Читать книгу Rogue in Red Velvet - Lynne Connolly - Страница 8

Chapter 6

“Letter for you, Missus.”

Connie had long stopped trying to get her housemaid to stop calling her “Missus.” Saxton came from a family that had served the local gentry in these parts since records began, or so they had everyone believe. If Connie commented too strongly, they’d have called her “stuck up” and relegated her to the younger daughters and sons of the Saxton clan, the ones who needed training—a subtle kind of punishment that was just as effective as sitting in the stocks.

Connie took the letter from Saxton’s hands—no salvers here, as at the Downholland’s—and used her butter knife to break the seal, which was so blurred as to be unrecognizable. But this letter had come a long way. It was grubby, the seal chipped. Had he written to her after all? Her heart lifted stupidly. “When did it arrive?”

“But two minutes ago. I thought you might like it now, since you’re breakfasting alone.” By which Saxton meant the vicar hadn’t just popped in to discuss some triviality with her. The vicar was a greedy man and Connie’s cook made good breakfasts.

“Certainly and thank you.” She’d risen several hours ago and ridden out on estate business after consuming only a few slices of buttered bread and tea. The wind this morning was a lazy one, going right through her instead of around her and she’d looked forward to her meal, which she was now relishing in solitary splendor.

She was glad she had no audience other than Saxton. Had Alex defied her wishes and written to her after all? Fumbling a little, she folded the paper open.

My dearest Sweetheart,

I cannot wait to make you mine.

Everything is in train for your arrival. The Downhollands wish our union as soon as possible and I concur in that desire most fervently. I regret I cannot ride North to escort you to town but you will find a hearty welcome on your arrival. Please write and tell me of your plans. I will arrange to have you met and taken to the Downholland’s London residence.

I find that I miss you more than I thought I could ever miss anyone and I need your love and support. I miss your tantalizing presence, your perfume and your good sense and I want to present you at Court.

Yes, that is my main reason for asking you to come to London with all haste. I have obtained an invitation to attend St. James’s and if I were married before my visit, that would include my wife. I cannot decline such a treat on your behalf and I don’t hesitate to remind you that it would aid our fortunes, too. A honeymoon and a season of sightseeing would be conducive to your spirits, would it not?

I am fortunate to have made the acquaintance of several influential people in town and I can promise you an enjoyable time during our stay. I have several appointments with men in the City, by which I hope to increase our holdings and secure us a greater income. I have also renewed my acquaintance with my second cousin, the Duke of Northwich, and he has kindly extended an invitation to attend his house for tea after we are wed. When we are done with London we will return to our home with all due dispatch and begin our married life in complete amity.

I understand the stage leaves for London every day from Carlisle, so it might be better if you catch that, or if you require more comfort, a post chaise should prove adequate. We should think of purchasing a good travelling carriage on our return home.

I wait impatiently for your letter,

Yours, etc.

Jasper Dankworth.

Of course, Alex wouldn’t write. She’d told him not to. But she couldn’t deny the sense of hollow disappointment filling her now.

Saxton should really have left the room but she was no doubt waiting for some juicy titbit that would enliven the Saxton household when she went home at the end of the week.

Connie schooled her features, put the letter gently face down and asked for more tea. The maid bustled out, the lappets of her cap whipping out behind her in her haste to leave the room.

Connie had some mending to do after breakfast, which left her clear to think. As her fingers flew over the sheets and the handkerchiefs, she pondered the letter. Apart from the lack of transport, it seemed a reasonable request but she was puzzled that he hadn’t sent a carriage or arranged for a post chaise, much as she disliked that form of transport.

Or at least, that the Downhollands hadn’t done so. They had arranged for one for her recent visit to their house.

If he’d obtained an invitation to a presentation at court, that was a coup, although she’d have to buy a mantua, an old-fashioned gown she’d have no use for afterwards. Or she’d wager she could hire one.

She dropped the sheet she’d darned and picked up a handkerchief that needed edging.

Jasper’s protestations of love and passion seemed a trifle overdone but gentlemen often paid extravagant compliments in the hope they would receive more in return. Hastily, Connie moved away from that thought, although she would have welcomed the attentions of someone else in her bed and concentrated on turning the corner of the handkerchief neatly. Alex was someone she must never think of again, except as a passing acquaintance.

By the end of a relatively restful afternoon, she had made her decision. She was to dine at the vicarage that night and as Saxton helped her dress, she put matters in train.

“I need a ticket to London on the stage next Wednesday. Two tickets. Inside the coach, please. I’ve written a note to Mr. Dankworth, telling him of my arrival and I want that sent as soon as possible.” She picked up the string of amethyst beads she’d inherited from her mother. Not as grand as most London ensembles, but it would do. It would certainly do for tonight. She straightened so Saxton could tighten her stays.

“I’ll require someone to accompany me. I’d prefer you, Saxton, since you’re a sensible woman and unlikely to let the sights overcome you but if you decide you cannot, Benton will do. I’ll be marrying Mr. Dankworth in London. We’ll hold a ball when we return to celebrate the event locally.” They could hire the Assembly Rooms in local Pantown. “Saxton, can you please stop tugging at my laces? That’s quite tight enough.”

Although Connie was standing with her back to Saxton she could see her in the mirror. The maid’s round face flushed beet red. “Sorry ma’am.” She must be overset, because she didn’t call her Missus. Or maybe she was excited. The untypical fumbling was a clue. “I’ll tell Harrison about the letter and I’ll send him to buy the tickets in the morning. Just wondering, ma’am but why don’t you hire a chaise?”

“I don’t see why I should pay a fortune to travel in that kind of discomfort. It’s fast, to be sure but the roads aren’t suitable, or at least the ones we took weren’t. So I might as well pay a modest amount and still be uncomfortable.”

The only way she’d travel in comfort was on a good road, preferably a turnpike, in a well-sprung, private vehicle, taking its time. Since she couldn’t afford that, she’d make do with the stage.

“Yes, missus.”

At least they were back to that.

* * * *

Could people die of boredom?

When Connie thought there was nothing new to say about the weather, one of her fellow passengers on this godforsaken vehicle thought of something else.

The occupants of the inside of the coach were so respectable they could have given her vicar a run for his money. They discussed the weather, the French, who they hated to the last man and woman, the strangeness of the Londoner and the irresponsibility of the ruling class. Especially its young men who did nothing that they didn’t want to.

Connie could have disabused them of that notion but she chose not to. However much the motherly woman sitting opposite her probed and poked, she enlightened her no further.

After the first day’s excitement and the first night’s uncomfortable lodging, when she shared a sagging rope-bed with her maid, Connie spent most of the next day’s travel catching up on her sleep. The days passed until they had only two more nights on the road before they reached London.

By the time they reached Leicester, she was heartily sick of travelling. When the coach stopped for a meal and a change of horses, she took the air with Saxton in tow. Better than eating food she didn’t really want in the stuffy taproom of the inn.

“Come, Saxton.”

The maid accompanied Connie, grumbling under her breath, her stout figure wobbling on the uneven cobbles of the coaching inn yard.

They strolled along the street, Connie relishing the fresh air and the lack of tedious gossip.

She paused in front of the window of a print shop, looking for amusement in the caricatures. She scanned the images on display then her attention returned to one in particular. Her heart missed a beat.

In the center of the window, larger than the other offerings was hung a print of Alex and his cousins in their imperial finery. They appeared incongruous in the center of London society because the printmaker had dressed them in the style of their namesakes. So Alex had a breastplate and Roman kilt and his cousin Julius a purple-edged toga.

Alex’s family was an important one. Even someone in a provincial town like Leicester would know who they were. They didn’t need the joke explaining to them.

Finally the death knell tolled on her hopes. She had no chance of attracting such exalted figures and no right to expect it.

The man she’d met and dallied with wasn’t for her. She didn’t move in his circles, wouldn’t know how to conduct a dinner discussing events of the day, events the guests would have direct involvement in. She couldn’t swan around a ballroom pretending to be one of the great and the good. Alex would marry a woman who could do all these things and she’d be a credit to him. Not for Connie the fate of being caricatured for the amusement of the nation. Few people knew who she was, or would, once she married Jasper. Mrs. Dankworth, even Lady Downholland couldn’t evoke that kind of attention.

Her mood plummeted. She was going to London to marry Jasper then she’d retire with him to Yorkshire, or her home in Cumbria, and take her place in local society. She’d never see Alex again.

The prospect filled her with a numb sorrow. Until now, she hadn’t realized what Alex had done to her. He’d spoiled her for other men.

Saxton tugged her shawl. “They won’t wait for us, missus. We have to go now.”

She’d turned, slightly dazed, and headed back to the inn and the hated coach.

That she’d met him seemed a dream. That she’d kissed him seemed impossible. Alexander Vernon, Baron Ripley, heir to the Earldom of Leverton. No, not her, not him.

She’d put him behind her with all the strength of will she could muster.

When they reached London, she assumed it wouldn’t take long to reach the Belle Sauvage on Ludgate Hill, where they were disembarking.

However London proved much larger than she’d supposed and it took an hour for the unwieldy coach, weighed down with travelers inside and on the roof, to reach the center of the city. The travelers separated into two groups, the ones who had been before and took it all in with an air of weary cynicism and the ones, like her, who watched, fascinated, as the city passed the windows in all its variety.

They passed through a couple of hamlets first, villages with a prosperous air and modern, well-constructed houses, any of which would have provided a suitable dwelling for a lady of her style and circumstance. The road led into the main part of the city, past dilapidated buildings of disreputable appearance, half falling down and propped up with beams and then rows of neat houses, small but with an air of comfort and well-being. Every building bore streaks of soot. Something she hadn’t expected but should have done. So many houses belching smoke all day must produce this kind of appearance. She’d have had her house scrubbed every month but perhaps the battle was too much for the people who lived here.

Finally, they swung up Ludgate Hill and the magnificent dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral towering majestically over the buildings clustered around it. Its classical magnificence and its sheer size dwarfed and scorned everything else around it. Breathtaking.

She promised herself a visit there, as well as the Palace of Westminster and the Banqueting Hall, all that remained of the old palace of Whitehall, which had burned down seventy years before. Her spirits lifted at the thought, more, to her shame, than at the thought of meeting Jasper again.

She recalled the history of London from her books, the books she’d spent the nights before her trip poring over. Anything but remembering how close Alex was to her here, how she could pay a visit and see him again. But she would not.

How would she cope with that? From what Jasper had said in his letter, he’d started to move in those circles. She couldn’t avoid Alex. She had to steel herself to the possibility of meeting him, pretending a slight acquaintance. Anything more would appear encroaching. And the chance of seeing him with a woman, one who could claim him for her own. Perhaps he’d offer for Louisa, pretty, young and rich, everything Connie wasn’t.

She suffered from an infatuation, she assured herself, as she had many times before. Nothing more. It would pass. It had to pass.

* * * *

Connie had become adept at climbing down the tiny steps of the coach on to the cobbled yard of yet another coaching inn. Except this one was the last in her journey and the last she’d need to face for some time. She felt cramped, tired and ready for bed, although it was barely four in the afternoon. Food didn’t appeal. She was too weary to eat. Not that Saxton felt the same way, if her rumbling stomach was to be believed. Connie ought to take pity on her maid.

“Let’s eat something while we wait to hear from Mr. Dankworth.”

Saxton nodded. “I’ll see the bags unloaded first, missus.”

Connie had almost forgotten them.

Saxton snagged a passing ostler by the simple expedient of grabbing the waistband of his breeches and waving a shilling under his nose. She barely came up to the man’s chest. “That trunk and that bag.”

The man climbed up to get them down.

Connie went inside and headed for the nearest unoccupied table.

A man dressed in plain but serviceable clothes stopped her. “Mrs. Rattigan, is it?”

“Why? Who wants to know?” She was dressed plainly, her pearl necklace tucked under her fichu. She could have been anyone from a shopkeeper to a lady.

The man handed her a folded note addressed in her future husband’s handwriting.

Dearest,

The man who gives you this is one of my servants. You may trust him. He will take you to the Downholland’s house after you’ve eaten and refreshed yourself. I am looking forward with eager anticipation to seeing you again. We will marry as soon as possible. I can hardly wait. - J

A brief note and to the point but Jasper’s care for her touched her. She smiled up at the man, her spirits lifting. “Yes, I’m Mrs. Rattigan.”

“Are you alone?”

“My maid is in the yard, supervising the luggage. She’ll join us shortly.”

The man gave a brief nod. “There are some private parlors here. I have bespoken one of those for your comfort. If you’ll come this way, I’ll return for your maid.”

“That sounds good.” She followed the man to the parlor, which was small and comfortable. He furnished her with a glass of wine from the decanter on the table.

She eyed the basket of bread with more avidity than she’d imagined she could have a few moments before. Jasper’s note had relieved her growing tension and worry that she might have to fend for herself and her maid for at least a night.

The wine tasted good enough and she’d downed the first glass without really noticing, wondering if she could put her feet up on one of the stools and relax for an hour. She wondered where her maid had got to when the latch rattled.

The world rocked under her feet. As if her perception had suddenly developed an echo and followed her rather than coming with her. She heard the man saying the same thing twice, saw blurred double images of him. More tired than she’d thought. With a sigh, she sank back on to the hard wooden settle. Her senses telescoped and unconsciousness washed over her.