Yvonne Goes to York

by M C Beaton

  The Travelling Matchmaker

  is dedicated to Christine and Colin Timms

  with love.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  By the Same Author

  About the Author

  Copyright

  1

  Love and a cottage! Eh, Fanny! Ah, give me indifference and a coach and six!

  George Colman

  Miss Hannah Pym awoke, her heart beating hard. Her dream had been so real, so vivid, that she lay very still for a few moments, her eyes moving slowly around the well-appointed bedchamber, already lit by the pale light of dawn, reassuring herself that she was not in her old room at Thornton Hall.

  She climbed out of bed and began to dress hurriedly, but all the time worrying about that dream. In it, she had never been left a legacy by her late employer, had never had any adventures on the stage-coaches or acquired a footman and this elegant flat in the West End of London. In her dream, the reality had been the dream, and she was once again Hannah Pym, housekeeper, in black dress and cap, keys at her waist, fretting about the amount of work she had to do. And there in her dream had been her late employer’s wife, Mrs Clarence, pretty, laughing Mrs Clarence, just as if she had never run off with that footman; Mrs Clarence who called, ‘Come, Hannah, we have much to attend to. Just fancy Sir George marrying at last. We all thought him a confirmed old bachelor!’

  The dream had been so vivid. Hannah felt she could still smell Thornton Hall, that mixture of beeswax and wood-smoke and dried rose petals.

  Hannah shook herself like a dog as if to shake off the last horrible remnants of her nightmare. It was all in the past. Here she was in the present, about to embark on another journey, this time to York. For Sir George Clarence had reported that a friend of his had recently seen Mrs Clarence in York, and that, combined with a desire to furnish Sir George with tales of more adventures, was taking her on her travels again. Hannah felt that Sir George could never love her: the difference in their social standing was too great. Although she was now a lady of independent means, Sir George knew her as his brother’s ex-housekeeper. But he liked her tales of her journeys on the Flying Machines, as the stage-coaches were called, and Hannah had almost persuaded herself that his company on a few precious occasions was enough. Besides, there was Mrs Clarence to think of, Mrs Clarence who had been so kind to her. She might not yet know of the death of her husband, might not yet know that she was free to marry the handsome footman with whom she had run away.

  ‘Benjamin!’ called Hannah to her footman, asleep in the other room, and got a muffled reply, ‘Coming, modom.’

  Hannah Pym had no other servants. She had rescued Benjamin from the hangman on a previous adventure and he remained devoted to her. Many who saw Hannah, the thin spare spinster with the crooked nose, followed by her tall liveried footman, assumed she had a houseful of servants, for only the very rich could afford footmen.

  ‘Come along, Benjamin,’ shouted Hannah, fearing he had gone back to sleep. ‘The coach leaves at six-thirty and we’ve got to get a hack to take us to Holborn.’

  ‘Ordered the bleedin’ tumbril last night,’ roared Benjamin, whose accents swung wildly between common and refined, and the doctor who lived in the flat upstairs banged his chamber-pot on the floor in protest at the noise.

  Hannah finished dressing and crammed her hat on her head and flew into the sitting-room where Benjamin, in shirt-sleeves, was laying out a dismal breakfast. Benjamin, thought Hannah, would never be a domesticated animal. His idea of breakfast was a loaf of bread and a pat of butter and a kettle that had only just been set on a spirit-stove.

  ‘Leave it,’ snapped Hannah. ‘The hackney will be here any moment. We will get breakfast on the road.’

  Benjamin muttered something and went off to put on his new spun-glass wig and his livery which he had bought second-hand in Monmouth Street and which consisted of a red plush coat ridiculously embellished with gold epaulettes and embroidery, red plush breeches, and frilled shirt. He grabbed hold of his silver-topped walking stick and announced he was ready at the same time as the hackney driver could be heard howling from the street outside, prompting the doctor above-stairs to batter on the floor with the chamber-pot again.

  When they got to the George and Blue Boar in Holborn, from where the coach was to depart, Benjamin paid the previously agreed hackney fare of two shillings. The driver promptly demanded five shillings and threw down his hat and said he would fight Benjamin for it. Hannah told him to be off or she would call the watch and pushed Benjamin towards the York stage-coach.

  It was called the Stamford Regent and stood ready with four chestnuts harnessed up, shifting and restless, tossing their manes and sniffing the morning air. Ostlers, whistling through their teeth, were giving the last polish to the horses’ flanks. In a doorway the coachman, Tom Tapton, who fancied himself a ladies’ man, was talking to a pretty housemaid with her hair still in curl-papers. Ostlers began to shove luggage in the boot. The boot seemed to have an insatiable appetite and swallowed up everything thrown into it. Benjamin was being allowed to travel inside instead of with the outsiders on the roof. A thin, cadaverous man climbed aboard and took his seat. He had a colourless, epicene face and silver hair tied at his neck with a black ribbon. His eyes were pale blue and rested curiously on Hannah and then turned on Benjamin.

  Then there came a rumpus from the inn yard. Hannah, ever inquisitive, let down the glass and looked out. A slim, female figure was standing waiting while her luggage was placed in the boot. Around her, insults rose in the air, cleverly not directed at her, merely polluting the air about her.

  ‘Wonder if their women eats frogs,’ said one ostler.

  ‘Can’t tell wiff them Frenchies,’ jeered another. ‘Got dirty ’abits, they ’as. Should be killed like rats.’

  The girl’s sensitive face was pale and drawn. Hannah assumed, rightly, that she was French and the butt of the French-hating inn servants.

  She stepped down from the coach, holding her formidable umbrella like a club.

  ‘Are you travelling alone?’ she asked the girl.

  The girl threw her a look, half-scared, half-pleading. ‘Yes, madame.’

  ‘To York?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you had better have a chaperone. You are French?’

  A timid nod.

  ‘Come with me. You need protection.’

  Hannah helped the young lady into the coach and into a seat beside her. ‘I am Miss Hannah Pym,’ said Hannah, holding out her hand. ‘And this is my footman, Benjamin.’

  The girl took Hannah’s hand and shook it. ‘Merci,’ she said softly. ‘I am Mees Yvonne Grenier. I …’ Her eyes fell on the cadaverous man and widened in alarm.

  He smiled, baring yellow teeth like fangs. ‘I am Mr Smith,’ he said.

  Hannah felt Yvonne relax at the sound of Mr Smith’s English voice. What had she expected? Someone French? Hannah’s curiosity made her odd eyes, like opals, change from blue to green.

  And then something happened, something so wonderful that Hannah completely forgot about her fellow passengers. For there, outside the coach window, and smiling in, was Sir George Clarence.

  Outside the coach went Hannah again, blushing like sweet sixteen, eyes like stars.

  Inside the coach, Benjamin sat, rigid, biting his fingernails. He knew of his mistress’s love for Sir George and had wanted to do something to prompt a romance. So when the maid to one of London’s leading gossips had been sent to spy on Hannah, her mistress believing Hannah to be Sir George’s mistress and wanti
ng confirmation, Benjamin had gleefully supplied that confirmation, hoping that malicious gossip would force Sir George to propose to Miss Hannah Pym or, failing that, prompt his mind to more tender thoughts than mere friendship. Now the footman thought he must have been mad. Such gossip might drive Sir George away completely. Perhaps he had come because he had heard it.

  But when Benjamin looked out of the window it was to see the couple chatting amiably.

  ‘How very good of you to come at this unearthly hour of the morning to say goodbye,’ said Hannah shyly.

  ‘I shall miss you,’ said Sir George gallantly, and Hannah felt quite weak with happiness. ‘I shall look forward to hearing your adventures on your return. I brought you some little things for the journey. He handed her a square box. Hannah babbled her thanks. ‘All on board the coach,’ roared the coachman.

  ‘Goodbye,’ said Hannah, holding out her hand. Sir George swept off his hat and bowed his head and kissed the back of her hand.

  Hannah floated on board the coach and took her seat. Tears of happiness were standing out in her eyes. ‘Let ’em go,’ shouted the coachman, ‘and look to yourselves.’ The ostlers flew from the chestnuts’ heads, the four horses sprang up to their collars, the guard performed, ‘Oh, Dear, What Can the Matter Be?’ on his bugle, and the Stamford Regent surged out of the inn courtyard.

  ‘What’s that?’ asked Benjamin, looking curiously at the box on Hannah’s lap.

  ‘A present from Sir George.’

  ‘Open it up,’ said Benjamin eagerly.

  Hannah undid the silk ribbon which was tied around the box and carefully stowed it away in her reticule. Then she lifted the lid of the box. It contained a small bottle of attar of roses, a gauzy scarf in rainbow colours, a pretty little fan with ivory sticks, and a guidebook to York.

  Hannah unstoppered the bottle of attar of roses and dabbed a little behind each ear. She wrapped the scarf around her neck and then handed the box with the guidebook and fan to Benjamin for safekeeping.

  Benjamin was pleased. He had been worried that Sir George might have chosen indigestion powders or a woollen comforter or something dreary in the way of a present. The rainbow scarf, he thought, was like Hannah’s odd eyes of many colours, and the coach was sweet with the fragrant smell of roses.

  The coach rumbled up Cow Lane and through Smithfield and then slowed to a halt as it was suddenly surrounded by cows on their way to Smithfield market.

  They sat listening to the lowing of the cattle and the cries of the guard urging the coachman to ‘fan ’em,’ and the coachman replying grandly that he had never whipped a beast yet.

  Then they were on their way again and soon arrived at the famous Peacock at Islington with its wood-and-plaster walls, its three storeys projecting over each other in front, its porch roof propped by caryatides. Outside the old inn stood an ostler with a horn lantern – although the early-morning sun was shining brightly – announcing the names of the coaches as they arrived at the door in a sort of bronchial wheeze. There were about twenty coaches outside the door, as all the northern coaches made a point of stopping at the Peacock. There was such an outcry, such a clattering of hooves, such a trumpeting of bugles, slamming of doors, and stamping of feet on splash boards, that Hannah was quite deafened, and through the hubbub rose the voice of the ostler, like a herald with a cold in the head, announcing the coaches: the York Highflyer, the Leeds Union, the York Express, the Rockingham, the Truth and Daylight, and, of course, the Stamford Regent.

  Waiters ran out with trays of rum and milk. Benjamin and Hannah gratefully drank theirs, for it was still early and the coach was cold, but Yvonne and Mr Smith both refused.

  Off they then rolled out of Islington and soon began the ascent to Highgate archway. The sun shone down in all its glory from a clear blue sky, and down below, London still slept under a pall of smoke.

  Hannah was beginning to feel very hungry indeed. She knew they were scheduled to change horses at the Green Man at Barnet and hoped they might breakfast there. But when they got to the Green Man, it was to learn that they were not due to breakfast until Enfield Chase. Brandy and hot water were served, and this time Yvonne and Mr Smith took some refreshment. Hannah, stealing a sideways look at her French companion, noticed that the hot drink had at least brought some colour to Yvonne’s face. They had quite a wait, for their coachman, Tom Tapton, that Lothario of the Great North Road, was dallying with a serving maid, his beaver adjusted at a rakish glance, his melting glances fastened occasionally on his next team, already fuming in the traces, but mostly on the Barnet Hebe, who was gazing up at him in adoration.

  Finally, he called, ‘Take your seats, gentlemen, please’, just as if the whole party had dismounted from the coach, and climbed in a leisurely way up onto the box, chewing a sprig of sweet lavender given him by the maid. Just as they were about to move off, the coach door opened and a large man climbed in and sat down between Benjamin and Mr Smith.

  Hannah glanced at the newcomer and then her eyes sharpened. He was a commanding figure. He was over six feet tall, amazing in an age when the average height was five feet. He had thick chestnut hair under a low-crowned wide-brimmed hat, silvery-grey eyes, a proud nose and a firm mouth and chin. His clothes were plain, but, Hannah noticed, had surely come from the hands of one of London’s finest tailors.

  ‘I hope I did not keep you waiting,’ he said in a light, pleasant voice.

  ‘I think our Romeo of a coachman would have kept us waiting in any case,’ said Hannah tartly. ‘If he is set on dallying with every female on the Great North Road, we shall never reach our destination.’

  ‘Ah, who can resist a pretty maid,’ said the newcomer. He smiled at Yvonne, who shrank a little towards Hannah. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Giles.’

  The others introduced themselves in turn, ‘French,’ said Mr Giles, looking at Yvonne. He broke into rapid French. Yvonne let out a little gasp and said, ‘Pray, I beg you, sir, address me in English. I must ’ave the practice.’

  ‘Of course. Are you travelling alone, Miss Grenier?’

  ‘No,’ retorted Hannah quickly, ‘I am Miss Grenier’s companion. We travel together.’

  Mr Smith looked amazed. ‘I could have sworn you both met at the inn for the first time!’

  Under the cover of her shawl, Yvonne’s small gloved hand found Hannah’s and pressed it hard. ‘I do not know what gave you that impression, sir,’ said Hannah. ‘We arranged to meet at the coaching inn at Holborn.’

  ‘But she introduced herself to you on the coach,’ protested Mr Smith.

  ‘I was looking out for her, not having met her before,’ said Hannah blandly. ‘I am taking care of her at the request of her family. She politely introduced herself.’

  ‘An unusually un-English trait, to be so interested in your fellow passengers, Mr Smith,’ commented Mr Giles.

  The pale eyes turned on him. ‘I am as English as roast beef,’ said Mr Smith.

  ‘But as you are curious,’ pursued Mr Giles, ‘I will indulge you. Now, I am travelling to York to see a relative. What is the nature of your business, Mr Smith?’

  ‘I also am travelling to York to meet someone,’ replied Mr Smith huffily. He took a small book out of his pocket and began to read.

  Mr Giles gave a faint shrug. ‘And you, Miss Pym? It is not often one meets a lady complete with liveried footman on a stage-coach.’

  ‘I am travelling for the sake of travel,’ said Hannah.

  ‘On a Flying Machine?’

  ‘Why not, sir? An inexpensive and comfortable mode of travel.’

  ‘Hardly that. I myself, had I the money, would prefer a well-sprung travelling coach of my own, with six prime horses to pull it.’

  Benjamin’s eyes gleamed. He was addicted to gambling and had not rattled the dice since a disastrous loss at Rochester the month before. But he had always been lucky before that dreadful game. If only he could have a great win, a magnificent win, then perhaps he could persuade Miss Pym to remai
n in London instead of retiring to a cottage in the country to eke out her legacy. Of course, if she married Sir George, that would solve all.

  ‘And you, Miss Grenier,’ Mr Giles was saying, ‘do you also travel for the love of it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Hannah quickly. ‘I told you, she is with me.’

  ‘Relative?’

  ‘Friend of the family,’ said Hannah crossly. ‘I already told you so, or rather Mr Smith. I am very tired, sir, and do not wish to answer any more questions.’

  Hannah opened the box Sir George had given her and took out the guidebook and began to read. But she hardly took in a word. What was Yvonne doing on the coach, and why was she so frightened? The Terror was still raging in France. The Revolution had been no great thing, but after it was over, the massacres had begun. Yvonne was in England and had nothing to fear, but perhaps she did not know that, thought Hannah. Had she come over from France recently? Her English, although accented, was very good.

  And what of Mr Giles? His very air and ease of manner showed him a man used to command.

  The coach rolled towards Enfield Chase, where Queen Elizabeth, when still a princess, used to love to hunt. But she loved finery as much as she loved hunting, to the considerable disgust of her twelve ladies-in-waiting, who found themselves pursuing the flying hart arrayed in white satin and seated on ambling palfreys. Fifty archers, too, had to be gloriously dressed, with gilded bows in their hands, scarlet boots on their feet, and yellow caps on their heads. Hannah, who read history books as much as she read guide-books, wondered if they had ever caught anything or if the stag had heard them all coming from miles away.

  The coach lurched to a halt and the passengers climbed stiffly down. Hannah drew Yvonne’s arm through her own as they walked to the inn and said in a companionable way, ‘You will feel better when you have eaten, Miss Grenier. There is nothing like a good English breakfast. I do not want to pry, but I would like to remind you that you are in the country of the free now. No danger can come to you.’