Fourpenny Flyer (11 page)

He was delighted to see that pretty apricot blush on Miss Sowerby's pale cheeks again, and those little crooked teeth biting her lip so charmingly.

‘We dine at the Angel Inn at Chippenham,' he said. ‘A comfortable place, which will serve us well, I assure you. I was there myself only this morning.'

‘They will be surprised to see you back so soon, my dear,' Miss Pettie said.

But if they were, they didn't show it. They served a passable meal of chitterlings and roast pork, and provided them all with quantities of hot water and the best brandy to sustain them on the next leg of their journey. And off they went again.

While they were dining, the rain finally stopped, and now the night was clear and cold, bright with moonlight and studded with white stars. Harriet, perched aloft in the biting air beside her hero, suddenly felt exposed and vulnerable, for the three other outside passengers were staying at Chippenham overnight and now they had the whole of the outside of the coach to themselves, quite unchaperoned. It was really rather romantic.

As they settled into the two best seats, side by side, and tucked their greatcoats about their knees and their mufflers about their necks, she was overpoweringly aware of him, of the warmth of his body, and the white breath streaming from his mouth as he spoke, and his eyes so dark and limpid as he glanced towards her.

And then the coach began to roll, swaying so suddenly and so violently that she was flung against his side, and he had to put out an arm to steady her. And that was very romantic. They were so close to one another she could see the reflection of the lantern in the pupils of his eyes.

How handsome he is, she thought, and how kind, looking after us all like this. And she felt secure and cherished.

As well she might for he was feeling most concerned about her. Her face looked excessively pale in the darkness. He had hoped there would be a seat inside for her after Chippenham, but all the passengers were travelling to London.

‘Were you long in Bath, Miss Sowerby?' he said to make conversation.

‘Three days, Mr Easter,' she said. ‘We were to have stayed a month.'

‘Did you have a chance to see something of the city? It is very beautiful in fair weather, I'm told.'

So she told him about the fine shops in Milsom Street and the Assembly Rooms ‘at the top of such a hill, but very grand and well worth the climb, so Miss Pettie said'.

‘Did you dance there?' he asked remembering the Victory Ball.

‘Well,' she confessed, ‘not a great deal. The major domo was rather …' He'd been an overpowering snob and had spent no time on her at all once he'd discovered that she was an old lady's companion, but she didn't think she could say that.

‘They are not a pleasant breed,' he said. ‘They live to match money to money, and greed to ambition. I have never liked them.'

‘And yet a ball can be such an agreeable occasion,' she said, remembering the Victory Ball.

‘Given the right company,' he said, feeling extremely daring, because he was almost offering her a compliment.

‘Yes indeed,' she said. And the coach threw her into his arms again like the obliging vehicle it was.

And so they talked all the way to the Pelican Inn at Newbury, where they spent twenty minutes toasting
themselves before a blazing fire while their supplies of brandy and hot water were replenished. Jane stayed in the coach with Miss Pettie, who was fast asleep and snoring, and the two other inside passengers who were so well wrapped in rugs they said they didn't want to budge for anything. But Harriet was glad of the fire for it had been very cold on top of the coach. When she had to leave the inn, the air about her felt icy and before they'd gone more than a mile or two she began to shiver.

‘You are cold?' John asked, rather concerned.

‘No, no,' she tried to assure him, shivering more than ever.

He untied the shawl that he wore wound about his shoulders and handed it across to her. ‘Wear this,' he said, and when she opened her mouth to protest. ‘I shall not take “no” for an answer, so wear it, pray do.' And because they were alone again in the swaying darkness, and he was still feeling extraordinarily gallant, and because it was very nearly the truth, ‘I would not have you take cold for the world.'

Being cared for so openly and kindly suddenly made her tearful. She took the shawl and folded it about her. It was warm to the touch, and to her tremulous imagination it seemed that he was holding her in his arms.

‘When we get to Reading we have a ten-minute stop,' he said. ‘I will unpack my green jacket and you shall wear that. I cannot have you shivering all the way to London.'

‘I am sorry to shiver,' she apologized. ‘I do try not to.'

‘You cannot shiver or not shiver to order,' he said. ‘That is an impossibility. When you are warmer you will not shiver, I guarantee.'

She felt she owed it to him to try and explain. ‘It is not just the cold, Mr Easter.'

‘Then what?' he asked, intrigued.

She dropped her head so that her face was obscured by the brim of her bonnet. ‘It is because I am rather afraid.'

‘Not of me, I trust.'

‘Oh no, no,' she said hurriedly. ‘Never of you.'

‘Then what do you fear? Coaches are a deal safer these days, I assure you, particularly on a night like this. Look
how full the moon is. Why it is almost as bright as day. And besides, this is the best road of them all since Mr Macadam took charge of it. You have nothing to fear on this journey. Nothing at all.'

‘Well perhaps not afraid,' she said. ‘A little concerned, perhaps'

He considered her new words with splendid gravity. ‘Then what concerns you, Miss Sowerby? If it is anything within my power to allay, I will do so at once, you have my word.'

He was so kind. But his kindness made her shiver more than ever. ‘It is nothing,' she whispered, her head still bowed. ‘I am being foolish.'

‘Tell me,' he urged. ‘There is no one here to overhear us.' Which was true enough, for the coachman was singing to himself and in any case the noise of hooves and wheels would certainly cover their quiet conversation.

‘It is just,' she said, deciding to confide in him, ‘that I fear my parents will be angry with me.'

‘Angry?' he said, very surprised to hear it. ‘Whatever for? What could you possibly have done to make them angry with you?'

‘They will say that I have failed in my duty,' she said miserably, breaking into a partial confession at his kindness. She could tell him
that
at least. ‘I should have cared for Miss Pettie, you see, and if you had not been there she could have drowned. I was allowed to travel with her so that she would be looked after, and they will say I failed in my allotted task. I know they will.'

‘But they will not be angry,' he said. Who could possibly be angry with her when she looked so pale and frail and charming?

‘They will,' she said, and the tears welled out of her eyes and dropped upon her cheeks, glistening like silver in the moonlight. ‘They will say I am a sinner.'

‘You are not a sinner,' he said passionately. ‘You are kind and gentle. I never saw anyone less capable of sin.'

His passion dried her tears.

‘They won't be angry,' he said firmly, taking command of her.

‘No,' she said, ‘perhaps not.' Oh how much she would like to believe him.

The coach swayed on and he began to tell her about Mr Wordsworth's latest poem because he thought it would help her if he changed the subject, and she tried to listen, but by now, what with the lateness of the hour and the steady rhythm of the vehicle and the soporific warmth of all the brandy she'd drunk, she was finding it difficult to keep her eyes open. Presently her head began to nod.

John was surprising himself by the way he was describing Mr Wordsworth's poem. Little more than twenty-four hours ago he'd been in complete sympathy with the pessimistic views of the Solitary, now he was stressing the opinions of the travelling poet. ‘It is a good world, Miss Sowerby. A good and beautiful world,' he said.

The coach gave a violent jolt that threw them together again, but this time, instead of recovering quickly and drawing apart, she stayed where she was, leaning against his chest with her head on his shoulder and, looking down, he saw that she was fast asleep. The poor dear girl, he thought. She is worn out. And he put his arm tentatively around her narrow shoulders so as to support her and hold her steady. It was a marvellous moment, intensely pleasurable and yet private. He had never known another quite like it.

When the coach stopped at Reading and Maidenhead she was still asleep, so he stayed where he was, even though his feet were so cold he couldn't feel them and he was beginning to get pins and needles in his arm. But what of that, when this dear, quiet, patient girl needed his support? He was still holding her in his arms when they rattled over the cobbles into the Swan with Two Necks at three o'clock in the morning.

Then she woke with a start and apologized for being a nuisance, covering those delightful uneven teeth of hers with her gloved hand. But fortunately he had so much to attend to that there wasn't time for either of them to be embarrassed. The luggage had to be unpacked and put aboard a cabriolet, and Miss Pettie woken and eased from one vehicle to the other, blinking and clutching her curls, and fares negotiated and orders given.

And then when they were all arrived at Bedford Square, the servants had to be woken and set to work to rekindle the kitchen fire and warm the beds and provide what hot water they could. And by this time they were all bone weary and Harriet was asleep on her feet.

She made one last effort in order to undress and fold her clothes neatly, then she fell into the mattress, briefly aware that it was made of feathers and quite miraculously soft, and was asleep before she could think another thought.

In his own quiet room on the other side of the house, John was too excited to sleep at all. He took out his copy of ‘The Excursion', lit two more candles and settled down to read himself sober. He had spent the better part, and it
was
the better part, of an entire night in the company of a young woman, and he'd looked after her, and cared for her, and reassured her, and held her in his arms.
He
had.
He
, John Henry Easter. Shy John Henry Easter. What an amazing thing.

He was still dozing and reading and still feeling amazed at his behaviour when the hall clock struck six and a servant came to call him with a jug of hot water and the news that his breakfast would be ready in half an hour. It was a new day and another journey. What a splendid prospect!

But this journey was in his closed carriage, and there, as was only proper, he sat beside Miss Pettie, with Jane and Miss Sowerby in the servants' seats facing them, keeping their place and only speaking when they were spoken to.

Miss Pettie was fully recovered and declared that she would be quite herself again if only her legs wouldn't totter so. She chattered all the way to Bury, almost without pausing for breath. Nobody else could get a word in edgeways, so the journey was interminable.

By mid-afternoon, when they finally arrived in Angel Square, John was heartily sick of her. ‘Look out of the window, Miss Pettie,' he urged, ‘and you will see a sight worth seeing.' Oh how glad he was of it!

Miss Pettie jammed her false curls against the carriage window and recognized where she was.

‘Home at last!' she said rapturously, clapping her hands
together. ‘The Good Lord be praised for it, and you too, Mr Easter, of course. What a blessing it is to have such a good neighbour. And what a perfectly delightful journey this has been! I cannot thank you enough. And you, my dear,' she added, turning to Harriet. ‘You were indeed a kindly nurse, and I was uncommon glad of your company.'

Their arrival put both households in an uproar. Bessie Thistlethwaite came out onto the Easter doorstep at once to commiserate with Miss Pettie and to offer to help her ‘with any little thing', and Miss Pettie's servants gathered in their hall open-mouthed with surprise, and Miss Pettie wept, and Jane told everybody who was listening what a trial they'd all been through, and Harriet stood on the cobbles with her battered carpetbag in her hand and waited for the excitement to subside so that she could say goodbye.

‘Have you far to go, Miss Sowerby?' John asked, touched by the sight of her, so slight and quiet and patient.

‘Oh no,' she said. ‘It is no distance. Churchgate Street. A step away.'

‘I will escort you,' he said, taking the carpetbag. And did.

They walked together, and as slowly as they could, because their adventure was so nearly over. ‘I must thank you for all your care, Mr Easter,' Harriet said as they climbed the hill of Churchgate Street and her house came into view. ‘You have been so kind.'

‘It was nothing,' he said, knowing how very much it was.

She stopped outside a little low cottage, and knocked at the door once and gently. ‘This is where I live, sir,' she said.

He looked at the cottage and the carpetbag and the thin cloth of her coat and realized, for the first time, that she was poor. Then he didn't know what to say to her. He wanted to see her again and had been wondering if he could suggest that she might like to accompany him to the theatre or the next ball at the Athenaeum. But what if he were suggesting something she couldn't afford? Ball gowns cost a deal of money, as he knew from the dresses
his mother wore, and it occurred to him that she had probably hired the white gown she wore at the Victory Ball, and that she might not be able to afford to hire again. Even a visit to the theatre seemed unlikely for she might feel embarrassed to appear in a theatre crowd wearing such a shabby coat. Oh dear, oh dear!

They had been standing in silence for quite a long time waiting for the door to be opened. She looked at him hesitantly and knocked again. But there was still no answer.