“Nonsense,” Cecily said calmly. They had had this conversation before, and she knew his mood would soon change. She began to tuck the covers more tightly around the mattress and offered him her news.
“I have something to tell you which should cheer you considerably, Grandpapa. There’s been a coachman injured in the village and they will be bringing him up to the manor shortly. I have already given the instructions.”
“Harrumph!” growled Sir Waldo. “A pretty fellow you must think me if you suppose I would be cheered by some poor boy’s breaking his neck!”
Cecily laughed, and the old man was forced to hide a smile. “It is not his neck. You know very well that is not what I meant, you sly old thing. He has broken his leg, however, and will need a bed for several weeks. I thought you might like to have a chat or two with him when he’s better.”
Sir Waldo’s frown had lifted, and he did seem cheered as he took out his watch. “Must have been the mail coachman,” he said musingly. “Could even be the fellow who took you up.”
Cecily’s hands stilled, and she flushed inexplicably. Then she resumed smoothing the coverlets, saying briskly, “Well, I shall be sorry if it is. I would not wish an accident on such a pleasant man. But quite likely it is someone else. After all, it has been more than a month, surely.”
“Has it?” Sir Waldo asked absently.
Cecily could tell that he was already thinking ahead to his prospective chat with the coachman. She was glad to see the spark of interest on her grandfather’s face, and grateful for the stimulus, in spite of the injury to the poor driver. If she was bored with all she had to occupy her, how much worse must it be for her grandfather, who had led such an active life, to be confined now to his bed? She stayed with him and talked until his servant came to give him his luncheon.
Another hour later, Cecily was finishing her own meal when the sound of a bustle in the servants’ hall signaled the arrival of the injured man. Chiding herself for a sudden feeling of nervousness, Cecily rose from the dining table and went to make certain that everything possible was being done for him. Sir Waldo had given her strict instructions to see that the poor man was well treated, and he expected her to report to him that evening about the coachman’s condition.
As Cecily entered the hall, her ears were greeted by a rather familiar voice raised in cheer.
“That’s right, gentlemen, just place me here, over by the fire. I’m certain Cook and I shall get along famously. I can tell by the smell that she’s a person of extraordinary talent.” And then, “Oops! Not that leg, my good man. It’s already had its share of troubles today. And I’d as lief keep it as the other one, thank you!”
Cecily covered her mouth to keep from laughing at the coachman’s brazenness. It was certainly
her
coachman, she reflected, and still not remembering to keep to his own station, by the sound of him. She realized at once that the innkeeper must have supplied him generously with spirits while they waited for the doctor to arrive, and she supposed he was enjoying all the fuss being made over him.
But it would not do for him to disrupt her grandfather’s household. So, stepping up to the group of people surrounding his pallet, she spoke with a sternness she did not feel. “What is the meaning of this, pray? Is there anything amiss?”
The servants turned to regard her with consternation. Doctor Whiting and Mr. Rose, the innkeeper, were standing with them.
“Begging your pardon, Miss Cecily,” Mr. Rose said, “but I thought as how I should come up to the manor with Jack here. I’m afraid I gave the lad a might too much brandy—to kill the pain it was. And him—not being used to so much, I guess—I suppose that’s what’s set him off to talking such farradiddle. For anybody who’s rode the London mail will tell you he’s a sober lad, for all that he’s acting queerer than a sheep what’s got maggots in its head.” He continued in a doubtful tone, “I thought I should make sure you still want him up at the manor.”
Cecily looked down at the injured man. He had been carried in on a plank and was now half lying, half resting upon one arm. His pallor was much worse than she had expected from hearing him speak, and she realized what an effort it had cost him to sound so cheery. Her heart went out to him for his courage, and her face flooded with warmth.
“Of course, you must leave him,” she said. “My grandfather would not hear of turning him out. And I am certain he will recall his manners once the effects of your excellent brandy have worn off.” Mr. Rose looked relieved and bowed to show his gratitude.
Doctor Whiting claimed her attention then. “I fear it was a very bad break, Miss Wolverton. I thought it best for the young man to be brought up here before I set it. Then, he must be kept quiet for several days. But, as you can see, he is not the most restful of patients.”
Cecily nodded, and assured him that she understood all that would be required.
At the sound of her voice, Jack had lifted his head, and now he was focusing upon her in a curious manner. Suddenly, a glimmer appeared in his eyes, as if he had just then recognized his former passenger.
He spoke, directing Cecily a look that froze her with embarrassment. “‘But, soft! what light from yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!’ “
There was a moment of stunned silence in the room before Mrs. Selby, who already resented the disturbance to her domain, stepped forward and said, “Now, just you mind your manners, young man! That’s Miss Cecily you’re speaking to and not that Juliet, whoever she might be. So just you keep a civil tongue in your head and don’t carry on about your betters.” She clearly thought Jack had mistaken her mistress for one of his lightskirts and was grossly offended.
Doctor Whiting, however, was not under the same misapprehension. He raised his eyebrows and regarded Cecily with an inquiring air. “Not the usual conversation of a mail coachman, I would say, Miss Wolverton. Do you not agree?”
Cecily was still too stunned by Jack’s words to answer with composure, but she nodded and remarked rather breathlessly, “It is most peculiar, surely.”
Jack raised himself upon one elbow, and he extended his other arm out towards her, saying in a slurred voice,
“She speaks:
O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art/As
glorious to this night, being o’er my head,
As is a winged messenger of heaven . . .”
One of the ostlers snickered. He clapped his hand over his mouth before Mr. Rose could reprimand him. Cecily blushed to the roots of her hair, as the men from the inn stared back and forth from her to Jack.
Mrs. Selby, however, was not so paralyzed. “`This night,’ indeed!” she scoffed indignantly. “As if it weren’t plain midday and light enough to prove it! He’s drunk! That’s what he is. I would have expected better from you, Mr. Rose, than to bring a drunken boy what hasn’t got any manners up to the manor house!”
Mr. Rose was almost as confused by Jack’s behaviour as Cecily was, but he did not appreciate the tone in which he had been addressed. He drew himself up. “I take leave to remind you, Mrs. Selby, that it was Sir Waldo himself who gave orders for the lad to be brought here. Though I will say, Miss Cecily,” he said, turning to her, “that if I’d known he was going to carry on in this way, I would never have brought him.”
By now, Cecily was quite anxious to be rid of all the men who were gaping at her in amazement. “That is quite all right, Mr. Rose,” she said. “It is not your fault. I suppose the—” here she hesitated “—the young man is simply not himself.”
As if in proof of this, Jack let himself slowly back down upon his plank, muttering to himself, “‘I am too bold; ‘tis not to me she speaks.’”
This was much more to the innkeeper’s liking, and he threw Jack a relieved look. “There now. That’s right, miss. Jack’s a good lad. The guard on the mail thinks the world of him, and that Davies is a hard man to please. Will you be wanting me for anything else?”
“No, nothing, thank you,” Cecily hastily said. “If you could just have your men carry him upstairs to a room—Mrs. Selby will guide you—that will be all.” She watched from a safe corner of the servants’ hall, as the ostlers bore Jack up the stairs. They disappeared around a turn, but not before he spouted forth another revealing bit of verse.
“‘It is my lady; O, it is my love! O, that she knew she were!’”
Once they were out of sight of the mistress of the house, more of the ostlers gave in to guffaws. Cecily could hear them echoing down the stairwell. She put her hands to her cheeks to cool them, forgetting that Doctor Whiting was standing nearby.
When he spoke, she jumped. “That was a perfect rendering of some of
Romeo and Juliet
, if I’m not mistaken, Miss Wolverton.”
Lowering her hands rapidly, she turned to face him. “I do believe you are right, Doctor Whiting.” They regarded each other for a moment before she spoke again, and then rather defensively.
“If you think I have any explanation for it, Doctor, you are quite mistaken.”
He was instantly apologetic. “Of course not, Miss Wolverton. I am sorry if I gave you any reason to think I needed any. It is simply a bit strange. I suppose the lad might have had an unusual upbringing—perhaps his people were in the theatre. It was just that he seemed to recognize you. I meant no offence by the remark.”
Cecily smiled, and confessed, “It is quite all right. You see, I have seen the young man before. He took me up on his mailcoach and brought me here more than a month ago—though why he should speak to me in such a fashion . . .” She did not finish. “But I daresay you are correct. His family must have been in the theatre.” She tried to look relieved, but she felt disappointed. For a moment, she had allowed herself to believe something else.
Doctor Whiting regarded her seriously. “If you had rather not take him into the house, I could find some room for him in my lodgings. He would not receive the excellent care he would get here, but Sir Waldo might not like the thought of an actor, former or otherwise, being loosed in his home.”
“Oh, no!” Cecily cried, adding quickly, “My grandfather is quite looking forward to talking to the coachman . . . about coaching, you understand. Oh, no. I should hate to disappoint him. You mustn’t worry about a thing.”
Doctor Whiting nodded, as if he understood. “Very well, then. I’ll go up to him now, miss, if that suits you.”
Cecily urged him to do just that, adding that he might ask Mrs. Selby for anything else he might need. Then she waited until the housekeeper was back downstairs, and gave her orders concerning the young man’s belongings.
While these instructions were being carried out, Cecily sought refuge in the parlour to clear her addled thoughts. A coachman who quoted Shakespeare! What manner of man was he? The first time she had seen him, she had been struck by the gentleness of his speech. And now this! Could he be a gentleman? Would a gentleman have any reason to drive a mail coach?
She shook herself roughly, commanding herself to make no more of this foolishness. The doctor had given her the most probable answer. Her coachman was nothing more than the son of an actor—or worse, an actor himself. He could hardly be a gentleman, for gentlemen, she knew, regarded coaching as nothing more than a pastime, a lark for those idle enough and rich enough to engage in it. But this man clearly made his living on the box.
Had he truly recognized her in his stupor? She devoutly hoped he had not, for if he was an actor, it would be most uncomfortable should he make it a habit to spout forth in such a manner again before the servants. She anxiously wondered whether she had done anything to encourage his brash behaviour and recalled their first encounter to her mind.
There had been the one compliment he had made her, most improperly. But he had not required much in the way of reproof to discourage him, and after that, he had been careful not to transgress again. Cecily admitted freely that she was used to being obeyed and approached with respect. She had no notion of being treated otherwise. But that did not mean, she told herself, that she would not recognize arrogance and impertinence when she encountered it. The coachman, she firmly believed, had been neither of these. Nor, she concluded, had she done anything untoward to encourage any sort of unseemly behaviour.
It was simply that on several occasions he had not seemed to be conscious of the difference between them. Perhaps his parents had raised him with revolutionary principles, as actors were said to do. That could account for it.
* * * *
But presently, she received another shock, this time from the hands of Mrs. Selby. After completing her duties, the housekeeper found Cecily alone in the parlour and confronted her with two objects, one in each hand.
“I thought you should know, Miss Cecily, that I found these in the young scoundrel’s bag when I was unpacking it like you asked me. I set one of the maids to do the unpacking, for I’ve got better things to do than occupy myself with a scapegrace’s belongings. But Sarah come back down to me and told me she’d found these in amongst his things, so I thought I’d better have a look myself. Do you think they were stolen?”
Cecily took the two small volumes the housekeeper held in her hands. They were covered in the finest brown leather, and she could see that they had been handled with great care. Opening them one after the other, she found that they were impossible for her to read—for one was in Latin, the other in Greek.
Her heart began to beat a strange tattoo.
“No, I do not believe they were stolen, Mrs. Selby,” she eventually said, running her hands softly over the fine bindings. She had seen the inscription inside a front leaf, “To my dear son, Jack,” with a name in a flowing hand. She tried to make out the signature, but it was too stylized to read. It was of no consequence, however.
“Please put these back with his belongings, Mrs. Selby,” Cecily said, “and do not say anything more about them. They belong to the coachman.” As the older woman made her way back up the stairs, Cecily followed her to Jack’s room.
She had given orders for him to be placed in one of the servants’ rooms that was not being used at present. There she saw that the doctor was nearly finished with his work. Doctor Whiting was covered with perspiration from the effort of setting Jack’s leg. Jack, she could see as she stepped to the bed, was, unfortunately, still awake. He lay with the back of one hand on his forehead, his mouth set in a grim line.