‘May I help you, madam,’ the receptionist stammered looking beyond her in hopeful expectation of some masculine person who might be in charge of this confidently beautiful woman, but sadly none appeared.
‘I would like a room please,’ Meg said courteously. ‘Just for one night. I shall be travelling on to Matlock tomorrow.’
‘Matlock?’ the man said as though he had never heard of the town which was a mere twenty miles or so away.
‘Yes.’ Meg waited smilingly.
The man drummed his fingers nervously on the counter and considered sending the delighted boy who carried Meg’s bags for the manager, for this hotel had never, in its entire existence been presented with a single, unattached lady as a prospective guest and the clerk was at a loss as to how to proceed. The place was filled with men, commercial travellers and business men on their way north – or south – and how could he place one lone, unchaperoned lady on a floor with a dozen gentlemen?
‘Do you
have
a room?’ Meg asked smilingly and before he had time to think that here was the perfect solution, there were no rooms available, he had answered that he had.
‘May I register then, if you please?’ Meg said briskly, removing her leather gauntlets ‘and if someone would show me to my room I would like hot water brought up immediately. It is exceedingly dusty driving a motor car and I feel I am covered in grit.’
She signed the register the young man had presented her with, having little choice in the matter it seemed, and he turned in
bewilderment
, studying the row of keys on the board behind him. Which should it be? His expression was haunted.
‘Any will do,’ Meg said sweetly, ‘as long as the bed is clean and comfortable.’
He selected a key at random and put it into her hand, staring hypnotised into her eyes. It was the beginning of the new century but women just did not travel about alone even so, especially in a motor car of all things! And one as lovely as this was bound to cause a commotion wherever she went. What would it do to his male guests when she entered the dining-room? Could she perhaps be persuaded to eat in her room? A tray? Anything! He agonised again over the question of whether to summon his superior for he longed to have the problem taken from him, but the lady had put the key into the hands of the grinning porter and the two of them were half way up the stairs before he came from his trance.
The hush as Meg stepped gracefully into the dining-room that evening might have been heard in Buxton! Twenty-seven gentlemen froze in various poses of eating as her regal beauty stopped their heartbeats and raced their pulses and twenty-seven minds were seething with what the chances were that this charmer, this magnificent, bounteous specimen of womanhood was available at a price? They did not consider her for a moment to be a lady since, as the clerk at the desk had believed, as indeed all gentlemen of the era believed, no lady travelled alone. She must be an actress or a courtesan of some extravagant kind. They were reluctant to put the name ‘whore’ to such loveliness.
The waiter was apoplectic, but Meg smiled so graciously and her demeanour was so modest as he guided her to some distant corner table he could not fault her. Her eyes looked neither to the right nor left but directly ahead, her back straight, her bearing proud and she met no man’s eager glance. When she was seated and took up the menu her knowledge of the dishes, the wines, and which should be drunk with which, amazed him.
She was dressed simply in an afternoon tea gown of cream silk in a style which was to be called the ‘Princess’ cut. It was well ahead of fashion hereabouts, without a waist seam, the bodice and skirt cut in one with a gored skirt. The sleeves were long and tight-fitting and the square cut neck-line was modest, but nothing could hide the splendour of Meg’s breast nor the lovely slender line of her waist and hips. Her hair, brushed and brushed until it glowed like a tawny candle in the night was dressed full and loose,
wide
rather than high with a swirl on top, and round her neck was a narrow band of bronze velvet ribbon on which she had pinned the tiny gold locket which had come with her from the orphanage and which had been her mother’s.
Not one man in the room could take his eyes from her and many sat long after they had finished their meals fiddling with coffee cups and such in an excuse to stay, but so coolly imperious was her manner that when she rose to leave not one dared approach her.
It took her ten days to pursue every thread which might lead to the perfect house for her new hotel. The one in Matlock which originally had excited her interest had proved too derelict to be a good investment. The amount of money needed to be spent on its renovation made it an impractical proposition. It was lovely, in a magnificent setting looking down into the Derwent valley but she knew it was not what she was looking for since it was remote and its accessibility by automobile was hazardous.
She motored from town to town, through sleepy villages which sprang to life as she clattered through, crawled up defiant hills and spun down into dales with the speed of a swooping bird and she believed she had never loved anything so much as she did the joy of motoring. Her runabout behaved in an exemplary fashion. She followed the list made out for her by the mechanic who had delivered it, each time she started it up, and there was always some curiosity seeker – one who could now boast at work or over the tea table of how he had been personally involved with one of them new-fangled machines – to handle the crank for her.
She had only one fright. She had started down a steep hill with a nasty drop to the side and had her brakes on. At the steepest part, just as she was congratulating herself on her own handling of this tricky manoeuvre for she was travelling above the speed limit, she felt the hand brake lever yield and go up against the stop. Her own heart did the same for she was left with only the foot brake with which to control the descending charge of the vehicle.
Pressing firmly with her foot she held her breath as she guided the motor car along the twisting hill. Harder and harder she pressed and with a sudden soggy crack the lever bent and the brake was fully depressed to the floor.
Away went the motor car down the hill, curves and bends
flashing
beside and behind it, blurring and blurring, swerving from side to side as it gathered speed. Oh God, oh dear God, keep everyone from my path, she prayed. Carriages, carts, drays, waggons, children and dogs. Keep them away for just ten seconds, Lord until I get this monster under control and to the bottom of the hill, for I swear I will. It will not best me … it will not …
A corner came up and the motor car jumped round it like a horse swerving to take a fence and ahead, miraculously was a long, straight incline. Down, down she and the machine went until with a quiet apologetic cough it came to a polite standstill.
A passing carter was delighted to give her a lift and to laugh discreetly in masculine fashion at the poor lady motorist stranded upon the highway, and forced to fetch a male mechanic from the nearest repair shop to mend it.
Meg could not believe her ears at first and asked the mechanic to repeat himself. ‘I said these brakes have been tampered with, Madame.’ His face was quite impassive but he gave the distinct impression that not only did he believe women had no right to be in control of something they clearly did not understand, but that it had been she who had meddled with the brakes, probably doing something no man would ever dream of doing!
‘
Tampered with
!’ she said incredulously.
‘Yes Madame.’
‘I haven’t the faintest notion of what you mean.’
‘I mean, Madame, that someone unqualified has been messing about with the …’
‘Messing about!’
‘Yes Madame. If you’d look at this …’ The man turned away from her, pointing to the foot brake, ready to explain quite patiently since it was very evident the lady knew nothing at all about the mechanics of the motor car, but Meg came to life like a fire-cracker, almost knocking the man into the road as she elbowed him aside.
‘Are you telling me this is not just a faulty … er … whatsit … or a natural break in the … in that thing there? That it was done deliberately?’ Her voice was full of disbelief.
The mechanic took umbrage. Brushing himself down as though she had actually flung him down into the dust of the road his face became truculent and his mouth was so tight-lipped he could barely speak.
‘This … see just here … look …’ she looked obediently, ‘… just
here
… can you see that mark …’ She said she could. ‘Well, that’s where it was … well … cut! I hardly think it was done on purpose but some damn fool … pardon me Madame … some idiot has cut clean through the line which …’
‘
Cut through
!’
‘Yes, if you’ll let me finish …’
‘But no-one would cut it on purpose, surely!’
The man looked slightly mollified for it seemed he was being taken seriously at last. ‘Well, you wouldn’t think so. Perhaps your mechanic was careless.’
‘He seemed a good mechanic and to know what he was about so …’ she stared at the footbrake her expression perplexed, ‘… so surely he would have noticed if something was wrong?’
‘You’d have thought so.’ The man scratched his head.
‘Why didn’t I notice it sooner? If there was a fault, or a … a break, why didn’t it go before. I’ve done hundreds of miles!’
‘P’raps it was only slight. The movement of the brakes over the miles would have worn it away until …’
‘Until?’
‘Until it finally snapped!’
The mechanic repaired the fault and went on his way, convinced even further that the day women were let out of the kitchen and the nursery had been a sorry day indeed for mankind and Meg went on
her
way, her mind cluttered with the confusion he had put there. The car was brand new, so how could a fault appear so soon. Perhaps it had been done at the factory, a careless hand fitting together of all the bits and pieces of what was now her motor car. Was there some other fault somewhere? Was it safe to go on, or was it, as seemed more likely, just a small hitch in the otherwise smooth beginning to her career as a motorist.
A whisper of disquiet – what was it – fluttered in her head, urging her to study this event further, to be cautious, but her fast beating, excited heart, eager to get on and complete this adventure told her she was being foolish. She listened to her heart and began to sing, for really, it was over now, an accident and therefore unforeseeable and she had better things to do than worry, like some old maid looking for intruders under the bed, over something which had been beyond her control!
The roads were dusty, used only by horse and carriage, waggoners, cyclists and pedestrians but Meg did not mind the grit
and
dust which coated her from head to foot for she travelled in a haze of joyous delight searching for what she wanted.
She found it just above the Dovedale valley, north of Ashbourne. The house was set in beautiful open countryside with magnificent views from every window. It was placed in the centre of three acres of splendid gardens, a stand of oakwood and holly trees carpeted with wood sorrel and wild violet, a fruit orchard, an ornamental pond and to the rear of the house a stable yard and coach houses suitable for conversion to garages.
There was a good road recently macadamised from Macclesfield, from Stoke-on-Trent and Derby and it was easy to reach by motor car. There was fishing, clearly defined riding tracks, walking, both gentle and serious; and the loveliness, the serene calm and music of the River Dove which ran through the gorge beneath was enough to enrapture the eye, the heart, the ear and soul of the most demanding traveller.
Meg sat upon a rocky shoulder of grey granite overlooking the Dove Valley whilst the estate agent fussed with keys back at the house, and contemplated gravely the panoramic stretch of the Derbyshire fells which were to be part of her future. She was taking another great stride into unknown territory, alone, unsupported, relying totally on her own judgement and ability. Tom would work with her, night and day, sweat blood to help her in their venture, but she must be honest with herself and admit that
she
was the mainstay of their lives, that it was Meg Hughes who would breathe life into it, feed it, nurse it and bring it to full maturity with
her
strength. Tom was her dearest friend, with Martin, but his merry disposition had not the cut and thrust which was needed in the world of commerce. He was too readily wary of the unexpected, and unlike herself and Martin, afraid to step off the safe and the secure, into the unknown.
She shaded her eyes against the strong sunlight which flooded the valley then stood up briskly and began to stride purposefully in the direction of her small motor car.
She was singing the old cycling song as she turned into the gateway of ‘Hawthornes’, joyous as a linnet as she pulled up triumphantly before the front door. She blew the horn as she came to a final halt and lifted her hands to remove the velvet toque. She shook out her hair and ran her hands through it for though she felt gloriously, wonderfully alive, buoyant with success, she was tired. She had driven hundreds of miles alone. She had
struggled
over roads barely fit for horse and cart and had slept in many a dubious bed but she had come through with flying colours, bringing home the fruits of her endeavour in the shape of the document Tom must sign to make the property theirs.