by Joan Smith
“I’d sooner walk all the way in tight shoes.”
This was entirely the correct response. Lady Lynne was perfectly aware of the antagonism between them and welcomed it. There was nothing so stimulating to the blood as hot argument. How she and John used to battle—and how they made up afterward!
“Walk, then, by all means,” she said, “unless you’d prefer to sit up on the driver’s bench with Nubbins, for I mean to put you out of my bedchamber.”
Chapter Five
Lady Lynne made good her threat. When the two carriages stopped at Horsham to change teams and allow the passengers to refresh themselves, she sent her niece off to buy newspapers while she got Delamar aside and asked him if he would mind having company in his rig. The mischievous sparkle in her eye filled him with foreboding as to her intentions of attaching him, for she had been gay almost to giddiness over lunch to cover up Faith’s silence.
“I would be a poor traveling companion,” he said. “I am writing as we go along. The rag still has to be got out, you know, even if I am not sitting behind my desk.”
The sparkle in her eye turned to steely determination.
“Surely you do not require two banquettes to do your writing?”
“I do my best writing when I am alone. Such a charming companion as yourself, Lady Lynne, would distract me no end.”
She smiled at this graceful put-off and then revealed his error. “If you are that easily distracted, sir, then there is no point in telling you it is my niece who wished to share your coach. It goes without saying her charms exceed my own.”
She noticed the leap of interest in his eyes and the dismay that he had misjudged the situation. In different circumstances, she would have let him stew, but time was limited, so she went on to clinch the matter. “Well, it is mighty uncivil of you, Guy,” she said jokingly. “I am so fatigued with the jostling that I thought I might catch a few winks if I could get my carriage to myself, but your work must take precedence, of course.”
“Never let it be said I robbed a lady of her beauty sleep. I shouldn’t think Lady Faith will overburden me with chatter. Is she generally so untalkative?”
“Not usually, but you need not fear she’ll prose your ear off today. Ah, here she is now!” she exclaimed as Faith returned to the parlor with the newspaper. “You are to go the next lap in Guy’s carriage, my dear. It is all arranged. And you must not pester him with conversation as he is in the throes of writing for his paper.” Then she put her hand on Faith’s arm and led her out before she could publicly vent her objections.
Even before the carriage left the inn yard, Faith opened the paper and began to read it. Indeed she had brought it along for no other reason than to inhibit conversation if her aunt insisted on making her ride with Mr. Delamar. It was the Tory Times that she held in front of her. Being much less sly than her aunt, she intended no slur in this choice but only bought the paper her father always had in the house. The only sound within as the carriage drove through the little market town was the scratching of pencil on pad and the rustling of the newspaper. Faith glanced at an old church with perpendicular windows and a shingle spire but found it not worth a comment. At West Horsham, Mr. Delamar lifted his head to observe the redbrick buildings of St. Martin’s Hospital. Not a word had been exchanged between them thus far.
“That is St. Martin’s Hospital,” he mentioned.
She lowered the paper an inch and peered over the top of it. “Oh, yes.”
Before she could raise her paper again, he pointed out a group of schoolboys in the yard. “They look like birds in their blue gowns and yellow stockings. We may be staring at a future prime minister or judge or murderer, depending in large part on what sort of school it is.”
“I thought it was a hospital,” she said.
“No, it is a Blue-Coat school, called St. Martin’s Hospital, as Christ Church is a school called a church. There are historical reasons for the names, but I believe they continue the misnomers to confuse the hapless victims.”
She let the paper settle on her knees. “Did you not care for school, Mr. Delamar? I enjoyed it tremendously.”
“They don’t make you ladies burst your heads learning Latin and Greek.”
“No, we learn useful things like embroidery and poetry,” she replied, taking note of his classical education. She condescended, in the interest of civility, to smile.
Thus encouraged, he decided she was tame enough to take a joke. “I notice you’re reading the Thunderer. That will do you about as much good as your embroidery if it’s information you’re seeking. It earned its nickname by assuming the Olympian prerogative of oracular wisdom, couching its editorials in the royal ‘we,’ as though it were anything more than the Tory opinions of John Walter II.”
“What does your paper’s name signify, Mr. Delamar?”
“A harbinger is a forerunner, one who—and by extension which—announces coming events, as birds and blossoms are harbingers of spring. You will recall my favored position in any endeavor is the forefront. I try, in my paper, to point out what will occur if certain courses are followed.”
She lifted a brow and pinned him with her brilliant eyes. “That would be Tory courses?” she asked.
“They’ve been the party in power for as long as I can remember, catering to the wishes of the aristocracy, the landed gentry, the church, and the established order in general.”
“And are you against established tradition?”
“No, I am against prejudice, particularly when it disguises itself as right and reason. Even our courts, you know, allow every man’s case to be heard. If we permit criminals that right, surely the innocent are due the same. I try to speak for those who are mute due to their lack of a forum. Someone ought to express outrage at such goings-on as the Prince of Wales being paid six hundred and thirty thousand pounds for marrying his German wife, who is a disgrace to the nation; his Oriental fantasy at Brighton costing nearly as much as the Peninsular War; and such details. But I know what side you are on, so I shan’t carp.”
“I hope I am not on the side of ignorance and prejudice,” she said defensively.
“If you at least hope, then you’re not past cure and help, according to Mr. Shakespeare—one of my idols. I treasure him for his insights. Hope, however, is only an inanimate virtue till it inspires you to action. The action I am suggesting, in this roundabout way, is that you try reading my journal.”
With a charming smile, he handed her the latest copy of the Harbinger. “I never waste an opportunity to gain a subscriber, you see. When I’m not writing, I’m promoting.”
She accepted the paper and then turned aside to catch the light over her shoulder, for the day was overcast. “It is writing you should be doing now, so I’ll read this and let you get back to work.”
“I look forward to hearing your opinion.”
She turned immediately to Mam’selle Ondit’s column and read again his article on Thomas, which undid any good effect of their talk. He watched her quietly for a moment. His expression was gentle, even yearning, as his eyes flickered over her bent head and her profile. As time passed, he resumed his writing and she read other articles.
She soon found herself adrift in a strange, new, and horrible world. He wrote stories—surely they were just stories, and not true—of whole families in the North and Midlands subjected to terrible deprivation. Husband, wife, and children all toiled long hours in factories or foundries under appalling conditions for a pittance. It seemed the greed of the mill and foundry owners was only half of the problem. The other half involved the corn laws, known to her thus far solely from her father’s conversation and considered an excellent thing.
But in the case of the poor, who had to buy rather than sell, these laws had the effect of raising the price of bread to some astronomical height. She became first interested, then outraged that such a thing could be. England, lately subject to poor harvests, had raised the price of grains; and to prevent people from buying imported gr
ains at a lower price, the government imposed high import tariffs. How was it possible that the politicians, supported by her own father, allowed this dreadful thing to happen? Nay, encouraged it!
Mr. Delamar stole quiet glances at her from time to time as she read. He saw first her frowns of misunderstanding or disbelief and watched as anger gathered on her brow. He sat ready to expatiate further on political matters, but she had no intention of revealing the extent of her ignorance, so when she had finished reading, she just set the paper aside and looked out the window.
He put away his pencil and said, “We’re in for a storm, to judge by that lead sky.”
“Yes. The roads will be a regular hasty pudding. How far are we from Bournemouth?”
“We’re coming to Amberley. This is the Arun River. There’s a charming old ruined castle and a Norman church, but we shan’t have time to view them today.”
“Are we near Winchester yet?” she asked.
He handed her Thomas’s folded map, and she studied it. “Amberley! Mr. Delamar, we’re going the wrong way. Thomas marked Winchester on his map.”
“We couldn’t expect to overtake him at Winchester. We’ll catch him at Bournemouth. That’s where he sails from, tomorrow evening at nine. We’re just taking a slightly different route. We’ll go south, then west, instead of south-west. We’ll have to ferry across the inlet, but it’s no farther.”
“I must have misunderstood the Pythagorean theorem! How can two sides of a triangle not be longer than the other one?”
“Not much longer,” he said.
“Ferrying the carriages will be very awkward. Why aren’t we going by Winchester?”
“I have to make a stop at Fareham. I have some business to attend to there.”
“Did you learn something about Thomas?” she asked swiftly.
“No, it’s another matter entirely.”
“But that will waste time! We want to catch him as soon as possible. That’s the only reason my aunt and I came.”
A mask of arrogant indifference settled over his harsh features. “Lord Thomas is a minor matter as far as I’m concerned. I must stop at Fareham. Naturally you and your aunt are free to do as you wish. There is no fear of highwaymen in this part of the country. Their little vice near the coast is smuggling, not robbery.”
She stared, incredulous. “You mean you aren’t making this trip to follow Thomas?”
“Not just to catch him,” he replied. He didn’t emphasize catch,” but she noticed it and knew a man whose tools were words had not made the change by chance. He spoke on calmly, but calmness was at an end for Faith. Her companion was a clear and obvious enemy again. “There’s a by-election at Fareham today. I have a man down there following the outcome. I have to see him.”
“How long will you stop?” she asked stiffly.
“For as long as my business takes, but it need not detain you. You must continue your pursuit of Lord Thomas, by all means.”
After that brusque exchange, they continued through the chalky South Downs. Castles and churches were observed in stony silence. As they drew nearer to the coast, the skies grew darker and a fierce wind carried the tangy sea scent in its grip. No rain had fallen yet, and the dry dust flew in clouds, while the tree branches whipped like sheets in the wind. Soon the ominous roll of thunder was heard reverberating in the heavens.
“Aunt Lynne will be frightened to death,” Faith said. “Are we nearly at Fareham?”
“It won’t be long now. With luck, we’ll be there before the storm breaks.” He sounded not only unconcerned but rather satisfied. It occurred to Faith that she and her aunt could hardly proceed on their quest in the teeth of a roaring storm. She was already irritated at the prospect of the ferry crossing and had no intention of attempting it in bad weather.
When they reached Fareham, they found the little seaport to be bustling with activity, as voters made their way to and fro to cast their ballots. They drove to the Red Lion and waited a moment for Lady Lynne. Her carriage had remained close behind them all afternoon, but when they drew into the inn yard, there was no sign of it. “I hope my aunt hasn’t had an accident,” Faith said.
“Come along inside before the rain starts. I’ll send my driver back for her.” Delamar spoke to his groom and took her arm to propel her into the hostelry. It was a quaint, unsophisticated country inn with humble furnishings, but on this election day it was busy. “Do you think this storm is going to blow over soon?” he asked the proprietor.
“We’re in for a gale it looks like,” he was told. “You and your lady are lucky. I only have the one room left, and not my finest either, but you won’t want to carry on your trip in this weather.” He lifted a key and handed it to Guy. “The Mermaid Room is what I have available, sir.”
Faith felt a moment’s embarrassment at the misunderstanding, but there was no archness in Delamar’s manner. “You and your aunt had best take it before it’s gone,” he advised her.
“But where will you sleep?”
“Don’t worry about me. Unnecessary advice, I think?” he asked, slanting a mocking smile at her. She was loath to take the last room after his jibe. “Go ahead,” he urged. ‘‘Your aunt won’t thank you for offering to sleep on a bolster by the fireside. That’s a gentleman’s prerogative— I’ll pretend I’m a gentleman, for tonight.”
While she signed the register, he continued talking to the proprietor. “Is Dick Fletcher staying here?”
“Aye, we have Mr. Fletcher with us. You’re in the shipping business as well, are you?”
“That’s right,” he lied, for there were occasions when a journalist did not advertise his true calling in the interest of hearing the truth. “Would you have any idea where I might find Mr. Fletcher?”
“He just stepped into the taproom for a wet. A roaring business we’re doing today. We’re having a by-election here, you must know. Old George Shaft, the Tory incumbent, has stuck his fork in the wall and his son is up to replace him.”
“Is that so? I noticed the streets were busy. Who do you think will take it?”
“There’s no question hereabouts. We always get stuck with a Tory. We’ll get the Shaft again, I wager,” he joked.
“I thought since the new Duke of Graveston took over, there might be some hope of a change,” Guy said, to let his listener know his own sentiments.
“They do say the young duke is of a different stripe than his late papa, but the old gaffers have the scrutineering under their care, you see. No matter what goes into the box, what will come out of it is Mr. Shaft.”
Delamar adopted a sympathetic face. “Like that, is it? Who’s in charge of counting the vote here?”
“Shaft’s man, a Mr. Irons by name—and an ironmonger by trade—but his avocation is feeding from the Tory trough. He always gets any sort of political job that can be done by an idiot—except that of Member of Parliament, of course,” the proprietor added with a wink. “That plum belongs to Mr. Shaft.”
Delamar arranged to have Faith taken to her room, and before she had removed her bonnet and pelisse, her aunt came in, shaking raindrops from her pelisse and complaining about the weather.
“You never saw such black clouds. It looks as though the heavens are in mourning. And the thunder! Loud enough to wake the dead. I barely got in before the clouds opened. Where is Guy?”
“He is looking up one of his employees in the taproom,” Faith answered brusquely. “Do you realize, Auntie, he has taken us miles out of our way, and we will have to cross a river on a ferry to reach Bournemouth?”
Her aunt frowned in perplexity. “Has he, indeed? Why would he do such a cracker-brained thing?”
“Because finding Thomas is only a small part of his reason for this trip. He came here to Fareham to look into the by-election. He suggested you and I continue to Bournemouth without him,” she added, and looked for her aunt’s reaction.
Delamar was not the only one with an ulterior motive for darting off to Bournemouth. Sharing Guy Delamar�
�s company had been as much inducement as finding Lord Thomas, in the chaperone’s decision. She hastily considered the matter and decided that laissez-faire was her best option. Who knew what might occur before morning? “We shan’t go far tonight in any case. Did Delamar give a hint as to how long he meant to remain here?”
“Till his business is finished,” Faith said tartly.
“Your trip with Guy was less than agreeable, if I am to judge by your sour face,” Lady Lynne remarked.
“I did not want to join him and he didn’t want me in his rig. I don’t know why you ever suggested such a thing.”
Lady Lynne plopped down on the bed and leveled a cool stare at her niece. “Then you are remarkably slow, my dear. The Season has less than two weeks to run. The only gentleman who offered for you has turned out to be a thief.”
“Thomas is not a thief!”
“He’s under a cloud at least. Your papa will never permit the wedding to take place now. By sheer good luck, a better replacement has dropped in your path and you haven’t the wits to throw your bonnet at him. I have chaperoned some slow lasses in my life, but I must say, Faith, you take the prize. If all the chits were as dull as you, the bells of St. George’s in Hanover Square would be silent from head to toe of the year.”
Faith stiffened up and glared. “Are you actually suggesting that I should make up to that—that scribbler? I don’t want to marry Mr. Delamar. I don’t care for him in the least.”
“Then it will be back to Mordain Hall for you, come June. Now that I have made Guy’s acquaintance, I might attach him for Hope—if Lady Marie Struthers don’t beat me to him, that is to say.” She removed her bonnet and walked to the window to survey the skies and to give Faith time to come to her senses.
“Don’t think you will talk Hope into having him,” Faith sneered. “She will not be impressed by a Whig reformer—and neither will Papa.” Yet she felt hypocritical casting a slur on Mr. Delamar’s views.