by Kate Archer
‘Ah, I see, yes that does seem to make more sense. Don’t they call Miss Mapleton the beauty of the north? And, after all, Lady Sybil is uncommonly short, is she not?’
‘Practically a dwarf, very unfortunate.’
*
The morning had dawned bright and Richard and his servants had left the hotel before eight o’clock. Kingston had arranged for a basket of sandwiches and bottles of ale to be packed in the carriage. None of them had the least idea how much sailing practice would be enough. Richard was determined to become an expert at it, or at least carry it off creditably, and they would stay until the sun had set if necessary.
Charlie gave the coachman direction—they were to go to Rawcliffe Lake and see a fellow named Mr. Johnson who had a cottage hard by.
When they reached their destination, they beheld a rather shabby abode that appeared more a shack than a cottage. The walls had been constructed of boards nailed together, the gaps gleefully admitting all sorts of weather. The roof had more shingles missing than attached, though the holes appeared to be handily stuffed with hay. There was a sign posted on the door that said, “Fish for Sale.”
Charlie, noting Kingston’s revolted expression, said, “Now don’t get your breeches in a twist over it, the fellow’s got a place to lay his head and I suppose that’s comfortable enough.”
Kingston’s head whipped toward his master. “Do you see, my lord? Do you see the way he speaks to me?”
“His manners are appalling,” Richard said. “However, I suspect Charlie’s particular way of communicating might serve us well in our interactions with the master of this particular palace.”
As it happened, Charlie’s unique phrasings had come in handy in negotiating with Mr. Johnson. That genial gentleman, noting the expensive carriage and richly dressed person who had come to call on him, immediately raised the price for renting his boat to fifty pounds. He was a thin and grizzled man, his face not having anything to do with a razor for some days, and yet for all his disheveled appearance, his wits were sharper than any expertly stropped blade. Charlie stepped forward to conduct the negotiations and they went on fast and fierce—insults to various ancestors were bandied about, a walk off with threats to leave was performed twice, a slamming door once, shaking fists in the air on both sides, and finally a hearty shaking of hands over the initial three shillings an hour, with an extra two shillings for Charlie’s cork vest.
Mr. Johnson, satisfied that he’d got the upper hand by the amount of one extra shilling, had led them down to the lake, pushing a wheelbarrow full of equipment ahead of him. There, they found a rickety pier hosting an even ricketier-looking boat.
“That there,” Mr. Johnson said, “is the Queen Elizabeth.”
Richard thought it a rather lofty name for a boat with that much peeling paint. It was a small dinghy meant to be blue but was now a patchwork of blue and the previous white paint peeking out underneath.
“You’ll see she’s only got one sail, that’s all a fella needs, in my opinion.”
“That’s all we can handle, in my opinion,” Charlie said under his breath.
Mr. Johnson, ever the gracious host, threw the sail bag and equipment at their feet and said, “If ya drown yourself, that’s on you. If you sink my boat, it’ll cost you three hundred pounds. That’s my livelihood, you see. There’s fish in them waters.”
With that, Mr. Johnson stalked off, no doubt praying they would sink his boat so he might retire comfortably on the resulting three hundred pounds.
“Well, my lord,” Kingston said. “Here we are.”
“Indeed,” Richard said, rather perplexed on how to get the whole operation started.
The lake was wide and Richard had no idea if it were deep or not. If they did sink the boat anywhere in the middle of it, it would be some distance to swim to shore, never mind having to drag Charlie floating in his cork vest behind him.
Charlie paced the pier with a look of deep consideration. “Now, my lord, you see the wind is coming right at us.”
Richard did see that, it blew his hair back with steady determination. The wind was, in fact, a little more brisk than he had anticipated.
“That means straight ahead is the one direction we can’t go,” Charlie went on. “We go right and left, casually making progress forward, then we turn around and come straight back.”
“Where we let the sail out and pull the centerboard up,” Richard said.
“That’s the theory,” Charlie said. “Now I suppose we find out if your sailor friend was pulling your leg with all that advice he sent.”
Richard unpacked the sail and they eventually figured out the mechanism to haul it up the mast. As it flapped around them, they got the centerboard in and checked that the tiller moved right and left. All seeming to be arranged, Charlie donned his cork vest, they hopped on the boat, and threw off the lines.
The next hour was such that Kingston was certain his heart had stopped beating on several occasions. With no discernible rhyme or reason, the dinghy flew this way and that. At times, it raised itself into the air and a tipping over seemed imminent. There was much letting the sail out and then in again and changing direction and the boom flying around as if it wished to murder a person. There was a moment when the boat crashed into weeds on the other side of the lake and both his master and Charlie had to get out and push it back into deeper water. There was another moment of a near collision with two gentlemen in a rowboat, their curses still ringing in Kingston’s ears. At one point, Charlie seemed to be waving with both arms. Kingston squinted his eyes only to make out the boy bailing water over the side with a bucket.
“My God,” Kingston whispered, “they’re sinking.”
But they did not sink. The boat flew by him as if it were launched from a slingshot, both Charlie and Lord Lockwood sitting up on the high side to keep it from going over.
The boat turned and the boom caught Charlie, swinging him out over the water, but he held on and somehow got himself back inside it.
However the sail had been made to go up, it very promptly came down and they were adrift for some minutes at the far end of the lake as they worked to raise it again. Kingston chewed on his fingernails—the furious rowboaters were uncomfortably close and he worried that there might be fisticuffs on the seas.
Finally, it seemed the boat began to go on more regular. There were times where it looked as if it would go over, but from what Kingston could see, neither Lord Lockwood nor Charlie seemed alarmed by the prospect.
The boat made its last turn and headed toward the pier, the sail far out. Kingston heard Lord Lockwood shout “The centerboard, pull it up!” before they crashed onto the shore.
Charlie crawled over the side of the dinghy and rolled onto dry land. He picked himself up and said, “That went well, I thought.”
*
Sybil sat in an armchair in her mother’s bedchamber as Smith did Lady Blanding’s hair.
“Mama, we need not wonder if Lord Lockwood invented the story of visiting with his mother,” she said. “It was entirely made up, Lord Dalton confirmed it.”
“Lord Dalton?” Lady Blanding asked. “How so?”
At first, Sybil had firmly decided against confiding to her mother what she had learned. That could not hold, though. All her life, she’d been in the habit of coming into to her mother’s bedchamber and confiding any little thing that weighed on her mind.
“It seems that Lord Dalton is in receipt of a letter from Lord Lockwood,” she said. “He is violently in love with Poppy. So you see, he’s gone after her, just like Sir John has.”
“Goodness,” Lady Blanding said. “I can only admit to noticing Sir John’s proclivity toward Poppy, though I pity the poor man—I very much doubt he’ll meet with any success. But Lord Lockwood? I had not seen any sort of marked attention from him. I had quite thought if he did attempt to push into Poppy’s father’s house, it would be to do with some bet between the gentlemen of the pact.”
“Oh, there w
ere wagers,” Sybil said. “Lord Dalton admitted to that, too. One to see Miss Mapleton and one to win over papa. Only, Lord Lockwood was not supposed to fall in love with Poppy and he has. That’s why the gentlemen have come—Lord Dalton got a letter and they came to see the truth of it.”
“It seems very odd, though,” Lady Blanding said. “Why should Lord Lockwood hide his feelings so completely? Poor Poppy will not have the least idea of them.”
“Perhaps he was afraid that papa would somehow put off Mr. Mapleton,” Sybil said, that idea having come to her late in the night.
“Perhaps,” Lady Blanding said.
“Mama, does it seem fair to you, in the general way of things, that one person should be so beautiful while others are not?”
Lady Blanding turned her head to look at her daughter quizzically. “I suppose fair has nothing to do with it. Some are simply more blessed than others.”
“It just seems,” Sybil said, “that it cannot be right that one lady should so outshine all the other ladies. And then, Poppy is so darling—it would almost seem more fair if she were not.”
“If you mean to say,” Lady Blanding said, “that much will be made of Poppy when she goes to town, I expect you are right. The Hughs are rather terrified over it. But my dear Sybil, if you also imply that you do not measure up, you are mistaken.”
“I am quite short,” Sybil said.
“You are petite, like a lovely little china doll, with the stalwartness of ten soldiers. It is a very winning combination. Further, your dark hair is divine, and your little upturned nose is charming.”
“Not so very charming,” Sybil said. “Have you not noticed that every single gentleman in the house has packed up and gone?”
“There were only two of them, hardly an army. Further, why should you care where Sir John or Lord Lockwood take themselves off to?” Lady Blanding said. “I know you do not have any special regard for either of them.”
Sybil very much wished that to be true. She really would have to insist to herself that it was true.
“My dear,” Lady Blanding said, “remember what your grandmother always said about matters of the heart—there is a horse for every carriage. When you meet the gentleman that you are destined to spend your days with, you will know it and so will he. In any case, the house is about to be overrun with guests for the regatta, who knows who might turn up and strike your fancy?”
Sybil was not so confident of her grandmother’s theories. It seemed Poppy Mapleton had no end of horses vying for her carriage, while Sybil’s own poor carriage sat abandoned by the side of the road.
Chapter Thirteen
As Lady Blanding had pointed out to her daughter, the Hughs’ various houseguests for the regatta had begun to arrive at a furious pace. Some were as yet unknown to Sybil and some were already acquaintances. Lord Burke, in particular, would provide a welcome distraction. At least, she could count on him to entertain while Poppy was still gone from the house—he would likely fall under Poppy’s spell when she returned, just as every man seemed to do.
The hours preceding dinner had been rather frenetic. More than one carriage had been delayed on the road, and so Lady Hugh could not be certain from minute to minute how many guests would sit down. Just as she’d ordered places removed, those guests would turn up and the places were to be set again. Poppy and Sir John were expected back but had not yet been seen. The Hamiltons’ carriage rolled to a stop in front of the house a mere half hour before the dinner was to be served. This caused the dinner service to be pushed back to allow them time to settle into their rooms and change their travelling clothes.
Sybil presumed the cook was nearing nervous exhaustion over it. She softly played the pianoforte to entertain the various people milling round the drawing room.
Lady Blanding came to the instrument’s side and said, “Goodness, what a palaver. Nothing has been heard from Lockwood, and though we hardly care about his absence, it would be convenient for Lady Hugh to understand when he planned to return.”
Sybil did not answer. Since Poppy was due back sometime today, she assumed Lord Lockwood would be quick on her heels.
“Then,” Lady Marksworth went on, “Lady Hugh has just received a note from Poppy. She and Sir John do not return today. It seems Sir John caught a fever on their journey through the rain, he is even now ensconced in one of Mr. Mapleton’s bedchambers, and a doctor sees him daily.”
Sybil stopped her playing. She supposed that meant that Lord Lockwood would not return either. Not that she would make any comment on it.
“Poor Sir John!” she said. “I did wonder at the time if it were very sensible of him to have ridden beside Poppy’s carriage in a downpour, but he was so fixed on the idea. I do hope he is recovering.”
Lady Blanding nodded and moved away, earnest in her efforts to converse with Lady Hugh’s guests so that their hostess might attend to the ever-changing dinner arrangements.
Of course Lord Lockwood did not signal his return. He would hardly come back without Poppy.
Sybil was both relieved and disheartened to hear that Poppy would not be back in the house that day. She did miss the girl’s company and had grown exceedingly fond of her. On the other hand, she was not eager to hear of Lord Lockwood’s progress in courting Poppy and she could not be sorry that she would not be outshone this particular night. She knew very well that only a mean and small nature would dwell on being outshone and it was one more reason she ought not think too well of herself. Now, apparently, she was to be both unremarkable and petty. Still, there was no use denying her feelings on the matter.
She wondered what Lord Lockwood made of knowing Sir John was a guest in Poppy’s house. She supposed he’d taken to calling every day, pretending to inquire after Sir John’s health but really seeking to visit Poppy. For all she knew, he might have already spoken to both Poppy and her father while poor Sir John lingered in despair over their heads.
“Lady Sybil,” Lord Burke said, startling her from her reverie. “You stare at the keys and yet you do not play.”
Sybil realized she must have appeared entirely nonsensical during her reverie. There might be some other lady who wished to play, and here she was stopping any chance of it while not even bothering to play herself.
She smiled at Lord Burke and began to play softly on the keys. “You are right, I am ridiculous. I was far away just now, Lord Burke.”
“I hope it is nothing unpleasant that captures your thoughts,” he said.
“Only that an acquaintance has been taken ill and I hope for his speedy recovery,” Sybil said.
“Not Lockwood, I hope?” Lord Burke asked. “I had heard he was here, but I’ve not seen him anywhere.”
Sybil looked away. “I assume Lord Lockwood is in splendid health. Apparently, he visits his mother in York.”
“His mother? In York? But… that is impossible,” Lord Burke said. “I can assure you his mother is nowhere near York. My own parents just now visit Lord and Lady Gravesley in Norfolk. That is why my mother and father do not come here this year.”
Sybil felt her cheeks turn pink. She said, “I am certain you are right, I can only tell you what Lord Lockwood claimed he was doing.”
“Very odd,” Lord Burke said, his forehead wrinkling. “I wonder why he would invent such a story.”
“You only wonder because you have not yet met Miss Mapleton,” Sybil said.
“It is true, I have not yet met the lady, though I have heard she is very pleasant. I understood Miss Mapleton to be at her father’s house for some days,” Lord Burke said. He paused and then said, “You do not mean to say…”
“As I do not go in for hinting,” Sybil said boldly, “I will say it outright—Lord Lockwood has invented the flimsiest of excuses to chase after Miss Mapleton. I can say with all confidence that it is so, as I have had his interest confirmed by Lord Dalton.”
“Dalton?”
“Indeed. He and the Lords Ashworth, Cabot and Grayson stay at Lady Montague’s ho
use and were all here recently for a dinner. A vile dinner, in my opinion.”
Lord Burke fairly staggered at the news. “Why on earth should those gentlemen visit Lady Montague?” he asked.
“To attempt a rescue of their friend, I presume,” Sybil said, “though I expect they are far too late.”
Before Lord Burke could question Sybil any further, Jiminy announced that dinner was finally served.
*
“Blast!” Richard said, throwing the letter aside. “My mother writes again that she is further delayed and I am to wait. She may possibly arrive by nightfall on the morrow, though she does not sound particularly confident in the idea. She does not even bother to explain what on earth is causing the delays. What an aggravation. She will expect me to stay on for some days and the regatta is the day after next. I cannot fail to appear for it, Lord Blanding will take it as dodging a wager.”
“Perhaps, my lord,” Kingston said, “whatever is to be done, we might use the morrow for further practice on the lake. Though I would need to dose myself with laudanum to view such an exercise again.”
While Richard nodded, Charlie sidled over to the discarded letter. Kingston stared at the boy and said, “I would scold you severely for attempting to read your master’s private correspondence if I had the least confidence that you could read.”
“I can read what’s vital well enough,” Charlie said, fingering the paper in his hands. “I can read a sign when an old rotter is trying to sell two pennyworth of the blue ruin for three and I know I can saunter down the road to the next chap.”
“There will be no sauntering anywhere,” Kingston said sternly, “and certainly not for gin!”
“And,” Charlie went on, oblivious to the valet’s opinions on gin, “I can read a mark that ain’t the Royal Mail. I can read a mark what looks to be penny post.”
“Why do we even maintain institutions such as Oxford when one can read all of that with no schooling whatsoever?” Kingston said with aspersion.