Death of a Fop (Bow Street Consultant series Book 1) (24 page)

“Dear me, he
IS
a rather unsatisfactory character, to be sure!” said Miss Bates of Byron, “but he writes
SUCH
evocative poetry; dear Jane has read out loud to me from some of his works and I enjoyed it excessively until I heard that he was a womaniser!”

“No doubt when he is dead, the test of his work will be whether it endures because it is well written, and his peccadilloes forgotten, or will fall into obscurity because the scandal sells it” said Caleb cynically.

“I believe it will endure” said Jane. “One may prefer not to think of the scandal attached; but one cannot help enjoying the cadence and rhythm that makes his poetry exciting. Though his central male roles would doubtless be very uncomfortable for any real woman to have to actually live with; one cannot imagine asking the Corsair to see to ordering a Bramah closet.”

Caleb gave a shout of laughter.

“Why Mrs Jane how very practical you are to be sure!” he said delighted. “Is that your measure of a hero – to be able to arrange so fundamental a domestic article?”

Jane considered.

“I should say the ability to procure a Hackney carriage rapidly, to be ready to deal with housebreakers, and to take with equanimity a breakdown in domestic arrangements due to a crisis in the kitchen provide a true measure of a real man,” she said, “also the ability to think and improvise in any crisis and to be ready to notice the indisposition of his wife or any of his offspring.”

“Why Mrs Jane, I do believe that you have a far more pragmatic state of mind than those who would sigh over a romantic figure” said Caleb, not displeased in having already managed to cope with all the examples she had cited. “But then, the romantic heroes in poetry and lurid novels are there to be sighed over by romantic young females that may imagine clandestine embraces with a figure who is, when all is said and done, made merely of paper and ink and therefore of no real danger to their virtue until they may meet a more realistic ideal.”

“Indeed; if only the silly widgeons may not reject the ideal man for them for failing to recognise that he is a reality and does not need to live up to some fantastic and unrealistic ideal” said Jane. “And alas! I was such a silly widgeon to have my head turned by one who seemed every semblance of a romantic hero whose lustre wore off when I realised that he was but a man of straw if not a man of paper and ink.”

“OOO, Mrs Jane, was that some cove you knowed before Frankie?” asked Dorothy.

“No my dear; I spoke of Frank. You saw the generous and heroic side for he visited you; living with him was not always easy” said Jane reflecting that she spoke in understatement. “If he had not been a weak man he would not have told them that you had the necklace, opening you to being hurt. Nor would he have got into such straits that he worked for such villains in the first place,” she added then went on with some bitterness, “and if he did not care to humiliate
you
when he was with you then he treated you well enough that you are fortunate not to have seen his other side.”

“Cor Mrs Jane, did ‘e do it to you too?” asked Dorothy who was fingering the rove on her burned face in resentful memory “’E never ‘
urt
me, so I figured, I could of ‘ad worse, and ‘e allus apologised.”

“Then, my dear, I fancy he respected
you
more than he respected
me,
” said Jane, “and we speak out of turn before a gentleman; which was my fault for permitting my feelings to be carried away in so unladylike a fashion.”

“Oh my poor dear Jane!” cried Miss Bates, “and poor dear Dorothy too! I could not ever imagine such things of Frank!”

“He hated strong minded women” said Jane. “And did not want me ever to be in the situation his aunt held regarding
her
husband; because like his uncle he was weak and could not perceive that a strong man likes a woman to be strong also as his helpmate, not his possession.”

“If I may say so, hear hear” said Caleb. “Would you like me to withdraw so you may speak more freely?”

“Not in the least, Mr Armitage,” said Jane firmly, “it is an episode that is behind us; and I need you to walk through and then dance a cotillion with Dorothy.”

“Will we sew again today, Aunt Hetty?” Jane asked at breakfast next morning.

“Oh my dear, that would have been pleasant, but it is so vexatious!” cried Miss Bates, “I am afraid you miscounted the number of yards of black ribbon we should need for you neglected, my dear, to calculate the knots of ribbons the servants must wear,
AND
the ribbon trim for bonnets! We are
QUITE
running out! I shall need at least six yards of threpenny width and four of sixpenny width and it would not be amiss to get some fourpenny width against need too.”

“Then it is best that we step into town for some more,” said Jane, “see, it is a fine day to day; and that we may not guarantee if we wait until tomorrow. I cannot think that the house would be attacked in broad daylight; no ruffians are
that
bold. And come what may they could not persuade any group of Luddites to believe that our house was any kind of mill or manufactory to be attacked to burn machines; nor is it a part of London in which mill owners tend to reside, so using a riot as a cover seems unfeasible. We shall be safe to leave the house for a couple of hours shall we not, Mr Armitage?” she asked.

“I do not see why not,” said Caleb, “though I should avoid getting into speech with anyone; and I shall have Fowler find a Hack that has a driver he knows too. One cannot be too careful.”

Miss Bates gave a little scream.

“Oh my dear Mr Armitage! Surely you cannot be serious? That is a suggestion from melodrama! Can these villains be so bold? Surely we shall be safe in broad daylight on the streets of London?”

“More than likely, yes,” said Caleb, “but I would prefer not to take any chances with Mrs Jane’s safety, as I am sure you will agree.”

“Oh
INDEED
Mr Armitage!” agreed Miss Bates.

It was indeed a fine day, if cold; the sun shone thinly and burned away the last sullen strands of haze that would have veiled its face in the half-mourning of the late winter for the summer that was no summer of the previous year. Frost sparkled on the ground and Jane knew better than to touch the cold iron railings about the area, even with gloves, for the cold would strike through the thin leather. Young Molly had left washing on the line the night before and had run out after dark, absently placing her bare hand on the decorative iron surround of the kitchen garden and had a nasty frost burn in consequence. This winter was not over, despite the meagre promise of the half-hearted sun and the brightness of the sky around it, the colour of tarnished silver, bright against pewter clouds. The air was sharp; and tasted of sleet or snow to come. It was wise to shop now, not wait to see what the morrow would bring; and since the clouds were already beginning to form into the serried ranks of mackerel skies then wind was promised. If the crocus spears that speckled the garden came to flower too soon the blooms would be destroyed in the frost; though the single clump of brave snowdrops seemed immune to the cold.

Jane pulled her muffler closer because unlike the snowdrops she felt the cold keenly and it made her feel nauseous if she breathed in the chill air; hence a muffler to cover her mouth more warmly than a veil. It was bright blue and not conventional mourning at all; but it had been knit for her for Christmas by Patty, the little maidservant in the Bates home; and Jane had been much touched and would not discard it for convention. It was besides warm, of wool from the Donwell sheep, sent to be dyed and spun; and it was a reminder of what was, in many ways, home.

Fowler had found a hack; and was returning sat beside the driver, the clop of the horse’s hooves ringing loud in the still frosty air, the metallic ring of the horseshoes on the road a musical note like the striking of hammer on anvil. But the sound of the sedate pace of the horse harnessed to the hack was drowned out by the sudden fusillade of galloping feet from another vehicle; which careered up the street, a closed carriage, a berlin, pulled by two fine bays. The coachman was muffled; not unreasonable on a cold day, but his face might as well not have been there for all one might see of it, thought Jane, wondering what the fool was doing driving so recklessly in a town street.

The bays were pulled up short, almost sitting on their own haunches, right beside her and Miss Bates who was clinging to Jane in some terror that the horses might be runaways and might mount the pavement.

Instead the door opened and a man, also muffled, leaped out and pushed Miss Bates so hard that she fell away from Jane to sprawl on the ground. Jane turned to her with an exclamation of horror; and found herself grabbed by the upper arm. She twisted to get away; but the grip was cruel and was dragging her towards the berlin.

Jane went to hit her assailant; but he only laughed.

She could not escape.

She could however hope to be followed; and she went limp as though fainting. He gave an exclamation of disgust and went to pick her up; and Jane used the opportunity of having both hands free to loosen and pull off her muffler, gasping as if feeling short of breath; and as she was about to be thrust into the carriage clung suddenly to the door, long enough to loop the brightly coloured muffler round the handle outside, unseen by her abductor who was trying to manhandle an unwilling female inside the coach before reinforcements should arrive.

She heard Fowler’s voice.

“Don’t shoot you Bedlamite! Nah then cully, give up; you can’t get away wiv this in the middle of London!”

The coachman laughed and his muffled voice replied “I think we are – cully.”

Jane was now inside and as the door pulled to her assailant rapped on the coach. There was a stomach lurching moment as the horses doubtless shied and came down running following the crack of a whip.

Jane, who was still queasy in the mornings, promptly lost her breakfast on the floor.

“Well I shan’t feel like kissing you now awhile” the voice was familiar; and as he took off the muffler so was the face.

“Sir Richard! What is the meaning of this?” demanded Jane, “if you plan to abduct me and force me to Gretna Green I assure you I shall not be a compliant prisoner!”

“Gretna Green? What maggot have you in your head?” Sir Richard sneered.

“What else am I to think?” said Jane, “you called two days running making much of the idea that you wished to wed me; I can only suppose that you still persist in the idea that I have some control over the monies that are in entail for my children and have some idea of gaining control over it by wedding me; I assure you that by marriage I stand to lose every last penny of the jointure I have. It is a ludicrous idea of yours and if you were at least even
born
a gentleman whatever manner of coxcomb you have become you would offer me a drink to wash out my mouth!”

He gave a sneering laugh and handed over a hip flask.

Jane took a drink, making a face at the taste of the brandy, rinsed her mouth around and looked for somewhere to spit. He pulled a silver chamber pot from under the seat and she spat thankfully.

“Though as you have already defiled the floor of my carriage, your need to spit in an utensil seems a little nice” he said.

“I had very little choice in the matter” said Jane. “Had you been a man of any delicacy and sensibility you would have left the utensil ready, bearing in mind that a lady in a certain condition is inclined to a degree of delicacy in her digestion. Or as is proved, the incomplete action of digestion” she added with a grimace. “But of course a man of delicacy and sensibility would not resort to abduction. If we are not bound for Gretna, where may we be bound?”

“You have no need to know
that,
” said Sir Richard. “but believe me, you
will
be begging to marry me before much longer; the alternatives would be very much more unpleasant. And if you do as you are told and make me a pleasant wife, you will have a pleasant enough life; a little confined perhaps, but I shall make sure you have every comfort.”

“But I do not understand
why
!” said Jane opening her eyes ingenuously. “I do not have a sous of my own; nothing in the funds, no income, no expectations; Frank married me and rescued me from the humiliating penury of becoming a governess; my father was a penniless lieutenant in a foot regiment! What then can be the attraction in marrying me?”

“Apart from allowing that you are an attractive and spirited wench, the matter is your silence my dear; that you shall not be able to speak against your husband” said Sir Richard.

“Excuse me? Why should I wish to? Surely you have not
defrauded
my late husband?” asked Jane.

He gave a bitter laugh.

“You ninny! It is the other way round; are you not aware of that? You know about the necklace; and it has not been pawned. You lied to Poul; you
will
tell me the truth!”

She stared.

“The necklace? Are – surely you cannot mean the trumpery paste necklace my husband gave to his mistress? This is all very confusing; I cannot think; why the world spins!”

Artistically Jane put her hands tremulously to her head and permitted herself to sink back in the seat.

Had the floor not been covered in vomit she might have considered casting herself on the floor but in fear of her life or not she recoiled from such a recourse; not least because the proximity of the smell might have brought up more which would have spoiled her pose as quite insensible.

Sir Richard gave vent to a blistering oath.

“Stupid piece!” he muttered, “she
has
to know!”

Jane moaned gently. She could only continue to lie and hope that the blue scarf was seen by enough beggars to bring Caleb and his men to her rescue before she was tortured badly enough to cause her to miscarry. Jane had every belief in her own stubbornness to make her last longer than Frank had done; though her belly turned to water in fear at the very thought.