Читать книгу A Penniless Prospect - Joanna Maitland - Страница 9

When Jamie entered the drawing-room, the shrivelled figure of Ralph Graves uncoiled itself from the chair by the blazing fire and came to greet her. Taking both her icy hands in his, he leaned forward to place a kiss on her cheek. Jamie was enveloped in the musty smell of his clothes. Then, at the touch of his wet mouth on her skin, she could no longer stop the nausea from rising in her throat. She closed her eyes and willed herself to conquer it.

‘I knew you should not mind a betrothal kiss, my dear,’ he said in a rather high-pitched voice which cracked occasionally in the most disconcerting way. He turned her to face him so that he could view her properly.

He needs to examine the goods, Jamie concluded, conscious of his bright little eyes and his damp hand on hers. And he thinks he owns me already. She bore his scrutiny with dignity for a moment, then said, ‘Ah, but you are a little previous, Cousin Ralph, I believe.’ She forced herself to smile flirtatiously at him, subduing the temptation to pull her hand away and rub it clean on the muslin dress. ‘Papa told me that we should meet this evening and I might then expect your formal proposal tomorrow. Do you tell me you do not intend to make one?’ she teased, trying to hide her disgust behind a mask of archness.

It worked. Cousin Ralph laughed, an odd croaking sound. ‘By Gad, she has grown up, as you said, Sir John. I think I may yet have the best of our bargain.’ He turned back to Jamie. ‘Very well. Tomorrow it shall be.’

With as genuine a smile as she could manage, Jamie enquired about their guest’s journey. She was rewarded with a detailed recital of the horrors between Bathinghurst and Calderwood, where the roads alternated between slush and sticky mud.

Cousin Ralph had, he affirmed, put up with the cold and discomfort quite willingly. The warm welcome which awaited him at Calderwood—and here he paused to look meaningfully at Jamie and to pat her trapped hand again—was compensation for any hardships.

Jamie suddenly knew she had conquered all her fears—for she wanted to laugh. If Cousin Ralph had been plagued by cold and draughts, he ought to spend more of his hidden wealth on improving the comfort of his carriage. He probably even begrudged the cost of a hot brick for his feet! No real gentleman would travel in such a way. The gentleman who had called earlier, for example…

Jamie was nodding absently, apparently in agreement with what Graves was saying, and he beamed at her. But her thoughts were dangerously far away, with an elegant gentleman dressed in black. If only—

Jamie was saved by the announcement of dinner.

Graves naturally offered his arm to escort Lady Calderwood to the dining-room, where he took his seat in the place of honour on her immediate right. Jamie breathed a sigh of relief to find that she had been placed on her father’s right, at the opposite end of the long mahogany dining table.

The dinner which her ladyship had ordered, though not lavish by the standards of the ton, was much more extravagant than the normal fare at Calderwood Hall. As the dishes of the first course were being served, Lady Calderwood turned brightly to her guest. ‘Do have a little of this buttered crab, cousin. It is difficult to come by crab at this season, of course, but I recalled that it was a favourite with you.’

Graves helped himself liberally. There would be little or none left for the host or his daughter, but Jamie had been denied food for so long that she did not care. Indeed, if she partook of too many unaccustomed dishes, her stomach might rebel at the un-wonted richness. She must guard against that at all costs. So, she ate a little soup and some plainly cooked fish and vegetables, refusing the beef. If Cousin Ralph noted how abstemious she was, he would be congratulating himself. His wife-to-be would not cost much to feed.

During the first course, Sir John addressed barely a word to his daughter. He preferred to address himself to his wine, consuming copious amounts with every dish. The second course included several delicacies, together with a Rhenish cream, another of Cousin Ralph’s favourites. But Jamie’s eyes were fixed on a dish of gleaming oranges, piled high on a nest of green leaves. It was many years since she had been permitted to taste one, and her mouth watered at the thought of their delicious juices.

As the butler moved to offer the dish to Jamie, Lady Calderwood intervened. ‘Leave them here, if you please,’ she said sharply, adding, as the butler replaced the dish in front of her, ‘Sir John never touches oranges at dinner, cousin. He maintains that they spoil the wine.’

Graves cast a shrewd glance at his host who was now well into his third bottle. ‘There may be something in that, cousin, indeed. I do not grow oranges myself. A very ordinary fruit, in my opinion, given the shocking cost of maintaining an orangery. Do you not find it so?’

Lady Calderwood tittered. ‘Oh, these were not grown here, cousin, certainly not. The expense, as you say, is not to be thought of. No, these were procured from town for your visit. I should not have done it else, I do assure you.’

Graves smiled smugly and helped himself to the finest specimen on the plate.

The knot of tension in Jamie’s stomach grew tighter once more as she looked down the table at the odious cousins. She tried to concentrate on her apple but could not. Eyes fixed on her plate, she heard her father signal to the butler to refill his glass yet again. Sir John was, as usual, becoming very much the worse for his wine. By the time Lady Calderwood rose to signal the ladies’ departure, her husband’s occasional words had become noticeably slurred.

As soon as the gentlemen rejoined them, Lady Calderwood moved rapidly to the bell-pull by the fireplace to order the tea tray. A great wave of relief flowed over Jamie as the butler received his instructions. Not long now, surely? She bent almost eagerly to her stitchery, trying to shut out the sound of Cousin Ralph’s voice.

‘Jessamyne.’ Jamie raised her head at the sharp voice. ‘What are you about? Come and help me to serve tea to our guest.’

Jamie rose obediently from her place. She took the teacup to Graves, who was sitting in the best chair by the fire. ‘Cream and sugar, cousin?’ she asked politely, trying to avoid his sharp little eyes.

He took the cup awkwardly from her, trying to touch her fingers as he did so, but only succeeding in spilling the tea into the saucer.

Jamie’s sharp intake of breath was drowned by a gasp of outrage from her stepmother. ‘Jessamyne! How can you be so clumsy? Fetch a clean cup for Cousin Ralph. At once!’ she commanded sharply.

Holding grimly to the thought that this ordeal must soon be over, Jamie did as she was bid without uttering a single word and then retreated to her dark corner once more.

Some fifteen minutes later, Lady Calderwood rose, glancing anxiously at her husband, who seemed to be half-asleep in his chair. ‘If you will forgive us, cousin, I think we shall retire now. I am sure you agree that it is wise to keep early hours, especially in winter. The cost of candles is quite outrageous these days.’

Cousin Ralph rose to take his hostess’s hand. ‘You are only too right, dear lady. A very wise proceeding, which I also adhere to in my own establishments, particularly in the servants’ hall. They are quite profligate with candles if one does not supervise them most strictly. As I am sure you do, cousin,’ he added, relinquishing her hand and turning to Jamie.

He took Jamie’s hand in both of his, pressing it with his clammy fingers. ‘Good night, my dear Jessamyne. Sleep well. I shall see you tomorrow, as we agreed. After breakfast, do you not think?’ He raised her hand to his lips.

She managed to overcome the urge to pull away from him, but she could not suppress a shiver of loathing as his lips touched her skin once more. He looked up sharply into her face.

Jamie’s mind was racing. She must find a way of reassuring him. Oh, why did her body insist on betraying her so? She forced a rather wobbly smile. Maidenly modesty, she prayed, would be blamed for a little quiver of excitement at the thought of his proposal on the morrow.

‘Until tomorrow, then, my dear,’ he said again, letting go of her hand at last.

Jamie succeeded in waiting until she was back in her own chamber before rubbing the offended hand vigorously on the white muslin gown. She did not stop to wash. She had far more important things to do.

Jamie’s preparations were swift and methodical. First, she collected together her pitifully small store of money and a bare minimum of clothes and other necessities, which she stowed under her bed. Next, she removed the awful muslin dress and her petticoats, replacing them with her nightgown over her underthings. Finally, she lay down on her bed, extinguished her candle and drew the bedclothes up to her chin.

Then, in the darkness, she waited.

She had known that waiting would be the worst part. It seemed the threat was all around her, hovering in the gloom like an evil spirit. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to focus on practical, positive things. In her mind’s eye, she began to design a wondrous garden…

It seemed to take hours before the house was finally quiet. Lying on her bed, Jamie watched the moon flood the landscape with ethereal light. She breathed a silent prayer of thanks to some ancient virgin goddess for the help it would provide. Surely this was a sign that her plan would succeed?

Cautiously she slipped out of bed and across to the door. She listened carefully—there was no sound of life in the house. A quick peep into the corridor confirmed that everyone must be in bed, for no lights were to be seen.

Without lighting her candle, Jamie crept downstairs to her half-brother’s room.

Less than ten minutes later she was back with her booty, completing her preparations. The bundle was retrieved from under the bed and tied up for travelling. Her nightgown was cast aside and replaced by outdoor clothes. Wrapping Edmund’s worn cloak over the whole, she made her way down the back stairs and out, by the garden door, to the stables.

Her mare greeted her with a soft whinny and allowed herself to be led quietly out of the yard with only a rope halter.

‘Bless you, Cara,’ whispered Jamie, stroking the velvet muzzle as they reached the shadow of the outside wall. ‘I hope we can both remember the way of this. It’s been a very long time.’ Without further ado, Jamie jumped up on to a convenient outcrop and mounted, tying her bundle into the small of her back with the strings which bound it. Edmund’s old cloak covered her almost to her feet, hiding both the bundle and the fact that she rode bareback.

Holding lightly to Cara’s black mane, Jamie walked her quietly away from Calderwood Hall.

Jamie was in no hurry, since she had all the hours of night to complete less than five miles. Besides, she would not for all the world have risked her beloved old mare by travelling too fast at night.

They made good speed until they came to the edge of the wood and the end of Calderwood land. Now Jamie was grateful for the moonlight, since she had to follow less familiar paths and bridleways, some of them perilously ill-kept. ‘Only another mile down the lane, my Cara,’ she whispered. ‘Not long now.’ The mare’s ears twitched at the sound of her mistress’s voice, but she did not pause in her gentle walk.

When Jamie reached her destination, she slid down from the bay’s back and led her through the hedge and into the shelter of a belt of trees. ‘Oh, I shall miss you so much, Cara,’ she whispered, wrapping her arms round the mare’s neck. Cara whickered softly in response, nuzzling Jamie’s shoulder, then stood calmly watching her mistress as she made her final preparations.

Jamie extracted a small spade from her bundle and dug a hole under a leafless beech tree. Then she used a pair of shears to hack off much of her curly titian hair, cursing softly when she realised she had forgotten to bring anything to serve as a mirror. The hanks of hair went into the hole, followed by the shears and the spade.

As she was tying back her shoulder-length hair with a piece of black ribbon from her pack, she was surprised into a giggle by the look of interest on her mare’s face. ‘Well, Cara, what do you think of your new master?’ Cara blinked slowly. ‘Not very complimentary, are you? I admit I’ve probably made a poor fist of the haircut, but I can tidy it up later, if I can find a mirror and some scissors.’ She patted her hair self-consciously. ‘But, at least, Edmund’s clothes are a reasonable fit. Don’t you think I make a fine boy?’ She twirled. Cara edged uneasily as the cloak billowed.

‘Now we must wait.’

Dawn came slowly, a half-hearted winter light.

Still they waited.

After what seemed a very long time, the sound of hooves was heard in the nearby lane. Jamie crept forward to crouch behind the hedge. Yes, it was the Calderwood gig, driven by the old groom, with Smithers sitting very upright in her place, staring straight in front of her.

Jamie returned to her mare. ‘Now, the only risk is that old Timothy will decide to stop to wet his whistle at the inn instead of going straight back to Calderwood, as he ought.’ She continued to wait, listening intently. Some fifteen minutes later, she was rewarded by the sound of the returning gig. If Timothy had slaked his thirst, he had not stayed long to do it. Jamie watched with satisfaction as the gig passed out of sight.

‘And now it really is goodbye, Cara,’ whispered Jamie, releasing the mare, removing the rope halter and throwing it into the hole which she then filled in with her bare hands, allowing the dirt to get under her fingernails and into her skin.

She turned to stroke the mare once more. ‘Go home, Cara. Back to your warm stable.’ Then she picked up her bundle and made her way down to the lane. Behind her, the horse pulled idly at a few tufts of thin grass. There was almost nothing to eat at this time of year. Soon she would be hungry enough to find her way back to Calderwood.

Jamie did not look back. Adopting the easy stride of a boy, she walked on to the village, whistling.

At the inn, all was bustle. No one took any notice of a slightly grubby boy, anxiously looking around as if in search of something. Jamie ventured into the inn, keeping her hat pulled low over her face. In the taproom, she found Smithers alone, seated primly on a bench by the wall. Jamie sat down beside her.

‘What, may I ask, do you want, young man?’ asked Smithers crisply, though her voice was not hostile.

‘I need your help, Smithers,’ pleaded Jamie softly, looking up at her. ‘Please don’t give me away.’

‘Good God! Miss Jessamyne! What on earth are you about?’ Luckily, Smithers did not have a carrying voice.

‘Please, Smithers! Help me! I need to escape. I cannot marry that terrible man. All I need is a few weeks. Then I shall be safe.’

‘What do you mean about “a few weeks”, miss?’ the abigail asked, in a low voice.

‘Don’t call me that. Someone will hear. Just call me “Jamie”.’ Jamie searched the maid’s face for a sign that she might relent, but there was none. Jamie swallowed hard. ‘In a few weeks, I shall be twenty-one. Then, no one can force me into marriage with him. All I have to do is stay in hiding until I come of age. Please help me, Smithers!’

Jamie felt the woman’s slow scrutiny. Surely the proposed bridegroom made even Smithers’ flesh creep?

The abigail lifted one of Jamie’s grubby hands and brushed it across Jamie’s cheek so that it left a dirty streak. ‘You’d better start calling me “Annie”, don’t you think?’ she smiled.

‘Oh, bless you!’ cried Jamie, hugging the older woman impetuously.

‘Hey! That’s enough of that,’ cried Smithers, pushing her away. ‘I haven’t said I’ll help you yet.’ She paused. ‘It will depend on precisely what you want from me. Well?’

Jamie launched into her prepared speech. ‘You said you were going to Bath on the stage…er…Annie. I only want you to help me to get a seat too. I have the money to pay, don’t worry. And, once we reach Bath, I can look after myself.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes. I plan to… But perhaps it would be better for both of us if I kept my plans to myself. Then, if anyone should ask, you can truthfully say you don’t know, can’t you?’ She beamed innocently at the abigail. ‘It sounds pretty rum to me, I must say. And, if I help you to get on the stage, I will be involved, whatever you choose to do about telling me your plans. How am I to explain that away?’

‘No one will be looking for a boy, Annie, I promise you. These clothes belong to Edmund. He won’t be back from Harrow for weeks and weeks, so nobody will notice they are missing. And all the clothes in my pack are my own, so when they discover I am gone, they will be searching for a girl.’

‘Hmph. And what if they discover that the lady’s maid from Calderwood Hall was suddenly to be found in the company of a young lad?’

‘They won’t. I don’t want us to be together. I just want you to tell me how I go about obtaining a seat on the Bath stage. Then I’ll do it myself.’

Annie Smithers seemed to be wavering. ‘It won’t do, Miss Jamie, I’m afraid. A young lad travelling by himself and buying his own seat at the last minute would be bound to attract attention. They’d wonder if you were running away from school.’ Jamie’s suddenly despondent expression must have shocked her. ‘Don’t take on so, miss. Look, I can help a little. I’ll go and see if I can buy an extra seat on the stage for you. Give me the money. Right. Now, you stay here. I don’t want them to know it’s for you.’ Pocketing Jamie’s coins, Smithers left the taproom.

In five minutes, she was back. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Jamie. It can’t be done. Mine was the last place on the stage. There’s no way he’ll take you, I’m afraid.’

Jamie sat down heavily on the wooden bench. She had tried to plan for every eventuality, but she had not foreseen this. She dared not hang around the inn waiting for the next stage in hopes of getting a seat. Too many people from Calderwood and the nearby villages used the Boar’s Head. She would very likely be recognised by someone.

Jamie groaned in anguish, clenching her fists. Then she slumped dejectedly against the wall. It had all been for nothing.

A cool voice from the doorway interrupted them. ‘Why, it’s Smithers, is it not? And in some difficulty, if I am not mistaken. How tiresome!’