A Country Gentleman (4 page)

Glancing at Isobel, she could see that her friend had been seized by exactly the same thought. Knowing that the girl could easily draw unwelcome attention to them both by actually putting in the next interjection, she said, ‘Don’t you dare!’ a phrase that so surprised the other occupants of the stage that for a brief moment, silence fell on the whole company. Even the man with the scholarly tome looked up with a startled expression on his face.

‘No, ma’am,’ said Isobel meekly, the incongruity of the remark nearly making Lavinia laugh out loud. Whatever anyone might say about Isobel, at least her company was not dull!

As the journey proceeded, they soon discovered that the
stagecoach
was by no means as well sprung as a private conveyance, and Lavinia began to think that she would be lucky to retain a single tooth in her head. Mercifully, quite soon the stagecoach stopped at Barnet so that the horses could be changed.

The two gossiping women got down from their seats and were met by a man who looked to be a farmer, probably the husband of the one and the father of the other.

‘Thank goodness,’ said Isobel with feeling. ‘What did she have in that basket? Onions? I swear that if I had had to smell them for very much longer, I should have been quite ill.’

‘Yes, but their owners were very entertaining,’ Lavinia pointed out. ‘What shall we have to laugh about and help pass the time away now?’

There was only a brief interval for them to swallow down some lemonade before the next horses were put to. When they left Barnet, they found that the scholarly man had also got down. They were joined by a young man in his twenties, making only three passengers inside.

The coach-master peered in at them all before recommencing the journey. ‘Hmm. Could do with being full,’ he said doubtfully. Lavinia said nothing in response, but almost felt like apologizing for being only one person.

The young man, clearly not similarly constrained, said
cheerfully
, ‘Ain’t our fault.’ Then he added, smiling at his fellow passengers, ‘Benjamin Twizzle’s the name.’

His clothing was in good order, and plain for the most part, but with a touch of flashiness that denoted someone not quite a gentleman. His fair, curly hair was surmounted by a beaver hat, which he wore tilted at a rakish angle. He sat with his hands in his pockets, his legs spread wide apart.

Lavinia glanced a little concernedly at Isobel, for the newcomer seemed to be just the sort of unsuitable young man with whom her friend might decide to get up a flirtation. Isobel however, dressed very properly for travelling in a rather severe, plainly cut blue costume, inclined her head graciously, in the manner of a dowager.

Lavinia wondered whether Isobel knew any more than she did if it was proper to strike up a conversation with a stranger in this way. What
was
the etiquette in these circumstances? Did one simply introduce oneself, in defiance of all custom, or did one keep silent?

‘It’s all right,’ he said, almost as if he had heard her thoughts. ‘It’s perfectly in order to introduce yourself on journeys such as this, particularly if you’re travelling alone. Who else is to do the
job, damn it? Anyway, I’m a parson’s son, so what could be more respectable? Could hardly be more trustworthy if I were a parson myself, what?’

‘I have known some strangely unreliable people emerge from parsonages,’ said Isobel, her tone matching her manner to
perfection
. ‘To be a parson’s son is not in itself a recommendation, young man.’ She then turned to Lavinia. ‘Had it been the case, then poor Mrs Hedges would have been spared a good deal of wretchedness, would you not, my dear?’

Horror stricken at being thus appealed to and completely unable to think of anything in response, Lavinia took out her black-edged handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.

‘There, you see,’ said Isobel looking at the young man reproachfully. ‘Your foolish chatter has distressed her. We will be silent, if you please.’

To Lavinia’s relief, the young man seemed to take this in good part, and after yawning, tilted his hat over his eyes and appeared to fall asleep.

‘I wish I could do that,’ Lavinia whispered to Isobel.

‘I should be too afraid of being shaken off my seat,’ Isobel replied. ‘How long till we get to Thurlby?’

‘I think we shall have to spend two nights on the road,’ Lavinia replied. ‘When we arrive at the George in Stamford, the earl will come for us. For goodness’ sake, don’t let him know about our deception.’

‘There is not the least need for him to do so,’ Isobel answered. ‘We will not be staying the night there after all, so Mrs Hedges and her companion may become Miss Muir and Miss Macclesfield once again. Thank God Willie Wilbraham has no idea what we’ve done! What a lark!’ She began to laugh.

‘Hush,’ said Lavinia quickly, glancing at Benjamin Twizzle, who had not moved.

Had they not glanced away at that moment, they might have seen him smile slightly. So the two young ladies were both single
after all, were they? He had not come across Miss Muir’s name before, but he had heard of Miss Macclesfield, a young lady of some fortune who had acquired rather a fast reputation in London. He also knew Mrs Wilbraham slightly, and could well imagine that the young lady did not want her exploits to come to the ears of that formidable dame.

As his Christian name might indicate, Benjamin was the youngest son of his family, indulged by his mother, whilst his rather ascetic clergyman father closed his eyes to his
imperfections
. Early on in his life, Benjamin had developed the notion that his existence was meant to be a pleasure, and that those who surrounded him therefore had a responsibility to ensure that it was as agreeable as possible. Twizzle lived by his wits. His wits told him that there might be some profit, as well as some
entertainment
, in keeping an eye on these two.

Chapter Four

T
he first night of the journey was to be spent at Hatfield, and when the coach swept into the inn yard, the ladies were both heartily glad to be able to get down and stretch their limbs.

Mr Twizzle leaped out ahead of them and claimed the privilege of handing them down from the coach. ‘Mrs Hedges,’ he said respectfully. ‘And Mrs … Miss…?’ He paused, wondering what name she would make up.

Isobel managed to side-step this situation by simply ignoring him and helping Lavinia solicitously. She was not to be so
fortunate
once they reached the inn, however. The landlord stepped forward, beaming, and standing next to him was a maidservant with a huge bouquet in her arms.

‘Welcome ladies,’ said the landlord. ‘May I ask if one of you is Miss Macclesfield? I was told to expect you both. These flowers come with the compliments of Lord Riseholm.’

Mr Twizzle was just behind them. Lavinia could almost feel his avid interest. She could certainly see the consternation on Isobel’s face. What upon earth could they do? She might have guessed that her friend would not be at a loss for long. Isobel straightened her back. ‘For shame,’ she declared, turning to Lavinia. ‘My poor friend! One would have supposed that your widowhood would have been sufficient to protect you from his advances!’

Lavinia looked at Isobel with a shocked expression on her face.
Fortunately, this was probably what any onlooker would have expected.

‘Put them in the public rooms,’ Isobel continued. ‘As for Mrs Hedges and I, we will share a bedchamber.’

‘Of course, ladies,’ said the landlord beaming. ‘I have a very good room available for you. It must be my business to oblige any … er … friends of his lordship.’

Mr Twizzle smiled as he watched them go upstairs. So either Miss Macclesfield or the bogus Mrs Hedges, alias Miss Muir, was entangled with Lord Riseholm! Of the two, he suspected that it must be Miss Macclesfield – she who had tried to give him a
set-down
in that coach. He stored the information away to be used at a later date.

‘Flowers from Lord Riseholm!’ exclaimed Lavinia, as soon as they were in their room – a very superior one, no doubt due to the aristocratic connections of its temporary occupants. ‘How ever did he know where to find you? Izzy?’

‘Well … I may just have let it slip,’ Isobel replied, trying to sound careless but blushing nevertheless.

‘Let it slip? When?’ Lavinia demanded.

‘I … wrote him a tiny note.’

Lavinia gasped. ‘You have been writing notes to Lord Riseholm?’

‘What if I have?’ Isobel answered defiantly, turning away her head so not to meet her friend’s gaze. ‘It’s got us better
accommodation
, hasn’t it? And better treatment.’

‘Yes, but at what cost?’ Lavinia pointed out. ‘Thanks to your encouragement of Riseholm, everyone here thinks that
I
am the one who has attracted his attentions! Those flowers are for you and not for me.’

‘We could not have said that it was I,’ said Isobel in a
reasonable
tone. ‘I am single, whereas you are a widow. We are not so far from London. Gossip could easily spread from here, and that Twizzle fellow looks just the kind of man to spread it.’

‘Yes, and he will be spreading it about me,’ said Lavinia in an agitated tone. ‘Izzy, that landlord looked at me as if I was some sort of … sort of.…’

‘Oh, what does it matter?’ Isobel interrupted. ‘Nobody here knows us. We won’t be coming back again and we won’t be seeing that Twizzle creature either. Honestly! Twizzle! What a name!’

‘Yes, and another thing,’ Lavinia interrupted, remembering anther grievance. ‘
You
are travelling under your own name, whilst
I
am the one who has been saddled with a pseudonym when it was your idea.’

‘Lucky for you,’ Isobel retorted. ‘At least nobody knows who you are, do they? There is no such a person as Mrs Hedges, is there? Thanks to a wretched mischance, my real name is known; but I do not mean to cry over spilt milk. How much would you wager that Twizzle is not
his
real name either? Depend upon it, he will no more want to disclose the circumstances of this meeting than do we.’

Since nothing could be done at present, Lavinia said no more on the subject, but this did not stop her from feeling profoundly uneasy. Masquerading as a widow had seemed quite harmless at first and almost a wise precaution to protect their reputations, given the necessity of travelling on the public stage. Now, she wished with all her heart that she had simply retained her own identity and travelled as unobtrusively as possible.

The problem was that Isobel was not very good at being
unobtrusive
. What was more, she was the kind of young lady to whom things tended to happen. Sometimes, of course, this could make for a more exciting life. Lavinia could only wish that it could have been a little duller on this occasion.

To Lavinia’s relief, Isobel was quite happy to dine upstairs in their own room. ‘We don’t want to talk to that Twizzle fellow any more than we must,’ she said. A further cause of thankfulness was that Isobel seemed to accept the necessity of eating very modestly,
given their limited means. The landlady’s thick home-made soup together with a plentiful supply of fresh crusty bread left them both feeling very well satisfied.

Their room, as well as being a good size, contained a very large bed, so that each young lady would be able to have a half to herself without feeling at all cramped. As they lay together in the darkness, Isobel said, ‘Lavvy? Are you asleep?’

In truth, Lavinia had been on the point of drifting off. ‘No,’ she replied, resigned to a conversation. She had not forgotten how much Isobel liked to talk into the night, whilst she herself preferred early rising.

‘I was just wondering – had you ever thought about Lord Thurlby?’

‘Thought about him?’ said Lavinia blankly, taken by surprise. Of course she had thought about him from time to time. She had no memory of a settled home, for her time with her parents had been spent in embassy accommodation, or in hotels or hired houses. When on their native soil, they took the opportunity of staying with friends. One of Lavinia’s early memories was of coming to Thurlby as a child aged eight, and peeping from behind her mother’s skirts at a very grown-up looking young man, the Honourable Victor Scott who, at twenty-two, and newly returned from Oxford, was giving assistance to his father on the estate.

When she was younger, she had been childishly infatuated with the Earl of Thurlby who was fourteen years her senior. He had always been kind to her, except when he had been very angry, as he had been frequently when she and Isobel had visited last time. No doubt he had regarded her in the light of something between a little sister and a tiresome responsibility. For her part, she had never forgotten his unsentimental kindness to her after her parents’ death.

After the funeral service, everyone had gone back to Thurlby Hall for refreshments. It had been a small gathering, since many of those who knew Mr and Mrs Muir well were themselves 
serving overseas at foreign embassies. The conversation had ranged over a variety of topics, and Lavinia, younger than everyone else by several years, had felt like a small girl who had been allowed to attend an occasion that was not really relevant to her. She had slipped out of the house and gone back to the church where she had sat in one of the pews at the front, thinking about her parents. Inevitably, the tears had begun to flow.

She had not been aware of anyone else entering the church, but all at once, she was conscious of a gentleman sitting next to her, and a large handkerchief being placed in her hand.

‘You didn’t have to come,’ she had said, after she had dried her tears. ‘You have guests.’

‘They can manage very well without me,’ Thurlby had answered.

‘And me.’ She was silent for a moment, then said angrily, ‘They were just talking and laughing, as if nothing had happened.’

‘It’s how some people protect themselves from unpleasant things,’ he answered. ‘Remember that many of your parents’ closest friends could not be here today.’

‘How is it that you understand?’ she asked him curiously, after a short silence.

‘I remember when my brother died,’ he answered. ‘After the service was over, people were slapping me on the back and telling me that I was Croyland now.’

‘Did you want to hit them in the face?’ Lavinia asked him.

‘Is that how you feel?’ he said. ‘Pray don’t hit my guests. I should find it so embarrassing.’ She had responded with a watery chuckle.

Shortly afterwards, they had returned to the house and he had stayed by her side until the last mourner had left. She had kept his handkerchief, not under her pillow, as that would be far too foolish, but in the drawer with her special things, like the last letter that Mama had sent, and a drawing of the dog she had had when she was younger.

She was certainly not going to tell Isobel about any of that! ‘No, not really,’ she said eventually.

‘I only wondered whether perhaps your parents – and his, even – might have had him in mind for you.’

‘For me?’ Again, Lavinia could not think what Isobel was talking about.

‘As a husband, silly,’ Isobel answered, her voice sounding
impatient
in the darkness.

The idea had never occurred to her. ‘Good heavens, no,’ she said quickly. ‘I don’t think such a notion ever entered their heads.’

Isobel laughed. ‘In that case, I might set my cap at him. I’m sure that Willie is expecting me to do so. Indeed, I more than half hinted that I would in order to persuade her to let me come to Thurlby.’ She thought for a moment. ‘If I married him then I could be your aunt. Wouldn’t that be entertaining?’

Lavinia laughed as well. ‘Silly! I’m not even related to him. His mother was my mother’s friend, that’s all.’

Long after Isobel’s breathing had evened out into sleep, she lay thinking about what had been said. How old would Lord Thurlby be? Thirty-four? Thirty-five? She was twenty. There were not as many years between them as there were between Isobel and Lord Riseholm, who could not be much less than forty, and with whom Isobel had clearly had some sort of a fling.

Unlike Riseholm, Thurlby was a good man, and he did not deserve to have a wife as flighty as Isobel. He deserved someone … someone … She was still pondering this matter when she fell asleep.