High Spirits at Harroweby

by Comstock, Mary Chase

  With that, Lucy scrambled down onto the floor and, after a few minutes, sat back down bearing the lovely prize. In the dim light from the coach’s lantern, the pearl and gold pomander glowed as richly as it did in Lady Sybil’s portrait. Had she been capable, the ghost’s eyes would have welled with tears at the sight of her favorite relation securing the lovely piece around her little neck. The thought of such a significant and much-loved item from her past buried in the folds of Prudence’s wattled neck had incensed Lady Sybil no end. Here, she told herself as she looked at Lucy in the flickering light, was where it belonged.

  “I feel so much better now, Lady Sybil,” Lucy told her in a voice edged with tears. “You cannot think how sad it was to watch you follow that creature about and leave me by myself. It was all I could do to keep my countenance. .. and my courage.”

  “I only hope we have time for a coze once we have arrived at the inn, for I believe we had better plan what to do when we get to Darrowdean. I do not trust that woman at all. She looks at you like a serpent eyeing a choice morsel, my dear.”

  “I hope, too,” Lucy continued, suppressing a shudder, “that I can at least get into dry things before that ogress has me waiting on her, for I am sure that is what she will do. Oh, if only they would fall into the ditch and stay there. How odd! Now that I say the words, it seems to me I did dream of such a thing not long ago, so I expect it will come true. It was the same time I dreamed of you, although I hadn’t a clue of who you were then. Just ‘the lady who looks after us.’ Oh, Lady Sybil, I do not know what I would have done without you!”

  For the first time in her existence, the ghost knew the feeling of having been of service to another. It was, she thought to herself sentimentally, very nearly as good as an intrigue!

  Chapter Seventeen

  Despite all odds, Lucy spent an unexpectedly pleasant night at a hospitable inn known as The Laughing Lion. Without further ado (but a fair amount of maliciousness), Mugwort had indeed driven on into the stormy night with a good deal more speed than he might have done, leaving Prudence and Rupert to trudge along through the rain and mud as best they could by the light of the ever-fading coach lamp. It was only two miles back to the inn, but for all Martin Mugwort cared, it might have been a league.

  Within the dim compartment, Lucy shivered in her damp clothes. In spite of Lady Sybil’s comforting prattle, she was still torn between enjoying her momentary relief and dreading the threat of imminent castigation. It had been a very trying day all the way around, and, in spite of her own woes, she could not help wondering how Selinda was faring with the vile Miss Snypish and whether Lord Waverly had yet spoken with her sister. She felt certain that the gentleman would be true to his word and watch her window for their agreed-upon distress signal, but she was worried that he might have driven by earlier that day, before events had compelled her to place the vase on the sill. Even if he had seen the yellow asters in her chamber window, how would he contrive to speak with Selinda and discover the details of her new difficulties? Lucy knew from sad experience that Miss Snypish was as tenacious a watchdog as any bull terrier, and, as the sounds of the storm whistled about the coach, she began to wonder if even the unparalleled Lord Waverly was equal to the tasks that lay ahead. In spite of his valiant efforts, so much might still go amiss. Lucy was overwrought indeed by the time the coach drew up to the welcoming lights of The Laughing Lion.

  The inn was known far and near, not only for the excellence of its ale and bill of fare but for the warmth of its hospitality. At the first sight of the coach’s tiny, forlorn passenger, Mrs. Bunche, the original proprietor’s widow, gasped, clapped a hand to her heart, and gathered Lucy in from the throes of the tempest to the billowy comfort of her motherly breast.

  “For the love o’ God, Mart Mugwort,” she exclaimed, “you’ll be bringing me corpses next. Look at the white little face o’ this one.”

  Instantly, the child found her cheeks pinched red, her wrists chafed raw, and her exhausted little self trundled off to bed with a hot posset before either she or the invisible Lady Sybil knew what was about. The chamber in which she was installed was one of the best, for there was little traffic on the road that night, and Mrs. Bunche hovered about directing chambermaids with bed-warmers and coal hods like a field marshal. When all was arranged to the good lady’s satisfaction, she planted a noisy kiss on Lucy’s forehead and wiped away a tear from her own cheek.

  “You’ve the look of my poor Alice before she was took,” Mrs. Bunche sniffed. “Drink down your posset and go to sleep, child. And if any fret you ‘fore morning, they shall have a sound thrashing from Mrs. Bessie Bunche!”

  As the door quietly closed on the chamber, Lucy, with some difficulty, peered out over the tops of the three enormous feather ticks which had been piled over her.

  “I have finally thought of what we must do, Lady Sybil,” she whispered.

  “Thank heaven,” the ghost exclaimed. She had been taxing her poor resources for some time now, but had come up with nothing.

  “I think the best thing is to send Lord Waverly a note to say what has happened. I still have the gold sovereigns he gave me,” she continued meditatively. “Surely that is enough to send a message quickly and quietly.”

  Considering the sort of service such a sum would have purchased in her day, Lady Sybil assured Lucy that these funds would surely be sufficient. At that, the child crawled from under the covers, made her way to the door, and peeked out into the corridor. Several servants were bustling about, but Lucy waited until she spied a lad with a wide, honest face who appeared to be only a few years older than herself. Briefly, she made arrangements to have some writing materials brought and a message sent, displaying just one of the gold pieces as evidence of her wherewithal. In only a few moments, Lucy faced pen, ink, paper, and sealing wax assembled before her on a table. Outside in the corridor, her youthful messenger waited with visions of an unprecedented journey to the capital dancing in his head and a promise of confidentiality sealing his lips.

  “Do you think,” Lady Sybil ventured as the child concentrated on her task, “that it might not be wise to inform someone else of your predicament? Times may have changed, but I imagine letters still go astray.”

  “You are right, of course, Lady Sybil,” Lucy admitted, knitting her brow in consternation, “but I cannot imagine who…unless …”

  “Yes?” the ghost prompted.

  “I wonder if I might not send a message to Lord Waverly’s man of business.”

  “He must already have left for the country, more’s the pity,” the ghost sighed.

  “But I know his direction,” Lucy smiled suddenly. “Mr. Noon is staying at The Golden Hour.”

  * * * *

  Below in the taproom, before a roaring fire, Mrs. Bunche turned her attention to Martin Mugwort who was availing himself of her best brew. In spite of her comforting gestures of a few moments earlier, the good lady’s suspicions had been much aroused, and, when she finally sat herself down across from the coachman, she fixed him with a gaze of penetrating scrutiny.

  “Well, it will be a wonder if that poor child doesn’t take an ague and die of it this very evening,” was her optimistic assessment. “Howsomever, that’s not the half of it, I’ll warrant. Unless I miss my mark, there’s something not quite on the up and up here. I know well enough from the set of her shoulders she’s gentry, but how does a child of that age come to be traveling in a hired coach all by herself, I ask you? I couldn’t turn her away and call myself Christian, but I’ll be bound there’ll be trouble of it! Now tell me what I need to know, Mugwort, and don’t try to wriggle yourself out of it.”

  The coachman regarded this formidable adversary through narrowed eyes as he considered what to tell her. His animosity toward Prudence and Rupert had not abated one whit but had instead intensified more and more with each pint of ale he put down.

  “Poor little mite,” he told her at last, shaking his grizzled head. “Bein’ sent away to work at a mill by a
pair of crool relations.”

  At this revelation, Mrs. Bunche drew in her breath sharply and threw her hands up to her ample face. “That wisp of a child to work in one of them criminal mills? Bless us and save us all! And she was sent to meet that fate all by herself?”

  “Oh, they sent an abigail, right and tight enow, nasty spidery thing she was, too. But midnight last she took fit and died. ‘Orrible sight it were,” Mugwort told her with an eloquent leer. “ ‘Er eyes popped out ‘n’ spun like tops. It were a picture. But dinna fret yoursel’, missus. You’ll not be put out for long. I sent word this noon and the brat’s aunt and cousin be coming themselves to fetch her to the mill. Won’t be any trouble once they be here. Should be soon, too, I don’t wonder. Y’know, the mills be desperate fond o’ the little ‘uns. They send ‘em into the works to fetch out rats as ‘ve got squashed there. Nothin’ like a great fat rat to spoil a bolt o’ cloth.” Happy with this fabrication, he took another long quaff of ale.

  “Devils!” the lady pronounced with a dark expression. “Take that angel child to certain death, will they? Not if Bessie Bunche has aught to say about it!”

  “That’s as may be, but I dinna know how the likes of you could stop ‘em, missus. They be a great fat pair. Mean as mustard, too.”

  Good Mrs. Bunche considered the matter for about as long as it took the inventive coachman to swallow down the last of his ale. “Mean they may be,” she told him with a stalwart glint, “but they’ve met their match in Bessie Bunche, I’ll be bound. Just you watch, Mart Mugwort, and I’ll show you how I serve the likes of them knaves.”

  Mrs. Bunche had no sooner spoken these words than the soaking figures of Rupert and his mother at last staggered into the inn’s front hallway.

  “Fetch us a noggin of rum and be quick about it, woman,” Prudence commenced as she flung her wet wrap onto the floor. “And tell that sniveling brat, wherever she’s cowering, to make herself useful. I suppose she’s stuffing her face here at our expense.”

  Surreptitiously, the coachman watched with no small amusement as a dangerously livid shade rose in Mrs. Bunche’s round face. Without preamble, she pulled a poker from the rack near the fireplace and waved it menacingly at the dripping pair before her.

  “Out!” she commanded in a steely tone. “We’ve no room nor patience either for your likes. Fiends from hell the both of you!”

  Prudence, whose face had likewise become quite crimson with anger, opened her mouth, but the crude retort she had formulated stuck in her throat. Rupert, who had never before seen his mother speechless, could but stare at such a wonder.

  “Out!” Mrs. Bunche continued, her anger rising. “Out, or I’ll set the dogs on you! Don’t think I don’t know all about your criminal connivance! There’s something not right here or my name’s not Bessie Bunche. What’s more, I have an idea what it is. Lay a hand to that child, and I’ll call the magistrate. I think he might be very interested in the cruel intentions of certain family members—if that’s what you’ve the boldness to call yourselves.”

  Neither the coachman nor Mrs. Bunche had any idea of the extent to which her accusations were being misinterpreted by the guilty pair, but Prudence’s scarlet face quickly became ashen and Rupert’s eyes widened to the point of pain. Without another word they began to back once more toward the door.

  “Aye, that’s the way to go,” Mrs. Bunche continued, still holding the poker ominously. “You can spend the night in the barn if the cattle don’t mind, but I’ll not have the likes of you under this honest roof. Now just you keep going the way you came.”

  Although the rain continued to fall unabated, driven on by the rising wind. Prudence and Rupert, in silent unison, chose to brave its ferocity. As soon as they had exited, Mrs. Bunche nodded to herself with grim satisfaction, set the poker back in its rack, and wiped her hands on her apron. Her duty as protector of the helpless discharged, however, she once again shouldered the office of innkeeper and, seemingly oblivious to the inconsistency of her actions, immediately set about ordering several servants to carry dinner, blankets, feather ticks, and hot water out to the barn. “Let it never be said,” she told the coachman with a toss of her head, “that any received scant hospitality at The Laughing Lion.”

  This oddly sorted cordiality was met with little grace by her two guests even though they devoured every morsel and snarled over who should have the better of the blankets. Munching on a huge wedge of cheddar, Prudence cast an appraising eye over the cattle in the barn. Several of the horses looked as if they might carry her weight. It had been a number of years since she had ridden, but she thought she might still be equal to such an activity. A horse would take her to Darrowdean faster than a coach anyway, and, if the insinuations the wretched woman in the inn had cast at her meant that even an iota of the truth about her plotting was known, time was of the essence. The brat had best be deserted. A pity, she thought, for her plans for vengeance had begun to amuse her, but there was nothing else for it.

  Even so, it disturbed Prudence to think that she had become so overwrought that she backed down in the face of adversity. Ordinarily, she would have faced the accusations with aplomb. Now that she was out of the storm and off her tired feet, she realized that the woman could not possibly have known anything. That wretched Lucy must, of course, have told some sort of vile falsehood, for Prudence was sure the brat was largely ignorant of the truth of her situation.

  Old age. That was it. The long day’s travel and the horrid trek through the detestable mud and wet had undone her entirely. She must be losing her edge, Prudence thought sadly, and her vision of a tropical escape never seemed so appealing. In the dim lantern light, she shrugged off her wet gown and huddled miserably into a pile of blankets. A few moments of warmth would surely restore her, she decided sleepily. Rupert was already snoring loudly, and, to the accompaniment of his sonorous drone, her eyes grew heavier and heavier.

  When at last Prudence’s head rested on her chest and her own resonant sawing filled the air, Rupert’s wheezing suddenly abated. It had served his purposes more than once during his youth to feign slumber until his mother had dropped off to sleep, and tonight was no exception. The day’s misadventure, following so quickly on the sad erosion of his relationship with his mother, had further convinced him that all ties to her must be severed without further ado. He had noticed during the day that her gown sagged in a most peculiar manner, and he suspected that she had sewn a good deal of the fortune she had amassed thus far into its generous seams. When she had undressed a few moments earlier, the garment had fallen to the ground with a resounding slap for which its wet fabric alone could not be accountable.

  He would wait an hour or so until she had entered a deep sleep, he decided. But as soon as he deemed it safe, he would take possession of the dress and its precious contents and make his own way to Darrowdean. He could transact the sale just as well as his mother should he choose to follow that course of action; on the other hand, however, it might better serve his purposes to maintain the property. He still cherished fond hopes of wiggling himself into Selinda’s good graces. Perhaps his preservation of her childhood home would earn him some gratitude; and if, in the course of things, his mother were mistaken for a derelict and sent off to a workhouse or asylum, so much the better.

  * * * *

  When Lord Waverly found himself greeting the pinkish hues of sunrise for the second time in a mere week, he assured himself with an enormous yawn that this must indeed be love. Pulling himself from the feathery depths of his bed, he quickly set about preparing for what he feared would be an arduous day. Lady Selinda had made it quite plain on the previous night that she would not be gainsaid in her desire to make up one half of the rescue party, in spite of the physical and emotional distress she had suffered on the previous evening.

  Though the autumn morning was clear, Lord Waverly’s thoughts were still as confused as they had been when he finally drifted into sleep. He could think of no more pleasant pastime than travel
ing through the golden countryside with the woman he loved; however, the other question still loomed: should he allow Selinda to expose herself to compromise and censure? He frowned into the glass as he tied his cravat, recalling Selinda’s threat to follow after him regardless. His experience with her was limited, of course, but, if Lucy’s description of her older sister’s fearlessness was accurate, he suspected that the lady was entirely capable of making good on her promise. There was always the possibility, he reminded himself, that, after the thorough soaking to which she had been subjected last night, Selinda might think better of her wish to accompany him and keep to her bed. Early mornings, after all, often prompted such decisions. Yes, of course, he thought grimly. And the Prince Regent might very likely enter a monastery as well.

  Thus, on making his way down the stairs, Lord Waverly was not terribly surprised to find that the object of his meditations had preceded him to the breakfast parlor where she was acquitting herself quite admirably. He was, of course, much gratified to confirm that she had not, as so many others might have done, gone off into an immediate decline. In fact, she was almost rosy with anticipation of the day’s events and most certainly restored to looks. Her dress and cloak had been set to rights, and, by way of toilette, she had tied back her tumbled locks with one of his cravats. She looked determinedly charming and, clearly, ready for anything.

  “Good morning, Lord Waverly,” she began briskly as she poured him, a cup of coffee. “How long do you think until we set out?”