Enter Several More Ladies & Gentlemen

8

Enter Several More Ladies & Gentlemen

    Major Martin’s daughter held her chin very high and tried to smile. “I shall write, of course, immediately I get there.” Her papa’s Dearborn cousins had written a kind letter to say that of course she must come to them, and as, quite fortuitously, they were expecting Miss Fanny’s and Miss Deirdre’s new governess, a Miss Skate, this very month, Cressida must travel down from London with her. The stage would take them as far as Axminster, where they would be met for the journey to Sidmouth and thence to Sandy Bay.

    Much poring over Mr Hartington’s map, and the rather muddled advice of Mr Peebles, who claimed to have delivered documents as far abroad as Exmouth, had decided them that it would be more than one stage coach. And it was to be hoped that this Miss Skate knew the changes, noted Mr Buxleigh heavily. Several persons had pointed out, though without much conviction, that if the Dearborns were real gentry they would send a coach; or at least the wherewithal for Miss Martin and Miss Skate to travel post. No-one had paid much attention: whoever heard of gentry sending a coach for a governess? There had been a fierce argument as to whether the first stage coach would be the Southampton one or not: Mr Peebles, apparently on the score of his recent journey, holding out that it would; and Mr Lefayne and Mr Vanburgh, apparently on the score of once having done a provincial tour in that direction themselves, holding out for Salisbury, and thence Yeovil. The arrival of Miss Skate, an angular, anxious personality, had resulted in a victory for Mr Peebles: Southampton, on to Bournemouth, then another change for the long stretch across Dorset.

    Somewhat unfortunately Miss Skate had given the appearance, from the vantage point of Mr Buxleigh’s sitting-room window, of an entirely inoffensive person, and so he had let her in and graciously introduced himself and Mrs Pontifex without reflecting that possibly she might be under the impression that Miss Martin was staying in the care of a Mr and Mrs Porteous. The which had rather nipped in the bud any plan that the Porteous pair might accompany Miss Martin on part of her journey. It was easy enough to tell Miss Skate that Mr and Mrs Porteous were out, just for the day. But now what should they do?

    “You blamed FOOL, Beau!” shouted Mrs Hetty angrily, as Mr Deane returned from politely putting Miss Skate into a hackney coach for the journey back to her lodgings. And from informing Fred Hinks that he damned well could not have a sixpence for fetching the said coach: what did he think he got his room and board for? And that personally he did not care if Mr Lefayne was in the habit of giving him a golden guinea, let alone a sixpence, for fetching his damned coaches: he, Daniel Deane, was not such a noddy.

    “Yes,” he agreed, glaring at Mr Buxleigh.

    “Sid would of coughed up the gelt for it; now what’ll we do?” shouted Mrs Hetty.

    The Major’s daughter protested that she would be perfectly all right in the company of Miss Skate, but no-one listened. Mr Buxleigh was protesting loudly that anyone might have made the slip, and he had not been Porteous for weeks, and that no-one else had volunteered to get the door, and that she looked harmless, how was he to know, and Mrs Hetty was telling him what a fool he was, and Mr Deane was agreeing, and various episodes from Mr Buxleigh’s past probably best forgotten were being raked up… It went on for some time.

    Finally Mr Deane concluded angrily: “And if Miss Martin don’t turn up at the staging inn with a Porteous or two in tow, the female will know there’s something smoky!”

    And there was a glum silence.

    “Vic, maybe?” suggested Mr Deane cautiously at last. “And Margery could take Mrs P.”

    “But we was going to go with her, Daniel,” said Mr Buxleigh miserably. “At least ’alf the way. Well, depending on what Sid was ready to shout for.”

    “Well, it’s too damned late, isn’t it?” he retorted sourly.

    “Vic could go down— Oh, no, dammit, he’s got an engagement,” said Mr Buxleigh lamely.

    Mr Deane gave him an unpleasant look. “Quite. Likewise myself and Sid.”

    “Well— No, wouldn’t do for Margery to go alone. And in any case, she won’t want to miss out, if Harold starts casting for the summer. Should have made Mrs Porteous a widow,” said the Beau sadly.

    Mrs Hetty gave him an evil look. “Wish I’d thought of it.”

    Further and prolonged consultation eventually resulted in the decision that Briggsy could escort Miss Martin. According to Mrs Lilian, he was heading back to his blamed buckles in any case.

    “And I could yet be sent down that way,” said Mr Peebles optimistically.

    “Peebles, shut yer mouth,” said Mr Buxleigh heavily.

    Mr Peebles looked anxiously round the assembled lodgers but as everyone seemed entirely in accord with Mr Buxleigh except for Miss Martin, who had gone very pink and was looking very anxious, and Mr Bagshot, who was looking anguished, he did shut his mouth.

    “I knew it!” said Mrs Hetty crossly as Mr Buxleigh, as himself, and Mr Vanburgh, as Porteous, courteously handed Miss Martin and Miss Skate up into the stage. “That Peebles hasn’t even turned up!”

    “I did say good-bye to him last night,” said Miss Martin from the window.

    Mrs Hetty snorted, but perforce stood back as a cross voice cried: “Excuse us, if you please, madam!” And two large persons in black coats pushed their way onto the stage, ignoring a thin woman with a little girl who was just about to get up. Courteously Mr Lefayne, there as himself though rather blue about the chin, handed them in; and the flustered mother, unaware that she had just received a signal favour for which fine ladies might—nay, did—vie, sank into the seat opposite Miss Martin’s, adjuring the little girl somewhat breathlessly to give over whining, Mirabelle, do!

    And after that there was scarcely time for farewells at all, for with a lot of shouted orders the coachman mounted to his seat, the roof passengers mounted to theirs, a few last pieces of luggage were hoisted up, the last rug was whisked off the last nag, the guard blew a resounding blast on his horn, and with a terrific creaking and jolting and clattering of shod hooves on the cobbles of London town, they were off.

    “Good-bye!” cried Miss Martin, waving hard. “Thank you all so much!”

    “They won’t hear you, me dear: too much racket,” advised Mr Briggs, as the buckle-maker’s name had now been revealed to be, nevertheless waving a large spotted handkerchief vigorously in the direction of Mrs Deane, and crying: “Good-bye, and bless you!” He blew his nose hard on the spotted handkerchief.

    “I shall miss them so much,” she owned, as the lumbering coach swayed out of the yard and into the street, and the little group of waving actors was lost to view. “They were all very kind to me,” she explained to Miss Skate.

    “And lucky you were, Miss Martin, to find such caring acquaintance,” said the angular governess, shaking her head. “For such is not the lot of all, in this weary way we tread below.”

    “Below what?” asked Mr Briggs in bewilderment.

    “Here below, sir,” she said repressively.

    “’Ere below?” he echoed in his Devon burr, rolling the R very much. “Ah! I get your drift. Very true, ma’am, that do be very true.” He shook his head sadly but immediately embarked on a cheerful tale involving a fellow tradesman in his home town, and the crowd of friends who, having proven their worth in the time of the man’s misfortune, were duly rewarded every Friday now that his circumstances had improved, by being invited to eat their mutton at his board. Regular as clockwork! The regularity seeming to be a cause of even greater approval than the mutton.

    Major Martin’s daughter, truth to tell, did not listen very much. She leaned her head back, wondering when she would see all her kind friends from Mr Buxleigh’s lodging house again; and what the Dearborn cousins would be like; and, just a little, why Mr Peebles had not managed to come to see her off on the stage. For he had seemed so very sure that he would be able to be there. And even Mr Bagshot, with his wig on and his face powdered, had been there to wave good-bye.

    “This is Southampton, you see, me dear,” explained Mr Briggs kindly. Once out of the orbit of the sultry Mrs Deane, Mr Briggs was proving himself to be a very grandfatherly person indeed. As the journey proceeded and Mr Briggs showered her, Miss Skate, little Mirabelle Perkins, and anyone else who would accept them, with oranges and comfits (with both of which he had liberally provided himself for the journey), and glasses of whatever was offering at their frequent halts, Miss Martin had to remind herself that any approval one might have felt of him had to be tempered by the recently revealed fact that there was a Mrs Briggs—yes. Hale and hearty and the grandmother of, taking into account the offspring of Joey Briggs on the one hand, and Pheemie Hutton, née Briggs, on the other, seven in all.

    As it was very obvious that this was Southampton, the guard having shouted it several times, she merely nodded and smiled at Mr Briggs, and waited for him to organise their party, which seemed permanently to have been augmented by Mrs Perkins and Mirabelle, into getting down from the stage and into the inn, and there getting a meal into themselves. Which he duly did. Subsequently organising them all, for the Bournemouth stage did not leave until the following morning, into suitable accommodation. The which would be better for the purse if shared: so Miss Martin, Miss Skate, the wicker hamper, Mrs Perkins and Mirabelle all went into a bedroom. Where Mrs Perkins explained, very apologetically indeed, that Mirabelle snored a bit. Troilus’s mistress admitted with a twinkle in her eye that Troilus did, too. Though kindly not admitting that, as she had now discovered, so did Miss Skate.

    Whether or not anyone snored, the journey was proving so exhausting that they all fell asleep immediately and did not wake the next morning until there was thunderous knock at their door, and a tousled, yawning maidservant entered with a can of hot water and the news that if they wanted their breakfasts, they had best stir their stumps, for the Bournemouth stage always left on time.

    Miss Mirabelle was very disconcerted, on mounting into the stage, to find that they were all different! And what with its having to be explained to her, several times over, that not everybody from the Southampton stage was coming on to Axminster, and did she not remember that So-and-So and had got down at Such-and-Such, they were well on their way before any of their party had really realised it. Mr Briggs then produced comfits, noting that as they were on a journey, no-one need mention that they’d just had their breakfasts. So Mirabelle, Mrs Perkins, Miss Martin and Miss Skate all kept Mr Briggs company in the comfits; as, indeed, did a thin Mr Gregg, quickly revealed to be journeying to Bournemouth for a bequest, the which certainly explained the giant black band on his spindly arm, and a bewildered-looking Miss Ames, going to a lady near her aunty’s to be cook-general. Very soon there was an interruption, as Miss Martin's basket was seen to agitate itself; and, Mr Briggs having explained kindly to the company that the little dog had plucked up his courage, for it did take him a time to get used to strangers, he was permitted to emerge.

    As on the previous leg of the journey, it was scarcely possible, in the company of the gregarious and garrulous Mr Briggs, for anyone who might have felt that way inclined to fall into the dismals. Even Miss Skate, though clearly inclined to melancholy, the which was not specifically justified by her current situation, as she had just come from a very good position and was going to another, but which might have been more generally attributed to her lot in life, became almost lively in his kindly company; well, she certainly imparted enough facts about her previous employment and own family. Mrs Perkins did not appear happy, even when Mirabelle was behaving herself nicely, not whining, and not asking for things she could not have; but that was attributable to the sad fact that Mr Perkins had been took orf, and that she was going to his ma and pa. Who ran a tavern just outside of Axminster, and whom she and Mirabelle had never met. Happy or not, however, she told Mr Briggs, and incidentally the whole coachful, very many details about their life in London and the sad fates of all of her own family except Granfer Watkins and Aunty Lil, what would of taken them, only she had seven of her own.

    The thin Mr Gregg, who did not appear to be precisely mournful about his bequest, likewise pretty soon imparted every detail of his life to the interested Mr Briggs; and so did the bewildered-looking Miss Ames. It was, decided Major Martin’s daughter silently, no wonder that she looked bewildered: she was fifteen years of age and had never been away from home before in her life. And had no more notion of where Bournemouth might be, let alone where it might be in relation to Southampton, than she had of where the moon might be. Well, less: at least the moon was generally visible of a clear night! Firmly she got the direction of Miss Ames’s aunty and wrote it down, ignoring Mr Briggs’s hiss of: “That won’t do no good, me dear!” and Miss Skate’s genteel, and very English, murmur of: “C’est inutile, Mlle Martin: parce que vous ne la verrez plus, vous savez. Et il faut qu’elle travaille pour gagner sa vie, vous savez.” The which reduced the coach to goggling silence.

    Mr Briggs having explained helpfully that this was Bournemouth, the party was enabled to realise that they were arrived. And after several persons had helpfully informed Miss Mirabelle that they would not see all these, on the next stage, and had been deafened by the enraged scream of “I KNOW!”, they were at last able to get down. Miss Mirabelle being considerably mollified by the presentation by a Mrs Hughes, a roof passenger who had got on at the last halt, of a sweetmeat and the information that she was a clever girl. “I’m a clever girl,” she reminded them thickly, through it. Mr Gregg looked as if he might have liked to argue, but did not; and Miss Ames was looking about her in a terrified way, for she did not know whether her aunty intentioned meeting her or not, and paid no heed; and the other passengers who were leaving them at Bournemouth or transferring to another stage were anxiously making sure that what should be happening to their baggage was happening; and Miss Skate was anxiously urging Mr Briggs to make quite sure that their baggage came off, for a close friend of hers, a Miss Worthington, in the same profession as herself, had once had a very unfortunate experience indeed with the York stage. So only Miss Martin, who had been ordered by Mr Briggs to hang on to that there Troilus’s hamper and leave the rest to him, was able to agree sympathetically that Miss Perkins was, indeed, a clever girl.

    Their little party had a full day in which to enjoy the salubrious airs of Bournemouth, for the stage for Axminster by way of Dorchester did not leave until the following day. At Miss Martin’s insistence they found the address of Miss Ames’s aunty, and ascertained that Miss Ames’s new employer was indeed the sort of employer to whom a girl of fifteen might safely be entrusted. The which she certainly was, for, as the aunty explained most readily, she was the wife of a respectable man what had gone up in the world and not above lending a hand in the kitchen herself. And had promised to learn up Maryanne until she could cook fit for a king! Forthwith putting on her bonnet and leading them round to the address. And as none of their party were too proud to sit in a kitchen, they tapped at the back door, and thereupon spent a pleasant half-hour with Miss Ames, her very small helper, by name Harriet Murchison, and an amiable person whose proper rôle, it might have been surmised, was something in the garden, for he certainly came in from there, with a great basket of greens and the news that the hens were laying like nobody’s business. They were about to go, for Harriet Murchison had informed them that Mistress usual had a tray of tea about now, and Miss Ames had begun to bustle about to get it, when the kitchen door opened and Mistress herself came in. Many mistresses might have been annoyed to find that their new cook-general was entertaining a crowd of visitors in the kitchen, but Maryanne Ames’s new mistress was very pleased to meet them, glad that Miss Ames had kind friends to take an interest in her welfare, and delighted to see Miss Ames’s aunty again, forthwith pressing half of the greens and a dozen eggs upon her.

    “That,” noted Mr Briggs as they set off for the inn again with a parcel of fruit-cake for the morrow’s journey and another parcel of meaty bones for Troilus, “do be a true lady. You may say that a fellow may be one of Nature’s gentlemen; well, that do be one of Nature’s ladies, me dears!”

    With which the whole party agreed most heartily. Even Miss Martin, who had not heard the phrase before.

    And thus, very early the next morning, they were enabled to climb into the stage coach with easy consciences. A large number of persons seemed to be catching the stage, and there was a terrific hustle and bustle, for not all of these persons seemed to have booked their passages, and the guard and the driver both became embroiled in an acrimonious argument with, on the one hand, two male persons with cut-velvet waistcoats and bulging portmanteaux, and, on the other, a stout man and his stouter wife, the latter couple maintaining that they had booked passages inside and the guard maintaining that they had not, and there was no room for them. A certain amount of head-counting then took place, Miss Skate meanwhile murmuring in Miss Martin’s ear that she doubted if it were strictly legal to cram as many as eight persons inside—the which seemed to be the guard’s intention. Eventually the male persons with the waistcoats, and their portmanteaux also, were accommodated on the roof; and, the guard having announced there was room for one more inside, a burly, blue-chinned man who had come on from Southampton volunteered to go on the roof again, noting that it was no skin off his nose. Though looking rather hard at the stout man’s nose as he said it.

    “Don’t you bother, we can fit two in here,” advised Mr Briggs kindly.

    Heads were counted again, and the stout couple got in. Whereupon the guard thrust his head in and said crossly: “There ain’t no room! We’re expecting another gent, and if ’e don’t come, you can ’ave it,”—this to the stout man—“only don’t go for to tell me you’ve booked, acos I know you ’aven’t!” Forthwith withdrawing his head again.

    The inside passengers had just decided that the stout man could have the place, for the guard’s horn had been sounded and a very young gentleman who had dallied on the cobblestones drinking a sustaining tankard of something or another had hurriedly flung himself at the vehicle and scrambled up to the roof, when the guard shouted to the coachman: “Whoa, Ned!”—though Ned had not actually put the horses in motion as yet—and the coach door was flung open to reveal—

    “’Morning—Miss—Martin!”

    “Mr Peebles!” she gasped.

    Mr Peebles panted and tried to take his hat off and bow and get into the coach all at once.

    “Get orf! No room!” cried several persons.

    “This do be the feller that missed us in Lunnon, hey?” noted Mr Briggs. “There’s no room here, Peebles: get up on the roof,” he ordered.

    Panting and bowing, Mr Peebles was about to do that, when the guard reappeared, looking very cross. “You’re lucky we stopped for you,” he said severely.

    “Yes, sir!” gasped Mr Peebles.

    “This is the passenger what’s booked,” said the guard to the inside passengers in accents of strong disapproval, “so one of you can get out; and I don’t care which, only there ain’t room for the lot. And since you,” he said, fixing the stout man with a horrid bulging blue eye, “ain’t booked—”

    “Give over,” said the blue-chinned man. “I’ll go on the roof; said it was no skin off my nose, din’ I?”

    Mr Peebles protested, but was overborne. And the blue-chinned man got out and Mr Peebles took his place, wedged in beside Miss Skate.

    And with terrific shouting, and cracking of the whip, and repeated blasts on the horn, the which possibly functioned more as a relief to the guard’s feelings than anything, for there was no other vehicle in sight on a sleepy May morning in Bournemouth, they were off at last.

    Eventually Mr Peebles, having meekly waited whilst other persons had their say on several topics, largely centred around the fact of the stout couple’s having booked, was able to explain that he had indeed been sent to Bournemouth with documents, and the firm had decided at the last moment that he should carry on into Devonshire in order to deliver more, and collect some others, at Exeter. Quite a large town, or so he was reliably informed, and contained several most respectable legal orfices. The stout man immediately lodging an objection to this last expression, for he had had doings with the law himself and lived to regret it, the conversation became very lively indeed. And Mr Peebles subsided meekly once more.

    At the midday halt, over a sustaining meal of hot steak and kidney pie with great quantities of mashed potato, Miss Martin was at last able to speak to him, and ask him how he had managed to get down to Bournemouth. Mr Peebles explained meekly that he had come on horseback. What was sometimes required if the orfice had urgent documents.

    “Lor’, and we thought you come post!” said Mr Briggs with a wink.

    “Oh, well, to tell the absolute truth, sir, I come in my racing curricle and four, with changes of teams all the way,” replied Mr Peebles primly.

    The company collapsing in gratifying splutters at this outrageous joke, Mr Peebles brightened amazingly, and was emboldened to offer them all a glass of what they fancied. Miss Mirabelle fancied porter but was duly flattened by her mother and Mr Briggs in concert. So, very kindly, Mr Peebles suggested that the inn might have a drink called orgeat, which he knew grand ladies sometimes took. And which was very sweet and nice.

    “You’ll be giving the lass ideas above ’er station, Peebles,” noted Mr Briggs tolerantly.

    Much abashed, Mr Peebles begged Mrs Perkins’s pardon.

    “Well,” she said, blushing shyly, “she can ’ave it, if so be as they’ve got it, sir. Thanking you kindly.”

    “It do be a respectable house; dare say as they cater for gentry,” allowed Mr Briggs tolerantly, attracting the waiter’s notice without effort. “This gent is offering us what we fancies,” he explained, “and if you’ve got orgeat, the little lass’ll have a glass. Well, dare say as the ladies might care for it, too, hey?”

    The waiter granted that he would see, and returned after an interval to say that they did have it, and Mistress said it were like a cordial, what you watered down, or some would call for fresh milk with it. And had had a grand lord and two ladies in only last month, what had lapped it up like lambs! But no, ma’am—to Miss Martin’s enquiry—he couldn’t say if the water or the milk might be best. Mr Peebles was looking bewildered, so Mr Briggs ordered it up briskly with milk, explaining kindly to the company, as the waiter went to fetch it, that you did have to make up such fellows’ minds for them.

    The Major’s daughter avoided Mr Peebles’s eye. For it did seem that on many occasions, persons such as Mr Briggs had to make up his for him, also.

    It having been determined, not merely that Dorchester was Dorchester and though the driver would change the coach would carry on to Bridport and Axminster, and it having been further determined that it was all change at Axminster, acos the Devon stages did the Devon routes, and even Mr Peebles having got Mr Briggs’s point that this here stage would turn around and come on back across Dorset, the company was enabled to grasp that the stage would get into Axminster at dead of night. The which, if you didn’t mind the long haul, was right convenient, as not necessitating more delays on the way.

    It was, indeed, a long and weary haul across Dorset, but finally they were arrived, and it was all change at Axminster.

    “Huh!” pronounced Mr Briggs, as, the passengers having all got down, the baggage having all been unloaded, Mrs Perkins and the blinking, half-awake Mirabelle having been enveloped in huge hugs by a red-cheeked, immensely stout woman and a red-cheeked, immensely stout man and carried off triumphantly in a waggon, and a loud shouting match between the guard and a cross man in an apron in re the transport of some crates of hens having ended, the yard of the Axminster staging inn emptied, and it became clear that there was no-one to meet Miss Martin and Miss Skate.

    “They may be indoors,” ventured Miss Martin.

    “Only if they do be deaf, me dear! –Come along, then, we’ll see.” Mr Briggs led the way into the inn. A search of the parlours and taproom having produced no-one that was expecting to meet two ladies, he concluded: “If you were a Briggs, it would not never ’ave happened. Come along, we’ll get off home, they’ll ’ave decided to collect you tomorrow. –Peebles, you’d better come with us, no sense in throwing your gelt away on a room here! Don’t tell me it’s the firm’s gelt, neither, for we all knows that there do be nothing so tight-fisted as your Lunnon lawyer!” Forthwith he loaded the party into a hire coach and bore them off triumphantly.

    Mrs Briggs was a most grandmotherly person indeed, apple-cheeked, white-haired and beaming under a spotless frilled white cap; and very soon, after a delicious supper, had Miss Martin tucked up in linen sheets that smelled of lavender. And Troilus, very full of good Devon beef, snoring on the end of the bed. With Miss Skate next-door, quite overcome to find herself in a room to herself with a little fire burning in the grate to cheer it up.

    “I know you be a lady, me dear,” said the kindly Mrs Briggs next morning, serving them an enormous breakfast with her own hands, “but if these fine relations don't turn out to be good people, you mind you come to us!” She nodded the spotless cap hard at her.

    “And so say all of us,” agreed Mr Briggs.

    Miss Martin expressed her immense gratitude for the offer; in which she was ably supported by Mr Peebles and Miss Skate. Though the latter assured them that the Dearborns were most genteel persons.

    “Genteel is as genteel does,” noted Mr Briggs firmly.

    And very shortly after that they were off, in Mr Briggs’s own trap.

    “No carriage,” discerned Mr Peebles with a frown as they reached the inn.

    “Still early,” opined Mr Briggs, squinting at the sky. “And if they set off from down Sidmouth way, dare say they may be a while, yet.”

    “Sandy Bay is the exact direction,” said Miss Skate dubiously.

    “Ah. Don’t know it. Well, come along in, dare say we could sit down in comfort while we’re waiting! Now, the Exeter stage, it don’t leave until afternoon,” he said to Mr Peebles.

    “So you said, sir. I shall wait until I see Miss Martin safe, in any case,” replied the clerk firmly.

    Patting Mr Peebles approvingly on his shoulder, Mr Briggs steered his party into the inn.

    It was well towards noon when a tousled man in a grimy jerkin poked his head into the parlour and growled: “Party for Sidmouth?”

    Mr Peebles got up. “Whom are you expecting?” he said in a remarkably grim voice.

    “They done told me, two females. Going to Sidmouth. That do be all I knows. Five shilling each,” he said indifferently.

    Mr Briggs bounced up. “The ladies’ passages do be prepaid, and don’t you go for to try that one on me!”

    “Five shilling each, or they don’t get in,” he replied flatly.

    Mr Peebles pushed past him, and vanished.

    There was a short silence. The tousled one looked at the ladies indifferently, and sucked his teeth, what time Mr Briggs glared.

    Mr Peebles returned. “It is the filthiest carriage I have ever laid eyes on. That a self-respecting London hackney-carriage driver would scorn to own.”

    The tousled man spat. “Lunnon!”

    Mr Briggs scratched his head. “A carriage do be better than a cart or waggon, Peebles.”

    “Ah,” said the tousled man with satisfaction. “And if you want a ’oire carriage, there do be only me, in the ’ole of Sidmouth. Now!”

    “That is what we call in the law a monopoly, Miss Martin,” said Mr Peebles grimly. “This fellow is taking advantage of the lack of competing drivers. But I assure you it is a carriage what a respectable person would only enter if in, as we say h’in the law, extremis.”

    Possibly influenced by the repetition of the word “law”, the tousled man had begun to edge towards the door.

    “We’ll hire you something decent, Miss Martin,” decided Mr Briggs firmly.

    She took a deep breath. “If the Dearborns are expecting us to arrive with this man, I think we should do so. –Was it the Dearborns, who asked you to collect us?” she asked him politely.

    “That Alf Hollis from Sandy Bay. Dessay he do work for a Mr Dearborn or some such,” he allowed grudgingly. “And I were to say, as he’ll collect you from the George.”

    “That do be the inn, and quite a decent house, if Sidmouth be no more than a village,” said Mr Briggs on a lofty note.

    “They does you a decent drop of ale,” allowed the tousled man.

    Taking this hint, Major Martin’s daughter produced a sixpence from her purse. “Perhaps you would care for a drop now? For I believe it is quite a drive all the way from Sidmouth: you must be thirsty.”

    “I won’t say no,” he allowed, accepting it.

    “Good gracious, my dear! What did you do that for?” said Miss Skate faintly as he departed clutching it.

    Her eyes twinkled. “Well, in part to predispose him in our favour, dear ma’am! But also, though I do not doubt your word, Mr Peebles, to give us time to inspect his vehicle.”

    “Yes, but Miss Martin, now the fellow do know as you got money on your person!” hissed Mr Briggs.

    “In addition to that sixpence, what he would have seen in my purse was five shillings and twopence halfpenny,” she replied calmly.

    “Men have been strangled for less,” said Mr Peebles sepulchrally.

    “Yes, but scarcely by fellows who own hire carriages, grimy or not, I think! Please, would you show us the carriage?”

    Resignedly Mr Peebles led them out to it.

    To their surprise, they discovered leaning against its shabby side the burly, blue-chinned fellow who had accompanied them from Southampton. “Morning, Miss,” he said, touching his forelock. “Morning, ma’am and sirs,” he added to Miss Skate and the two men. “I did hear tell as this carriage was heading for Sidmouth, Miss?”

    “Yes, that is correct. Do you need a ride?” she asked with her friendly smile.

    “My dear, the two may be in cahoots!” hissed Miss Skate agitatedly.

    “Er—oh, I see. I do not think it likely. This man has come from the other side of England.”

    “Bert Dinwoody. At your service, Miss,” said the blue-chinned one, touching his forelock. “If you don’t mind, I could ride outside. They tell me it’s over fifteen mile. Though I could walk it, easy enough: lovely day, ain’t it?”

    “Never mind the day,” said Mr Briggs on a cross note. “If you do be headed for Sidmouth, how come you ain’t got started earlier nor this?”

    “Had business in the town, sir,” he said politely.

    “I really do not think,” interposed Miss Martin firmly, as Mr Briggs seemed quite prepared to disbelieve every syllable of this utterance, “that there could be any objection to Mr Dinwoody’s coming with us.”

    “Miss Martin, the carriage is not fit!” said Mr Peebles strongly.

    “Well, it is rather old and shabby, true. But I have ridden in worse. Shall we look inside?” she said to Miss Skate. That lady nodded, and the two inspected the carriage. It was very shabby inside, but although dusty, relatively clean.

    “At all events no-one ain’t cast up their accounts in it,” noted Mr Dinwoody, poking his blue-chinned face in alongside their bonnets.

    “Precisely! There can be no objection,” agreed Miss Martin.

    “I don't like it,” frowned Mr Peebles.

    Mr Briggs scratched his head. “We-ell… dare say it do be the best Sidmouth can offer. But tell you what, Peebles; why don’t you ride alongside? There’ll be another stage to Exeter tomorrow, you know.”

    Mr Peebles agreeing eagerly to this, Miss Martin’s and Miss Skate’s faint objections on the score of his neglecting his business were easily overborne, and so it was settled.

    “But,” said Mr Briggs grimly, “the fellow ain’t a-getting your last five shilling, me dear!”

    “No, h’indeed, in especial as he took that sixpence!” said Mr Peebles strongly. “If you will excuse me, I shall see about a horse.” He bowed, and left them.

    Mr Dinwoody then asking where the driver was, and being informed by Mr Briggs on a note of exasperation that he was in the tap, for Miss Martin went and give him a sixpence, he went off to find him.

    “My dear Miss Martin,” said Miss Skate firmly: “I think I must draw you your notice to the fact that Mr Peebles, obliging though he is, would scarcely be a match for those two fellows, if they were to be in collusion together. Or even to combine together in the tap, the which would not be unheard of for such rough fellows, you know.”

    Miss Martin’s face had gone very pink. “He is stronger than you might think,” she murmured. “But I really cannot see it: why, Mr Dinwoody had little Mirabelle on his knee for a whole stage!”

    This was a point. Nevertheless Miss Skate shook her head dubiously.

    “I’ll come meself,” decided Mr Briggs. “No, don’t argue, me dear, the thing is settled, and the boy can take Mrs Briggs a note. And mind, if I hadn’t gone and offered, she would have been ready to have my guts for garters, saving your presences!”

    So it was settled, and it being apparent that the two bony nags poled up in the shabby hire carriage were not easily going to outstrip Mr Briggs’s Peterkin in his trap, they set off happily, with Mr Peebles beside Mr Briggs, that worthy having briskly informed him he wouldn’t need that there horse after all. And the hire-carriage’s driver, apparently mollified by Miss Martin’s donation, or at least by the beverage it had produced, not mentioning the five shillings again.

    “Sidmouth at last!” beamed Mr Briggs, easily outstripping the driver in a bid to open the coach’s door for the ladies. “Quite pretty, if you likes these little seaside places.”

    “On the river mouth,” explained Mr Peebles redundantly, coming up in his wake.

    Mr Dinwoody, who had ridden beside the driver, hopped down nimbly. “Sidmouth, is it? Good. Dessay I might manage a shilling, in that case,” he owned, handing one to the driver.

    Having nibbled at it to ensure himself of its authenticity, the driver reminded the ladies that Alf Hollis would be looking for them, and, not seeming to care that his horses were now clearly in greater need of refreshment than he, vanished into the little inn.

    “But the horses need watering!” cried Miss Martin in dismay.

    “BOY!” shouted the stolid Mr Dinwoody in stentorian tones.

    There was a short delay and then a grimy lad appeared, looking cautious. “Aye?” he drawled.

    “These nags need watering and a rub-down,” explained Mr Dinwoody.

    “Ah… Dessay as they do,” he opined. “Dessay they might get ’em, too, if they did belong to someone else. Only, these do be Mick Jones’s nags.”

    Mr Dinwoody looked somewhat helplessly at Mr Briggs and Mr Peebles.

    “Well, you can give my Peterkin, here, a good rub-down, a bucket of water, and a handful of oats,” said Mr Briggs briskly, producing a shilling.

    “And see to the pair, also,” added Mr Peebles, also producing a shilling.

    “Peebles, the fellow won’t thank you for it!” objected Mr Briggs. “And the nags must be a few yards from their own stable, you know!”

    The stable lad spat. “Shed, more like,” he drawled.

    Miss Martin was looking anxious and feeling in her purse. “I dare say as that fellow will stay in the tap for a while. See to the pair h’immediate, if you please,” said Mr Peebles, handing the shilling to the boy.

    “Thanks, sir. They won’t know what's come to ’em!” he suddenly gasped, going into a wheezing fit.

    “Never you mind that: just get on with it,” said Mr Dinwoody sternly. “Which, if I ’ad the wherewithal, I would of done it meself, Miss,” he added in an apologetic tone.

    “Of course you would, sir!” she beamed.

    “Dunno as I would,” said Mr Briggs, looking at Mr Peebles with very tempered approval. “Too soft, you are Peebles,” he said, shaking his head.

    “I do not think so at all! It was very well done of you, Mr Peebles! And thank you so much—indeed, thank you both—for accompanying us on our journey!” cried Miss Martin, holding out her hand first to the clerk and then to Mr Briggs. Mr Peebles seemingly did not know where to look, became very flustered, and tried to bow over it and shake it at the same time. Ending up by not quite doing either. Mr Briggs, by contrast, shook it very heartily indeed.

    —The blue-chinned Mr Dinwoody, had anyone’s attention been fixed on him, which it was not, might have been observed to watch this exchange with an oddly sardonic look on his square countenance.

    Alf Hollis was soon discovered, placidly drinking ale in the tap: a sturdy, fresh-faced young man in the dress of a groom. He touched his forelock most politely to Miss Martin and Miss Skate, and revealed that Mr Dearborn had sent him in the trap to fetch the ladies. And that Dearborn House were just near Sandy Bay, which was but a hop, step and jump from here.

    “I shall ride along with you,” decided Mr Peebles.

    Mr Briggs looked doubtful, for Peterkin had done the journey splendidly, but was now in need of a rest. Mr Peebles deciding that he would hire a horse, the worthy buckle-maker acceded to this, and admitting he was not much of a one for horseback riding, himself, bade Miss Skate a respectful good-bye and Miss Martin a very fond one, kissing her cheek with great enthusiasm. And reminded her again that she must come straight to him and Mrs Briggs if things did not work out.

    And with that, they were off for Dearborn House.

    “A decent enough house,” opined Mr Peebles, peering at it through its gates.

    Miss Skate gave a nervous titter. She was a normally nervous person; but the present exaggeration of the condition was due to the fact, as had long since been revealed, that she had not met Mrs Dearborn in person: it had been a recommendation by a previous employer, which Mrs Dearborn had accepted, as it were, sight unseen. “Why, Mr Peebles! What are you thinking of? It is a very fine house indeed! Or are you perhaps more accustomed to Blenheim Palace, or Castle Howard?” she said on a sly note, with another titter.

    “Well, yes, Miss Skate, and although I ’ave not got up to Yorkshire this h’age, I did eat me mutton at Blenheim just last Feb’ry,” he owned politely.

    “Stop it, Mr Peebles!” said Miss Martin with a giggle. “It is a very handsome house indeed. I am sure you need have no further fears for my welfare.”

    “Miss Martin, permit me to remind you,” said the clerk stiffly, giving her an awkward little bow from the back of his horse, “that handsome is as handsome does.”

    “Aye,” agreed Mr Hollis unexpectedly, nodding.

    “What sort of people are they?” Mr Peebles demanded of him.

    “We-ell… They do say, as she’s very strict with the maids, sir,” he said dubiously, tipping his hat back and scratching his head. “And Mr Dearborn don’t not know nothing about horses. We don’t see ’im all that much, to tell the truth. Mr Carter, ’e do be head groom, sir, in charge of us grooms and lads, you see. Well, the nags get enough oats, I’ll say that for the Master. And this yere Tip-Tree,” nodding at his sturdy nag—“ain’t a bad horse. But we do got a right lot of bone-shakers in our stables, to tell you the truth, and Mr Carter, ’e says that Master can afford better, only ’e be too mean to spend the money on a decent horse. Only like I say, they do get enough oats.”

    “That seems to me a point in your master’s favour, then,” said Miss Martin briskly.

    “Indeed. And one would hope that the mistress was strict with the maidservants, rather than lax,” murmured Miss Skate.

    “Of course, “ she agreed. “I think we should go in, rather than loitering about the gates.” She held out her hand to Mr Peebles. “I should like to shake hands, if you can reach, Mr Peebles. And to thank you once again for your kind care of me.”

    Mr Peebles brought his scrawny mount as close as was possible and somewhat awkwardly took her hand. Shyly avoiding her eye as he did so.

    Major Martin’s daughter was conscious of a desire to order him, not quietly, to be a man rather than a mouse. She suppressed the impulse, smiled at him even though he was not meeting her glance, and shook his hand very firmly. “You must make all haste to Exeter, sir. And I do hope that you will not be in trouble for having taken the time to come with us.”

    “No, for the Bournemouth documents did not take that long, Miss Martin. May I wish you well?” he said, taking a deep breath and for once meeting her eye.

    “Thank you very much, Mr Peebles,” she said somewhat lamely.

    Miss Skate leaned forward. “We are much obliged to you, Mr Peebles. And allow me to wish you further success in your line of employment, and a good journey.”

    Awkwardly transferring the reins to his other hand, Mr Peebles removed his hat and bowed.

    “Drive on, please, Hollis,” said Miss Martin firmly.

    And the trap turned in at the gate of Dearborn House.

    The groom was about to leap down and close the gates after them, but there was no need: Mr Peebles was doing it for him. “Ah,” he said thoughtfully. They jogged on up the neat gravel drive. “Not a bad seat, that gent,” he said thoughtfully.

    “I beg your pardon?” replied Miss Martin in bewilderment.

    “That gent what rode along with us, Miss, ’e do got not a bad seat on a horse. What if you’ll excuse me mentioning it, dessay as ’e might not look it to a lady, but I do reckon as ’e could sit there a-juggling half a dozen balls like a tumbler, and the horse going over the jumps, and not never come off at all, never mind no hats and bows!” He gave a pleased chuckle. “The control of a horse, it do be all in the legs, you see.”

    For some reason or another Major Martin’s daughter did not feel she had managed to concentrate her attention on this speech. “Like a tumbler?” she said faintly.

    “My good man, I cannot see that person managing to juggle with even two balls!” said Miss Skate on a brisk note.

    “No, Miss. Beg pardon, Miss. I didn’t mean to suggest as what ’e could. Only, ’e do got the best seat on a horse of any gent I’ve laid eyes on.” He shook his head a bit, and repeated: “Would not fall off over the jumps, doing it by ’is legs alone!”

    “I really think that is enough, Hollis,” Miss Skate reproved him, observing the flags to be flying in Miss Martin’s cheeks. “There is no need to lay stress on these continual mentions of the lower limbs, in front of a young lady.”

    “Hey? Oh. I get your drift; I do beg pardon, Miss Martin, I’m sure.”

    “Not at all,” she murmured, smiling at him.

    Mr Hollis drew up at the front door with a flourish. “There! Mr Dearborn said, you was to go in by the front door!” he congratulated them.

    Miss Martin merely smiled and thanked him; but Miss Skate, though she thanked him also, looked a little anxious. She had worked, in her time, for employers who thought that the governess should not go in by the front door; and that the Dearborns should think the point worth stressing, did not seem to her altogether a happy augury.

    Mrs Dearborn, a large lady of lachrymose appearance, dressed all in black silk and taking tea in her sitting-room in solitary splendour when the travellers were announced, had revealed herself thus far to be a cold and unwelcoming personality. In spite of having accepted Miss Skate sight unseen she had immediately demanded to see that lady’s references. And looked her connexion up and down with the slightest of sniffs and informed, her, imprimis, that she could call herself “Cousin Evangeline” and Mr Dearborn “Cousin Dearborn”, while the dear girls were to be Cousins Belle, Josephine, Fanny, and Deirdre; secundus that she appeared to bear very little resemblance to her late father, the which was possibly a blessing; and tertius, as Miss Skate’s forte was not the advanced aspects of the French language she might assist her Cousin Belle and Cousin Josephine with their French conversation. And for the rest, they would see. –All the while composedly sipping tea, and apparently not thinking to offer them a drop.

    “What, pray, is that, Cousin?” she demanded coldly, as the wicker basket rustled and emitted a whine.

    “It is my little dog, Cousin Evangeline,” she faltered. “He—he is very well behaved and will be no trouble.”

    “Hm. Permit me to observe that a lady would have been at pains to advise her kind relatives of her intention to bring animals into their house. We do not have pet dogs in this house,” said Mrs Dearborn firmly.

    Troilus’s mistress went very white.

    “However, one would not wish to deprive you of your pet, and it may be kept in the stables. You may see it when it is convenient. I trust that your housewifely skills have not been neglected?”

    “I—I can do plain cooking, and sew and darn,” she stuttered.

    “My very dear Cousin, a lady is not expected to cook!” reproved her Cousin Evangeline with a mirthless titter. “However, stitchery is an excellent skill. I dare say you will find that you may make yourself quite useful to your cousins—quite useful,” she ended on a mournful sigh.

    “Yes, I should like to,” she said quickly.

    Mrs Dearborn sighed again, and begged Miss Skate to ring the bell.

    “Follett,” she said to the bobbing parlourmaid who then entered, “you may take the tray. And this is Miss Martin, your master’s young cousin, come to stay. Oh, and Miss Skate, the new governess. Pray see to it that Miss Martin’s dog is put in the stables. You may take them up to their rooms. I dare say they will not feel like dinner after their journey, but see to it that a tray of bread and butter is taken up to them at supper time.” She waved her away.

    “Yes, madam,” said Follett, gathering up the tray and bobbing respectfully. “Please to follow me, ladies.”

    Numbly Miss Martin and Miss Skate followed her out.

Next chapter:

https://theoldchiphat.blogspot.com/2023/02/handsome-is-as-handsome-does.html