by Robin Helm
“Now then,” Tom said, returning quickly with his map of the local area. “Here we are,” he said, pointing to a location.
“All of this is Farmer’s land,” Fanny added, indicating several acres of field partially bordered by woodland. “I suppose we must have exited the woods about here,” she continued, pointing confidently to the map.
The gentleman stared at her for a moment. She assumed they admired her instant knowledge of the map if not her ability to navigate within one. He returned his studies to the map.
“Here is the stream we crossed over.”
“This is where I crossed from our land,” Fanny said, pointing to a spot to the left of the man’s index.
Within moments, they had an estimation of where the field lay in which they met and where the horse must still be waiting.
“Goliath will be furious,” the man warned the gentleman.
“Goliath?” Fanny and Tom repeated in unison.
“Oh yes. He is a Shire. You see, we began our journey with a phaeton. We lost a wheel and continued on horseback. Now my horse is lame,” the guest explained.
“And is your destination worth the frustration?” Fanny inquired, curiosity overcoming her sensitivity.
“A man only gets married once,” was the droll reply. “One hopes.”
CHAPTER IV
Tom Groom took an undergroom and young Gus to fetch the man’s horse, so all that was left for Fanny to do was to deliver the stranger to her father. Still, she hesitated. He slowed his pace.
“Your home seems nice,” he said.
She looked up, confused, for her mind had been occupied with other concerns.
“Yes,” she agreed finally. Turning her mind once more to the guest’s needs, she felt some preparation may prove helpful. “You should know, perhaps, that we are a rather large family. I am just one of eleven children, though my eldest sister has married and three younger brothers are at university. My eldest brother is also currently away.”
“Where is your place among the eleven?”
“I am the fourth child, second daughter.”
“Your mother?”
“She is beautiful, wise, and kind,” Fanny said with a sigh.
“Your father?”
“Always happy to help.”
The stranger stopped dead in his tracks. It took Fanny a couple steps to realize he was now waiting behind her. She paused and turned to look at him askance.
“Were you or were you not running away? Are you in danger of some sort?” he asked finally with obvious concern. Fanny noted again just how very large he was, much more than a head taller than she, and she straightened herself to her full height.
“Whatever gave you such an absurd idea?”
He scanned her body, head to boot, in a telling way. She pursed her lips and cast him a look of defiance.
“I was not running away, so to speak, but rather avoiding.”
The stranger frowned, brows furrowing, and he crossed his arms. To Fanny, the appearance was extremely menacing, but she was no wilting female. She stood her ground.
“Miss Bingley! Miss Bingley, is that really you?” Mrs. Doyle called, bustling from the house. “We have been searching for you this age. Your mother was worried. Good heavens!” the housekeeper froze, gaping, when Fanny turned to face her. “What-ever has happened to you?” She then caught sight of the stranger and many expressions crossed her face - suspicion, anger, dread, concern.
“Mrs. Doyle,” Fanny greeted warmly, reaching to take the woman’s arm before recalling her dirt. She quickly wiped her hand on her skirt, which did not help in the least, and took Mrs. Doyle’s elbow gently.
“I am fine. I have walked too far, that is all, and I may have fallen into the stream. Had you any idea of it being so full? I had not! But I decided I just had to cross. It did not work exactly as I planned, but this man came to my rescue. Unfortunately, his horse is lame. Tom Groom has gone to fetch it. Is Father in the library?” As she spoke, she led the housekeeper and guest towards the house where Wilson stood waiting at the door. Though his brows went up at the sight of her, he said nothing but to answer Fanny’s question.
“Mr. Bingley is in the library,” he said gravely.
“Thank you, Wilson. Now, Mrs. Doyle, I think you must prepare Becky, for Aunt Louisa used the last of our smelling salts during her visit over Michaelmas.” With that sage advice, she released the housekeeper in the direction of the servants’ hall and turned back to the stranger.
“Shall we?” she asked, all politeness, and she led the guest further into the house, through a parlor, and to a large, ancient wooden door. “You are in for a treat,” she promised happily, “if you care for architectural history. This door leads to the oldest part of the house - actually what the house was built around to hide.” She pushed the door wide.
Papered walls and carpeted floors gave way to stone and mortar. Footsteps echoed here, and one could imagine rows of wooden benches being passed by priests in robes carrying burning incense.
“An old chapel?” the guest asked in hushed tones.
“Very good! An eleventh century chapel. See the chancel arch leading into the next room? The door we entered through must have been the door to the nave. Just look at the high ceilings and hear the sound carry! We are vastly proud of it all.” She beamed at her visitor.
“Fanny? Is that you?” her father called from the next room.
“Yes, Father. I have brought you a guest in need of help.”
As they passed under the great archway, the man had to pause to appreciate what had been done. The second room was larger and had been converted into a library. A barrier had been put between stone and book, to protect the pages from decay, and the shelves covered floor to ceiling of two walls. Ladders with wheels on a track were in place to help the reader navigate the expanse efficiently.
“Wonderful,” the stranger acknowledged quietly.
“I am so glad you approve,” Mr. Bingley greeted, standing behind his desk and beginning to move around it to properly address the visitor.
The man’s concerns for the young lady were quickly put to rest by Mr. Bingley’s kind and gentle spirit.
“Good heavens, child. What has happened?” He glanced between his daughter and the stranger but not with any sign of the expectation of wrongdoing. True to her father’s nature, he assumed the stranger helped her out of whatever entanglement had caused such destruction.
Fanny smiled brightly.
“I decided to try one of June’s trails and was quickly lost. It seemed a good idea to cross the stream at one point, requiring me to cross it again for my return home, but it was shockingly muddy. Do I look like I had an adventurer?”
“Quite,” mumbled her father. He quickly turned to her guest. “How may I help?”
The man chuckled. “It is a mess of an explanation, but suffice it to say, I was traveling to Coventry in a roundabout way when my phaeton lost a wheel. I continued on horseback but my horse now appears to be lame.”
“Coventry, you say?” Mr. Bingley inquired, much relieved. “But that is not twenty miles from here. You are welcome to stay here tonight while Tom Groom cares for your horse.”
“Surely he would prefer to stay in the village,” Fanny suggested, earning a parental warning glare from her father. “I think only of his comfort,” she added quietly.
“Is the village far?” the stranger asked. “I shall have to send word to my friends.”
“We are certainly capable of helping you with that much.” Mr. Bingley returned to his desk where he rifled through some papers to find a blank sheet. Delivering it into the stranger’s hand, along with a pen, he welcomed the man to write his message, and it would be sent posthaste by a Woodhaven servant. While the guest penned his missive, Mr. Bingley pulled a cord that was suspended from the ceiling just beside the bookcase.
“Wilson,” Mr. Bingley addressed the butler when he arrived, “Please see to it that Mr…. Mr….,” he paused, realizing
a grave oversight. “I do apologize,” he said, turning to their guest first and then to his daughter, “but I have not caught your name.”
Fanny became thoughtful, then laughed. “Oh, dear! Neither have I, Father!” She turned to the guest and dropped a small curtsey. “Good afternoon, sir. I am Miss Bingley, if you please. This is my father, Mr. Bingley.” Father and daughter stood, focused on the stranger expectantly.
CHAPTER V
“Good day to you both,” he began hesitantly, as if not wishing to declare himself. “My friends call me Dunby.” He gave a slight bow.
Father and daughter alike furrowed brows for but a moment before smiling another welcome.
“Wilson, please ensure that Mr. Dunby’s message is delivered as quickly as possible. Mr. Dunby, you are very welcome to stay for tea. We keep country hours here, so you will not have long to wait.” Finally, Mr. Bingley turned to Fanny. “You, my dear, may now excuse yourself. I am fully capable of seeing to our guest.”
“I know, Father,” Fanny replied, all smiles, “but…. A tour! I shall first take him on a tour. Come, Mr. Dunby,” she ordered, moving quickly to the archway and indicating for him to follow.
“A tour,” mumbled her father in confusion. Mr. Dunby glanced at the father but received only a shrug, so he followed the young lady.
The tour was very boring, indeed, the highlight of which was a visit to the kitchens for a scavenger hunt to find bread, cheese, and whatever else may be edible at that strange hour. The younger children were closeted away with their governess and were shocked when their sister peaked into the room.
“How ever did you manage that?” young Harriett asked her brothers in a whisper.
“Twasn’t us,” they exclaimed. “We have been holed up in here with you all day,” Thomas continued.
“Excuse me, Governess Dawkins. I was just giving a tour,” Fanny explained. The governess had been with the family for years and was little surprised by their antics now. She nodded for Fanny to continue and took no notice of Fanny’s state. “Mr. Dunby, these are my younger siblings. Harriett, just there, is the youngest. She is eight years now. There sit Eliza and Thomas, and those two are twins, Henry and Helen. Henry will leave us when the next school year begins.” It was a point of pride in a boy’s life and worth mentioning. The children nodded their heads in turn, not that Mr. Dunby could be expected to remember them all.
“How do you do?” he asked politely.
“Carry on then,” Fanny quipped, spinning on her heel and leading Mr. Dunby into the hall again. “Hm,” she voiced softly, staring down the expanse of hall and doors.
“I am willing to leave for the village on foot, if you will but direct me,” Mr. Dunby offered.
Fanny glowered. “Nonsense. I have use for you still.” She was leading him further down the hallway when voices were heard coming up a set of back stairs. “Becky!” Fanny whispered in suspense. She grabbed Mr. Dunby’s sleeve at the elbow and pulled him quickly around a corner. A large portrait hung on the wall. She grabbed onto the frame, just so, and the portrait swung wide on a hidden hinge.
“A secret passage!” Mr. Dunby said in surprise.
“Sh!” Fanny hushed urgently. Silently, she pulled the frame door to and closed them into a room. The light was faint, but her eyes quickly adjusted. A set of old, wooden stairs was seen, and it was to these that she led him.
“Should I be concerned for my life?” the large man inquired in mock concern.
“Tis just the attics,” Fanny explained drolly.
Fanny was careful not to share a step with her guest lest their combined weight overpower the stair. They creaked and moaned but held.
“Here we are!” Fanny announced upon reaching the top, as if announcing a great treat. Her eyes scanned the space for something amusing.
“What is wrong with you?” he asked finally. “Have your parents never taught you propriety?”
“I could take you to the village, if you like,” Fanny offered hopefully.
“You would be seen in public? Like that?” he asked incredulously.
“It cannot possibly be as bad as that,” Fanny scoffed.
“Whatever you imagine,” Mr. Dunby began with a fraudulent smile, “it is worse,” he ended angrily.
Fanny met his scowl with a similar one of her own, taking note of the stiffness of her face. Willing to consider his points, she strolled to a corner where an old, ornate looking glass hung from the wall. She inhaled sharply and removed the covering, waiting for the dust to settle before opening her eyes again. She briefly studied her reflection before returning the cover and turning back to her guest.
“You may have a valid point,” she noted fairly, a little surprised she did not mind overmuch.
“I want no part of whatever game you are playing.”
Fanny pursed her lips, unconvinced that her battle was lost.
“Fine. You may go to tea with my parents - it should not be long now - and you will never have to see me again.”
“You insufferable…,” Mr. Dunby began, but then something behind Fanny caught his eye. “What is this?” he asked, immediately calmed by curiosity. He walked past Fanny to better study the wall.
“Oh? Oh, tis nothing. A girlish attempt to make sense of things beyond my scope,” Fanny replied, attempting to distract her guest from his scrutiny. She tugged his sleeve but was shaken away.
“The red lines,” he began, tracing the string with his finger, “these are British troops. And these here, the orange, those are Ashanti. These yellow are the Chinese, and the purple are Burmese.”
“The green are Marri and the brown are Afghan. Yes,” Fanny replied shortly, attempting again to draw the guest away.
“You have been tracking the campaigns?” Mr. Dunby asked incredulously.
Fanny’s eyes rolled upwards. “An impossible feat,” she complained after a moment of consideration. This was not a conversation she wished to have at this time and place.
“Why?”
Fanny allowed herself a small sigh of defeat.
“It began a few years ago. My sister, Louisa, and I liked to look through the old fashion journals, and we came upon a copy of La Belle. Fashion was just a small portion of the magazine then - it also held politics and reviews and whatnot. The year of that particular edition was 1815.”
“Waterloo.”
“Yes, Waterloo,” Fanny repeated in agreement. She turned to the map that hung suspended from the wall where hours of study and research were represented by pins and string, charting the various campaigns from France to China. “It is shockingly difficult to find real information concerning these things,” Fanny continued, turning a helpless look of frustration to her audience of one. “How many of our countrymen have been injured or killed, and for what? Even the purpose is unclear.”
“I shall not bore you with my own opinions concerning our current method of warfare or how it is outdated and fatal to our people and to our cause,” Mr. Dunby began, scowling, but then his expression cleared, and he smiled wryly, “but let me assure you, that finding this,” he indicated her map with an outstretched arm, “this is an unexpected, and pleasant, surprise. The men often feel forgotten and despised. They are dirty and poor and starving, in spite of serving our country for a lifetime.”
“And here am I,” Fanny said softly, “comfortable, provided for,…”
“Also dirty,” added Mr. Dunby with a rueful grin.
“And as close to starving as I ever care to be,” Fanny said with an answering grin. Suddenly, her eyes rounded as she froze in place. “Blast.”
Mr. Dunby then heard footsteps on the stairs that led up to their hiding place.
“Miss Bingley!” cried a servant in alarm.
“Fanny!” exclaimed another voice, more soft and genteel. “Whatever could you be doing?”
“Mother,” Fanny greeted sweetly. “Becky.”
The housekeeper, two children, and finally her father also appeared at the top of the stairs.
>
“Your tour led you to the attic?” Mr. Bingley inquired, now thoroughly confused.
“Miss Bingley was kind enough to show me her map,” Mr. Dunby explained, but he was awarded no more than a glance.
“This is no way to behave, no matter what day it is,” her mother scolded between her teeth. Mr. Dunby noted that Mrs. Bingley was indeed still remarkably handsome and appreciated the similarities between mother and daughter - at least, from what he could tell.
“Twas only the green dress,” the maid, Becky, chanted quietly to herself as she stood to the side with the housekeeper.
“Go to your room, now, and get cleaned up,” Mrs. Bingley enunciated slowly and dreadfully.
“Mother, you cannot expect me to go to my room!” Fanny exclaimed.
“If you had not been gone all day, you would have much less to fear. As it stands now, you have much more to fear from me than from anything you may find in your room.” The tone was quiet and calm but left no room for argument.
Fanny was defeated. She turned to Mr. Dunby. “Thank you for your help. I pray you have a pleasant journey to Coventry and many joys thereafter.” The housekeeper and maid followed her down the stairs.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Add that to the list of conversations you never expect to have as a parent,” Mrs. Bingley said to Dunby distastefully.
“You must think yourself at Bedlam,” Mr. Bingley said, glancing at Dunby, but amusement played strongly across his features.
The children, Thomas and Eliza, giggled, earning a reproachful glare from their mother, and they, too, escaped down the stairs. Mrs. Bingley followed closely.
Finally, Mr. Bingley stood alone with Dunby, and silence settled over the room. Mr. Bingley seemed to enjoy it but, at long last, spoke.
“I hope you will stay for tea, Mr. Dunby, and you would be most welcome to share our dinner as well. Stay the night, if you will, though I doubt any further visitation upon this house sounds appealing just now.”
“Curiosity alone could compel me to join you for dinner, sir, but I am afraid I was to meet some friends at the station in Birmingham. We are to continue the journey to Coventry together.”