Chapter 4
Can you see the sea?
Despite Mr Ashford’s warnings about dreadful roads being quite accurate, they arrived at The George in Rye in the early afternoon, shaken about but otherwise in good spirits.
Whilst it was bitterly cold still, with an east wind that tried their patience by constantly snatching at bonnets and cloaks, both Meg and Betty fell instantly in love with the town.
It was a charming town, if tiny, with a long high street and many ancient buildings, some in red brick, others in white painted wood cladding.
Mr Ashford took them about the place, which did not take very long, enduring Betty’s enthusiasm for looking in shop windows with remarkable good humour, and indulging Meg’s interest in history by telling her everything he knew.
Upon hearing smuggling was rife in the area, Betty turned very pale and began looking about her, regarding every man on the street as if he might jump up and cut her throat at the least provocation.
“Lord preserve us,” she muttered, huddling closer to Meg.
“Well, don’t look to me,” Meg laughed, shaking her head. “I don’t see what use I would be against a violent fellow with a pistol. I suppose I could recite a long, dreary poem and bore him to death.”
“Oh, miss. You are a one,” Betty said, uncertain whether to be amused or soothed by this.
Meg smiled to herself. She liked Betty very much, but she was also dismayed to discover how much she had come to like Mr Ashford.
At first, she had thought him kindly and well intentioned, but reckless and foolhardy, the kind of young man who would still kick up larks and pretend he was a careless youth when he was years past being anything of the sort.
But their conversation last night had given her pause.
He had surprised her and, for the first time in her life, she had felt a sense of kinship, that she had met someone whose ideas and thoughts were in sympathy with her own.
Nonsense, of course. It was just that she was unused to convivial conversation—the thing he himself enjoyed so much.
He was used to such stimulating talk, whereas she’d had only her father with whom to converse.
Certainly her papa was clever and thought-provoking, but she knew him so well she had known what he might say before he said it, and debating was rather dull when you knew what remarks would be thrown back at you.
She wondered again about her father, and if perhaps their debating had been more one sided than she had realised, acknowledging that he had loved to prove her wrong by bringing out a well-developed argument he’d had waiting and ready, when she was entering a new field unarmed and uninitiated.
It had not taken her long last night to remember exactly how foolhardy and reckless she was being herself, though.
Once she had said goodnight to Betty, she had spent a long time staring up at the ceiling, wondering just how long it would be before disaster struck her again.
Surely this was only a respite, not a rescuing.
Her future was balanced on a house of cards and if it lasted for the entire three weeks it would be more than she dared hope for.
But that being the case, what was there to do but make the best of things?
She had always considered herself a realist, but reality had been rather unkind to her of late.
Why not be an optimist like Mr Ashford, and just enjoy the moment?
The future would come, like it or not, and she could do nothing to prevent it.
So, for now, she would take everything life handed her with a hopeful smile and see what she could make of it.
After all, Pericles had said, small opportunities are often the beginning of great enterprises.
Mr Ashford had given her this opportunity, and who was to say she could not turn it to account and make a success of herself? Surely, it was possible?
By half-past one they were all thoroughly chilled and Mr Ashford suggested they retire to The George to warm up and have something to eat whilst they awaited his grandmother’s carriage.
Betty looked wistfully at The Old Bell Inn, which they stood outside of, but upon being informed it was a favourite haunt for the infamous smugglers, she hurried after Mr Ashford and the more respectable environs of The George.
Mr Ashford was obviously well known in the town and was made most welcome upon entering the inn.
There was much greeting and backslapping from the innkeeper and several of the men drinking in the taproom who emerged upon hearing his name.
Meg thought they looked like farmers and local gentry, but Mr Ashford was clearly well-liked, and they greeted him like an old friend.
She watched him with interest, realising she could well see him living the life of a gentleman farmer, despite his sophisticated ways.
There was something rather rugged beneath that handsome face, a powerful solidity under the elegantly cut clothes, and she could well imagine him on horseback, inspecting the land, those powerful thighs guiding his horse with ease.
Meg flushed and turned away, appalled by the turn of her thoughts. Powerful thighs indeed! Whatever had she been thinking?
Eventually, they were settled at a table close to the fire, a tankard of ale set before Mr Ashford and a tea tray provided for the ladies.
“I told my grandmother to expect me around three o'clock, so we’ve time enough to eat,” he said, taking a sip of his ale. “They do a very fine steak pie here, which I shall certainly have, but you may look at the bill of fare if you would prefer.”
“Steak pie sounds perfect,” Meg said, busying herself by pouring out the tea, and determined to stick to her new philosophy and enjoy every good thing that happened to her during the next three weeks.
Betty also agreed to the pie with enthusiasm, before whispering to Meg that she was taking herself off to use the necessary.
“Excellent. Three steak pies then, if you would, Fred,” Mr Ashford told the landlord, who had come over to ensure everything was just as they liked it.
Fred beamed at him, clearly delighted. He was a jovial-looking man in his early fifties, with a ruddy face and a balding pate, and seemed to vibrate with the desire to please.
“With pleasure, Mr Ashford, and how is the dowager duchess? In good health, I hope, God bless her,” he added with what appeared to be genuine fondness. “Everyone’s that tickled to know she’s back at the hall.”
“Certainly in good health,” Mr Ashford replied with a grin. “And causing mischief the last I heard.”
“Ah, we’ve heard about the ladies’ club to no end,” Fred said with a chuckle. “It’s got some folk all riled up, I know. My Rachel went to the musical recital in October, said it were wonderful. Lady Della played for them, you know.”
“I did not know,” Mr Ashford replied, looking interested.
“I’ll go fetch your meals then, sir,” Fred said, hurrying off to do so.
“Well, well, I bet Hawkney had something to say about that,” Mr Ashford said under his breath.
Meg looked at him with interest. “He would not approve?”
“Of his sister playing in public? Good Lord, no. He’ll have been incandescent if I know anything about it. Lord, I wish I’d been there,” he said, shaking his head in wonder.
“Well, that might have been difficult, seeing as it’s a club for ladies,” Meg pointed out.
His lips twitched. “True, but I should still have given anything to see Hawkney’s face when he discovered what they’d done.”
“Does he not get along with your grandmother, then?” she asked, thinking it would be as well to understand as much about the family as possible.
Mr Ashford seemed to consider this. “Yes, and no. He adores her, and she him, and they used to be very close, but he’s terribly stuffy and she’s wonderfully gumptious and delights in scandalising everyone.
Which is well enough for her, she’s the Dowager Duchess of Hawkney.
Lady Della thinks her grandmama is the most magnificent creature, but her situation is very different, being unmarried.
For all Hawkney’s faults, I understand why he seeks to protect his sister.
There are a good many fortune hunters in the world and people ready to cause trouble when money is involved, and people are so ready to criticise a young lady who appears to have everything—beauty, elegance and wealth.
The slightest misstep and they’d crow with delight to see her fall from grace, I don’t doubt. ”
“Is that likely?” Meg asked. It sounded like walking a tightrope.
“With Hawkney around? Lord, no, I should think not. I certainly hope not. Della is the kindest creature in the world.”
Meg smiled. “You like her very much, I think?”
He laughed at that and nodded. “You can’t help but like Della. She’s got that way about her, an easy warmth that makes everyone feel better. A good job too, if Hawkney and I must be in the same room too often for the next few weeks.”
“Is it really so bad between you?” she asked, feeling increasingly daunted at having to meet this austere and harsh duke who might throw her to the wolves if he discovered their charade.
Mr Ashford shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. He just puts my back up, that’s all. Probably my fault. I’m too easily offended, but he’s jolly hard work, if you ask me.”
Meg frowned into her cup of tea, her stomach twisting into such a knot she regretted having ordered the pie. However, was she to get through the next three weeks in such illustrious company? Surely, any of them would be able to tell at once that she was a fraud.
Mr Ashford’s hand covered hers, making Meg start in surprise.
“Don’t look so afraid,” he said, squeezing her fingers. “We are in this together. I won’t abandon you or leave you to face them all alone.”
Meg let out a breath, somewhat reassured. “I know, but you won’t be there all the time. Like when the gentlemen remain at table for the port. What if your grandmother asks awkward questions?”