Jane managed to make herself sit back on the seat, conquering the overwhelming desire to sit bolt upright. She glanced at the squire, who was settling himself comfortably, ignoring the fact that he was doing so at the expense of poor Ellen, who was pressing into her corner as much as possible to keep away from him.
Jane’s nose wrinkled disapprovingly, for he reeked of the curry and wine he’d consumed in the inn’s dining room, and he showed every sign of going to sleep, which would inevitably mean they would be subjected to his snoring. She glanced at the carved ivory timetable on the wall above his head. Four o’clock, Black Horse, Snow Hill. Nine o’clock, Black Horse Ticket office, Castle Square, Brighton. Five hours to go. The squire’s head was nodding already. A first snore rattled jarringly out. She gritted her teeth, praying that he wasn’t going all the way to Brighton.
Sewell was a master of the ribbons, moving the coach swiftly along without having to greatly check its speed in order to negotiate corners. The dazzling coach, bugle blaring with ‘Cherry Ripe,’ sped through the city toward London Bridge, threading its way through the maze of traffic as if possessed of some magic which kept the horses at a smart trot, while everything else on the road was in difficulties.
They crossed the Thames, where the sun flashed on the water of the pool of London, and a forest of masts swayed on the swelling afternoon tide. The towers of Southwark Cathedral rose splendidly to the right as the coach gained the southern shore, entering a high street which before the improvements to the bridge and its approaches had been a place of gabled medieval houses and galleried, half-timbered inns, but which was now a broad, modern thoroughfare.
Jane glanced at the timetable again. It was fifty-five miles to Brighton, twelve to the end of the first stage at the Cock Inn, Sutton. After that there were stops at Reigate, Crawley, Handcross, and Bolney, before the final run into Brighton itself. She sighed as the squire’s snores intensified, shuddering through the coach like the roars of a disgruntled lion. Public transport wasn’t at all agreeable, she’d found that out already.
They passed Marshalsea prison and then the brown brick facade of St George’s Church, overlooking the junction of five busy roads, where London traffic seemed to flow endlessly to and fro. They passed through the St George tollgate and then drove on to an even busier crossroads at the Elephant & Castle, where they stopped briefly to take on another outsider. After that, they began to leave the older part of the capital behind. The road was now lined with houses built only five years before, after the battle of Waterloo, and behind them there were market gardens and the suggestion of open fields.
The city began to fade away to the rear as they drove on south, passing over the wide openness of Kennington Common and again halting briefly, this time at the turnpike in Kennington village. Then the Nonpareil drove on, coming up to a fine pace as it traversed Streatham Hill and then branched to the right for Mitcham. There were fields of crops and flowers on either side of the road now, and they had nearly covered the first half of the first stage. Men paused in their work in the fields to wave their hats as the famous coach passed. The guard gave them ‘Cherry Ripe,’ telling them that the finest coach on the Brighton road was on its way, and on time to the very second.
The roadside was laced with cow parsley and blue flax, and the fields looked almost drowsy beneath the warm summer sun. It was all so peaceful that Jane couldn’t help glancing at Lewis. ‘Where’s your excitement, sir?’
He didn’t have time to reply, for at that moment the Nonpareil suddenly leapt forward as Sewell got a rival coach in his sights and prepared to overtake it with as much dash as possible. Jane’s breath caught on a gasp as she saw the other coach, its startled passengers staring as the Nonpareil swept by dangerously closely. She was vaguely aware of Jacob’s patient explanation of coaching slang. Squeezing is when a rival coach forces a dangerous situation by passing too close, making the other coachman make mistakes. Feather-edging is when that’s taken still further, usually by forcing a coach against a bridge parapet or a bollard. There was a bridge ahead now, and the road suddenly became much narrower! She stared as the other coachman overreacted, just as the laughing Sewell intended he should, grabbing at his ribbons and bringing his already unsettled team’s heads up far too sharply. Jane heard the outsiders on both coaches crying out in alarm as disaster stared them in the faces. The two coaches were racing neck-and-neck for the bridge, and it was a battle of nerves then, to see which coachman would give in and halt his coach, except that the other man seemed frozen with fright and incapable of making any sort of sensible decision.
Jane’s heart was suddenly cold as she stared, but then, at what seemed like the eleventh hour, the other coachman reined in with all his might. His coach slipped away behind and out of sight as the Nonpareil swept triumphantly over the bridge and on toward Sutton.
Ellen sat rigidly in her seat, her eyes round and frightened. Jane twisted around to look back at the other coach, which had now come to a standstill on the far side of the bridge, its wheels perilously close to a deep ditch, its team capering and tossing as the miserable coachman still fought for absolute control.
Jane sat back then, her heart thundering in her breast. Opposite, the squire slept on, oblivious to everything.
Lewis glanced at Jane’s pale profile and smiled. ‘What was that you were saying about excitement?’ he murmured.
FIFTEEN
Jane had scarcely recovered her composure after this when a second incident occurred, this time at the expense of the Nonpareil.
The lavender and herb market gardens of Mitcham were two miles behind them when the road entered a dell where lilies-of-the-valley bloomed sweetly in the shade. Sewell was taking the stagecoach along at a spanking pace, mindful of having lost a minute at Mitcham because a small flock of sheep had blocked the way. There were high, leafy banks on either side of the road, completely concealing a muddy track joining it from the right. Without any warning whatsoever, a cumbersome ox-wagon emerged from this lane, pulling directly into the stagecoach’s path and coming to an abrupt halt right across the highway. The outsiders gasped with renewed alarm as Sewell immediately checked the team, gathering them to a miraculously sharp halt within inches of the wagon.
Inside, all was confusion for a moment, with Ellen squealing as she was jerked roughly back in her seat. Jane was flung forward, and had it not been for the firmness of Lewis’s grip as he held her, she would have fallen to the floor. The squire was shaken a little, but although he awoke long enough to glance around, he soon closed his eyes again and went back to sleep as if nothing had happened.
The moment the ox-wagon had halted in front of the stagecoach, the carter had leapt down from it, running swiftly away through the trees, which soon folded over him completely, as if he had never been. Sewell shouted furiously after him, and the outsiders, severely shaken, climbed down for a moment to recover. The guard went to lead the ox-wagon off the road, and within a minute or two the Nonpareil was on its way again, the team being urged up to a very smart pace indeed to clip back yet more lost time.
Still trembling, Jane stared out at the passing trees, thinking about the carter’s flight. The wagon’s sudden appearance hadn’t been an accident, it had been planned; and the incident was a sharp reminder to her that Chapman too had his rivals, the chief among them being her own brother…. Oh, please, no, don’t let Henry be behind such a low, despicable, and dangerous act.
Lewis glanced at her. ‘Are you all right now?’
‘Yes. Lewis, that wagon….’
‘It wasn’t an accident.’
‘No.’
‘And you’re wondering if Henry had a hand in it?’ She looked at him. ‘Could he?’
He shrugged. ‘It’s possible.’
‘But do you think he’d stoop to something like that?’
‘If I’m honest with you, Jane, I have to say that I really don’t know. I wouldn’t have thought him idiotic enough to be goaded into the madness of this race, bu
t he has been.’
She said nothing more, looking out as the coach emerged from the trees into open countryside again.
Shortly afterward, they reached the Cock Inn, Sutton, the end of the first stage. As the team was changed, a serving girl brought out a tray of sherry for the passengers, and the glasses were taken gladly, for everyone was still a little unsettled. It was with some satisfaction that Jane watched the squire slumbering on, missing the sherry.
Her hand was shaking a little as she held her veil aside to sip her glass, and Lewis couldn’t help noticing. ‘I trust that what’s happened so far is enough to change your mind about the race.’
‘My mind is still made up.’
‘We’ve only covered one stage,’ he warned.
‘When we reach Brighton my answer will still be the same. It would serve both my brother and Mr Chapman right if they were beaten by a mile in that race, for neither of them deserves to win.’
‘You’ll find it hard to even stay with them without the right cattle,’ he reminded her.
She met his gaze boldly. ‘Maywood has such horses.’ It was a spur of the moment remark, one she’d had no intention of uttering.
‘Yes, and they’re staying there. I’m here to dissuade you entirely from this lunacy, not to aid and abet you.’
She wished she’d never said anything.
With the horses changed, the guard gave his customary blast on his key bugle and the Nonpareil set off once more, heading toward the rolling chalk beauty of the North Downs, which now lay directly ahead. The squire’s snores rattled on, checking only for a brief moment when he sprawled a little too much on his seat and his legs encountered those of Lewis, who kicked them sharply aside. With a start, the squire awoke, looking angrily at his assailant, but refraining from a forthright complaint when he saw the cold, angry glint in Lewis’s gray eyes. Muttering under his breath, but saying nothing aloud, the squire drew himself in to his proper part of the coach and closed his eyes.
Within moments, his snores were jarring upon them all again. Lewis leaned across to prod him, but Jane restrained him. ‘Perhaps his snores are preferable to his conversation.’
Lewis gave a wry smile at that. ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ he murmured, sitting back again, ‘but if his disagreeable conduct continues, I shall put him in his place.’
The Nonpareil climbed up onto Banstead Downs, where skylarks tumbled in the clear blue sky. Grazing sheep scattered in alarm as the guard gave the empty countryside another rendering of ‘Cherry Ripe,’ and the hens pecking in the dust outside the remote Tangier Inn fluttered wildly in all directions as the stagecoach swept magnificently past.
From the village of Banstead, where the cottage gardens were sweet with purple thyme, Jane gazed across to the right and the high point of Tumble Beacon, where a warning had been lit centuries earlier to tell London that the Spanish Armada was in the Channel. Recalling Lewis’s obvious assumption that the upsets suffered on the journey to Brighton would be more than sufficient to extinguish her frail female spirit, she amused herself for a while imagining a modern-day beacon being lit there, this time to warn Henry, Earl of Felbridge, and Mr Edward Chapman that their supremacy on the famous road was about to be impudently challenged – by a feeble woman!
They reached the top of Reigate Hill, with its magnificent views over the clay weald that formed the middle portion of the journey. Leaving the North Downs behind, the coach made the steep descent to the small town of Reigate itself, where the team was to be changed again. The town was a place of timber-framed houses and had a picturesque town hall with arches and a splendid clock which indicated that it was six o’clock precisely as the Nonpareil drew up at the White Hart. They were exactly on time.
Leaving Reigate behind, a fresh team harnessed, they set off on the third stage a few minutes later. The weald countryside was very different from that of the chalk downs, with daisies and buttercups scattered in the grass, pale pink dog-roses arching out of the hedgerows, and a lacy fringe of cow parsley fluttering in the verges as the stagecoach passed. Jane gazed out at the fields. White daisies and yellow buttercups shining amid a sea of fresh green grass. White, yellow, and green – Blanche Xanthe Lyndon. She couldn’t help thinking of the ball, when Henry’s conduct had finally reached the point when something would have to be done. And so here she was, doing something, and getting herself into all manner of embarrassment and difficulty because of it!
They completed the third stage without event, arriving on time at the George Inn, Crawley. They were to halt here for a little longer than at previous stops, to allow the passengers time for some refreshment. The squire, who seemed woefully likely to be with them all the way to Brighton, stirred as if by magic as the guard called out the George’s name. Flicking open his fob watch with thick, stubby fingers, he sniffed, stretched, and then alighted, taking himself into the inn to partake of a hearty helping of bread, cheese, and pickle, washed down by several mugs of strong ale. He didn’t speak to any of the other passengers, and his ill-mannered attitude toward all and sundry was such that had Lewis been present, Jane had no doubt the squire would have been brought up very sharply indeed. But Lewis was outside in the yard, leaning against the gallery steps smoking a leisurely cigar.
Jane and Ellen sat at a window seat drinking the inn’s indifferent tea. Lewis was in plain view and Jane tried not to keep glancing toward him, but she couldn’t help herself. Why did she have to love him so? Fate was most unkind, making her so wretchedly susceptible to a man who’d betrayed her and who’d consistently lied about his infidelities. She gazed at him, taking in the gold of his hair, the clear gray of his eyes, and the grace of his elegant, manly figure. Would she ever be able to pull free of the spell he could so effortlessly cast over her?
Shortly afterward, they set off in the fourth stage, and soon the squire was snoring again. Jane glared at him and sighed, which made Lewis grin. ‘Look upon it as part of the rich pageant of public transport,’ he said.
‘I prefer to look upon it as something disagreeable which has been forced on me because of your interference in my affairs,’ she retorted coldly, still angry with herself for her thoughts at the George. Damn him for having such an effect upon her!
‘So, the sharp edge of your tongue had decided to rejoin us, has it?’
‘I’m merely pointing out that I wouldn’t have had to endure this wretchedness at all were it not for your arrogant intrusion. What I do has nothing to do with you any more, and I resent your meddling.’
‘Come now,’ he answered in an infuriatingly reasonable tone, ‘it isn’t because of me that we’re here, it’s because you are a stubborn, strong-willed minx who refuses to be sensible when it comes to things like stagecoach races.’
‘I’m at liberty to be as stubborn and strong-willed as I please, sir.’ She met his gaze. ‘You made your decision six months ago, and I’d be grateful now if you remembered that.’
‘I didn’t make the choice six months ago, Jane, you did,’ he reminded her.
She looked deliberately away, terminating the short conversation.
The Nonpareil drove on for some time and the land ahead began to rise, covered with the green cloak of Peasepottage Forest. Jane suddenly began to feel unaccountably nervous. The nervousness grew stronger as the coach passed through the forest and emerged into open countryside again. She glanced at Lewis and saw that he too seemed disturbed about something. He caught her eye and knew how she was feeling. ‘It’s the pace Sewell’s taking,’ he said. ‘We’re on good, straight, open road, but he’s moving at barely above a walk, indeed he’s been going just a little too slow since we entered the forest.’
Opposite them the squire was still asleep, and even Ellen’s head was beginning to loll against the seat. Jane’s hands twisted uneasily in her lap. Something was about to happen, she could feel it. She craned her neck to see ahead as the road began to sweep around a long curve. There were two stagecoaches in front of the Nonpareil, the nearest one in a gre
en livery she didn’t recognize, the leading one in Chapman’s distinctive scarlet. She touched Lewis’s arm. ‘Look in front,’ she murmured.
He lowered the glass and leaned out, then he sat back again. ‘The green one is the Venturer, and it’s been doing rather well recently, no doubt incurring friend Chapman’s wrath,’ he explained in a lowered tone so as not to disturb Ellen, who was now soundly asleep. ‘The leader is Chapman’s, but a lesser coach, probably the Century or the Lion. Sewell’s waiting for a third coach, another of Chapman’s, that’s why he’s biding his time.’
‘A third coach? Why?’
‘I think they’re going to box the Venturer in. We’re only a couple of miles from Handcross, where I’ll warrant the Venturer usually picks up some regular fares. Chapman’s going to start boxing him in so that the Nonpareil can slip past and pick up the fares instead.’ He glanced out of the other window, for the road was curving in the other direction now. There was a crossroads ahead, and through a copse of trees he saw the glint of sunlight on harness. He nodded toward it. ‘There, behind those trees. The third coach. It’s going to slip out behind the Venturer, boxing it tightly in behind the leading coach. Then you watch Sewell go. Hold on now.’ He put a firm hand on hers, his fingers warm and safe.
She held her breath as they drove closer and closer to the crossroads. She saw the waiting stagecoach spring into action, sweeping quickly up to the junction and onto the Brighton road immediately behind the Venturer, just as Lewis had predicted it would. She heard the angry shouts of the Venturer’s trapped coachman, but then the Nonpareil seemed to leap forward as Sewell urged the team from a walk to a swift canter. Ellen’s eyes flew open as the coach began to sway and jolt, and Jane instinctively gripped Lewis’s hand, her heart thundering as the Nonpareil dashed past the other three. She saw the two grinning faces of Chapman’s coachmen, and the furious, gesticulating figure of the helpless man on the Venturer’s box. Soon all three were left behind, moving at a snail’s pace toward Handcross, while the Nonpareil flew on its way, sure of reaching the Red Lion and the Venturer’s passengers well ahead.
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