Abraham hops from foot to foot, quieter than his ‘mamma’ but radiant at the prospect of trying out the new conveyance. Mrs Tuffnell has him tricked out in a miniature coachman’s cape to match the livery of the vehicle: red-and-white braid on blue broad-cloth, and bright gold buttons at the neck.
Having no particular place to go, and eager to postpone my interview at the inn as long as possible, I stand at a distance to watch the maiden journey, an awning on the side of a shoe-maker’s shop enabling me to stand unseen by Mrs Tuffnell, who has eyes only for her coach. She strokes the paintwork, opens and closes the door, exclaims at the artfulness of the design, and at last climbs in and waves to the onlookers, whose expressions are a mix of envy and admiration. The crowd grows, and the groom is puffed up with his own importance as he chases off a barefoot lad who runs up and touches the back of the coach for a dare to please his friends. An old fellow in a tattered military tunic stumps across and seems to ask questions about the manufacture of the undercarriage, while a street artist sets up his easel a few yards away, intent on making a hasty sketch of the scene. It is like a show at a fair, everyone amazed and excited and Mrs Tuffnell most of all, until I notice that the horses, fidgeting at the noise, are reluctant to enter the traces, and are only persuaded to do so after repeated efforts by the groom. He might better use soft words and bits of apple to coax them in, but instead he shouts and elbows their flanks, causing them to whinny and show their teeth, and in my opinion it serves him right if he is bitten.
The horses’ skittishness makes Mrs Tuffnell less eager to try her new possession. She confers with the coach-maker, who seems to propose that they delay the outing until the beasts are docile. But another idea occurs to her, and next thing she leads her page-boy forward, shaking her head and smiling reprovingly at his unhappy protests, and despite the child’s frightened looks, insists that he climb up to the driver’s seat and take the reins, so she can stand back and admire the spectacle of her two extraordinary gifts placed together.
The boy looks exceedingly unhappy, the horses flicking their tails and stamping to convey their discontent, his seat so many feet above the ground, and the reins, no doubt, a muddle in his hands.
The groom says something to Mrs Tuffnell, the coach-maker looks doubtful, whereupon the groom prods him lightly to dismiss his fears and goes across and kicks away the blocks.
The bays, twitching, sense the lack of hindrance and break into a gallop, causing the boy to scream as the coach leaps forward. Being light and newly oiled it speeds quicker than any vehicle I have seen in Bristol, the onlookers gasping with astonishment as it gains the end of the street before most have taken in its departure. The boy’s fear causes him to clutch the reins tighter instead of letting go; he is, though, pulled from his seat and very shortly onto his toes, as he strains every sinew to try and hold the horses back.
I break into a run instinctively, but have no hope of catching up. The coach hurtles towards the busiest quarter of the city as the terrified horses make for home. I glimpse them narrowly avoiding a line of market stalls, forced to slow when a timber cart crosses their path, and these obstacles give me enough time to reflect it may be possible to prevent the destruction of coach and driver. A memory of my father running to the aid of a runaway waggon flashes into my mind. Pushing back my bonnet I race past the outraged stallholders, and Providence is by my side, for just before the Market House is a slope, not long but steep, and I take a deep breath and bawl above the sound of the wheels.
‘Pull left, boy.’
Abraham shows no sign of hearing, and I repeat the words, screaming, and then, finally, God love him, he obeys, and the horses veer towards the rise, which, though it cannot stop them dead, slows them into a sweating, shaking trot. Next I gather my gown in my two hands like the country hoyden I used to be, and heedless of the mud and slippery footpath, sprint ‘til I am almost level with the horses and can smell the heat and foam of their heaving flanks, and then I make a drumming sound with my tongue, the same mysterious drumming that would startle Snowy and bring her up short when I was let to ride her by the person I do not think of any more, except when I cannot help it.
The horses’ ears prick, their eyes widen; they halt despite themselves. The groom, who has caught us up, lunges for the nearside bridle. It is over; the coach is at a stop.
‘Are you all right?’ The terrified child has fallen in a faint. ‘Abraham!’ I forget my dignity and hurl myself at the steps below the box, cursing my skirts for hampering me.
The boy might have slid sideways onto the stony road or forwards into the traces where the horses would have crushed him, but luckily he went backwards in his fit, and lies against the seat rest. When I reach him he mumbles and his eyelids open briefly. After a moment’s confusion he seems to know me, but his lips are blue and when I touch his hand it is deathly cold.
‘Poor mite. Let me help you down.’ I take him in my arms; he is alarmingly thin beneath his cape, and I wonder what his doting ‘mamma’ feeds him on. Dainty morsels better suited to ladies than to growing children. Though he is eight years old or more I manage him easily, and when we are stood on the road he huddles against me like a puppy and does not let me go.
Mrs Tuffnell arrives at the scene at last, her cheeks blotched with crimson.
‘Careless, foolish wretch. You could have wrecked my brand-new coach and broken the horses’ necks.’ Her hand flies out and she slaps his cheek. I am shocked to see that rather than provoke his mamma’s wrath anew by crying, the child’s face closes, and he neither speaks nor makes a sound though tears stand in his eyes. I hear my mother warning me to hold my tongue, but my temper is up at the sight of such injustice.
‘Madam, no child could hold back bolting horses. He’s lucky to be alive.’
She stares at me. ‘I know you. You brought that—trifling letter from Mr Wharton.’
‘I did, Madam. Miss Amesbury, Madam. Won’t you take pity on your page? He’s had such a fright.’
Mrs Tuffnell pinches her lips, turns pale, seems to vie with herself as to what to say.
‘He tried his best to stop the horses, Madam. I daresay you couldn’t see from where you stood, but I could see.’
When she speaks her anger is in retreat.
‘You are right, I suppose. I waited so long to see the coach completed, impatience got the better of me.’ She affects not to notice Abraham stiffening at her touch, but wraps him in her arms and covers his head with kisses. ‘Poor child, was Mamma thoughtless? Forgive her, won’t you? Here, kiss me and tell me you are better now, and this was a foolish interlude best forgot. Mr Roach?’ She turns to the groom. ‘Walk the coach and horses back to the workshop. My husband will be there in a quarter-hour, and I daresay he need not know about this mishap. Abraham, you have no cause to weep.’ She presses on him a handkerchief. ‘You are a brave boy. When Papa arrives you mustn’t tell him you were so bold as to drive the new coach by yourself. You will sit inside with me and Papa, and let Mr Roach drive us home. Do you understand?’
I expect Abraham to agree without demur, but he must be afraid still, for he shakes his head and tears drip down his cheeks.
‘Please. Mamma,’ he adds, before she can remind him of the title she prefers. ‘May I walk home? I’ll ride in the coach tomorrow, I promise. Don’t make me now, please.’
‘Nonsense. The way to go on after a fright is to face the cause of it. You will ride home with us; I shan’t hear another word.’
Abraham falls to the ground and writhes weeping at her feet. I can tell when there is no use reasoning with a child, and break in again.
‘Madam, should I not take the boy back to Wine-street? It would be a pity to mar Mr Tuffnell’s pleasure in seeing the new coach.’
Mrs Tuffnell frowns; she taps her foot. ‘I suppose there is something in what you say. Very well, take him back and wait in the yard for my return. Here,’ she fumbles in her purse and brings out a coin. ‘As you say, it would be a pity if Mr Tuffnell were t
o imagine Pug had come near to injuring the coach. Let us make sure he hears no word of it.’
I crouch at the boy’s side, and help him to his feet. ‘You gave yourself a fright, Master,’ I say, squeezing his shoulder gently. I might have rather said, Your vain and foolish mistress nearly brought about your death. ‘Shall we go home to Barbuda House? Come, you and I will walk together and I will tell you about a little boy I knew who you would have liked very much if you had met him.’
By the time I have finished this speech the boy has dried his eyes and Mrs Tuffnell is watching with a smile—not so much admiring my success as glad she need not explain the drama to her husband.
‘We will wait at the coach-makers for Mr Tuffnell, Mr Roach and I.’ She glances back to the cross-roads where the High-street meets the Corn. ‘Very well, girl, take him home.’
Chapter Fifteen
In the yard at Barbuda House Abraham tugs my hand.
‘Will you come in, Miss? Just for a little while.’
‘I can’t. Not without an invitation from the lady of the house.’
‘Oh, please,’ he wheedles. Away from Mrs Tuffnell his recovery is swift. ‘I’ve something that will amaze you, truly. The servants are on their half-holiday, none will know. Wait here for me.’ He indicates a small tiled passageway leading to the offices. Then he darts inside and I can hear his footsteps clatter up the stairs.
When he reappears my heart leaps into my mouth. He bears a silver collar, engraved with ‘Abraham’ in large capitals.
The boy unclasps the fastening. ‘Won’t you try it on?’
‘I had rather not,’ I say, laughing, but to please him I stoop and he carefully places the collar about my neck.
The silver is cold and heavy and exceedingly uncomfortable.
‘I can’t see my feet,’ I say, as my jaw catches on the rim. The collar is four inches wide, and not generously made; it pinches my throat.
‘Last time she tried to make me wear it I struggled until she gave up and had me whipped.’
‘Take it off, please, Abraham. It will look very bad if Mrs Tuffnell suddenly returns.’
‘Ha! She has the key.’ He sees my face and looks ashamed. ‘I have a spare, Mistress, here it is. Keep still.’ He stands on tiptoe, unlocks the catch with a tiny silver key, and removes the device, taking care not to snag my hair as he does so.
‘Come while I put it back. Don’t be afraid, no one will see us. Mr Tuffnell has a pair of elephants carved in ivory that you would like very much, and a book of tinted pictures of all kinds of animals found in Africa.’
It seems so long since I saw a book, never mind one with pictures in it, that I cannot resist.
‘Very well, only we must be quick.’
He leads me up to a small parlour furnished with two carved chairs, a small round tea-table, a green plush sofa, and a shelf of books, among them the Bible and Foxe’s Martyrs, but also a volume as handsomely bound and gilded as any I have seen. Abraham takes it down as casually as if it were his plaything.
‘Be careful, Master. I hope your hands are clean.’
He casts up his eyes, props the book on the table, and with his tongue between his teeth turns the pages until he finds what he is looking for.
‘Look at these,’ he says, stroking the paper. ‘Parrots are found everywhere in Africa. When I was very young my father told me about the parrot he owned before the English captured him. It was tame, and could say its name and count to twenty.’ Abraham squawks. ‘Koro, Koro.’
‘I should love to see a parrot. What beautiful creatures.’ The picture is of a flock of birds perching in a bare-branched tree, their plumage vivid green and softest grey.
Abraham seizes the book and leafs through it. ‘This is a giraffe. And this one here a crocodile.’
Together we pore over a dozen pictures, each more vivid than the last. Encouraged by my interest, Abraham roars like a lion, lumbers like a hippopotamus, and finally leaps around the tea-table in imitation of a gazelle, before closing the book and returning it to the shelf.
‘Abraham, I must go, indeed I’ve stayed too long. We’ll be in trouble if I’m found.’
‘You can’t leave until I have shown you Mr Tuffnell’s ivory elephants.’ He crosses to a small oak press I had not noticed, and proceeds to draw back the doors. They are stiff and heavy, and I am about to insist he lets them alone when the door to the parlour flies open.
Chapter Sixteen
‘Don’t move an inch, girl, or I will strike.’ Mrs Tuffnell holds an iron poker in her hand. ‘Abraham, run for help.’
I fall to my knees. ‘I’m no thief, Madam, I swear. Please, Madam, I told the child I shouldn’t come inside the house, but he begged me so. I was about to go, I promise you I was. The boy wanted to show me the book and the elephants, Mrs Tuffnell, I shouldn’t have agreed to it, I am very sorry.’
She brings down the poker on my shoulder, and the pain is so searing I cry out. ‘Artful girl!’ she exclaims. ‘To take advantage of a child. I suppose you pricked the horses’ withers to make them bolt, purely to impress me with your quickness. I am no fool; you will be sorry you tried to deceive me!’ She delivers another blow that sends me reeling, though fortunately she uses her fist this time, or she would surely render me unconscious.
She is armed, and heavier than me, and her temper is up. My only hope is to throw myself on her mercy. ‘Madam, I ought not to have come in, I know I shouldn’t. I took pity on your boy, he seemed lonely and the mishap with the coach had unsettled him. I was just about to go, as soon as he’d showed me his master’s book of marvels.’
Mrs Tuffnell nods at Abraham. ‘Is this true? If so, I shall whip you for bringing a stranger to the house.’
God bless the child, for it must be sorely tempting to cast the blame on me, but Abraham speaks calmly, his large brown eyes fixed on Mrs Tuffnell. ‘I begged her to come in though she said she should not. I wanted to show her the book and my silver collar. It was my fault, Madam, don’t punish her.’
Perhaps his docile reference to the collar helps my case, but whatever the reason Mrs Tuffnell’s anger fades as quickly as it rose, and still eyeing me with some suspicion she slowly puts down the poker on the hearth. ‘You are lucky, Mistress, I choose to believe him. As for you, Pug, you may look forward to a beating when your guest has gone.’
There is none of the rebelliousness I saw from Abraham earlier. He takes himself unbidden to a corner and stands with his face turned to the wall, hands clasped behind his back.
‘I was wrong and foolish, Mrs Tuffnell,’ I say, trying my best to sound truly contrite. ‘I pray you, don’t treat the lad too harshly, he only hoped to entertain me.’
‘Time you were on your way.’ Mrs Tuffnell unties her hat strings and begins to unfasten her gloves. Then she stops and looks at Abraham’s bowed head.
‘You have a useful effect upon my black boy, I must say. I tire of whipping him to make him quiet. I never saw him so meek.’
‘He’s been very civil with me, indeed he’s a credit to you, Madam.’
Mrs Tuffnell addresses Abraham’s back. ‘Then you’d better continue to be civil when your friend has gone. Oh, come here, child. Don’t cry.’ For two large tears splash the floor at the boy’s feet, and once more Mrs Tuffnell repents of her severity. She steps across and takes his chin in her palm. ‘Dry your eyes. If you leave me in peace awhile I may forget my anger. Stand quietly and we will see if you still require a whipping in another hour.’
I dip a curtsey. ‘I should be on my way, Madam.’
‘Yes, though I would be obliged if you would help me with these wretched buttons.’ Her gloves are fastened with tiny pearls, and she struggles to undo them. ‘And my boots. Would you unlace them, Miss Amesbury?’ Once I have done so, she stretches out her toes. ‘That’s right, gloves on the side-table, if you please—boots by the door. If you could hang my coat on that peg, Mistress, and pass my shawl. There.’ She yawns extravagantly. ‘I miss a maid to help me with
small things. Abraham is all very well, but he can’t attend me as Hannah did.’
I make sure to give no sign I have heard the name before. ‘Hannah, Madam?’
‘A rude, disagreeable girl who I was forced to turn away. She was impertinent, and encouraged him to be so.’ Mrs Tuffnell jerks her head in Abraham’s direction. ‘However, I will allow that Hannah knew her way around a lady’s wardrobe.’
It is extraordinary to hear myself, not two minutes after Mrs Tuffnell threatened me, saying, ‘I believe I can claim the same, Madam. I nursed my Cousin Mary, a gentlewoman, and she owned seven gowns, six petticoats, and I had charge of everything.’
She narrows her eyes. ‘Lord, you’re a child. I doubt you can launder and press linen. Or starch lace. Let alone darn hose.’
‘I can do all those and more, Madam. My father was a husbandman, and Mother taught us to make butter, and cheese, raise chickens, sew and brew and bake and clean and do all the work a housewife does.’
Mrs Tuffnell contemplates me kindly. ‘You are an honest, hard-working farm-girl, but hardly have the higher skills I require. I run a manufactory in my still-room. Notwithstanding her many vices Hannah was an excellent servant when it came to assisting me. You can’t claim knowledge of producing the aids to beauty that are my stock in trade.’
My confidence deserts me. ‘I can’t, Madam, no.’
Mrs Tuffnell nods, but then, without warning, her frown vanishes and her mood alters to a kind of restless enthusiasm. She turns to Abraham, addressing him archly as if she forgets she has ordered him to stand still. ‘But what are we doing, Pug, omitting to show Miss Amesbury our still-room? Newly arrived from the country she would find it vastly interesting. We must take her at once.’ She holds up a key hanging from her waist. ‘Come, Mistress.’
A Pair of Sharp Eyes Page 13