by Fiona Hill
How interesting he had not guessed. The very first evening, when darkness had compelled the fleeing couple to find shelter for the night, Lady Isabella leapt from the carriage and rushed through the gathering gloom into the inn. By the time Sir Jeffery, who had been obliged to give orders to the ostlers regarding Mrs. Butler’s coach, regained her side, Bella had already found the wife of the innkeeper and was deep in conversation with her. “The poor girl,” she was saying, having suddenly taken on a strange garrulity, it appeared to de Guere, “was simply desperately ill. At first I thought, well, what can I do? After all, she is—oh, there you are my dear,” she interrupted herself to acknowledge Jeffery. “Mrs. Hathaway, this is my husband. So as I was saying, at first I thought, what can I do, I must have a maid after all, I can’t very well dispense with her! But then she was…ah, violently ill, you understand, and it was really more than I could bear to watch her in such evident distress. We thought she might recover—didn’t we, Jeffery, my dear?—but no such thing, alas. She seemed to grow even whiter, and though I think she was shy of complaining, I had the distinct impression she quite wished herself dead. She was very courageous about it, mind you, but she confessed after a time that she had never in her life been in a closed carriage before, and rarely in an open one, and of course with the rain we could not let her sit outside—well, and then she admitted all that story about having been sent down from Sussex by her mother, to earn her keep on her own in London, was an out-and-out lie; the fact was she was London born and bred, the family very low, I gather, and the father a terrible scoundrel…anyhow, you can see we’ve had quite a day of it! So at last we left her, at a little inn about ten miles back—what was the name of that place, Jeffery?—with money and instructions to take an open carriage or a wagon or whatever, for heaven’s sake, tomorrow, and join us at Lady Vaultenoy’s then. And naturally I thought we’d be sleeping at Lady Vaultenoy’s tonight ourselves, and that Amelia—her ladyship, I mean—could lend me a maid or some such, but you see we’ve been so much slowed down by this unfortunate business with this girl, this Dulcie, that we’re obliged to stop with you instead. At all events, the reason I bring this up is to ask you if you haven’t a maid I could use, perhaps your daughter, or—”
“I have a daughter, ma’am,” the innkeeper’s wife interjected swiftly.
“Oh, that is ideal!” squealed this peculiar, loquacious Isabella. “Naturally I shall pay her well for her services. Very well, it is settled then—it is settled, is it not, Jeffery?—we shall be needing two rooms…oh, and please to tell your daughter she must sleep with me, for I feel a dreadful sick-headache coming on after all this untoward adventure, and when I get the headache I am always sure to have nightmares. Will that be agreeable, Mrs. Hathaway? I should appreciate it so much.”
Mrs. Hathaway found this more than agreeable, since she was ambitious for her daughters (she had four), and she saw in this an opportunity for the eldest to gain some experience as a lady’s maid. Perhaps, she even dared to suggest to Mr. Hathaway later that evening, as they sat in the kitchen drinking chocolate together, perhaps Dorothy might even be permanently engaged by the lady who employed her tonight. It was not impossible; one heard of such things. And though Dorothy was only a rude country girl, at least she had a stomach of iron. Of what use to a fine lady was a maid who could not travel? And then Dorothy was good-natured, and biddable, and not so ugly as to be unsightly, nor so handsome as to attract Mr. Amor’s attention…all in all it seemed to her at least worth suggesting to Mrs. Amor in the morning, provided of course Dorothy had no objections. Had Mr. Hathaway?
He had not. He had seen the colour of Sir Jeffery’s gold, and it looked a rich yellow hue to him; besides, he’d taken the opportunity of visiting the stables that night to have a look at Amor’s carriage, and the fineness of it had much impressed him. It was a little odd, he owned, that Mr. Amor had given orders that it should be returned to the city, while he and his wife would travel by post-chaise for tomorrow’s journey—but who understood the ways of the Quality, after all? So long as Dorothy liked the plan, he was all for it. She was a grown girl now, in any case, and not likely to come to harm. One daughter less at the family board, to say truth, suited Mr. Hathaway very well.
So it was that Dorothy, as soon as an errand given her by Isabella took her to the kitchen, was intercepted by her parents and made a party to their plans. She was not long in agreeing to them, for she herself had long dreamed of escape from this everlasting inn, and in consequence she worked twice as hard as she might have to provide Mrs. Amor with satisfactory service. She even attempted to keep awake all night so that, when Mrs. Amor woke from her expected nightmares, she would be roused and ready to aid her.
She need not have troubled herself, for Isabella, after her previous all-night’s vigil, slept a perfectly sound and dreamless sleep, secure in the knowledge that Sir Jeffery would not intrude upon her—could not, indeed, since she had taken the precaution of bolting the door. For love him though she did, when it came right down to the bare bones of the matter, Lady Isabella knew she was gravely in danger of de Guere’s advances, and she had no intention whatever of succumbing to him till they were well and thoroughly wed. Not that she doubted his honour, of course! But now was no time to take chances. The reader may be surprised to see Isabella behaving, apparently for the first time, sensibly. By way of explanation I can only offer Isabella’s own candid surmise in her diary that night: “I suppose I was never obliged to be sensible before,” she wrote briefly, aching with fatigue, “but there are things about which one absolutely must!”
A second reason why Dorothy need not have tried to keep awake all night was that, had she been the very worst maid in the world, Lady Isabella would nevertheless have engaged her with a joyful heart. Indeed, it was much better than she dared to hope: she had expected to be obliged to invent some story, and find some chaperon, at every inn they visited. Now she was assured of an escort both in the carriage and during the nights, and without any of the trouble of securing one again. When, at breakfast in the coffee-room, Mrs. Hathaway dared to broach the topic and offer her daughter’s services to the Amors, Isabella accepted with a smooth alacrity that left Sir Jeffery speechless at first.
Then, “But my dear, what will you do with, er, was it Darcy?” he objected, while Mrs. Hathaway hung on their every word.
“You mean Dulcie, my darling. But Mrs. Hathaway is right, I must have a maid who can travel with me. You know we have promised to be at Milcourt Tuesday week. How shall we go there unless I have a maid? And I shall not travel again with Dulcie, no truly I shall not,” she insisted with vehemence. “It’s too much to ask of me. Dorothy must come. We’ll simply send Dulcie back to London and find some other employment for her. I did not like the way she lied, in any case, regarding her upbringing. Who knows if she might not steal as well? She’s only been with us a week or two now,” Isabella paused to explain to Mrs. Hathaway. “We’re well rid of her, in my opinion.”
“But what could Dorothy know of being a lady’s maid?” Sir Jeffery parried weakly. “With all due respect to her worthy parents, she is after all a country girl. She was not brought up into this service; she can know nothing of your needs, my dear. And you know you are rather delicate; I should think you would wait and engage someone skilled and experienced, since you are determined to do without Dulcie.” Recovering some of his wits, and feeling more than a little enraged by Lady Isabella (for he had been as much astonished by her behaviour on the previous evening as if, having taken a China doll into his hands, he had suddenly been bitten) he went on, “Remember how very unhappy you were with Maryanne, wasn’t that her name? At first you said she was simple and unspoiled, and you would have her, but less than a se’ennight later you were utterly out of patience with her incompetence and her slowness. It isn’t fair, really, my darling, to do the same to Mrs. Hathaway’s daughter—”
But Isabella had begun to pout, and she now broke in with a petulant whimper, “You never let
me have what I want, Jeffery! I tell you, Dorothy suits me wonderfully; she was terribly sweet and dear last night—and she doesn’t snore, which is more than I can say for Dulcie. Indeed, it was the first time in ages I’ve had a good night’s rest…” She went on ever more plaintively, now producing a gush of tears into the bargain, “I wish you wouldn’t be so unkind to me; it makes me simply miserable, you know. It isn’t as if I ask for much. I told you you could send those silly diamond ear-drops back to Love and Wirgman, since you didn’t care for them, but now that I’ve found something I truly must have, you deny it me! It’s wrong, it’s wrong,” she cried, feeling pleased as she did so to have succeeded in bringing in this reference to diamond ear-drops, which must surely interest Mrs. Hathaway more than any domestic squabble. “I am just wretched, Mr. Amor, and how you can treat me so after—after—” Her lip trembled, and she buried her head in her arms, as if she could not bring herself to say another word. Through the sound of her own sobbing, she could hear Sir Jeffery’s voice. She smiled secretly at the table, still under cover of her arms.
“Very well, my dear, Dorothy comes!” he pronounced, on a note of real exasperation. He gave Mrs. Hathaway an embarrassed, distracted smile and instructed her, “Go and fetch your daughter, my good woman. And I suppose your husband as well, for we must arrange something suitable regarding her keep.”
Mrs. Hathaway hurried out at once on this errand, hearing as she quitted the room Lady Isabella’s voice call out, “Oh yes, Mrs. Hathaway, and pray send them both quickly, for we must be leaving soon.” For Isabella well knew her safety was best protected by keeping others always about her; there would be time enough for her to be alone with her (now furious) beloved when the bonds of matrimony solidly conjoined them.
“By God, woman,” hissed Sir Jeffery at his companion the moment Mrs. Hathaway had gone, “I’ll wring your neck! What’s got into you? Have you gone mad?”
Isabella, calmly drying the tears from her face with a corner of her napkin, smiled sweetly at her beloved. “Well, I should like to have a maid,” she said softly, dimpling at him.
“But now we’ll never be alone! It beats everything,” he went on, betrayed by his anger into an involuntary bluntness. “I almost think you are trying to spoil our plans. Suppose your father were to find us now—for they must surely be looking for us. He would take you home nice as you please—don’t you understand, my dear,” he went on, striving to strike a conciliating tone, “we must make it plain you are—ah, mine forever, or they will never allow us to marry!”
Lady Isabella gave a tiny, genteel shrug. “If my father discovers us before we reach Gretna Green,” she said, “I shall run away again with you as soon as ever I’m able. I’ll run away ten times if I must. Does that satisfy you, my darling?” She gave him a smile of melting gentleness and patted his hand. To her relief, Mrs. Hathaway returned at that moment, her husband and daughter in tow. Vaulting ambition was writ large on Mrs. Hathaway’s face; her husband wore a look of proprietary pride. Dorothy, the cause and object of their various emotions, beamed with pleasurable anticipation. The reader will be relieved to hear, since her keeping awake the previous night would have served no purpose, that she had not succeeded in doing so in spite of her best efforts and had instead enjoyed a very pleasant, restful repose. She now cast Isabella a joyful, grateful look, and vowed in silence even as she stood there to learn to perform her duties with all the finesse of the best London lady’s maid ever.
And indeed, in the event, she did more than that, for she had a good heart as well as a quick wit, and Isabella stood in need of a great deal of comfort and support. Her elopement with de Guere was a dream come true, of course, but Isabella would have been a very odd girl indeed if she had not suffered keenly from this first separation from family and home. The strangeness of the rooms in which she slept, the rigours of the road, the desirability of keeping, at all moments, some neutral person or persons between herself and de Guere to act as a buffer, the attentions sometimes pressed upon her in spite of her efforts by this same adored hero—all these difficulties and more weighed heavily on Isabella and made her very glad for a friendly, female hand to hold. Though Dorothy could not be told, naturally, the exact cause of Mrs. Amor’s sighs, she was a sympathetic enough soul to offer solace whatever the reason, and this Isabella appreciated and needed far more than any professional expertise her Dorothy might be lacking.
The great coup of Isabella’s campaign took place at Gretna Green itself, for she had very rightly foreseen that it would be to her advantage to make the arrangements for her marriage to Sir Jeffery on her own. They had crossed the border towards evening and had of necessity passed one last unwed night in a Gretna inn called The Black Horse. Before she retired, and bidding her straitly to keep it a secret from Mr. Amor, Isabella had sent her faithful Dorothy on an errand into the neighbouring streets, with a letter and strict instructions to guide her. Meanwhile, she did not fail to notice that Sir Jeffery entertained a late-night visitor, a shabby-looking fellow he explained to Isabella as being the steward of a friend’s estates nearby. “I thought we might put up there for a bit,” he went on after the man had been dismissed, and Isabella permitted to come into the coffee-room (for Sir Jeffery had politely excluded her before, claiming she looked fatigued and ought to go bathe her eyes), “and cool our heels before returning to England, but it seems the place is closed up for the moment. We should hardly be comfortable there. So, my dear, where shall we go when we are married?”
“Then we are to be married at last,” she breathed, taking his hand in hers. “I can scarcely believe it.”
De Guere answered smoothly, “But of course; did you ever doubt it?”
“Oh, no! It is only…it has seemed such a long time in coming. But here we are! May we do it tomorrow? I should so like to.”
“Naturally, my darling,” said he, touching her hair. “I never thought otherwise. In fact, I have spoken to the innkeeper about a church to go to, and a minister to see, and he says he will arrange it for us for tomorrow, at noon. Is that too early, my pet?”
“Nothing could be too early,” she said, glowing inwardly at the knowledge that she had exactly anticipated his choice of hour.
“Will you not entrust yourself to me tonight, Isabella?” Sir Jeffery now asked her, drawing her closer and kissing the top of her head lightly. The poor man had counted on being found by Lord Trevor days before this; he couldn’t imagine where on earth the fellow was. Wasn’t he looking for his daughter at all? Fortunately, at all events, de Guere had been faced with the necessity of enacting a false marriage at Gretna Green before. He knew just how it was done. If the earl did not show up tonight (but how could he fail? Sir Jeffery asked himself every ten minutes), he would simply avail himself again of the shabby fellow’s services—for this particular shabby fellow was an actor, an acquaintance of Jeffery’s from army days, and an adept in the matter of disguise—and meet him at Covenant Church round the corner on the morrow at noon, where he and Isabella would be mumbled over while the pastor ate his dinner. In the meanwhile—just in case Trevor did appear tonight—this might be his last opportunity of tasting the particular treasures to be yielded up by the young blond beauty before him. Those treasures he coveted all the more for having been denied them so long—he was only human—and so he held her even more tightly, and murmured ever more passionate flattery into her delicate ears.
But she held fast to her purpose and withdrew alone to her chamber. Truth to tell, she was trembling with desire herself and would not at all have minded giving in (for she did adore him, all her calculations notwithstanding), but it was quite out of the question. Tomorrow would be soon enough, and afterwards they would have all the time in the world.
For she had sent Dorothy to find a real minister and to arrange for a real wedding. Perhaps the shabby man Jeffery spoke to in the coffee-room was not summoned to help him contrive a false wedding, perhaps he really was a friend’s steward, and all Isabella’s fears were
in vain. But it was hardly, as she told herself, worth taking chances. If she herself contrived the ceremony, then she could be sure of its being legitimate—and only then. Convinced that her logic was sound, and in loving hopes that her precautions had not been necessary, she slept peacefully that night, after having inscribed in her diary (of course) twelve pages describing the joy with which her maiden’s heart burst on this, her last evening of singlehood.
In the morning she greeted her darling serenely and ventured out with him and Dorothy, who might after all prove useful, she said, and could anyhow be sent back later. Sir Jeffery would turn north, but Dorothy signalled to Isabella to head south, and so she cried out with great enthusiasm, “Oh, my dearest, I feel so dreadfully excited! Could we not walk about for a moment? We shall not be late. We are in plenty of time.”
Sir Jeffery, in no hurry to undergo a wedding ceremony, either real or false, resisted her only a moment.
“What a lovely town,” crowed Bella. “What a lovely day!” She kept a careful eye on Dorothy, who motioned her round the block. “Oh come, my sweet,” Isabella cried, turning as she was directed. With relief she saw a church at once. A nod from Dorothy confirmed it was the correct one, and Lady Isabella (with a vigour not really suitable in a quivering bride) grabbed her beloved by the arm and dragged him bodily towards its steps. “My dear, just look at this quaint old church! Oh I must have a look. Can’t we?”
Since she was already dragging him through the door, it would hardly have done for de Guere to refuse. With an exasperated glance skywards he followed her in. The church was empty; then a man appeared near the altar.
“Oh look,” Isabella gave a soft squeal, “here is someone to marry us. Oh, can’t we be married here, my dear? Father—do you call them father?” she wondered aloud, even as she addressed the clerical gentleman, “May I speak with you a moment?”