Chapter 15
I had to agree with Rosalind: the privy was medieval. As I squatted in the foul-smelling shack, I tried but failed to picture her using it. And what about Mr Fitzroy? Had his bottom touched this seat? I really had to stop thinking about him, especially where his buttocks were concerned.
I’d just come out of the privy and started back towards the house when the man himself strode around the side of the house from the direction of the stables. He pulled up short upon seeing me with a startled look on his face.
‘Mr Fitzroy,’ I said, feeling equally shocked. Composing himself, he bowed, and I returned it somewhat stiffly.
‘Miss Blackburn, good day. I have been out riding with Evan,’ he said as if he needed an explanation for being there. He glanced behind me at the privy. ‘Surely, you didn’t ...?’
‘I did. It was not a pleasant experience.’
‘But we have a privy upstairs, complete with flushing water. Why did Rosalind direct you out here?’
So the lack of facilities she was bleating on about was a blatant lie! ‘No doubt because it is closer to her parlour and I was in a hurry after drinking a large cup of mint tea,’ I said tightly.
He nodded and thankfully dropped the subject of the privy but then took up another that was even worse. ‘Miss Blackburn, I left in haste the other day and forgot my manners,’ he said, shifting awkwardly. ‘Congratulations. I wish you and Mr Humbleton every happiness.’
The firm set of his mouth and coldness in his eyes suggested otherwise, and I longed for it to be because he was perturbed about my being off the market rather than just opposed to marriage in general.
A tightness rose within my chest, and I knew I had to say something. There might never be another chance, even if he had set his sights on another.
O no, it is an ever-fixèd mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken.
I drew myself up to my full height and looked him squarely in the eye. ‘Sir, no matter what you heard that man say, I am not engaged to him. And I do not wish to be, not now or ever.’
He stared at me.
‘But you are. I even heard it in the village.’
I let out a huff of impatience. ‘ And you listen to gossip, I suppose? I am telling you now, plainly and directly, I do not wish to be tied to him!’
Mr Fitzroy let out a breath, and the atmosphere around him seemed suddenly less ferocious. ‘So what am I to think of it then?’
‘Do not think of it because it doesn’t exist! Even if Papa ...’ I broke off, not wanting to discuss my private affairs further. ‘Excuse me, I must go in. The others will be wondering where I am.’
I made a movement towards the door, but Mr Fitzroy stepped towards me.
‘So you are really not engaged to him?’
‘No. I would rather sell my body on the street,’ I replied without thinking and blushed hotly when Mr Fitzroy’s expression darkened (damn Harriet for reading Fanny Hill to me).
He raked his gaze over my face. ‘Let us hope it will not come to that,’ he murmured.
Within the house, I heard Harriet calling my name .
‘Please excuse me, I must go. My sister needs me.’
Mr Fitzroy inclined his head. ‘Good day, Miss Blackburn. Our conversation has been most enlightening.’
Had it? I now felt more confused than ever.
He strode away, leaving my emotions in a whirl. With a shaking hand, I opened the small door and stepped into the hallway immediately encountering Harriet.
‘Fliss! There you are. We should go. Rosalind is coming down with a headache and wishes to rest.’
‘With pleasure,’ I replied, relieved. ‘Do you think she’ll notice if we steal the rest of the petits fours?’
Harriet was in a jubilant mood on the journey home because Mr Pringle had made an appearance before we’d left. He had begged us to stay longer, and when Rosalind said we could not, he delayed Harriet in conversation for a good ten minutes (much to Rosalind’s annoyance) and then helped her into the buggy. Apparently, according to Harriet, his hand had lingered in hers as if he hadn’t wanted to let it go.
‘He is so lovely.’ I heard her give a little dreamy sigh as we clopped steadily down the road. ‘And what good timing! A moment later, and we would have missed him. His pernicious cousin was not at all happy that he was talking to me.’
I glanced at her, surprised. She never usually spoke badly of anyone—at least I’d never heard her. ‘Well done, Harriet. I think that’s the first time you’ve actually called someone out on their faults. It’s quite refreshing to hear.’
She coloured. ‘I shouldn’t have said that, but she’s just so awful. I cannot believe she’s Evan’s cousin since he is so amiable. ’
I laughed out loud, and she huffed a chuckle.
‘It’s just a pity Mr Fitzroy wasn’t there,’ she continued. ‘I’m sure he would have liked to have seen you.’
I shrugged dismissively and clicked to George. He was jerking his head, as if hearing Mr Fitzroy’s name disturbed him as much as it did me.
‘I am glad he wasn’t,’ I stated, declining to mention my encounter with him by the privy. ‘It would have been awkward. Anyway, I hope Mr Pringle does not delay any further with his proposal.’
Harriet jigged up and down excitedly. ‘I hope so too!’
‘Yes. Otherwise, you’ll be old and grey by the time he gets around to it!’ I quipped, and she whacked my arm good-naturedly.
Unfortunately, Harriet’s high spirits and even higher hopes were soundly dashed when she received a letter from Mr Pringle at breakfast the next morning. It was just us as Papa and Mr Humbleton had eaten earlier and gone out on some errand.
I knew the letter was bad news because Harriet immediately seemed to deflate upon reading it.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
Silently, she handed it over, her eyes sad and her mouth pinched .
Oh no , I thought. What now?
Rapidly, I perused the contents, and my heart sank. Mr Pringle was escorting his cousin back to London forthwith and would be staying there for a few weeks to partake of what was left of the season. But he said he hoped to find time to write to Harriet from there, depending on his schedule.
‘Do not give up, love. At least he plans to write,’ I said reassuringly. But it must have been a cruel blow as, thanks to me, she had been expecting a proposal.
‘I ... I think I will go to my room. I have a bad headache all of a sudden,’ she murmured.
‘Finish your breakfast at least.’ Her roll was half eaten, and there was a cup of tea cooling. But she shook head and left the room looking so depressed that my heart bled for her. I wanted to wring Mr Pringle’s neck.
I strongly suspected pernicious Lady Whiteley had had a hand in this latest manoeuvre. Either she hadn’t been able to coerce Mr Fitzroy to go with her to London, or she’d perceived that her cousin was about to propose. Whatever the reason, it made me extremely angry that she was trying to keep him away from Harriet and that Mr Pringle had let himself be so easily manipulated. It didn’t bode well for Harriet’s future, unless he could locate his backbone .
I spent the rest of the day comforting Harriet as her emotional state was shaky at best, and there were a few tears to be dried. I tried to bolster her morale as much as I could, but I was not a fortune teller. Whether Mr Pringle would propose, I could not foresee; all I could do was utter words of reassurance and offer comforting hugs to ease the pain of separation.
Not surprisingly, by late afternoon, I also had a splitting headache. We both pleaded ill for supper, so Mary served us in our room: vegetable broth, boiled eggs, soft cheese, and freshly baked bread, along with a jam tart each for afters.
‘A little nourishment does wonders for the soul, Harriet,’ I said, my mouth watering as I surveyed the spread laid out on her nightstand. ‘You’ll feel much more cheerful after eating a good meal.’
‘I suppose I could manage a mouthful or two of broth,’ Harriet said forlornly.
However, once beginning, she discovered there was nothing wrong with her appetite; and we both ate heartily until there were crumbs.
Though it was barely dark, we retired early, Harriet again reading out bits of Fanny Hill (she had picked it up again in defiance) until we both grew weary and she snuffed out the candle. I fell into a deep dreamless slumber, only to wake with a start some hours later, with a full moon shining brightly through the window as we had forgotten to draw the curtains.
Careful not to disturb Harriet, I stood by the window, looking out at the silvery illuminated fields. A snatch of an off-key tune floated to my ears from outside the window, and I realised it was this that had roused me, not the moonlight. Someone was doing an excellent job of murdering a ditty. I listened for a bit. Then the singing abruptly ceased, and I heard my name being called, albeit drunkenly.
‘Felishity, O wherefore art thou Felishity ...’
Oh good Lord, it was Samuel, and he was soused! Had something gone wrong with Miss Matlock, and he had decided to turn to me for solace? I had to silence him before he woke everyone up and made a complete fool of himself.
Throwing on a warm housecoat over my chemise, I quickly thrust bare feet into boots, tiptoed downstairs, and let myself silently out the side door.
‘Samuel? Where are you?’ I called in a low voice when I reached the field as there was no one in sight. An owl hooted far off in the distance; then there was a rustling from a nearby thicket of trees. A tall figure emerged and stood there, swaying.
‘Whosh Samuel?’ it slurred.
With the effect of moonlight shining upon his dark hair and angular features, it was easy to recognise who it was. But it was also quite shocking.
‘Mr Fitzroy, what on earth are you doing here?’ I hissed as he walked or, should I say, staggered towards me. He was clutching a wine bottle, and as I watched, he tipped it to his lips and took a generous swig.
‘Ah, Felishity, exshallent! Jush the woman I wanted to shee.’
‘You did?’ I said nervously, for there was an element of the ruffian about him. He wore a dark overcoat, but his cravat was missing, and his white shirt was open at the neck.
‘Felishity delishity,’ he growled huskily.
I shivered, drawing my coat around me tightly.
‘I do not know what you are doing, Mr Fitzroy, but you need to go home,’ I whispered to him.
He glared at me. ‘I will do noshing of the sort!’ he said loudly.
‘Shhhh!’
He put a finger to his lips and repeated it in a mock whisper, which made me want to giggle. His antics, despite being strange and wild, were starting to amuse me. I had never seen him like this.
‘Does Mr Pringle know you’ve been into his wine cellar?’
‘Pffft. It ish only a shmidgen. He will not notish. ’
He tipped the bottle to his mouth again and took a swallow, whereupon some wine spilled out and dribbled down his shirt front. He didn’t seem to care. I raised my eyebrows. Judging from the way he was weaving around and now the magenta spillage, he had drunk rather more than a smidgen.
He’d obviously been left to his own devices alone at the manor, thanks to the departure of Rosalind and Evan. But what had happened for him to hit the bottle like there was no tomorrow?
‘Come closher, Felishity. I want to tell you a shecret.’ He beckoned me over with an exaggerated motion. Understandably, I was somewhat reluctant to go near him. Mr Fitzroy in this state was wholly unpredictable.
I approached cautiously, like he was a wild animal liable to spring at me without warning. The closer I edged, the stronger the stench of wine fumes became.
‘Mish Blackburn.’ He bowed unsteadily.
‘Mr Fitzroy.’ I returned the bow, playing along.
He gazed at me intently as if memorising my face.
‘Each time I encounter you, I am either wet or covered in cream,’ he muttered. ‘I hardly know what shtate I’ll find myshelf in next.’
I stifled a laugh. ‘Very true. But you hardly needed to come all this way to tell me that. ’
An unreadable expression crossed his features. Then without warning, he sank to one knee. I blinked.
‘What are you doing?’
But he ignored me and clasped the wine bottle to his chest with one hand and flung out the other like he was in an opera.
‘Mish Felishity Blackburn, would you do me the greatisht honour of becoming my knife.’ He gave a strangled cough. ‘I mean wife .’
I stared down at him. ‘You don’t mean that.’
‘I do, I truly do,’ he implored and emitted a tiny burp to emphasise it.
‘Mr Fitzroy, you are being ridiculous. Please leave. Immediately.’ I didn’t know whether to laugh or feel insulted.
‘No, not until you give me a shtraight answer.’ His wine-stained lips pressed together in a firm line, and I had a feeling he wasn’t going to go quietly.
His eyes, although glazed, were beseeching as he looked up at me.
I wavered. Was he being serious? Or playing the fool? Of course the idea of being married to him was something I had considered, even coveted. But to be proposed to like this? Was it even legally binding if I said yes?
I did not know what to do. Perhaps I should just ... run away.
Seeing me take a hesitant step backwards, he grabbed me tightly round the waist and buried his face in my midriff.
‘Mr Fitzroy, let go of me!’ I hissed. But he held me tightly, and I couldn’t move.
‘Pretty please, marry me?’ came the muffled enquiry from the depths of my chemise.
I wiggled, but he wouldn’t budge. I could feel the muscles in his arms flexing as he attempted to restrain me. I did not feel afraid, in fact the opposite. But as he would not remember this in the cold light of day, there was only one thing for it to make him release me.
‘All right,’ I said.
There was a silence; then a deep shuddering sigh escaped him. He removed his face from my chemise and looked up at me; on it was a wide joyful smile. I didn’t think I’d ever seen him smile like that before; it was something to behold, even if he was pickled as a newt. I couldn’t help smiling back.
‘Truly?’ he asked, his voice full of wonder.
‘Truly,’ I replied, patting his head placatingly like he was a little boy. ‘Now shall we go to the house, and I will make you a cup of coffee?’ For I think you need a strong one , I added silently.
‘Yesh, a mosht exshellent idea. ’
With my help, he hoisted himself up, and I led the way towards the house. I kept checking behind to see if he was following, and he was doing so. But at one point, he must have been confused and turned left instead of right.
I clicked my fingers at him. ‘This way, Mr Fitzroy,’ I whispered. ‘You’re going to our horse’s stable.’
He stopped with a jolt. ‘Ah, lead on, fair maiden!’ he called, and I shushed him hurriedly. Was bringing him into the house wise? What if he woke up Papa and Mr Humbleton? But there was no other alternative. I could not leave him in the field; he might come to harm. And I did not particularly fancy accompanying him to Ashbury Manor at this time of night.
We went through the side door and into the kitchen, and I lit a couple of candles while Mr Fitzroy slouched against the doorframe, looking worse for wear.
‘You can sit there at the table while I make the coffee,’ I whispered, pointing to a chair.
He nodded and launched off in the general direction, but in doing so, he knocked into the edge of the sideboard. ‘Oh, pleash do forgive me,’ he slurred and bowed to it politely, which nearly set me off into a fit of giggles.
Jane would love hearing about this, but I knew I could never tell her; it would end up in her story, and Mr Fitzroy would be extremely ashamed of himself when he sobered up. I would hate for his behaviour to be made common knowledge to the village if Jane’s scribbles fell into the wrong hands.
Mr Fitzroy plonked himself into a chair and laid his head on the table sideways with his arms hanging limply underneath.
Poor dear, he was in a bad way. I bustled around, stoking the stove fire, which luckily still had a couple of glowing embers, and putting the kettle on the stove to boil.
No one drank coffee in our house but Papa, so I wasn’t exactly sure how to prepare it. Retrieving the tin of ground beans from the pantry, I added a generous measure to a cup. When it was ready, I poured in boiling water and stirred the evil-looking black brew. Yet it emitted a rich pleasant aroma, and I knew it was what he needed, especially as his eyes had already drooped shut.
I nudged his shoulder. ‘Mr Fitzroy, sit up and drink this.’
His eyes shot open at once, and he lifted his head off the table.
‘Here, it will restore you to your senses.’ I held the steaming cup to his lips, and he dutifully took a small sip.
‘Hot,’ he murmured.
‘Take another, but slowly,’ I urged.
He obeyed and gingerly swallowed. ‘Good,’ he stated with a nod .
It appeared all he could manage now were one-syllable words!
I made him keep drinking the coffee until the cup was drained, and he leaned back in the chair with his eyes closed. His face was flushed bright red—whether from the heat of the coffee or the wine, I wasn’t sure. Either way, I suddenly regretted my decision to give him strong coffee. Perhaps I should have given him ginger tea instead?
Concerned, I felt his forehead, which was bathed in sweat and overly warm to the touch.
‘Mmm, that feelsh nice,’ he muttered as my cool hand pressed on his hot skin.
I moved the back of my hand to the side of his face, feeling the rasp of his stubble, and he sighed. ‘Very, very nice. ’
At this close range, I could smell the mixture of coffee and wine on his breath. His full lips were moist and parted.
Feeling my gaze upon him, Mr Fitzroy’s bleary eyes opened and locked on mine. ‘Kish me,’ he murmured.