George forced himself to turn around again. Fixing his eyes on the hem of her skirt, he began to whistle tunelessly.
She took a deep breath. “George!” she said again, as if to erase the false start. She was suddenly aware how fancy, how dignified her voice must sound to his ears. “George, I do so need your help. You are the only one I—”
At the word “help”, his eyes shot up to meet hers. “’Elp!” he said. “Oh, pardon me, er, madam, but anything I can do to ’elp…to…” At the end of this speech, his tongue became all tied again, and he resumed his earnest survey of her skirt.
“I am so glad, because you are the only one I’d trust.”
His heart was going to burst with pride! She came and stood closer to him, and he held himself very still and very erect. He hoped she wouldn’t notice, as he did, that she was a bit taller than him.
She was speaking in a whisper now. “George, I am running away. I cannot stay here a day longer. Bessie is coming with me. Sir Edmund, you see, wants to—is trying to…”
“Lord! Really?” exclaimed George, indignantly. “What’s ’e done?”
“It—it’s not something I can talk about, George,” she said, and real tears of self-pity came to her eyes.
“Lord, Miss! ’E never!” George began to blush again.
“Yes, so you see, I must go. As soon as possible. And we can’t tell anyone, or he’ll be after me…”
It dawned on George that he was being asked to help this angel of his to escape. Which meant that he might never see her again. He would have to give her up, just when it seemed that she was aware of his existence, and that she liked him too! She hadn’t said as much, but she had said she trusted him. Wasn’t that the same thing?
It was just the sort of terrible sacrifice he had always imagined he would be called upon to make one day. He swallowed resolutely. “My lady,” he said as nobly as he could. “You was needing ’orses!”
“How did you know!” she exclaimed. “Just one horse will do, actually, for both of us. You are clever,” she added.
“I don’t know—I just guessed, is all,” he replied. And, lest she think him conceited—he realized his earnest answer to her question had been unnecessary—went on, business-like, “Julia Sees-Her. Yes, Julia Sees-Her will do you best. ’E won’t be missed, there’s none as rides ’im much. ’E’s a good ’orse and finds ’is own way home.”
“I knew we could count on you! I’ll never forget this, George. Never.”
It wasn’t much, but that vow was the closest George ever got to attaining his most fervent adolescent desire. There’s no reason to feel sorry for him, however. He really had no right to expect even this much, and he certainly did not expect any more.
28
CIVIL LIBERTIES
George had chosen well. Julius Caesar turned out to be a thickset, heavy-footed gelding steady enough for two riders. He was unperturbed by the terrified squeals emerging from Bessie, or her thrashing legs on his flanks. Lucinda held on to the reins as best she could, although Bessie’s panicked gyrations made it difficult, sending her into fits of laughter. George accompanied them for as long as he dared, to show them the way through the woods behind the manor. Since it was broad daylight, they thought it best to avoid the main roads.
They stopped at the edge of a large pasture. Before them stretched an expanse of grazed grass, with a church steeple in the distance.
“There you are. You’ll find it from ’ere,” he said reluctantly.
“Yes, there it is! Thank you so much, George.” She was gazing at the hazy skyline, her eyes squinting excitedly in the harsh sunlight.
“Yes, thank you, young man,” added Bessie. “You’d best get back now, dear, before they start wondering where you are. We’ll manage from here. Somehow we’ll manage.”
“I…” George said.
“Come on, Bess. And try to sit still. Hang on tight!” Lucinda was gathering the reins in her fists, her back straight, her eyes on the horizon.
George felt there was more, much more to be said.
“Good-bye, milady—madam, and God-bless—” he began.
But they had already started moving away from him, Lucinda laughingly throwing words of encouragement over her shoulder at Bessie, who was hanging on for dear life.
George remained standing there a good while, staring after them. It was not until they were hidden by a stand of willows that he turned and slowly ambled back to face a good thrashing and the tedium of the rest of his life.
It took Lucinda and Bessie less than an hour to reach The Worm, Bitterbury’s central inn.
“Lord!” Bessie panted as Lucinda helped her down off the horse. She plopped down on a bench inside the courtyard to rest her shaking legs, “I am too old for this! I’ll never—Lucinda! Lamb! Where are you going!”
“Stay here, Bess. Just rest. I’ll be right back. I’ll just inquire when the coach is expected.”
In the gloomy taproom that stank of stale ale, vomit and urine, she found the innkeeper pulling on a pipe.
“The stage for London? Three a-clock, Miss,” he said. “It aye arrives three a-clock, or thereabouts. Be ye goin’ to London, Miss?”
“No, Bath,” Lucinda lied quickly. “To visit a relative who lives there.”
“Bath? Ah, no. Ah no, no, no, you see, Miss, the stage does not stop at Bath. That would be the other way, see. No, ye’d best await tomorrow, there’s the West Country stage, it…”
“No, this relative, I mean, he is to meet us at a crossroads, with his coach-and-six,” Lucinda said a little crossly, and tried to change the subject. “Are there any refreshments to be had?”
“Mother!” the innkeeper roared into the back. “Vittels!” Turning to Lucinda, he leered, “Some bread and ale and a slice of porky-pie for the young lady?”
“Thank you so much,” said Lucinda. She started for the door.
“His own coach-and-six, eh?” The innkeeper spoke loudly to her retreating back. “His own coach-and-six! Where did you say he was meeting you then?”
“Thank you so much,” Lucinda repeated primly as if she hadn’t heard the question, and slipped out into the sunlight.
She found Bessie sitting petrified on the bench where she had left her, staring open-mouthed at a portly middle-aged man who had one leg propped up on Bessie’s bench.
“Aye,” he was saying, “that was a kind thing your master did, a kind thing. I said to the wife, I said, ‘It just goes to show you there’s justice in this world, and fine gentlemen to uphold it too’.”
Spotting Lucinda, Bessie started fanning herself with her neckerchief. She looked uncomfortably hot.
“Bessie! There you are!” Lucinda said, and then turned to the stranger, as if she had just noticed him.
“Sir?” she asked.
“Ah!” he said heartily. “And you must be Bessie’s daughter. Well now! Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss. You have been holding back on me, Bess! My, my! Every bit as purty as her mam—”
“Aunt!” Bessie puffed, then resumed her apoplectic fanning.
“Beg pardon, aunt, ah, well, the resemblance’s unmistakable. No, Miss, I was just saying to auntie here, I am so delighted to bump into her, we last met under less fortunate circumstances, you see…”
“Oh?” said Lucinda.
“Robert Fetshank. Butcher. At your service, ma’am. Bessie—well, she and I go a long way back. Long way back. Always one of my best customers, she was.” Turning to Bessie, he beamed ingratiatingly, “You always did say none could dress a roast a-la-modey-way as well as old Fetshank, didn’t you, Bess!”
Lucinda still could not understand why Bessie was being so unfriendly.
“I was just telling her how sorry I was about her being, er, taken for a witch, and all.” He winked broadly. “Always thought she was a lovely sort of person. Never for a moment thought such a fine-looking person could be a-one of them. I told Master Boulderdash, I said, ‘She’s not one of them, that one. Never!’”
Bessie was pursing her lips. Both Lucinda and Robert Fetshank assumed she was finally going to say something. But it was spit that came out. The gob landed right on top of Robert Fetshank’s raised shoe.
Lucinda was shocked. “Bessie!”
“Ah, I see!” he said, straightening slowly with a pained laugh. “It’s a grudge, is it? It’s a grudge! Well, there you are. A man performs his duty for the common weal, and this is how he is thanked.” He swung the foot with the minuscule patch of offending slime off the bench, and pivoted. “But I’m used to it, you see, Miss,” he mumbled to Lucinda as he limped gingerly toward the tavern door. “Don’t think I am not used to it.”
“Bessie!” Lucinda repeated sternly. She was feeling terribly sorry for the fat butcher. “Whatever’s come over you?”
“Oh, lamb,” Bessie exhaled, “lamb—I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have, it’s not like me, not like me at all. But that man…” She had released her hands—she had been sitting on them—and was holding them up in front of her eyes. They were shaking visibly, and she stared at them vacantly, as if amazed at their independence. “That man saw me…with my clothes off!”
“No!” exclaimed Lucinda.
“Yes, lamb.” She almost gagged, then swallowed painfully. “He was there when they questioned me. Oh my Lord. He was the one who tied me. On the rack. Naked. He touched me! And that man acting just like it’s the most normal thing in the world, if you please! Oh the nerve, the nerve of the man!” She brought her hands up to her face and rubbed her eyes, nose and cheeks hard. “But you’re right, lamb, I should not have done that, it was rude. Spitting. It’s not like me. I don’t know what came over me!”
“Oh, Bessie,” Lucinda exclaimed, hugging her. “Don’t fret. Soon you’ll never have to see him again. We’ll be far away.”
“So we will,” said Bessie, calming down. “Oh, you are such a comfort, my pet, what would I do without you…”
The incongruity of it suddenly struck Lucinda. When had this role-reversal occurred? Since when was it normal for her to comfort Bessie, and for a helpless, stricken Bessie to lean on her? Was this the way it was going to be from now on? It felt very strange. But it made her feel very grown-up, too.
Poor Bessie. She was suffering from an acute case of the affliction known as Blaming Oneself. All her life she had meant well, meant more than well. All her life she had tried to make herself useful, ignoring her own needs in order to serve others. And what happened? Instead of helping those she loved, she had been the cause of their undoing! Bessie just could not understand how all those good intentions could have led to such a perplexing series of disasters. To wit:
First, Lady Clarissa’s muteness. If only Bessie had not provided her with the belladonna; if only she had not allowed herself to feel sorry for the poor lady and help her try to seduce her husband; if only she had never let on that she knew anything about herbal remedies and such…
Next, Thomas’ death. If Bessie had never let on that she knew anything about herbal remedies, then Clarissa would not have overdosed on the belladonna. And then she would not have had herself accused of witchcraft. And then Thomas would not have been obliged to try to rescue her. And then Thomas would still be alive…Here the tears welled up again, and she had a good cry.
Sniffing, she went on, refusing to spare herself. And now here was the worst mistake of all. Of all the stupid, stupid…! Here was her lamb, her pet, her innocent girl. Faced with a ruin so obvious, so unavoidable, that it had been staring them all in the face. She had feared it; so had Thomas; even Mrs. Kettle and the others had speculated on it. Hadn’t they known what Sir Edmund was like?
If Lady Clarissa had been well, she might have kept her husband in check. If Bessie had not been arrested for witchcraft, if she hadn’t been so weakened by her ordeal and so upset by Thomas’s death, then she might have paid more attention, and perhaps could have prevented the rape. But even so—why had she never taught Lucinda the facts of life? Why had she assumed, just because the girl acted so self-confident, so sure of herself, that she would know how to defend herself? Why, at the very least, had she not planned their escape earlier? Oh, she blamed herself, she blamed herself, she really, truly, blamed herself!
While Bessie was thus castigating herself, Arabella, who had been found guilty by everyone but could find nothing whatsoever to blame herself for, was languishing in a stinking hole not fifty yards from where Bessie and Lucinda were sitting. Prison conditions were far worse for Arabella than they had been for Bessie and Thomas, because the guards were so afraid of her that they did not dare descend into her lair. Her food and drink were thrown down to her from above, and since much of it spilled in the filthy mire before she could catch it, Arabella was starting to suffer from hunger and dehydration. It was becoming dreadfully clear to her that unless her unsympathetic brother-in-law had a sudden change of heart, she was doomed. Since in her looks she fit the popular image of a witch, there was no one in this bunch of simpletons who was going to give her the benefit of the doubt.
But was it Arabella’s fault that she was born ugly? Imagine being unattractive in an age when the science of physiognomy was taken seriously by enlightened folks, even the king! Imagine going through life provoking negative responses in people who don’t even know you; imagine the hurt of each recoil. Who could blame her for her bitterness and her peevish disposition? The worst that could be said of her, in the end, was that she had an unfortunate talent for making people squirm. It was true that she had often scolded and beaten her servants—but always in the conviction that she was improving their character and saving their souls. If she had stolen from her father (a father who, it must be said, never thought of making any provision for her future), it was only because she saw no other way to ensure herself of a living once he was gone. And although it can’t be denied that she was responsible for Thomas Boothby’s arrest, surely even that was done only in self-defense!
The truth is that Arabella did not deserve her sorry fate. She did not deserve to be tortured and degraded, then pilloried and jeered at, and finally hanged from the gallows, shamefully, like a common criminal, stinking of her own excrement, her eyes bulging like a frog’s, her blackened tongue protruding, in death the very image of a witch. For this is what happened to Arabella Steppys in the end. Not one tear was shed for her, not one voice was raised in protest, not one gallant knight came galloping up on a white steed to snatch her from the jaws of death.
It was an age when life was cheap and justice hard to come by. An age when the phrase “civil liberties” meant “polite impertinence,” and most humans had no rights at all.
29
THE RUNAWAYS
It did not take Robert long to overtake the runaways. The innkeeper was eager to share his suspicions with his lordship.
“The young lady said they were on their way to Bath, but I’d not believe a word of it, my lord. I’d look for her on the road to London, that’s where they be gone, I’ll warrant.”
“Pardon me, yer Honor.” It was the butcher, Robert Fetshank, slurring his words self-importantly, “I am acquainted with the other woman. She was charged, you know, with witchcraft. I’ll never understand why she was released—she was the paramour of an affirmed warlock. A right bawd too. A base slut. I’d be happy to help, my lord, in any way…”
“That will not be necessary,” said Robert coldly, and, having moistened his lips with the complimentary ale, slapped it down on the table, shouting, “Fellow! My horse!”
The London stagecoach put up for the night in Stow-on-the-Wold, at the Merry Maypole. When Lucinda and Bessie came downstairs in the morning, ready to resume their journey, they found Robert leaning on the banister.
“Where are you going, coz?” he asked pleasantly.
“Robert!” She grabbed Bessie’s hand. “We…we…we were just…”
“Yes, I know. You were just absconding, were you not? Sir Edmund sent me after you. He wants you to come home.”
Luci
nda sat down heavily on the stairs. She started to cry.
“Lamb! Pet!” Bessie fussed. She turned to Robert. “Oh, sir! Don’t you see she can’t go back with you? She can’t!”
“She can’t?” asked Robert, reasonably.
Lucinda raised her head and gazed at him squarely through tear-filled eyes. Robert made a show of extracting a snuffbox from his tightly-cut coat pocket.
“No I can’t, my lord,” Lucinda whispered. “And you’ll understand, once I explain—”
“No need to explain, coz,” he said airily. He opened the box and carefully pinched a few grains of snuff between forefinger and thumb, threw his head back and sniffed, very debonair. It was a trick he’d been practicing since his return from London. The two women watched the entire proceeding in silence. There was a loud, messy sneeze. Tactfully, both looked away while his lordship made some adjustments with a large, ornate handkerchief.
“I said,” he went on, “that your uncle sent me after you. I did not say that I would do his bidding.”
“No?’ said Lucinda.
“Ah!” said Bessie.
“No. If you wish to go to London—by all means. But please allow me to accompany you. It is not safe for two females to travel alone.”
“I don’t understand.You mean…?” said Lucinda.
“There is nothing to explain. If you don’t wish to return to the manor, there is nothing I can do about it, is there.”
“No?” said Lucinda.
“Of course not!” said Bessie.
“So. That’s settled, then. Allow me,” said Robert. And he bowed, offered Lucinda his arm, and walked her out into the courtyard, where a hired coach was waiting.
Coming into his inheritance had done wonders for Robert. Even though he was still a pimply, gangly youth, the sudden respect of those around him, the bowing and the scraping, had worked miracles on him. Instead of camouflaging his awkward length, he now held himself erect and looked down at you superciliously along his blemished nose. He was haughty. He was superior. His raised left eyebrow had become a weapon. It was clear that he was perfecting the stances that were to cover up his insecurities once and for all. Already, when he walked into a room, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that here was a young person of import, a person of standing, a person whom, if you were so inclined, you might wish to suck up to.
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