by Edith Layton
“Oh here now, Nan,” the coachman said on a laugh, accepting the warm, wide armful of girl and speaking softly into her tangle of brown hair scented with ale, wood smoke, frying fat, and good laundry soap, “I’m come in from the Brighton Road, love, not from the wars. I haven’t been in France, only Brighton. And I’m not wounded, only half-frozen. But yes, love, warm me this way, do.”
The girl wrenched herself from his embrace and stepped back, running her hand beneath her nose as she struggled for control. She was a handsome creature, full-bodied and broad-boned, with a wide and open face and a fine pair of flashing hazel eyes to save it from plainness. And, the landlord knew, as he grinned almost as widely as the coachman did, watching her, she was furious with herself for her display of emotion. For Nan was an emotional girl, all right, famous for her tirades, but it was seldom sentiment she showed.
“I dunno what came over me,” she said, pushing him away as vigorously as she’d embraced him. “It’s only that I knew you was on the job tunnight, but I din’t know if you got through or not. But I ’spect you’d of been just as pleased if you’d pulled up at the Crown. Any port in a storm, that’s you all over, in’it?”
“The Crown?” mused the coachman in a low, gentle voice as he reached to push a coil of curls gently back from her brow. “Oh yes, that’s where that ugly little black-haired wench works, isn’t it?”
“Ho!” Nan retorted, throwing her head back and shaking off his hand, glad of a game to cover her lapse, and making much of it to recover her dignity. “I understand there’s some gents as don’t think her ugly when they stop over at the Crown. I understand there’s some as can make the best of it even if they do,” she said, eyeing him sidewise.
The landlord smiled and turned away to leave Nan to her love play. He’d a punch to concoct: a tankard black with rum, awash with oranges, dusted with cinnamon, smelling like a spicy tropical sea, hot and buttered to go down as smooth as a summer afternoon—that was the coachman’s favorite. And the coachman was a favorite at the Swan.
Before he could take more than a few steps to his mission, the door to the most meager private room flew open, and a tall, thin, chinless gentleman took a wavering step out into the hall, obviously in search of the convenience. When he saw the coachman, he stopped and stared, goggling as though he’d just seen him rise up from a green mist in a churchyard, rather than standing in the lamplight in a hallway of a wayside inn.
Of course, the coachman was singular. Indeed, he looked nothing like any others of his profession that the landlord had ever seen before, but he no longer occasioned comment at the Swan because, the innkeeper supposed, as he saw the gentleman continue to gape openmouthed at the driver of the Thunder, they were all used to him now.
It wasn’t just that he wasn’t broad and beefy, like so many of his confederates were. He was, after all, a few inches over average height, and though his frame was slender and articulate, his wide shoulders and flat abdomen spoke of his athleticism and hardihood as well as the overstuffed figures of any of the other coachmen did.
But his complexion was smooth, and even after being stung by the storm and now warmed by the fire, its color rose only to the most subtle peach radiance of the hearth, and his eyes were so gray that in sunlight he looked blind, though now in the lamplight their troubled expression darkened them to a subtle shade of morning fog. His brow was high, his nose shapely, his mouth sensitive and tender, and his chin determined even though there was a light cleft gracing it. Framing all, his thick overlong hair glowed gold in the lamplight, curling only at its ends where it had gotten damp, and so forming wistful tendrils on his strong young neck. He did not look like a coachman. He looked nothing like a coachman. He looked rather like certain Attic statues or the stuff of maidens’ prayers. He was, in brief, quite beautiful.
The chinless gentleman in the doorway squinted and then spoke in a voice of wonder. “My God, it’s Hazelton! Damme, if it ain’t Hazelton himself. It’s been ages, and there he stands as though he were still alive. Come see. Good God, it’s Hazelton!”
A disheveled assortment of the gentlemen who were still able staggered to the doorway to peer out at the apparition. The coachman stood and faced them, seemingly at his ease, but something in his stance, something in the way he eyed them, like a man facing a hangman, caused Nan’s fists to clench beneath her apron.
“Damme, so it is,” cried one of the young gentlemen. “Hazelton himself,” agreed another.
“But what are you doing in that rig,” one demanded, “dressed as a coachman? Ho, Hazelton’s up to some sport. What a night, by God, what a night. Now, here’s Hazelton, cutting up, he’s up to something, all right.”
“What, Hazelton driving a coach? What a caper! What’s the wager?” shouted another gentleman eagerly. “I’ll put a pony on it myself.”
“Is it down in the betting book at White’s?” asked another, looking around wildly. “I didn’t see it there. Haven’t seen Hazelton in months either, though. Thought he was dead,” he whispered loudly.
“Not dead,” the coachman answered on a small smile, “only not at the club, Harry.”
“Same thing,” the young man replied, shrugging.
“See here,” the chinless gentleman said, suddenly as serious as only a gravely drunken man can get “why are you dressed up as a coachman, sir?”
“Because I am one, Bryant,” the coachman said calmly. “I drive the Brighton Thunder now.”
“A coachman?” hooted one of the young men, delighted. “Julian Dylan, fifth Viscount Hazelton, a coachman? Hear that rumbling, chaps? That’s all his ancestors turning over at the thought. Come, come, Hazelton, we’re friends, jolly good friends, and we’re ripe for a spree,” he said eagerly. “Let us in on the joke.”
“No joke, my friends,” the coachman said regretfully, “or rather I suppose it might be considered a howler of one, at that. Because I do actually drive the coach. And I do it for the money. For you see, I haven’t a penny piece left to my name. And I’ve gotten into the sordid habit of eating. I discovered I wasn’t astute enough to be a schoolmaster, tactful enough to be a butler, foolhardy enough to attempt to be a prizefighter, or even handy enough with my fives to be a tailor, and no one will pay me for my noblest skills: drinking, dancing, and wenching. But I can drive a coach. And so I do it for my living, not for sport. And,” he said into the silence which followed his words, “I’m told I do it rather well. At least I earn quite a nice bit of blunt from it.”
There was a moment of absolute silence before weak little comments of “Oh” and “Quite” and “Indeed” were heard, and then, no one of them quite meeting his eyes, some of the gentlemen made ragged, perfunctory bows to him before they turned and stepped back into their parlor, and at the last, the fellow who’d originally spied him said, “Servant, Hazelton,” and sketching a bow that almost landed him headfirst on the floor, he staggered back into the room and closed the door behind him.
The landlord rushed to make his tankard of punch, not knowing what other solace to offer. Nan stood with her hands twisting in her apron, as though she sought something there that she could take out and say to him.
But then a languid voice commented, “Shame, Julian. But that’s what you get for telling filthy stories in polite company. Yes, my dear,” the observer commented, taking his dark blue gaze from the coachman as Nan’s head snapped up to stare at him as he stood leaning, elegant and precise, against the door to the finest private room that he’d just left, “he could have told those gentlemen any number of scandalous details about his love life, or his other dealings with your sex, or even other gentlemen, or even their own grannies, I believe, but nothing would be considered so obscene as his talking about money. Or specifically, his complete lack of it. Julian, Julian, out of touch with society for only a few Seasons, and look at you, telling the truth. Is there no hope for you?”
“Warwick!” the coachman cried in delighted recognition.
He strode to the gentleman a
nd put out his hand. Then the two shook hands so hard, grinning at each other so fiercely, that Nan, though used to more tangible signs of affection, stood and smiled tremulously at them, until she caught herself at it, frowned, and stamped away to the taproom, muttering about work not getting done standing gawking.
“Bryant was right,” the coachman finally said. “What a night, indeed. It’s been ages since I’ve seen you.”
“Oh, I know it,” his friend said softly, “because I looked for you, you know. Ah, I see you do know. That’s bad, I think. Should I be insulted? Should I leave now? I will, if you’d like,” he offered, unsmiling, holding his head to one side as he awaited an answer.
“No,” the coachman said, abashed, “please, don’t go. I knew you made inquiries, but I was very proud then and much younger than I am now. Five-and-twenty is very young, you’ll admit, Warwick, now that we’re old codgers with almost a full two more years in our dishes. I didn’t want anyone to see how the mighty had fallen. Even so, it was hard to turn away my closest friend then. But now, I think I’ve fallen on my feet at last. It’s good to see you, Warwick. Will you come have a drink with me?”
“Several. But first I have to make my apologies to my companions. No,” he said as he cracked the door open, “they’re not your sort, my friend. Actually, they’re not mine either,” he mused, “but loneliness breeds strange bedfellows. Or is it when one is lonely one doesn’t find any bedfellows strange? At any rate, Julian,” he continued as he eased the door ajar and peered into the dining room, “I haven’t changed at all, sad to say, except that once I’d lost my best friends to wedlock and foreign service and coachmen’s positions and whatnot, I seemed to lose my best intentions. You see the sot snoring in the corner? None other than the Baron Hyde, and he’s just as rackety as he was when you knew him, although, obviously, his capacity’s diminished over the years—he’s only had a tun of wine and he’s done for the night already. And so I suddenly have the uneasy notion that the two delightful females we struck up an acquaintance with in Brighton the other evening, the ones glaring at each other there, are about to draw straws for the use of my pure young body tonight. Perhaps you’d care to join us?” he asked hopefully. “I’ll admit I’d have reservations about asking you if I thought I had only the one to cope with, remembering your success with the gender. Well, you can scarcely blame me for not wanting to end up with only the kitchen cat to warm my bed, can you? But now I believe even I might prove insufficient to the task. They do look rather hungry, don’t you think?” he asked with a great deal of affected nervousness.
“You haven’t changed at all, Warwick.” His friend laughed. “Thank you, but as you very well know, I’d rather speak to you alone than cavort with your two light ladies.”
“You have changed.” The gentleman frowned as he paused at the door.
“No, it’s just that I have my own diversions here,” the coachman replied merrily.
He stepped out into the hall to wait for his friend to be done with making his excuses to his companions. As he stood musing, he became aware of the scent of honeysuckle before he even heard the hesitant murmured, “Pardon me, please,” at his elbow. And so he turned around before the words were done being uttered, to discover himself facing one of the most beautiful young women he’d ever seen, so lovely as to be almost more improbable than anything else he’d encountered in the Swan this improbable night. The top of her flaxen head came only to his shoulder, and he looked down into her wide, dazed dark eyes as she paused and looked up at him. She’d obviously just been trying to negotiate the narrow hallway and hadn’t meant to do more than alert him so she could pass by without brushing against him. But she’d been halted in mid-step by his appearance. She was a charming sight as she stopped and stared and the color slowly rose in her pale cheeks. But he was well used to such reactions, and lovely as she was, he’d had his fill of being gaped at this evening.
From her dress and voice, he guessed she was a lady who’d doubtless soon regret her artlessness. And he was light-headed with pleasure at finding his oldest friend again. So he didn’t try to suppress a wicked impulse that came over him as suddenly as a sneeze. Instead of ignoring her momentary lapse and frank wide stare as a gentleman ought, or earnestly trying to press his acquaintance as a gentleman oughtn’t but a normal man might, he gave her a wide white smile and said as fervently as he was able, “Anything! Sweetheart, I’ll pardon you anything, if only you don’t say no to me.”
Of course, before he could go on to enumerate the things she should say yes to, she gasped, blinked, and, jolted from her rapt study of him, backed a pace, and then with a burst of bravery shivered past him and fled down the hall. Her form, in retreat, was so entrancing that when she’d opened the door to the private dining room she sought and glanced back, she discovered him still smiling at her bemusedly.
He found the next impulse irresistible as well. As she watched, he bowed as low to her as a cavalier of olden days would have done, sweeping the floor with his imaginary outstretched plumed hat in hand. At that, she wheeled about and so Warwick got to see only the back of her head as she firmly slammed the door on the pair of them.
“Oh, good,” Warwick said lightly, “there’s hope for me yet. I see there’s one female left in the world who’s refused you.”
“But I didn’t get a chance to tell her what I was offering,” the viscount explained, grinning.
“You never had to before,” his friend corrected him. “Now, can we find a room somewhere in this place where we can talk without distractions or even such diversions as that paragon of a girl? I want to help you, Julian,” he said, seriously, at last.
“I know,” the viscount said, saddened again, “but you cannot, my friend.”
2
The lovely blond girl looked down toward her toes, and from what could be seen of her averted, downcast profile, her lower lip was trembling. Her face had been pale to begin with, but now in her dejection she seemed lost as well as fragile, and as even her high-waisted gown was a study in deepest blue, she could, her guilty brother thought, have posed for the design on a funeral urn. He felt like a brute, and of course he knew he looked like one too.
But all he’d done was chide her after he’d heard her gasp and slam shut the door to their private parlor. He’d turned from taking himself an extra bit of that excellent nut cake when he’d heard her draw in her breath, and had only a momentary glimpse at the gentlemen in the hall before she’d closed the door in their faces.
“Of course you were met with insult, Susannah,” he’d said with some heat, after she’d explained. “I don’t know why you’re surprised, you’re lucky it was only a jest you attracted. I told you not to leave the room by yourself, you ought to have called your maid if you wanted to visit the necessary. The landlord said the place was all in a stew tonight, what with everyone and his uncle stranded on the road. Even though it’s a decent inn, if you’re going to stand like a gapeseed in the hallway, of course you were mocked, you deserved it.”
He hadn’t even thundered at her, he couldn’t. He’d frowned and deepened his voice, but still when he’d spoken he’d sounded more as if he were teasing than threatening her. But really, he thought on a sigh, she was such a charming little creature, it was impossible for him to get angry with her. It had always been that way. His own wife scolded him for it, saying that Susannah could run rings around him, and so she could. But not just because, as his good lady always added on a laugh, she reminded him so much of himself. As if he, a great balding, substantial man, could remotely resemble such a lovely creature, he’d always scoff in reply, although, as ever, there was a little hidden pleasure in the denial, since it was such a pleasant thought. For she was the beauty of the family.
Da had been fair-haired and light-skinned, and Mum had just that sort of delicate features and that heart-shaped face. It was the image of Da’s own snub nose that saved her face from perfection, making her beauty touching and human. But neither parent had possesse
d such cat-shaped eyes nor that impudent mouth, nor such grace and shapeliness in every limb and lineament. No, and neither did he or her other brother, though they both had her coloring and something of the look of her, so it could at least be believed they were related. But only that, for she was unique and as totally surprising in her appearance as she’d been in her initial appearance into the family, coming so late to them, and coming so lovely as well. Hadn’t Da himself said that it was as if her Maker had left her as an apology for taking her mum when she’d come? He’d never blamed her for Mum’s loss neither, for he’d always sighed that it was a treat to let his eyes rest on her at the end of a wearing day. And in truth, there was little enough beauty in the world, and when one found it, one oughtn’t to trample it, so the substantial blond gentleman gazed at the forlorn young woman, cleared his throat, and said, wheedling instead of reproving now, “Come, I never meant to make you cry. It’s only that the fellow likely found you pretty and was having a flirt in the only way he knew. Don’t take on, I didn’t mean to upset you, and if I did, why, I’m sorry for it, for there was no real harm done, Sukey,” he said anxiously when she didn’t raise her head, using her pet name to jolly her. “It isn’t the end of the world, give us a smile, won’t you, puss?”