Two Corinthians (25 page)

“I orter know better'n to pick up a swell mort!” he said in disgust, shaking the reins. “Colnbrook?  That'll cost yer four guineas, that will.”

The horse reluctantly abandoned a particularly succulent tuft of grass and plodded on.

At that speed, Lizzie thought drearily, George would reach Colnbrook hours before she did. He would decide it was a hoax, turn around and go home. And then she really would be in the predicament she had invented!

Chapter XVIII—Claire

Mrs Rumbelow was bemoaning the waste of a good saddle of mutton she had “bought special acos o' the Coronation, like.” Claire listened with half her attention and what patience she could muster.

“You and Enid must eat what you can, then make the rest into potted meat,” she suggested at last. “I shall be back the day after tomorrow. I really must go and pack now.”

She went slowly upstairs, housekeeping problems already forgotten. She had told Lizzie that she was not ill, and strictly speaking it was true, yet nor was she well. No doctor was needed for diagnosis: she was suffering from lovesickness.

Her simmering unhappiness had reached a climax yesterday, when George took her to Westminster to see the preparations for the Coronation. The mingled joy and torment of being with him was more than she could bear.

Before he left, before that shocking fight with Bertram, she had been able to take pleasure in his company, enjoy his friendship, with scarce a second thought.  She knew herself ineligible, for her petty fortune could not tempt him, so she had guarded her heart. Her defences were not proof against the unexpected sight of his battered face. Aching to hold him, to soothe his hurts, she had instead been curt, derisive even.  She had told him to rusticate and he had obeyed, and the pain of his absence had taught her that she loved him.

If he had stayed away, time might have healed her wounds as they had healed his. He had returned, more charming, more considerate than ever. She had retreated, escaping to her house to prepare it for the long-awaited day when she could remove thither permanently, the day she now dreaded.

They had gone yesterday to Westminster. A marvelling crowd was examining the wide covered walk between the Abbey and the Hall. Blue-carpeted, it was raised three feet above the ground to improve the view of spectators willing to spend up to twenty guineas to watch the procession from the gaily decorated stands.        George traded shamelessly on his rank to obtain entrance into the Hall.

“I shall attend the ceremony in the Abbey,” he told Claire as they entered under the thirty-foot triumphal arch.  “Only peers are invited to the banquet though, and I'll be damned if I'll sit in the galleries watching my father guzzle.”

“You mean they built all those galleries just so that people could watch other people dining?” she asked in astonishment.

“There will be more ceremonies. The challenge of the King's Champion, for instance.  He is to ride in on a white charger, borrowed for the day, I collect, from Astley's Amphitheatre.”

Claire laughed. “I hope it will be aware of the dignity of the occasion and not try any circus tricks. That table on the dais with the scarlet and gold drapery must be for the King.”

“Did you hear that he is making all the Privy Councillors wear Elizabethan dress?  White and blue satin, with trunk hose. For the first time, Father is glad to be a member of the Opposition.”

“He is a Whig?”

“Yes, and I mean to follow in his footsteps.  I trust you do not favour the Tories?”

Claire was baffled by this question. It was asked in a jocular way, yet there was something in George's dark eyes that said her answer mattered to him.

“I believe reform is overdue,” she said hesitantly.

“That's my girl!”  He touched her cheek lightly, then turned away to point out the musicians gallery above the triumphal arch, leaving Claire shaken and confused.

George too was ill at ease. She had a horrid feeling that he was trying to think of a way to say goodbye. After the Coronation celebrations were over the Ton would be leaving London for their country estates, and she knew that he always preferred the country. By the next time he came to Town she would be settled at Bumble's Green.

“How does your redecorating go on at Bumble's Green?” he asked, as if he had read her mind. “I trust you have not aped our monarch's preference for red and gold. It is a trifle hard on the eye, is it not?”

“It goes well,” she answered as they left the Hall through a side door. “It will be ready next week for the furniture to be delivered, or so the painter promises.” She hoped he would request an invitation to inspect the house, but he said nothing to the purpose as he escorted her, with his usual solicitude, back through the crowds to the curricle.

In fact, as they drove back to Portman Square he waxed eloquent over the beauties of Dorset in summer. Claire wanted to cry.

She had thought that he might offer for Lizzie.  However, there had been nothing to stop him and since he had not yet done so it seemed unlikely now. On the other hand, Bertram might be ready to come up to scratch, having waited for his parents' arrival. Why else should Lady Tatenhill have invited the two of them to dinner?  Claire wondered whether Lizzie would have him. She had turned down a number of unexceptionable offers but she might prefer life with Bertram, despite the inevitable discord, to retiring with her sister to Bumble's Green.

It was even possible that she was nursing a secret tendre for him. She had asked so earnestly whether Claire liked him, and with her lively temperament she did not dread argument. Claire could not imagine quarreling with the man she loved.

“You are quiet today,” he had said as he helped her down from the curricle.

“So are you,” she had retorted.

Their eyes had met and held for an endless moment, then she had turned and hurried into the house.

As she packed a pair of bandboxes, she tried again to decipher the secret message she had read in that long look. Nothing but her imagination, she decided sadly.

“Miss Claire, Miss Claire!”  Alfie panted up the stairs, his red hair standing on end in its usual disarray. “All the gigs is hired out today acos o' the Crownation. There's only a chaise left an' they says it's old as Paul's steeple. Who's Paul?”

“They mean St. Paul's Cathedral, I collect,” Claire explained absently, “the old one before the Great Fire, for the new one has a dome. I shall have to take it. Carry these down, if you please, and then run back to the stables for the chaise.”

She was following him down when a knock sounded at the front door and Enid popped up from the kitchen to answer it.

It was Horace Harrison. He saw her on the stair and it was too late to retreat.

“Miss Sutton,” he said, with an elaborate bow that put his eyes in danger from his shirt points. “My cousin is safely ensconced in Westminster Abbey, so I am come to assure you I have no intention of trifling with your affections.  I beg you will listen to my suit.”

“Pray do not, sir!”  Claire was acutely conscious that Enid and Alfie were listening avidly. “I am on the point of departing for the country.”

“Then you must allow me to drive you. You will be more comfortable in Mama's barouche than in any hired vehicle. I do not pretend to be a top sawyer like Bertram, but I am generally accounted a fair whip and will engage not to overturn you.”

Claire was tempted. Horace was bound to make another offer, but that seemed easier to cope with than an endless journey in an ancient chaise. He would be seated on the box with Alfie, driving, not inside the vehicle with her, so he must wait until they arrived to propose. In fact, she owed it to him to depress his pretensions thoroughly, for Bertram's interruptions had never allowed her to complete her rejection in no uncertain terms. Alfie's presence would ensure that he did not go beyond the bounds of propriety.

“Thank you, Mr Harrison,” she said tiredly, suppressing her misgivings. “That is very kind of you. I am ready to leave at any moment.”

If Horace had exaggerated in describing himself as a fair whip, at least he had a realistic view of his own abilities. He never raised his team's gait above a trot, slowing to a walk around corners. The barouche, though old-fashioned, was indeed comfortable, and Claire managed to doze, rousing now and then to nod and smile when her driver pointed out what he considered interesting landmarks. There was little traffic, a holiday having been declared in honour of the Coronation. The peaceful greenness of the countryside was soothing to her tattered nerves.

It was nearly six already when they reached Bumble's Green. The new rose garden glowed in the golden light and a light breeze wafted the fragrance to Claire as the carriage drew up before the house.  She knew she had been right to come.  Here in the quiet of her own home she could sort out her feelings and regain her composure.

“Will you come in for some refreshment before you leave, Mr Harrison?” she invited unwillingly. She had no hope that he would decline. “It must be in the kitchen, I fear, for the other rooms are not yet furnished. Alfie, take the carriage round to the stables if you please, then bring my things in.”

The lad hurried to obey. He seemed oddly excited, pink-cheeked and muttering to himself, casting puzzled glances at Horace and shaking his head. Claire watched him with a frown and resolved to ask what was troubling him as soon as she had disposed of her unwanted suitor.

She led the way into the house and down the passage to the kitchen. They passed the door of the Copples' bedchamber, where she would be sleeping, and she smiled as she noticed the key in the big brass lock. No doubt Mrs Copple had intended to leave her valuables safely shut up and then had forgotten to remove the key.

Horace Harrison, in his celestial blue coat, orange waistcoat and huge topaz pin, looked thoroughly out of place in the kitchen.  He sat stiffly on the edge of a chair at the scrubbed white-wood table, watching in astonishment as Claire lit the new Rumford stove and set a kettle to boil.

“My dear Miss Sutton,” he protested, “when we are married you will have servants to do such tasks.”

“I have not said I will marry you,” she pointed out, “and I have servants of my own. They just happen to be absent.” In truth she was rather proud of her new housewifely skills and annoyed with him for not appreciating them.

Horace rose, took a large handkerchief from his pocket, and spread it on the spotless flagstone floor. The moment for his proposal had arrived. Fortunately, so had Alfie. He walked jauntily into the kitchen, looking smug and jingling something in his pocket.

“Been't you tired, Miss Claire?” he enquired with a strange grimace contorting his flat features.

“Yes, I am, Alfie. I shall just prepare something for Mr Harrison to eat before he leaves and then I believe I shall lie down.”

Horace picked up his handkerchief with a sulky air and sat down again. Claire went to the larder, where Mrs Copple had left bread and cheese and fruit for her.  She prepared a simple repast and made a pot of tea.

Alfie was sitting in a corner, whistling tunelessly.  His blank face encouraged Horace to try again, though he did not go so far as to kneel. When Claire joined him at the table with a mug of tea he pushed aside his plate, already half empty, and reached for her hand.

“Mr Harrison, pray watch what you are about!” she exclaimed.

It was too late. The tea spilled down her gown and she jumped up with a cry of vexation.

“Humbly beg your pardon, ma'am.” He drew out his handkerchief again and made futile motions at her skirt.

She backed away from him. “You must excuse me, sir, while I change. And I beg you will not expect me to entertain you further this evening, for I am exhausted. I am grateful for your kind assistance in bringing me here, but I must insist that you believe I have no intention of accepting your hand in marriage, now or ever. I wish you a good journey back to London.”

That covered everything, thought Claire as she hurried out of the kitchen, and she hoped he had the grace to take no for an answer. She had been a fool to let him come here.

The door to the bedchamber was open. She went in and closed it firmly behind her, then looked for her bandboxes. They were nowhere to be seen. She had never really inspected the room before. It must once have been a store room, judging by the small, high windows beneath which stood a huge oaken wardrobe. The bed was also huge, and it looked excessively lumpy. The bandboxes were not in the wardrobe, which was empty, the Copples having apparently taken all their clothes with them. Nor were they under the bed, and there was no other furniture.

She went back to the door and opened it, meaning to call Alfie to bring her luggage. Horace was just outside, raising his hand to knock. She stepped back in alarm and he followed her in.

“Miss Sutton, you cannot mean it. You are angry with me, but I shall prove my love.  And besides, you will be ruined if you do not marry me,” he ended on a more practical note as he clutched her in his arms and aimed a kiss at her lips.

“Release me at once!”  Claire struggled to avoid his wet mouth, which landed on her temple. He was stronger than he looked and he was bearing her back towards the bed. “Alfie, help!”  She kicked at his shins.

He let her go with a howl, just as Alfie dashed in. Her bodice had caught in his brooch. It ripped as he pushed her away, and for a moment she was too busy pulling the torn cloth together to realise that Alfie had put his boxing lessons from George to good effect.

Horace lay stretched on the floor on his back, motionless.

“Alfie, you are wonderful!” she gasped, kneeling beside the victim to see how much damage he had sustained.

The boy bolted through the door and slammed it behind him. Claire heard the key turn in the lock.

“Alfie, what are you about?” she called, jumping to her feet and running to the door. “Unlock it at once and bring me my bandboxes.”

“Can't, Miss Claire!” wailed the unhappy lad.  “Miss Lizzie said lock you in wi' the gemmun an' don't listen.”

His footsteps died away down the passage.