The Disgrace of Kitty Grey (10 page)

In spite of all that I had heard against it, I was very excited to be going to London. I would have been even more excited if I'd been setting out on Will's invitation and not because of his abandonment of us, but to be going at all was thrill enough, for this was something that few people in Bridgeford had ever done.

At six o'clock the next morning, Betsy and I bade goodbye to the other servants (I also said farewell to my dear cows) and rode on one of the carts out of the farmyard, heading for the Stag and Hounds in Thorndyke, where we were to catch the stagecoach. As we left I looked down towards Will's hut – just in case – but, of course, he wasn't there, only his boat still pulled on to the opposite bank. Of the man who had taken over his ferry service there was no sign, and I had already heard that he was most unreliable compared to Will.

Thinking of that, I felt a little bitter, for I had always assumed that Will was completely trustworthy, both to ferry a person across the river or to fall in love with. I vowed that when I found him I would tell him that he couldn't just play around with people, pick them up and put them down as he saw fit, and that saying you loved someone wasn't something that should be done lightly.

Seeing the stagecoach waiting, with its six horses stamping their feet in eagerness to be off, thrilled us both, and I was mighty thankful that Betsy was a strong and resilient little girl, for some children of barely five years would have screamed to high heaven at being handed up to the top of a carriage and having to sit on a wavering, jolting seat, buffeted about by the wind and swaying this way and that. I climbed aloft after Betsy, and oh, how precarious it was up there, how shallow the seats, how vulnerable I felt! Gingerly, I made my way to the back and discovered that there were eight seats on the top, including those of the driver and groom. I put Miss Alice's leather bag on the floor under my legs, tucked her fur rug around us and prepared myself, rather nervous now, for the journey.

A large, plump man hauled himself up next and took the place beside me, and I lifted Betsy on to my lap to allow him a little more room. Two older men joined, and then a youth who, judging by the pile of books that he carried in a leather strap, was a student going back to school. There was one last man, wearing a dark suit with a clergyman's collar, and when he was in his seat and a heap of luggage had been piled upon the roof in the middle, the three inside passengers came from within the tavern and climbed aboard. From what I could see from my insecure perch, they appeared to be three women of similar colouring but of different generations, perhaps grandmother, mother and daughter. They were in mourning and I thought to myself that, chances were, the grandfather of the family had died in London and they were going to his funeral but, of course, I never found out.

The coach set off and Betsy screamed and so did I, for with the first jolt it seemed that we would be dashed to the floor of the coach or, worse, thrown out into the road. I held on to the nearest thing, which happened to be the stout man, and he acted like some sort of ballast and did not seem to mind my clutching him. Betsy and I soon realised, however, that passengers must move in rhythm with the galloping of the horses and the swaying of the coach, and once we had this under control I apologised to the man and moved a little distance away – for I had discerned by then that, far from being offended that I was holding him, he was only too eager to put a steadying arm around my waist.

At first it was a novelty to ride atop a carriage, to see over fences and splash in and out of puddles, to sway around corners and have people stare and wave as we thundered through villages, but about half an hour after we set off, the novelty had quite palled as we were jolted, windswept and terrified by turns. Betsy was saved quite a bit of the bumping as she was sitting on my lap, but even though I pulled a fold of the fur rug underneath me, my rear ached dreadfully and I would have sold one of my own cows for a cushion. I even thought it would be a welcome relief to be stopped by a highwayman, for at least that would mean a little rest from the incessant jolting.

Some many miles later, our faces frozen, we stopped at a coaching inn to change the horses, and the landlord came out to urge us to come inside, saying there was a side of beef roasting on the spit. I was very tempted by this but, though I had plenty of money safely stowed in the portmanteau, had been warned several times that London was a most expensive city, and so declined. Betsy and I made sure to use the inn's privy, however, then sat on a settle in a passageway and, while sniffing at the roasting meat, ate the bread and cheese which Mrs Bonny had provided. All too soon the ostler rang a handbell to round everyone up and we were ushered aboard the stagecoach and off it went again.

And so proceeded the day, pausing at various coaching inns to change the steaming, panting horses, until at nine o'clock we stopped for the night and I felt I could have cried with thankfulness. I didn't think it had been too bad a journey for Betsy, for my body had cushioned her and the galloping of the horses acted like a rocking cradle to send her off to sleep, but I had felt every jolt, every bump, every pothole in the road, and had a constant fear that I would be thrown off and end up dead in a ditch. The only thing which redeemed this sad prospect was imagining Will finding out, realising that I had died in the act of looking for him and feeling guilty about it for the rest of his life.

As I climbed down with shaking legs, all too enthusiastically assisted by the stout man, I thanked God that Miss Alice had opted for us to stay in an inn overnight, for some of the fastest stagecoaches travelled right through the day and night and I could not have borne this. Though our room in the Dove and Partridge was shabby, the mattress was soft and I fell asleep straight away, not stirring until a maid knocked on the door at six o'clock the next morning with a jug of washing water.

The only section of the journey I could have said I almost enjoyed was the last, when we entered London and I began seeing lovely buildings, churches, lavish gardens, green spaces and beautiful houses. I'd been told that London was a dark and treacherous place, but I saw that in some parts it was not; that in some parts there were gardens and fine dwellings enough to make a person gasp.

‘Have you and your little daughter got a place to stay?' the stout man asked me as the river came into view.

‘My daughter!' I exclaimed. ‘She is my sw–' But no, I was not about to tell him my life story. ‘She is my sister,' I amended.

‘Oh, of course,' he said. Then he bent over and said in my ear, ‘Your secret is safe with me, my dear.'

My cheeks flamed. What did he take me for?

‘Got lodgings, have you?' he asked again.

‘Yes, we have somewhere to stay, I thank you,' I said in a very clipped manner. And I couldn't resist adding, ‘And besides, I am only in London to visit a publisher for my mistress.' With luck, he would think me a lady's maid and too high for his advances.

His reply, if there had been one, was drowned out by us suddenly wheeling around the corner, coming upon Charing Cross and being startled by a cacophony of sounds: shouts, bells, iron wheels turning on stone, whips cracking and peddlers calling their wares. Staring around us in astonishment, Betsy and I saw stagecoaches, carriages, hackney cabs, sedan chairs and people on horseback, all crowded higgledy-piggledy on the cobbles. Surely, I thought, all the population of the city was gathered here together, for I had never seen so many people before in all my life.

How small I felt then, and nervous, and wished so much that Will was there to meet us and claim us. I reminded myself, however, that I was a resourceful girl – that's what Miss Alice had called me, anyway – and that we'd reached London safely and not lost anything.

‘In what direction is St Paul's?' I asked the stout man while the driver was negotiating our coach into position.

‘Why, it's straight across there!' he said, pointing down a busy street I later found out was the Strand. ‘You can just see the dome.'

I looked where he was pointing and, from our vantage point on top of the coach, saw it rising above every other building, something gold sparkling on its pinnacle. So close! Oh, I was surely very near to finding Will!

I looked around me, marvelling. ‘Such a lot of people!' I blurted out.

‘Doctor Johnson said that one finds the full tide of human existence at Charing Cross,' my stout travelling companion pronounced, and I nodded politely, although I did not know who Dr Johnson was.

There were dandies, too, whom I had only heard about before: one man, immaculate in purple velvet, white shirt and starched cravat, was sniffing delicately at the bunch of herbs he carried, while another man was talking to him, hand on hip, in an affected pose. Betsy especially stared at him, for he was wearing a gold lace suit with a purple tricorne hat trimmed with feathers.

‘Allow me to lift you down,' said the stout man when the carriage had stopped fully.

‘No, that is quite –' I began, but it was too late; he had seized me around the waist and lifted me over the guard rail and out on to the cobbles. Betsy followed likewise and the fur rug fell to the ground around us.

‘If you wouldn't mind reaching for my portmanteau,' I said, and he did so, placing it at my feet, where I covered it with the fur rug. He gave me a funny little bow, bending only as far as a very stout man can, but did not move on.

‘Do you wish me to call you a hackney cab?' he asked, but a smartly dressed woman tapped him on the shoulder with her fan and, with a movement of her head, indicated that he should be off.

‘My dear!' The woman elbowed him out of the way and smiled at me with blackened teeth. ‘Are you new to London?'

‘Well, yes, I am,' I said, ‘but I am quite able to look after myself, thank you very much.' I took Betsy's hand firmly in my own, for I had heard of these women who preyed upon unsuspecting newcomers to London, offering them a place to stay while procuring them for immoral purposes, and I did not intend to be a victim.

‘Such pretty country looks!' she said, pinching my cheek. ‘Such lovely waves in your hair! Have you somewhere to stay, my dear?'

‘Yes, I –' I started, but Betsy had let go of my hand and was reaching to pat the two small dogs of a woman who had just stepped from a sedan. ‘Betsy!' I called, and grabbed her hand again.

Two peddlers approached, one holding a tray of sweetmeats, one a tray of dolls. An old woman came up close and waved a set of playing cards under my nose, offering to tell my fortune, and a man in rags came a-begging, tapping along with a white stick and bumping into me.

‘You must take care,' said the stout man, seemingly reluctant to leave us.

‘Really, I am perfectly all right,' I said to him, turning from the woman and waving away the peddlers. ‘I have the address of my lodgings and shall go there forthwith. I thank you for your concern.' Still holding on tightly to Betsy, I bent down to pick up the leather bag.

But when I lifted the fur rug, it had gone.

Chapter Ten

 

 

‘My travelling bag!'

I felt ill, cold and shocked. I hadn't fallen prey to highwaymen and I'd survived the long journey without mishap, but after two minutes in London had been robbed of everything.

I turned, looking frantically behind me. The two peddlers were going in one direction, the blind man shuffling off in another. The old woman was nowhere to be seen, having disappeared into the crowd.

‘My dear, have you lost something?' asked the woman with a fan. ‘Do allow me to help you search.'

I stared at her. Had she picked up my bag and passed it to someone else? Had the stout man taken it? Or one of the peddlers? Oh, I'd been told often enough that London was a wicked place, full of thieves, beggars and vagabonds, and it certainly was.

I stood still, feeling ghastly sick, not knowing what to do for the best. I wanted to keep standing there until it all came right again. If I wanted it enough, then surely it would be there. The bag couldn't be gone – it
couldn't
be.

But it was.

Betsy tugged at my hand, oblivious to what had happened. ‘Can we go and find Will now?'

I swallowed. ‘In a moment.'

‘My dear?' enquired the woman. ‘Do you want me to inform a Bow Street Runner?'