The Second Lady Southvale (8 page)

He bowed to Rosalind. ‘May I be of assistance, madam?’

‘I hope so. Are you the landlord?’

‘I am, madam. Daniel Penruthin, your servant.’ He bowed again.

‘I’d like rooms, please, for myself and my maid, preferably adjoining. And then I’d like a doctor to attend my maid, for she has a fever.’

‘Certainly, madam, my son Samuel will go for Dr Trenance straightaway, and I have the very rooms at the side of the inn, they’re not only next to each other, but have a connecting door.’

‘That sounds excellent. Thank you.’

He turned, beckoning to a waiter. ‘This lady and her maid will be taking the double rooms, so see to it that the fires are made up well.’

‘Yes, Mr Penruthin.’ The waiter hurried away.

The landlord returned his attention to Rosalind. ‘May I ask how long you will be requiring the rooms?’

‘I don’t really know. I’ve just arrived from Washington, and am on my way to London, but with my maid being ill …’

‘I quite understand, madam. Be assured that the Black Horse will make you very welcome. Forgive me for asking, but have you just come in on the
Corinth
?’

‘Yes.’

‘Is it true that a longboat from the
Queen of Falmouth
was sighted?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid it is.’

He lowered his eyes sadly. ‘We can only hope she hasn’t been lost, but we must fear the worst.’ His glance suddenly fell upon her signet ring, and he looked swiftly at her. ‘You wouldn’t be Miss Carberry, by any chance?’

‘Why, yes, but how—’

‘That’s Lord Southvale’s ring, madam. I’d know it anywhere. I have the honor to be a good acquaintance of his, and he stayed here when he returned from Washington a month or so back. He dined privately with my wife and me, as always he does, and he told us all about you, Miss Carberry. Oh, he was a different man from the one who’d sailed from here back in the early summer, much happier by far, and it made us so glad to see him so improved. It was all on account of you, Miss Carberry; he made that plain enough.’

She flushed with sudden pleasure, and her sense of isolation began to fade a little. ‘Thank you for saying so, Mr Penruthin.’

‘Not at all, Miss Carberry. Now you’re doubly welcome at the Black Horse; indeed, there could be few persons more welcome here than the future Lady Southvale.’

‘Thank you,’ she said again.

The singing from somewhere above became suddenly louder than ever, as the unseen woman broke into a full-throated aria, ending on a heart-stopping high note that Rosalind was sure
would shatter every windowpane in the building.

The landlord raised his eyes heavenward. ‘That’s Signora Segati, an opera singer from La Scala in Milan. She’s resting here after her voyage from Italy and will soon go to London to sing at the Italian Opera House.’

He made it sound as if it wouldn’t be soon enough as far as he was concerned. Rosalind smiled a little. ‘She has a very, er, powerful voice.’

‘She has indeed. We’ve been having Mr Mozart with our breakfast, Mr Handel with our luncheon, and Mr Purcell with our dinner for nearly a week now, but I understand it’s only to go on for a day or so more. Speaking of meals, have you eaten this morning?’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘I’ll see to it that a good breakfast is served in your room, Miss Carberry, for I doubt if you’ll wish to eat in our very crowded dining-room, not after just coming ashore, anyway.’

‘I’d prefer to eat in my room, yes.’

‘I’ll take you up there right now, and carry your maid myself, then I’ll see to it that Samuel goes immediately for Dr Trenance.’

He turned to Hetty, lifting her as if she weighed nothing at all, and as Rosalind followed him up the staircase, Hetty’s illness was suddenly the only blot on her horizon, for she was confident she’d done the right thing in coming here to England.

But as she was going to learn to her cost, this new confidence was very misplaced.

The two adjoining rooms were plainly but comfortably furnished. They were on the first floor, their narrow mullioned windows overlooking a dark alley at the side of the inn, so that there wasn’t a great deal of sunlight penetrating the panes. Their walls were paneled in dark oak, and faded blue velvet hung at the windows and on the four-poster bed in the larger room. Well-worn rugs were scattered on the polished wooden floors, and fires crackled pleasantly in the hearths, the flame light flickering over everything. There was a scent of herbs from several little posies that had been pinned beneath the mantelpieces. It was a pleasant scent, fresh and clean.

Mr Penruthin laid Hetty carefully on the bed in the smaller room and then hurried away to send for the doctor and to have breakfast brought up for Rosalind. Some porters brought the luggage in, setting it on the floor in Rosalind’s room, and she quickly unpacked the maid’s nightgown, going to take Hetty’s blue chemise gown off again and make her as comfortable as possible in her night things. She managed to get the maid into the bed, tucking her in carefully, and then looked anxiously at her, hoping that the doctor would be able to help. Oh, please, don’t let anything happen to Hetty.

Removing her own cloak, Rosalind tossed it over a chair and
then went to the window, looking down into the alley below. Signora Segati was in a nearby room, and her singing was very loud. Two seamen walked along the alley, their boots ringing, and they glanced up in astonishment as they heard the trilling, but then their attention was drawn away by a pretty milkmaid hurrying past in the opposite direction, her empty pails
swinging
on her yoke. They whistled and called after her, but she kept her nose in the air and ignored them with as much hauteur as a fine lady. Rosalind smiled a little, for it was a scene that could have taken place anywhere in the world, not just here in Falmouth. Men would always ogle a pretty girl, and pretty girls would always show their scorn, and their hidden pleasure, by being haughty and dismissive.

One of the inn’s maids brought a tray set with a rather hearty breakfast, and Rosalind sat by the fire attempting to do justice to the eggs, bacon, sausages, and tomatoes, the fresh bread rolls, and the pot of good tea. It had been over three weeks since she’d eaten such fine food, but although she knew she should eat properly, she was too worried about Hetty to have a hearty appetite.

Dr Trenance came shortly afterward and swiftly declared that the maid was suffering from a putrid sea fever that would have to run its course. He prescribed warmth and plenty of rest, constant nursing, as much fluid as the patient could be persuaded to drink, and the judicious application of laudanum. He didn’t think the fever was contagious, but had been brought on by the maid’s own foolishness, and he didn’t think she would be well enough to continue the journey to London for at least two weeks.

Rosalind was relieved that Hetty would recover, but dismayed at the thought of such a long wait. The doctor
administered
the first dose of laudanum, and then left, saying that he would return the next day. When he’d gone, Mr Penruthin came to see Rosalind, advising her to sleep if she could and inviting her to dine with his family that evening. The thought
of sleep was very tempting, for it hadn’t been possible to do so properly during the voyage, and so Rosalind accepted his
invitation
and then drew the curtains of her room. Hetty was already asleep, the laudanum had seen to that, and when Signora Segati’s singing ceased at last, Rosalind sank thankfully into a deep, restorative sleep.

She must have needed the rest more than she’d realized, for it was dark when she was aroused by an inn maid who’d crept in to tend the fires.

Rosalind got up quickly and went to see how Hetty was. The maid was still asleep, her cheeks flushed, but she woke up
sufficiently
to take a long drink of water. Lighting the candles in her room, Rosalind then selected a gown from her luggage, a
palegreen
dimity that she knew traveled well and wouldn’t look too crumpled for dining with the Penruthins.

She was just endeavoring to pin her hair up again when there was a knock at her door. ‘Yes?’ She turned from the
dressing-table
mirror, still pinning a curl into place.

A tall young man entered. He bore a striking resemblance to the landlord, and she guessed immediately that he was Samuel, the Penruthins’ son. He wore a gray coat and leather breeches, and he bowed a little awkwardly.

‘Begging your pardon, Miss Carberry, but I’ve been sent to tell you dinner will be served in half an hour’s time.’

‘Thank you.’

‘A maid will come to conduct you.’

‘Thank you.’

He bowed again, his glance moving fleetingly toward the adjoining door into Hetty’s room, then he withdrew.

As the door closed behind him, Rosalind heard a heavily accented female voice addressing him. ‘Ah, Signor Penrutti, I vish to speak with you.’

Samuel had halted. ‘Can I be of assistance,
signora
?’

‘I vish to leave for London the day after tomorrow, and so I vish you to secure me a good post chaise, for a stagecoach vill
not do at all.’

‘Very well,
signora
. I’ll attend to your request.’

‘Excellent.’

Then there was silence again, Signora Segati evidently having returned to her room and Samuel to whatever he had to do.

Rosalind looked in the mirror again, raising her aching arms to finish combing and pinning her hair. Oh, how difficult it was to achieve an adequate coiffure without Hetty’s capable
assistance
.

An inn maid came to conduct her to dinner. ‘If you’ll come this way, madam,’ she said, bobbing a curtsy.

Rosalind followed her from the room and down the
staircase
. The inn was no less noisy, now that it was dark. There were still stagecoaches coming and going in the yard, and the dining-room sounded as if it was filled to capacity. As she and the maid reached the foot of the stairs, a waiter emerged from the room, pausing to wedge the door open. She looked past him and saw a great assortment of people seated around the large circular tables. There were ladies and gentlemen, clergymen, naval officers, well-to-do farmers and their families, and a large group of red-uniformed army officers.

Then the maid led her through another door and along a narrow passage into the kitchens, which were, if possible, even more a hive of industry and noise than the dining-room. The stone-flagged floor was spotlessly clean, and there was an immense fireplace, blackened with the smoke of ages, where a number of huge copper kettles were kept constantly at the boil. There were metal trivets standing before the heat, and on them were pans of varying size, some sizzling, some steaming, and some boiling with thick sauces. A huge joint of beef was being turned on a spit by a small boy whose face was red from the heat and exertion, a cook was drawing a fresh batch of bread from a wall oven, and a small army of maids and kitchen boys was chopping and peeling vegetables at several well-scrubbed
tables. A fat man was preparing meat on a marble slab at the far end of the room, and a woman was pumping water at a stone sink by a window. Cold viands, strings of onions and drying mushrooms, and apples were suspended from the beamed
ceiling
, and a maid was climbing up a ladder to lift down a large bunch of dried herbs from another hook close to the fireplace.

Rosalind was conscious of interested glances upon her as she followed the maid through toward the Penruthins’ private rooms at the rear, and she knew that everyone at the inn was now aware that she was the future Lady Southvale.

Mr and Mrs Penruthin, but not their son, were waiting in a cozy parlor where the chairs were covered with green-
and-white
chintz. The floor was stone-flagged, like the kitchens, and the walls had been recently whitewashed. A splendid collection of brass candlesticks stood on the high mantelpiece, and a white-clothed table had been laid with the very best crockery and cutlery the inn could offer.

The landlord’s wife was a round, cheerful countrywoman, and looked very neat and precise in a gray-and-white-checkered gown, starched white apron, and large, frilled mobcap. Her brown hair was plaited and coiled at the back of her head, and she had long-lashed brown eyes that reminded Rosalind of a King Charles spaniel.

The Penruthins were determined both to make her feel welcome and to serve her with a delicious meal, and they succeeded. The dinner commenced with a light and tasty clear onion soup, followed by a brace of roast partridge, stuffed with mushrooms; the partridges were accompanied by vegetables so fresh that they must have been pulled from the earth only minutes before being cooked. As a dessert there were raspberries preserved in honey, served with the clotted cream for which Cornwall was so famous. After the somewhat dismal meals on board the
Corinth
, Rosalind found it almost too appetizing for words.

Conversation was wide-ranging, covering topics as varied as
the state of the war in Spain, Bonaparte’s qualities as a general, the Prince Regent’s lavish hospitality at Carlton House, and whether mad King George would ever recover. Everyone
tactfully
steered clear of whether there would be war between Britain and America, but clearly it was at the back of all their minds – Rosalind’s for obvious reasons, and the Penruthins’ because Falmouth had such strong connections with the former colony across the Atlantic.

Philip was also mentioned, and Rosalind was conscious of her hosts’ great liking and respect for him. He was spoken of as a shining example of all that was admirable in the aristrocracy, and they made it plain that they were glad he was to marry again. From time to time Rosalind felt Mrs Penruthin’s gaze upon her in an oddly speculative way, and never more so than when she, Rosalind, mentioned in passing that she hoped she could adequately replace the first Lady Southvale.

They’d almost finished when Samuel came to tell his father that a gentleman in the dining-room was refusing to pay his bill. Mr Penruthin quickly excused himself from the table and hurried away with his son.

In the ensuing silence, Mrs Penruthin studied Rosalind for a long moment before speaking, and when she did, she chose her words very carefully. ‘I know I have no right to ask, Miss Carberry, but are you truly apprehensive about following in the first Lady Southvale’s footsteps?’

It was an unexpectedly direct question, but Rosalind chose to answer it all the same. ‘Yes, Mrs Penruthin, I believe I am,’ she admitted, remembering how glowingly Philip had described his first wife.

‘Then don’t be, for she was undoubtedly the most spiteful, selfish, disagreeable cat in all the world, and I, for one, wasn’t at all sad when she was lost in that shipwreck. Good riddance to her, that’s what I said at the time, and it’s still what I say now. She was a bad lot, and I believe her husband was one of the few people never to have realized the fact.’