‘Shhh!’ said Diana. ‘Remember how frightened the boys were when they finally set out for Eton? And Minerva told me she was frightened when she had to leave for London.’
‘Minerva!’ exclaimed Frederica, sitting up and beginning to dry her eyes. ‘I would not have thought Merva afraid of anything.’
‘We are all afraid of something, sometime,’ sighed Diana. ‘I am to go away, too, Freddie. Did you know I had been hunting with papa?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Frederica. ‘I thought it odd, but I did not tell anyone, not even Mama.’
‘I went out with the hunt yesterday,’ said Diana, ‘and Squire Radford recognized me and read Papa a sermon. So I am to go to Lady Godolphin to be taught the arts of a lady. Pah!’
‘Lady Godolphin!’ Frederica gave a watery smile. ‘I have never noticed Lady Godolphin quite behaving like a lady. I love her dearly, but she is so very shocking and gets all her words mixed up and she wears such a lot of paint.’
‘Papa feels she is a lucky chaperone because of the good marriages of Minerva, Annabelle, Daphne and Deirdre – although it is my opinion Lady Godolphin had not much to do with any of their marriages. The fact is that all the four are so very beautiful they could have married anyone, with or without Lady Godolphin’s help.’
Frederica took Diana’s hand in her own and gave it a squeeze. ‘I think you are more beautiful than any of us when you are not trying to be a man, Diana. I like your new coiffure. Vastly fetching. Don’t you want to fall in love?’
‘Not I,’ said Diana. ‘All I want is freedom.’ Her large eyes glittered with tears of frustration as she thought of all the beautiful hunting days ahead, days in which she would be trapped and confined in some stuffy saloon. ‘And yet there might be some man for me, Freddie. There was this gypsy woman on the Hopeminster Road who said a tall and dark man was going to enter my life.’
‘Pooh, they always say that,’ said Frederica.
‘How would you know?’ scoffed Diana. ‘You haven’t even met a gypsy.’
‘But in the books I read, gypsies are always saying things like that. Of course, it comes true in books …’
‘There you are, then!’
‘Never mind the gypsies. Do you think the other girls at the school will be cruel to me?’
‘Nobody could be cruel to you, Freddie. You’ll have friends to talk to and lots of books to read. It is very lonely here. I wish I were a man. I wish I could run away. Look here, I’ll tell you a secret, Freddie, only you’re not to breathe a word to anyone, not even if they threaten you with terrible things.’
Frederica sat up in bed and hugged her knees with excitement.
‘Do tell, Diana. I won’t breathe a word to a soul.’
‘Well, it was yesterday. Last night, as a matter of fact. I had been out hunting, but Squire Radford was there. Papa failed to catch that old dog fox that’s been plaguing him and he was mad with rage. You know what he can be like, Freddie! So I simply rode away. But the storm came down and it was so dreadful and so black that I did not know where I was. And then, all at once, I saw a light through the blackness and headed towards it …’
Frederica listened enthralled to the tale of Diana and Lord Dantrey. When Diana had finished, Frederica said, ‘I heard Papa tell Mama that cards are not to be sent to this Lord Dantrey on account of his being so wicked. Mama said …’
‘You mean Mama is alive to the world again?’
‘Yes, she was actually in the parlour for quite two hours. You know how she can be sometimes.’
Both sisters smiled at each other in sympathetic understanding. They had become so used to their mother’s increasingly long bouts of self-inflicted illness from trying out this or that new patent medicine that they still found it rather a shock when she appeared back downstairs, for however brief a period, with all her wits about her.
‘Anyway,’ went on Frederica, ‘Papa was telling her about meeting a Mrs Carter and her daughter, Ann, at the Chomleys. He said this Ann was very beautiful and that Mrs Carter was trying to catch Lord Dantrey for her. Mama shook her head and said she had heard of this Lord Dantrey some time ago. He ran away with a lady and ruined her.’
‘Perhaps he was very young,’ said Diana, wondering at the same time why she should wish to leap to Lord Dantrey’s defence.
‘I have heard that gentlemen often do odd things when they are young. He was most correct in my presence though a trifle broad in his speech, which was understandable considering he thought me to be a man. Oh, I did not tell you! He asked me about my ambitions and I told him I had always wanted to have the freedom to wander about London without being confined to the social life of the West End. He said he would take me to London should I wish to go.’
‘That was very wrong of him and very shocking.’
‘Not shocking at all, you little goose. He thought me a man.’
‘Do you think he will recognize you if he ever sees you as you are now?’
‘I should not think so,’ said Diana slowly. ‘He would merely think there was a strong family resemblance. I am relieved he is not considered socially acceptable. For if he did visit us here he would be bound to ask after David Armitage and he would find out such a person did not exist. He might even be asked to describe this David Armitage, and if he talked about a young huntsman then Papa would most certainly guess that David Armitage was me. I would be ruined. Oh, dear. I never thought of that. It teases my mind now, Freddie, that offer of his. I would not be in any danger from him since he thinks me a man. It would be such fun to wander the streets of London, free as a bird.’
‘Lady Godolphin would have the Runners out looking for you. When you did not arrive, she would send an express to Papa.’
‘I forgot to give the letter to the post boy,’ said Diana. ‘I have been so miserable. Would it not be wonderful if I were to go to London for a week as a man? And then after that one week of blessed freedom I would be more in the frame of mind to suffer the rigours of polite society.’
‘But you would not do such a thing, of course!’ said Frederica, round-eyed.
‘I can dream, can’t I?’ smiled Diana. ‘Come, Freddie, admit I have cheered you with my nonsense. You will go to your school and I to my social training. You are only to spend a year, you know. Because by that time you will be thinking of your own come-out. I might even marry, and I’ll send for you and you can live with me and addle your head with novels all day long.’
‘Oh, Diana,’ cried Frederica, throwing her arms about her sister. ‘I should like that of all things. I will be good and go to school. And you must promise to write to me as much as you can.’
‘Of course I shall.’ Diana put her arms about her sister again, talking soothing nonsense, her voice soft and comforting, while the light faded and a mournful wind sighed in the eaves.
After a little while, Frederica, exhausted from her crying, fell asleep, her head against Diana’s breast.
Diana sat holding her, occasionally stroking her hair, staring into the darkness of the room. She would let Frederica sleep for a little before awakening her and helping her to prepare for bed.
Then Diana thought of the letter waiting in her room, the letter to Lady Godolphin. Now, just suppose she, Diana, kept that letter. Just suppose she packed a bag with some of the twins’ spare clothes: Peregrine and James had grown so tall that she could easily fit their clothes. And just suppose she asked Lord Dantrey to take her to London …
She would have to leave the vicarage with Sarah and John Summers, the coachman, with all her trunks corded and ready for London.
But Mrs Armitage was very dependent on young Sarah to minister to her ailments. If she could persuade her father that Sarah should return immediately with the coach …
If somehow she could leave her trunks, with all her female clothes, at Lady Godolphin’s without Lady Godolphin seeing her … If she could take a bag with the boys’ clothes and escape for a week … Perhaps she could alter the date of that letter to say she w
as arriving the following Wednesday …
And so Diana’s thoughts ran on and on, still not realizing she was not day-dreaming, and that she had actually made up her mind to try to accept Lord Dantrey’s invitation.
THREE
The letter to Lady Godolphin lay hidden with Diana’s hunting clothes as the day for her departure to London approached. The news that two young men had taken up residence in Lady Wentwater’s mansion gave the vicar slight pause. Perhaps a suitable husband might be found for Diana close by without incurring the horrendous expense of a Season. One of the young men, a Mr Jack Emberton, was reported to be an Adonis although his friend, Mr Peter Flanders, was judged only passable. But, on reflection, the vicar decided he would always be suspicious of anyone staying at Lady Wentwater’s, albeit a pair of innocent lessees. The fact that this Mr Emberton was reported to be tall and dark made Diana wonder briefly if he might be the man the gypsy woman had seen in her future, but she was too busy with plans and schemes to give it very much thought.
The coach was to deposit her at Lady Godolphin’s and return immediately with Sarah and John Summer. So far, so good.
Diana at last decided to trust to the gods and try to arrange to arrive in London at an hour when Lady Godolphin was still abed – in fact, any time before two in the afternoon. The Godolphin servants had not seen her since she was much younger. Mice, the butler, was short-sighted. The footmen were new to the household. If she could send the coach away before the door was answered, she could pretend to be her own lady’s maid and say she had come to leave Miss Diana’s trunks and that Miss Diana would be arriving the following week. Then, provided that bit of the plan worked, what to do?
She would have to find some quiet hostelry where she could change into her man’s disguise. Before she left, she must write to Lord Dantrey and say she would be staying at … where? Limmer’s in Conduit Street. That was it. Papa had said all the gentlemen stayed there.
And then, all at once, when it was but two days until her departure, Diana decided the whole thing was madness. A tearful Frederica had been sent off to school. Frederica, believing Diana’s plans to be merely an amusement, had, nonetheless, encouraged Diana in her fantasies. Now, with Frederica gone, Diana felt weak and helpless.
That lasted until the day before she was to leave, the day the vicar rode out hunting. The morning was windy and fine. Diana clutched the windowsill and stared down at the prancing horses, at the sunlight gleaming on the sleek coats of the hounds and felt a lump rise in her throat. It was not fair. She was the only Armitage who shared her father’s love of the hunt. Once Peregrine and James had been allowed to go out hunting, they had immediately lost all interest in the sport. She should have been born a boy. Angry tears filled Diana’s eyes and blurred the scene below.
She, Diana, deserved just one little bit of freedom. She did not give a fig for Lord Dantrey’s wicked reputation. She remembered how nervous she had felt in his company, but put that nervousness down to fear of discovery. He had been easy to converse with. She was in absolutely no danger so long as he believed her a man, and there was no reason why he should think otherwise. Squire Radford had only found her out because he had known her all his life.
Diana sat down at the pretty little escritoire in her room, pulled forward a piece of paper, and began to write to Lord Dantrey.
There was a heart-stopping moment before she climbed in the carriage two days later when Diana felt all her plans were about to be ruined. For Mrs Armitage was audibly wondering whether she ought to accompany her daughter. She fretted to see dear Minerva and the grandchildren, which Diana cynically translated into pining for the apothecary shops of London.
To Diana’s immeasurable relief, Mrs Armitage, with that irritatingly drooping manner of hers which sat so ill on the round, plump features of a greying lady, decided not to go. Diana embraced her warmly, saying firmly she would send Sarah back immediately. Diana threw Sarah a warning look, and the maid, who had hoped for at least an hour to look at the London shops, pettishly tossed her head.
Mr Pettifor, the vicar’s overworked curate, sidled up in his usual apologetic way to say his goodbyes and give Miss Diana his blessing, a task which the vicar should have performed had the vicar not been out hunting again.
At last the coach moved off and Diana leaned back with a sigh of relief.
Nothing could stop her now from making her bid for freedom!
As the coach neared Lady Wentwater’s old place a horseman rode straight out into the road, causing John Summer to swear and rein in his horses. The horseman swung around by the side of the carriage and could be heard apologizing to the enraged John. Diana let down the glass and looked out.
Here he was at last! The man the gypsy had talked about. He was tall and well-built with broad shoulders and an excellent seat. He swept off his hat at the sight of Diana and made a bow. His hair was thick and black and his eyes a merry twinkling blue.
‘My deepest apologies, ma’am,’ he said. ‘Have I the honour of addressing the beautiful Diana Armitage?’
‘I am Miss Armitage, sir, and you are …?’
‘Emberton, Miss Diana. Jack Emberton at your service. Never tell me you are leaving Hopeworth just when I have found you?’
Diana, who felt she ought to depress the warmth of his compliments, found she somehow could not. Mr Emberton had a delightful smile which was reflected in his eyes.
‘I am leaving to stay with a relative, sir.’
‘And may I beg your direction, Miss Diana, my divine angel?’
Diana felt this was going too far and even the bold Sarah gave her mistress’s wrist a warning pinch.
‘You are detaining us,’ said Diana. ‘Good day to you, Mr Emberton.’
She jerked up the window and the carriage moved on. But Diana felt filled with elation and excitement. The gypsy woman had not told a fairy tale. Jack Emberton was everything that Diana felt a man should be. She wished now she had not been so abrupt. And she was leaving Hopeworth just at this interesting point in time! Diana consoled herself with the thought that the gypsy would not have mentioned him entering her life if nothing was to come of it. Mr Emberton would no doubt call at the vicarage and would soon find her direction in town.
They put up for the night at a comfortable posting house much frequented by members of the Armitage family. Sarah moved into the attack as she was preparing Diana for bed. Would not miss please let poor Sarah just look at the shops for a little? Steeling herself, Diana refused, almost rudely, which sent the flighty maid into sulks for the rest of the journey on the following day.
Sarah was so angry with Diana that she was perfectly prepared to abandon her on Lady Godolphin’s doorstep but John Summer was horrified at the very idea. What if her ladyship was gone from home? Vicar would never forgive him.
The odd-man who had been transformed into footman for the journey, complete with a pair of Minerva’s old white silk stockings and one of the vicar’s old wigs, helped John carry the trunks up the steps. Diana stole a look at the fob watch pinned to the bosom of her pelisse. Eleven-thirty in the morning. Hope and pray that Lady Godolphin was still abed! John performed a vigorous tattoo on the knocker, and, after a moment, Mice, Lady Godolphin’s butler, opened the door.
‘Thank you, John,’ said Diana quickly. ‘Mrs Armitage is anxious to see Sarah as soon as possible. Would you be so good, sir,’ she said to Mice, dropping her voice on the ‘sir’ so that John would not hear what she said, ‘as to help me with Miss Diana Armitage’s trunks?’
Mice summoned two footmen. The trunks were loaded into the hall.
‘Thank you, John,’ said Diana sweetly and closed the door firmly on the startled coachman’s face.
‘Well, I dunno if I’ve ever had such hoity-toity treatment from one of the girls,’ grumbled John as he swung himself up on to the box. ‘No, not even from Miss Annabelle at her worst.’
Inside the hall, Diana, adopting a country burr, curtsied to Mice. ‘I’ll be on my way, sir.
I’m leavin’ all ’cept that liddle box which is mine.’
‘Why didn’t you return to Hopeworth with the coach?’ demanded Mice awfully.
‘I have permission for to visit my mum what lives in the City, sir.’
‘Very well, miss. Be on your way. Does Miss Diana Armitage arrive today? We was not informed.’
‘In another week, sir. Could someone please find me a hack?’
Diana’s request went down the servants’ ranks, since no upper servant was going to stoop to run errands for any other servant, until the job was given to the page.
At last, seated in a smelly hack, Diana told the jehu to take her to the City to ‘one of the coaching inns’. Then she searched in her reticule to make sure she had brought her money with her. Diana had had hopes of buying a new hunter and had saved every penny of the generous presents of money sent to her by her now wealthy elder sisters. She had now what seemed to her an immense fortune – one hundred pounds.
She was put down at the White Hart, near the street of the Lombards. Diana had enough sense to know that a reputable coaching inn would be one of the few places where a young lady travelling on her own would not cause curiosity or comment.
The inn was an old Tudor one with galleries running around a courtyard. After she had reserved a room and eaten a little cold beef and salad, she ventured out into the teeming streets of the City. But the richness of her clothes and the fact that she was unaccompanied by a maid caused heads to turn and stare. Because of his short-sightedness, Mice had not noticed her clothing, and, when the butler seemed to treat her as the servant she pretended to be, then the rest of Lady Godolphin’s servants followed suit. Finally, when a party of apprentices began to pester her, she decided to return to her room and begin the masquerade. She had told Lord Dantrey she would be at Limmer’s the following day, but all at once she wanted to get there that very evening.
Diana the Huntress Page 4