flame and rode a little ahead. They were barely three miles from Huntingdon when there was a sudden jolt and a cracking sound. Slowly the carriage tipped to the right and settled at an angle against the hedgerow. Old Ned had driven into a ditch.

Heart in mouth, Richard galloped back. He clambered up onto the side of the coach and opened the door.

“Miss Fell, are you hurt?”

“I do not think so,” replied an uncertain, muffled voice. “But I am very uncomfortable. Mary is on top of me.”

“I’m tryin’ to move, miss, but everythin’s topsy-turvy like.”

There was a sound of scuffling, then Miss Fell said in a more normal voice, “We are so well bundled up that we are just a little shaken. Can you get us out?”

“If you are not injured, I must see to the horses first. Forgive me.”

“Of course. I hope they are not hurt.”

Ned had landed in a deep drift; he had already extricated himself and was cutting the bays free. “I dunno what to say,” he muttered. “I ain’t niver done sich a thing afore.”

“We should have stopped earlier,” said Richard. “You could not see the road. You are not to blame.”

“If the ‘osses are ‘urt, I’ll niver forgive mysen.”

“There, that is the last of them. No broken legs at least.”

They examined the team. Amazingly, none were so much as scratched. The snow had padded their fall.

Richard and the coachman next pulled Mary and Miss Fell out of the carriage, and Ned studied the damage.

“‘Tain’t serious,” he pronounced. “Just the spokes. Howsomever, we won’t be movin’ wi’out they’re mended.”

“We are not far from Huntingdon,” said Richard. “Should you and Mary mind waiting here, Miss Fell, while I ride to fetch another conveyance? Ned could stay with you, though he ought perhaps to start leading the bays after me.”

“We shall be perfectly all right, shall we not, Mary? No one is like to disturb us, I think!”

“No one of sense,” admitted Richard. “We should have stayed in Stamford. Well, useless to cry over spilled milk. I’ll be off and return as quickly as I may.”

Miss Fell watched him gallop off down the road, Flame’s gait apparently unaffected by the snow. Ned and the team followed more slowly. She and Mary found some shelter against the tilted coach. Spreading a rug, they sat down with their backs against it, huddling in the furs.

It was not long before melting snow soaked through the rug beneath them. They began to feel the chill and decided to walk up and down. The blizzard was thinning and soon the snow ceased to fall. It suddenly became much colder.

Mary was rosy-cheeked and bouncing with energy after being cooped up in the carriage. She chattered excitedly until she noticed that Miss Fell was not responding.

“Be you aw’right, miss?” she asked anxiously.

“Yes, Mary, only I am so cold and I cannot walk any farther.”

“Sit tha down, miss, an’ I’ll wrap my rug around thee. I be warm as toast.”

“Thank you, Mary.” Miss Fell was grateful, but the extra wrap did not seem to help. She was shivering convulsively and she could barely speak.

Mary went to the center of the road and looked down it, shading her eyes against the glare of the snow. “There be a carriage a-comin’,” she called. “It’ll be Mr. Richard for sure.”

He was beside them in a moment with a gig driven by an ostler from the White Hart. He had been gone scarce half an hour and he was appalled to see the state Miss Fell was in. She was pale as a ghost and unable to stand.

Richard took a flask from his pocket and forced her to swallow some brandy. “What a fool I am,” he groaned as he lifted her up. “I deserve anything my aunt could say about me, and worse.”