Fourpenny Flyer

by Beryl Kingston

  But she knew already.

  Chapter Eight

  ‘First with the news again I see,’ Sir Joshua Barnesworthy called, striding across the terrace at Holly Hall and waving a copy of The Times at Mrs Easter.

  ‘Bad is it, Josh?’ his cousin Peter drawled, holding out his hand to receive the paper.

  ‘Uncommon bad,’ Sir Joshua said. ‘See here. Dratted Frenchies gone over to the enemy, so they have.’

  ‘Do I not recall that Mr Bonaparte was once crowned the Emperor of the French?’ Lady Barnesworthy teased. ‘Or am I mistaken, my love?’

  ‘Damned foreigners, the lot of ’em,’ her husband said cheerfully. ‘Still we beat the beggers once, so I daresay we shall do it again.’

  ‘How do you manage to get the papers here to us so quickly?’ Lady Barnesworthy asked, turning to Nan as the three men studied the news. ‘’Tis an impressive achievement. Do you not think so, Mr Brougham?’

  ‘Most impressive,’ Mr Brougham said, smiling at the two women as they stood before him in the pale sunshine of that March afternoon. ‘And intriguing, too. You must tell us how ’tis done, Mrs Easter.’ A handsome woman, he was thinking, admiring her, for the long straight cut of her fasionable blue coat set off her figure to advantage, and the white fur with which it was trimmed at her throat and her wrists certainly enhanced her colouring. Ruddy cheeks and brown eyes had always appealed to Mr Brougham. It was what had attracted him to his first wife, poor creature.

  ‘Well as to that,’ Nan said, grinning at him, ‘that’s my son’s doing, so ’tis. I can only guess at the workings of it, especially from this distance.’ She had no intention of revealing such a valuable trade secret at a country house party. Not even at a country house party as aristocratic as this, and to a gentleman as polite and proper as Mr Brougham.

  Mr Brougham smiled at her again, offering his arm as they continued their promenade around the garden. ‘You give him full credit for it, I see,’ he observed.

  ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Fair’s fair, Mr Brougham. Johnnie did the work, so Johnnie gets the glory.’

  ‘There are many would disagree with such sentiments,’ he said.

  ‘Then they would be foolish,’ she said firmly. ‘There’s a deal more to a business than knowing what and when to sell.’

  ‘I have a friend in the coaching trade who maintains much the same thing,’ he told her. ‘According to him, knowing how and when to reward, and how and when to rebuke, is the great art of running a business. Name of Chaplin. They call him the coach king.’

  ‘I know him well,’ she said. ‘A man of sense.’ But she was thinking, if you know Mr Chaplin then ’tis likely you will know of my affair with Calverley Leigh. And the thought annoyed her, because she would rather her new aristocratic friends knew as little as possible about her liaison with that gentleman. For Calverley Leigh, despite his charming personality and the undeniable pleasure of his company, had been a gambler and a wastrel too, and now that they had finally parted she was rather annoyed with herself for having spent so much of her time on him.

  Since she’d taken up residence in her prestigious house in Bedford Square, Nan Easter had been moving up in society. It was no surprise to her, nor to her friends, nor to those of her new neighbours who had enjoyed her lively hospitality. Some people frowned upon her, of course, because they knew her history and spoke of it in scathing terms whenever her success was mentioned.

  ‘She was nothing more than a servant girl, my dear. Heaven knows what Mr Easter ever saw in her! His family cut him off, you know, for marrying her. What else could they do? And they do say Sir Osmond Easter refuses to receive her to this day. And then, of course, she took up with a lieutenant in the cavalry who was no better than he should have been. It was quite a scandal. And now she drives about town in a closed carriage, if you please, for all the world as if she were one of the gentry. Really, the presumption of the nouveau riche!’

  And so she did and a very fine closed carriage it was, with the company sign painted boldly on its sides and a fine pair of greys to draw it. And although she knew that people gossiped about her she was too busy and too sensible to comment on it. She was extending her trade and growing steadily more and more wealthy and secure, and that was what mattered to her. But this invitation to Holly Hall had been a great surprise. And a surprise made doubly sweet because she knew how much it would infuriate her enemies.

  For Holly Hall was the country seat of Sir Joshua Barnesworthy. And Sir Joshua Barnesworthy was a friend of the Earl of Harrowby, no less, who was a British envoy to the Congress of Vienna, a man who negotiated with Wellington and Talleyrand. And if the Earl of Harrowby were to take her up, as the gentry noted at once, the rest of them would have to respect her. It was scandalous. Fancy inviting a woman like her to a house like that!

  Actually the invitation had been sent because Mr Brougham suggested it, for Lady Barnesworthy was a secret and most successful matchmaker. From time to time she included among her dinner guests two people who wished to be introduced to each other, or one, as was rather more often the case, who wished to make himself known to a person as yet admired from afar. It was done with great discretion and absolutely no comment at all, and had resulted in several extremely useful marriages. And it was being done again on this particular occasion.

  She was a little surprised when her dear Frederick first asked her to invite Mrs Easter to her next house party, for she wouldn’t have thought that the two of them would have had anything in common. After all he was related to the great Brougham family of Westmoreland, and had stern aristocratic features, being roman-nosed and grey-eyed and really quite tall although with an impressive embonpoint, as you would expect, while she was a commoner, and looked it. In addition to that, of course, he’d been quietly and successfully married to her own well-born cousin until the poor lady died of the smallpox, while Mrs Easter had been gallivanting about the town with her very common lover.

  Nevertheless she did as he asked and was surprised to see how much the two of them seemed to be enjoying each other’s company, comforting herself that it would be unlikely to go any further, given the lady’s circumstances.

  She would have been a little piqued if she could have overheard their conversation after dinner that night.

  The rest of the company had adjourned to the drawing room, where two great fires were blazing and the tables had been set ready for cards. But Nan had walked quietly off in the opposite direction towards the library and, after a discreet pause, obstensibly to smoke a cigar with his old friend Sir Joshua, Frederick Brougham had followed her.

  She was sitting at the writing desk beside the fireplace, with candles lit to right and left of her, busily composing a letter. He could see the energetic quivering of the ostrich plumes in her headdress and hear the purposeful scratching of her pen from where he stood in the doorway.

  She had removed her long gloves, tossing them carelessly across the back of her chair, and her bare arms were as white as pearl in the candlelight. The sight of them gave him an unexpected frisson of surprise and pleasure. They looked so deliciously naked and there was something primitive about them, too, an honest, untramelled urgency that roused his admiration and stirred desire in him for the first time since his wife’s death nearly sixteen months ago.

  He walked towards her, casting about in his mind for some light, quizzy remark that he could use to open a conversation and ease his emotions.

  ‘You keep in touch with your company, I see,’ he said. ‘Even from this distance.’

  She didn’t look up. ‘Aye,’ she said, ‘I do. War makes work for news-sellers, Mr Brougham. And, besides, my son has done well this week, and ’tis only proper that I write and tell him so.’

  Her hands were small and rough and short-fingered, a worker’s hand’s, and the complete opposite of the narrow long-fingered languid pallor that women of his class aspired to. He admired her more than ever.

  ‘It is a sadness to me that I return to London t
omorrow,’ he said. ‘I have enjoyed my stay here immeasurably, Mrs Easter.’

  ‘And so have I,’ she said, looking up at him at last, brown eyes laughing.

  ‘I have disturbed your work,’ he said, inclining his body apologetically towards the desk and the letter. ‘That was most remiss of me. Pray do not allow me to disturb you further.’

  ‘’Tis done,’ she said, folding the paper. ‘Now it only needs to be taken to the mail coach. There is a servant comes to the library every evening for that very purpose.’ And she dusted the palms of her hands against each other, swish, swish, dismissing her work and his apology.

  ‘If that is the case,’ he said, ‘we might converse.’

  She was putting on her gloves again. ‘We might indeed.’

  So they sat in two armchairs before the fire with her timely newspaper on a little low table between them and they talked; about the house party, about their fellow guests, about the house and its grounds; and, finally, about themselves.

  ‘I must confess,’ he said gallantly, ‘that one of the reasons I prevailed upon my cousin to invite me to this party was the hope that I would be introduced to you.’

  Her answer was very surprising. ‘Aye,’ she said. ‘I thought as much. We’ve been thrown into each other’s company a deal too often for mere coincidence.’

  ‘You must blame our hostess for that,’ he said rather uneasily, ‘I merely requested her invitation, not that any further action be taken by it. I trust you have not been too greatly incommoded.’

  ‘I been amused,’ she said, ‘seeing I en’t never been victim to a matchmaker before.’

  ‘Oh come now, Mrs Easter,’ he said, ‘that is rather strong, is it not? A victim? Surely not. Whatever their faults matchmakers are well-meaning.’ His own marriage had come about as the result of the efforts of two matchmaking aunts and he had never had cause to regret it.

  ‘A victim,’ she said firmly. ‘I never use a word unless I mean it. To choose a partner is the most delicate decision. That you’ll allow, I dare swear.’ And, as he signalled his agreement with a smile, ‘Well then, that being so, ’tis plain folly, to my way of thinking, to allow an outsider to make the choice for you.’

  Put like that, what could he do but agree with her? ‘You are a woman of independent spirit, I see,’ he told her, ‘which is wholly admirable. Although I must admit it puts me into something of a quandary.’

  ‘How so, sir?’ He had a pleasant-looking face when he was teasing.

  ‘I had hoped to ask you if you would accompany me to the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden on Tuesday evening to see a performance of Richard II. The management have installed the new gas lighting which is reputed to be very fine. But now I live in such terror of a negative reply, I declare my spirit quite fails me.’

  How clever he is, she thought, admiring his tact. I may accept or refuse him with equal grace. And she smiled ready to give him her answer.

  And at that moment the door at the far end of the room was flung open to reveal Sir Joshua’s cousin Arabella. ‘Why there you are!’ she said, flouncing into the room. ‘Fie upon you Nan, you gave me your word of honour, so you did, that you would partner me at faro, and now you skulk away in here and leave me to the mercy of Mr Farquhar, who is playing quite vilely. How could you be so cruel?’

  ‘Six o’ the clock I promised ’ee,’ Nan said, ‘and it wants a quarter hour before that time, but you shall be rescued notwithstanding, for I en’t so hard hearted as to leave any woman at the mercy of Mr Farquhar.’ And she stood up ready to leave the room.

  Mr Brougham stood too. ‘You have promised to give me your opinion of Richard II, don’t forget, Mrs Easter,’ he said, bowing slightly as she walked away from him.

  ‘I do not forget,’ she said. ‘I believe I am to visit the Theatre Royal on Tuesday.’

  ‘Then may I wish you a pleasant evening?’

  ‘You may,’ she said, grinning at him as she followed Arabella from the room. ‘You may indeed, Mr Brougham.’

  John Easter was rather alarmed to receive a letter from his mother, particularly as it arrived on the very day she intended to return. Had she heard about the flyers. Was that it? He broke the seal with some trepidation.

  ‘Easter’s was first with the news in St Albans all this week,’ she had written. ‘We are much commended hereabouts for our speed and efficiency which, I have been happy to boast, was all your doing. If this war continues, which I can see no reason to doubt, I do believe you will make good your promise to me. I shall be more than interested to read the sales reports for this month. Yr ever loving mother, Nan.’

  He put the letter to one side without comment and returned to his calculations, quiet and contained as always, but inside his head he was purring with gratification. Who would ever have thought that his mother would write to praise him? ‘Wonders never cease,’ he said to the inkpot.

  But the letter he had hoped for and looked for ever since Tuesday, the letter from Miss Sowerby, had still not arrived. And although he tried to be sanguine about it, it was a disappointment and a puzzle, and it swamped his gratification with anxiety because Miss Sowerby had seemed to be the sort of person who would answer any letter by return of post. Something must have prevented her. What if she had taken a chill on that long, cold journey? What if she were ill? Perhaps he shouldn’t have left her so precipitately. Oh, if only she would write and tell him how she was! Or if only he weren’t quite so busy here in London and could drive to Bury for a day or two and see her. ‘If wishes were horses …’ he told the inkpot. But of course they weren’t and he had work to do.

  *

  Harriet herself was as much concerned over her lack of reply as he was. Late at night, when all her work was done, she would take his letter from its secret hiding place under the floorboards in her bedroom and read and re-read it, and it was a marvellous comfort to her and a great worry. She knew that according to the rules of etiquette she ought to have answered it directly, but how could such a thing be done when her mother had forbidden her to have anything to do with him? She knew that it was imperative to obey one’s parents. The preacher insisted upon it, every single Sunday. And yet obedience in this respect meant unkindness in another. And it upset her very much to think that she was being impolite to Mr Easter, especially when he’d done nothing to deserve it and he’d been so very kind to her.

  A week passed and her mother was still disparaging and her father was in a most sarcastic humour and the dilemma was still unsolved. But at least it was Thursday, and she could take time away from her disapproving household and spend the afternoon with Miss Pettie, which was blessedly peaceful even though there was a great deal of mending to get through.

  They worked together until it was so dark that Harriet could barely see to thread the needles. But when the candles were lit, Miss Pettie said all work was to stop until next Thursday.

  ‘You are to dine with me, my dear,’ she said, her faded eyes quite moist with excitement at the thought. ‘I have ordered a goose. Your mother is quite agreeable.’

  It was an unlooked for pleasure and therefore doubly enjoyable. The goose was actually rather tough but they dined together very happily, chewing what they could and garnishing every dish with memories of their recent adventures. And when the cloth had finally been removed, Miss Pettie told her guest that she had received a letter that morning and asked her if she would be so kind as to keep her company while she wrote a reply.

  ‘’Tis from Mr Easter,’ she said, patting the letter, ‘so you can see it must be answered directly. ’Twould be a grievous fault to dally when he was so uncommon courteous.’

  ‘Oh it would,’ Harriet agreed with feeling, ‘an uncommon grievous fault.’ And she sighed so sadly that Miss Pettie looked up at her at once.

  ‘Why what is it, my child? What’s amiss?’

  ‘Oh Miss Pettie,’ Harriet confessed, ‘Mr Easter wrote to me, when I was staying with Mrs Hopkins at Rattlesden, and I have not answered his letter yet. T
o tell ’ee true, I do not know how I may answer him at all.’

  She looked so miserable that Miss Pettie leant across at once to pat her on the arm. ‘But you can write, child, can you not? They taught you a fair hand at Mrs Crabtree’s Academy.’

  ‘Oh yes, Miss Pettie, I can write well enough. That is not the difficulty. Not the difficulty at all. Oh dear, oh dear, I fear I may offend my mother if I speak further.’

  By now Miss Pettie’s curiosity was fully aroused. ‘You may speak to me quite freely, my dear,’ she said, ‘for I am an old woman and used to confidences of every sort. Nothing you say would go further than these four walls, you have my word on’t.’

  So Harriet described her dilemma, haltingly at first and rather shamefacedly.

  ‘What am I to do, Miss Pettie?’ she finished. ‘I’m to have nothing to do with him. If I obey my mother, as I surely must unless I am to break the fifth Commandment, I must be discourteous to Mr Easter, which grieves me very greatly. What am I to do?’

  Miss Pettie gave the matter the most careful thought, patting her young friend’s hand in a comforting absent-minded way. And after thirty lip-chewing seconds she came up with a quite excellent solution.

  ‘I will write my letter to Mr Easter directly,’ she said, ‘which is only right and proper, and when ’tis done, you shall add a postscript to it. A postscript is a trivial matter, is’t not? Oh indeed yes. I am sure there are none who could think otherwise. It could hardly be considered an act of disobedience, could it?’

  It is the way round, Harriet thought with delight. Hadn’t she known there would be a way round?

  And so it was written, neatly and politely on the end of Miss Pettie’s rambling epistle. And after the carriage had been ordered and Harriet had been sent safely home, the old lady wrote a second postscript all round the edge of the letter, suggesting that should Mr Easter care to write again to Miss Sowerby it might be more practical for him to send his missive to Angel Hill where Miss Pettie would consider it an honour to deliver it, on account of the great affection she felt towards them both.