by Joan Smith
“I see what it is. You want to feel water rolling under your feet again, Mr. Fletcher.”
“If you can call the Thames water,” he said disparagingly. “I am more accustomed to the mighty Atlantic. The Thames does not roll; it glides.”
“Where did the Atlantic roll you? Are you one of the heroes who protected us from Napoleon?”
The carriage came, and he assisted her into it before answering. “Unfortunately my past is less glorious. I was sent to North America, to defend Canada from the revolutionaries to the south.”
“What was it like? Was it very wild? Did you see any Indians?”
“I met a few. They’re savages,” he said, and laughed. “What was it like? Well, it was very cold and very hot. They don’t warn you it will be hotter than the hobs of hell in summer. We all went equipped with blankets and fur jackets, and landed in the middle of July into a tropical climate. But the sun wasn’t too bad. It was pretty well obscured by black flies and mosquitoes.”
“I see you had a marvelous time.”
“It ill becomes an officer and gentleman to complain, unless he is on the point of remedying the situation. Otherwise it is mere carping. The sun is beyond my control. It was wonderfully broadening. Travel always has that advantage, if no other. But for me it also had the advantage of enriching me financially, so I shan’t say another disparaging word.”
“Was there good prize money?”
“No, good opportunities. Tall timbers practically being given away, and as to the furs! I import them both.”
It was only a short dart down the road to the Twickenham ferry. There were half a dozen tourists making the trek to Ham House. They made a brief tour of the island, admired the octagon room of Orleans House and the daffodils along the route. The sun shone warmly above, and the scenery was very poetic. The day was too fine to spend time touring indoors. They went back to the White Swan for high tea. It was a modest spot, but the tea was excellent, or seemed so with Mr. Fletcher for company.
“Next time I’ll hire a boat and we’ll row along the bank, chasing the swans,” he said when they stood at the railing of the ferry that carried them back to Twickenham.
“You sound as though you mean to make a long stay in the neighborhood.”
“A man has to live somewhere. I like this area as well as any I’ve visited.”
“That is odd! Mr. Meecham, another guest at my inn, is also looking for a house nearby. We are becoming very popular.”
Fletcher gave her a flirtatious glance. “I wonder what can account for it? This Meecham—who is he? What does he do for a living?”
“He works at Whitehall.”
“Odd, his staying here.”
Esther wished to learn more about her companion and said, “Where are you from, Mr. Fletcher?”
“Northumberland, the beautiful Lake District. I’m a younger son. My brother inherited our family home. He has a wife and two children now. It will be more convenient for me to live close to London,” he said. “I couldn’t bear to live in the city, though, with nowhere to go to get away from it. I’m a country boy at heart.”
“Won’t you miss your family?”
“My parents are dead. It is only Cathy I miss—that’s my younger sister. I do miss her.” His face wore a sad, nostalgic smile when he spoke of her. He sang her praises for a few minutes.
“Is it just a country home you’re looking for—something close to London—or do you want an estate, a farm... ?”
“I sound an utter fool, but I’m in the curious position of not knowing what I want. Since leaving the navy, I feel at loose ends. I’m a partner in this importing business in London that takes about one day a week. I like London, enjoy that one day, but I want to live in the countryside. I think I want to do more than just have a house, but I’m really not at all knowledgeable about farming. I hesitate to put a lot of money into an enterprise at which I’m a Johnnie Raw. You’re a businesswoman, Miss Lowden—what do you advise?”
“I always advise everyone to open an inn.” She smiled. “It has served me very well. Or do you think it beneath you, as some of my friends think it is beneath me?”
“I have already told you, I admire your initiative. I don’t consider it infra dig by any means. Well, I am already in commerce, so there could be no stigma in it for me. Perhaps you can tell me a little about your business—show me around your inn.”
“I’d be happy to. Is the importing business profitable?” she asked, as one businessman to another.
“Extremely, but I am only a junior partner in the company. The pity of it is, I sold my idea and contacts to a fellow just before ... The thing is, I hadn’t much capital at the time, but have inherited some money from an uncle since then. I could buy my partner out, but then I would have to spend so much time in the city, and I don’t want that. You see my dilemma. I'm cash rich and idea poor.”
“I hope you don’t expect pity for that! You are to be envied.’
“I’m not complaining—only discussing my life with a friend who has got her own in such superb order. You’re something quite out of the ordinary, you know.”
His eyes lingered a moment on hers. She felt a flush of pleasure, but still, it was too soon for any more intimacy, and she called him to order.
“Help me think about it,” he ordered. He tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow for a stroll along the deck and behaved with perfect propriety for the rest of the trip.
It was close to dinnertime when they reached home. Lady Brown was miffed at Esther’s lengthy absence, and she was not much appeased when Buck arrived at nine for his nightly meeting. He had sustained a visit from an old friend who was in the hotel business and had a few ridiculous suggestions with which to plague Esther.
“Mr. Moss stared to see our limited menu,” he said, before he had been seated long. “He is with the Pulteney at the present time. I blushed to my eyebrows when he asked to see the list of French dishes. ‘None, Mr. Moss,’ I confessed sadly.”
“With our new stove, perhaps we can add some to the menu,” she consoled him.
“ ‘Not even a sauté de poulardes à la Provençale? All the crack in London,’ he told me. ‘No saumon au beurre de Montpellier? No filets de volatile à la Orléans? Good gracious, what do people eat when they put up here?’ I could not even suggest he try our speciality, the roast beef. It was bone dry again.” Buck shook his head sadly.
“We are not competing with the Pulteney, the most lavish hotel in the city, Buck,” she pointed out.
“Indeed, no! I begin to wonder if we are even competing with the Black Knight and the street vendors who peddle kippered herring on street corners. Then, to have to confess the dessert menu was equally limited. A good dessert might have saved face. And what did I have to offer him? An apple tart—what you would be served at any country table. I shall have Peters try a nougat à la Française this very week. Mr. Moss mentioned it. And perhaps a croque en bouche aux pistaches for the gentlemen. We really do require a pastry chef, Esther. They have six at the Pulteney.”
“Perhaps in the future.”
A smile split Buck’s face. “Ah, I meant to tell you!” he said. “We have a duchess with us this evening. The Dowager Duchess of Gresham, with a whole retinue of hangers-on. They’ve taken eight rooms in all. Three carriages sit in the stables, one of them with strawberry leaves and another with a lozenge on the side. Fortunately Mr. Duval’s party had vacated the east tower suite, and I could offer it to her grace.”
A look of beatific joy infused his face at the magical title. “She liked it amazingly. It reminded her of a suite in Lord Petersham’s country place. I don’t doubt we’ll have Petersham and his set here before the year is out. Some boxing match is spoken of nearby. All the smarts and swells attend such affairs. I don’t know how they can bear the brutality, but certainly bruisers enjoy a great popularity.” He shook his head at this anomaly, for Buck disliked to be at odds with the ton about anything.
“When is the m
eet to be held?”
“Sometime in May. We’ll begin to receive requests for reservations any day now. Every room for miles around will be booked in advance. There will be a handsome profit for us. Pay for the closed stove and perhaps even a pastry chef in one weekend.”
Pleased with his news, Esther went along with him. “There’s nothing to be gained by stinting. You have to spend a sprat to catch a mackerel.”
“A wise philosophy. I can think of no greater joy than acting as host to the ton, unless it is to be paid for it. The best of all possible worlds, as that admirable Frenchie said—what was his name? The Candide fellow.”
“Voltaire.”
“That’s the chap. We don’t want it whispered in London that we are behind the times. And while we are discussing improvements, Esther—that carpet on the upper floor is in rags.”
“Why, the nap is hardly off it.”
“It’s the lower class of client who uses the upper floor—they are hard on carpets. They drag their feet along like old drays.”
“Then the old carpet is good enough for them.” Buck sat trying unsuccessfully to think of a counterargument. “What is Meecham up to this evening?” she asked.
“He is out. We’ll keep our ears cocked to hear if Captain Johnnie strikes.”
“And Mr. Fletcher, is he also out?”
“He was in the card room when I left.”
“If Johnnie strikes tonight, we’ll know it was Meecham. Well, our suspicions will be strengthened at least.”
Buck soon left. Esther kept listening for the sound of the knocker, thinking Joshua might stop by, but he didn’t, and at eleven she retired.
Chapter Five
There was no report of an attack by Captain Johnnie that night. At breakfast the next morning the servant brought Miss Lowden a note, not delivered by post but sent over from her inn.
It was from Mr. Fletcher, reminding her in polite words of her promise to show him around the inn, and inquiring when she might be free to do it. Rather impatient to see Mr. Fletcher again, Esther sent a reply saying she would meet him at the inn at ten o’clock.
Lady Brown had a few words to say about this. “The man has the behavior of a commoner, Esther. Taking you over to Ham House yesterday without sending word home to me where you were. I was considerably worried about you. And now this. Why does he wish to see the inn?”
“He wants to open a business himself, Auntie.”
A quick smile lifted Lady Brown’s lips. “And is he thinking of buying the Lowden Arms? What a blessed relief it would be to have the place off our hands. Joshua would be thrilled to death.”
“He didn’t mention buying the Arms. Of course I gave no indication it is for sale. I wonder if that is what he has in mind....”
The Lowden Arms was not officially for sale, but with her aunt and Ramsay forever telling Esther it made her ineligible, she thought of selling it from time to time. The idea was in her mind when she put on her pelisse and straw bonnet with a clutch of cherries flirting over the brim, to go to meet Mr. Fletcher.
He was awaiting her in the lobby. His tall, lean form lounged elegantly against a pillar. He hastened forward when he saw her. “Punctual as well as beautiful!” he complimented.
Esther, delighted with the compliment, gave a playful smile. “We business folks are accustomed to punctuality in our meetings.”
She noticed that Mr. Meecham was hovering about the desk, using the pretext of glancing at the morning journals, but she took the idea he was listening to them. As he didn’t look up, however, she didn’t acknowledge seeing him. It occurred to her that Joshua would not be long in ignorance of the meeting, and she felt a little pleasure mixed with her annoyance.
“Where shall we begin the tour?” Fletcher asked.
Mr. Meecham’s head rose. Soon he walked forward. “Miss Lowden. Nice to see you again.”
“Mr. Meecham.” Her greeting was not curt, but it did not encourage further speech.
“I couldn’t help hearing you mention a tour of the inn. Would it be too encroaching of me to attach myself to the party? I have a great fondness for these old and stately homes.”
Esther saw a sparkle of mischief in Fletcher’s blue eyes, and lauded him for his quick-wittedness. “Tour of the inn?” he asked, frowning. “I’m afraid you misunderstood, Mr. Meecham. Our tour is of the village. Miss Lowden has kindly agreed to show me the shops. Such a fine day—what we are really after is an excuse for a walk.”
Mr. Meecham looked a little embarrassed. “That will teach me to eavesdrop!” He laughed.
“Yes,” Esther said, smiling but rather mockingly.
She and Fletcher walked from the inn, to lend credence to Fletcher’s lie. “What a mushroom the man is!” he scoffed.
“Why, because he wanted to tour my inn?” she teased. “Take care what you are about, sir. Meecham is not the only gentleman who has asked that favor! Perhaps he wishes to buy it. I told you he is looking for a house. It’s Meecham I should be giving the tour. You are merely curious,” she said, and looked sharply for his response.
It could hardly have been more gratifying. “You mean you would sell! It would suit me right down to the heels!”
“I’m not eager to sell, but I might consider it if the price were right.”
While they dallied along the walk, Mr. Meecham’s mount, a dark horse but not black—it was a deep chestnut with a white blaze on the forehead—was led to the door. He mounted and cantered down the road toward Heath Abbey. Mr. Meecham rode well and made an attractive figure as he darted along, with his wide shoulders limned against the horizon.
Watching the direction of Esther’s interest, Mr. Fletcher said, “A penny for your thoughts. You don’t have to tell me. I was just thinking the same thing myself—that Meecham fits the general description of the Royal Scamp. Those shoulders have a fine, military look. One can’t help overhearing rumors, you know. Lady Gloria Devere has been whispering in rather a loud voice that Meecham uses a ladder to enter his chamber. Have you given any thought to turning him off, Miss Lowden? A few of the clients were wondering if you would.”
“I cannot like to do it. He is a good friend of Mr. Ramsay—not Buck but Joshua Ramsay, a local worthy.”
“I did just wonder, when he was so eager to attach himself to our tour. The Royal Scamp might have some interest to learn all the nooks and crannies and hiding places of your inn.”
“Oh, dear! You’re giving me the megrims, Mr. Fletcher. You don’t suppose that’s why he wanted to join us.”
“I don’t ignore the more obvious reason, that he wanted to enjoy your company, as I do. Perhaps you should ask your manager to keep an eye on him.” She nodded, worried. “Now that he’s gone, shall we proceed with our tour and see if we can come to terms?”
“I haven’t said I’d sell. The inn is a very profitable, going concern. I would expect a stiff price for it. All my renovations and two years’ work must be taken into consideration. Goodwill and so on. The location, too, is attractive.”
“Spoken like a true Cit,” he said, the sting softened by a charming smile. “What price did you have in mind?”
“I haven’t given it serious thought at all. It’s just an idea that occurs to me from time to time.”
“It would be best if you mull it over for a few days,” he suggested. “There’s no hurry on my part. Naturally you will display every reluctance in order to raise the price, and I will be at pains to disparage all your finery to lower it.”
“So that is how gentlemen conduct business with a lady, is it?” she asked archly.
“Why, ma’am, it goes without saying, ladies don’t conduct business. It is their indifference to turning a guinea that makes them ladies—and dead bores.”
There was little formality between them after this interlude. “We might as well begin with the kitchen, as you are familiar with the dining room,” Esther mentioned.
Mr. Fletcher had a keen mind and was swift to see advantages and disadva
ntages. From the kitchens and the cheese and storage rooms under the eaves to the wine cellars, they toured it all, omitting only the rooms occupied by guests. Mr. Fletcher jokingly found fault, and Esther praised every doorknob and window.
“Do you have any secret panels, any priest’s hole, or that sort of thing?” Fletcher asked.
“Nothing so romantic. Not even a ghost, unless you count Lady Gloria Devere.”
“The old shawl-draped lady? She has an ethereal air about her. One would never take her for nobility.”
Mr. Fletcher went along, tapping at walls and testing cupboards. “You have a deal of waste space here,” he pointed out as they walked through the airless attic storerooms. “If you pitched out this lumber, you could turn this area into half a dozen small rooms.”
“I do not feature small rooms here; I run an elegant establishment,” Esther replied.
Mr. Fletcher looked around at the trunks that lined the walls, the broken chairs and accumulation of rejected household objects. “There are occasions when you could rent a cubbyhole or cupboard for a decent rate. The boxing match next month, for instance—fellows will pay an arm for any place to lay their heads at such a time. If I know anything, you’ll end up having bodies here, sleeping between the trunks.”
“I think not,” Esther objected. “That would crowd the dining area and cause a ruckus in the stable and lobby.”
“You don’t plan to use this space during the match, then?”
“Only for storage.”
“You’re giving spiders free rent,” Fletcher told her, as he brushed a cobweb from his shoulder. He was soon shoving trunks aside to search for secret panels.
“You’re wasting your time, Mr. Fletcher,” Esther said. “There are no secret panels, no ghosts. Really a very dull building when you come down to it.”
“What size of a wine cellar do you keep, Miss Lowden?” he asked.