Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Three months and a quart of devil’s brew until the wedding
‘T hank you.’ Phoebe nodded, as a rosy-faced farmwife and her dimpling daughter shuffled down the worn stagecoach seat.
‘You’re welcome.’ The farmwife beamed. ‘It’s not as if you’ll take up much room, I’ve had roast dinners bigger than you!’
Then she turned to her daughter, chortling in a way that made her entire upper body shake like jelly, as Phoebe slid into a seat nearest the window. She’d paid an extra shilling for a view, but as she turned her face towards the frosted hills she was leaving behind, she was conscious only of another pang of doubt. Knightswood Manor had been her home for eighteen years and, aside from a family trip to Weymouth when Josephine was recuperating from a particularly bad contagion of the lungs, she’d barely left Devon at all. Now she was headed to London, for three whole months, all by herself.
It’s this or marry the earl, without so much as a whiff of adventure your whole life long , she chastised herself, as she stretched out and adopted Fred’s slightly unconscious expression.
‘Excuse me, might I have a little leg room, please?’
Phoebe started as a severe-looking gentleman in the seat opposite glared at her through a tiny, round eyeglass. Flushing, she muttered a low apology. There was, after all, a stark difference between sprawling like a man, and being a total foozler as Fred might say.
Fortunately, the coachman chose the same moment to slam the doors with an incoherent shout, and as the coach lurched into a grinding roll, Phoebe drew a deep breath. They were packed in like Cook’s favourite sardines, and it was a far noisier affair than she’d ever anticipated, but nothing could override her silent exaltation. She’d done it, she’d escaped! And now she had three long months in which to pursue every heroic adventure she’d ever dreamed of beyond the border of Knightswood Manor.
‘Fancy an onion dearie? I find it really helps with the knocks and bumps,’ the rosy-faced farmwife wheezed, proffering one of the small, inauspicious roots as though it were a tasty apple.
Phoebe declined politely, noting both the woman and the dimpling daughter appeared to be chomping their way though their market wares with relish. She squeezed her fingers, a sudden memory of the purple-faced earl making her stomach churn; it was not an omen, and she was not going to overthinkit.
The severe-looking gentleman cleared his throat.
‘I beg to differ,’ he offered, with a deprecatory wobble of his eyeglass. ‘I always maintain boiled kidneys are the very best antidote to having one’s bones rattled to within an inch of one’s own grave.’
Several murmurs of agreement reached over the crunch of the wheels, while the farmwife looked the severe-looking gentleman up and down with an expression of avid dislike.
‘Well, I don’t s’pose you’ve a basket of those about your person now, ’ave you?’ she challenged. ‘And my dear old Uncle Billy, God bless his soul, who used to travel from Tav’stock to Ex’ter regular, swore by his onions for health and luck against highwaymen! So I reckon I’ll just stick wiv them for now.’
Upon hearing this persuasive account, the entire coach seemed to undergo a change of mind, with one passenger even going so far as to hold out his hand as though in a pledge of undying loyalty to dear old Uncle Billy. The farmwife beamed her delight as she rewarded his support with an extra-large root, before sitting back in smug satisfaction.
The matter settled, Phoebe turned her attention back to the shadowy peaks of Dartmoor, just visible though the smeared window. It was almost three hours until they stopped to change horses, and she was starting to feel the effect of having risen before dawn. Exhaling slowly, she rested her head backagainst the worn leather seat and let her thoughts drift toLondon.
There was no way her meagre savings would last three months, which had narrowed her few choices into two even slimmer options: masquerading as a governess for some respectable, yet highly reclusive, family – or joining a theatre company. And since the former was much more likely to result in exposure, she was convinced a short theatrical career was just the thing, with the added bonus of bringing her closer to every fictional heroine she’d ever loved.
Her eyes misted as the many stories she and her sisters had performed to entertain Josephine flitted through her mind. They always made her laugh – and cough – before Mama banned them, but they’d sneak back, anyway, and begin all over again. Back then, she believed she could do anything and be anyone. She still did – it was only the world who disagreed on account of one tiny fact of birth that decided everything in her life.
Of course, she had no real desire to be one of her brothers, she just wanted the same freedom. She wanted to travel, climb trees, swim wherever she liked, and wear trousers with miracle pockets whenever she chose – which explained her current choice of country attire. She knew the world would take a lot less notice of a young, bourgeois gentleman of no particular fame or fortune, than a young gentlewoman. Thomas was much less likely to discover her this way, and she could cover her tracks by signing Fred’s name with a very credible flourish, which was actually much more pleasing to the eye than his own hasty scrawl, when needed. And while she knew it wouldn’t be as simple as walking into the Covent Garden Theatre and demanding an audition for Kemble’s new King John, it was still preferable to presenting as a hopeful actress, which would likely bring all sorts of undesirable problems of its own.
Phoebe exhaled as the relentless jolts and bumps began to soothe her heavy eyelids closed, recalling her plan for a character reference, should one be required. Their highly unfortunate and much misunderstood pianoforte tutor, Monsieur Dupres, now resided in London and would undoubtedly furnish her with something suitable if she reminded him of the debt he owed. She was, after all, the one who’d persuaded Thomas to let him go without a hint of scandal, and with full recommendation to future employers. And, if he was at all reluctant she could simply share that she still had his elopement proposal in her possession – as well as the postal address of the Society Matters Circular .
She allowed herself a small, wry smile.
As an actor, she could earn her own money and perhaps even tour a little, see a few sights she’d only ever heard or read stories about. Her head filled with the multitude of exotic-sounding places Fred had visited on his Grand Tour last year. He’d had such a splendid time visiting all the European cities with his Oxford friends that they’d taken on somewhat of a fictional gleam for her: Paris, Venice, Rome, fair Verona … Perhaps she’d be lucky enough to be cast in a dramatic stage duel to the death; she’d always been better than her brothers at fencing. Or a witty comedy, where she was a female disguised as a male, playing a male actor playing a female… She stared out at the receding silhouette of Dartmoor as her woolly brain tried to compute the layers of dress should such a role ever be offered, and before she knew it, they were cantering through the moorland woods with a carpet of bluebells underfoot, and a chorus of wood warblers for company…
‘Taunton! All passengers descend at The Swan. We depart again at one o’clock sharp!’
The coachman’s bark stirred Phoebe from a wistful dream about stretching out on the Fairfax-family chaise’s fully sprung seats, while her old governess recounted the many times the stagecoach made her bones rattle like an old ghost. She and her sisters used to dissolve into laughter when she said such things, but today Phoebe had new sympathy. Travel by the common stage was not turning out to be quite the experience she’d hoped.
Stiff and aching, she climbed down the worn step and onto a cobbled courtyard, where she was greeted by a hive of midday activity. Two young ostlers ran to hold the panting horses’ heads, while passengers continued to disembark from every corner of the coach. Phoebe couldn’t help but stare. She’d boarded so swiftly, she hadn’t realised there were just as many people travelling on top of the coach as there were inside, and they looked twice as relieved as she, if that was even possible.
‘Welcome to The Swan, ladies and gentlemen,’ a pompous voice boomed over the hustle and bustle. ‘An establishment of quality, serving persons of quality, the very best in quality food!’
‘I wonder what he saves for everyone else then?’ the farmwife muttered beside Phoebe.
‘This way to our comfortable tap room where we will be pleased to serve you from our fine selection of wines and brews! I’m sure you’ve worked up a thirst, and you’ll be hard put to find a finer local brew south of Bristol! And if it’s a bite to eat you’re after, I can personally recommend the roast beef!’
The landlord’s throaty sales pitch nearly deafened Phoebe as she absorbed her new surroundings. She cast his portly figure a covert glance as he stood on the freshly scrubbed step of The Swan Public Inn, rubbing his hands together and beaming his welcome amid the chaos in the courtyard. He looked every inch the sort her brother would call a right rum’un . And yet there was no denying the grumble of her stomach, either.
Indeed, it was just as she was pondering whether sampling the local brew might actually be something Fred would do, and therefore entirely in keeping with her new character, that a new commotion rippled through the courtyard.
‘Lawks, Ma! I swear, it’s the devil hisself!’ the farmwife’s daughter gasped, as a high-perch phaeton and two spirited greys thundered into the courtyard at such speed, that Phoebe felt sure they must run straight into the crowd.
A second gasp rippled through the courtyard as the carriage flew past, yet the tall driver appeared quite unconcerned, and merely executed the tightest of turns, before drawing to a sharp halt behind the stagecoach.
Phoebe caught her breath.
Could Thomas have discovered her already? Or was it Fred come to warn her that Thomas was on the warpath?
She had to concede that the latter was a little unlikely since she hadn’t even written to Fred yet, but she wasn’t taking any chances. She pulled down the brim of her hat and took a swift step backwards, straight into the farmwife’s dimpling daughter.
‘Oi! Watch me toes!’
‘Oh! I’m … so sorry,’ Phoebe mumbled, as the driver jumped down and strode around the rear of his equipage, the high gleam of his boots heralding his importance.
‘Lawks, I’ll live!’ The daughter grinned. ‘You’re so light-footed a gentl’man, I barely felt it at all!’
Phoebe smiled distractedly, trying to side-eye the newcomer’s boots and decide if he had Thomas’s impatient stride, or something more like Fred’s country snail pace. She sucked in a breath as the crowd parted, and then exhaled inrelief.
He had neither.
She squeezed the girl’s hand in a momentary lapse.
‘Thank you, I’m such a clumsy oaf at times!’ she breathed, as the girl dimpled beneath a monstrous straw bonnet tied with a garish pink ribbon.
Phoebe shrank back, suddenly aware that certain mannerisms acceptable from Miss Phoebe Fairfax, could be construed as something else entirely from Mr Alfred Fairfax.
‘That I’m sure you ain’t, is he, Ma? But you can buy me a cider to make up for it … if y’like?’
She stared, uncertain what to make of this dimpling girl, twisting a bonnet ribbon around her finger in a way that clearly meant something . Before she realised. The farmwife’s daughter was giving her ‘the eye’ as Fred would call it – she was flirting with her!
Phoebe felt a very undignified bubble of laughter threaten to surface, just as the landlord’s pompous voice filled the courtyard again.
‘Ah, Viscount Damerel! How lovely to see you, sir! If I’d known you were coming, I’d have reserved the best parlour. As it happens, I’ve only the smaller of the two left…’ He tailed off hopefully as the imperious-looking driver of the phaeton approached.
‘Water for my horses, Briggs!’ the gentleman returned bluntly.
‘Of course, sir! Right away, sir! You, boy, wake up!’ he relayed sharply. ‘Take the viscount’s horses to the stables and no dawdling!’
A young ostler sprang into action as the crowd jostled for abetter look at the viscount, who’d managed to change thepompous landlord’s whole demeanour with one witheringlook.
Phoebe’s eyes narrowed.
Viscount Damerel looked exactly the sort of gentleman over whom Sophie would swoon, given half the chance. He was tall and well groomed, with hair swept into some fashionable style Phoebe vaguely remembered Fred attempting to copy – he called it a Wyndham Fall or some such thing, or perhaps that was the tie of his cravat, she could never quite recall. He was also impeccably dressed: his coat fitted like a glove, his pantaloons were spotless, and his Hessian boots gleamed more than any pair she’d ever known. Yet despite all this, his nose was a shade too aquiline, his chin excessively proud and there was something in the tight press of his lips that did little to recommend him at all.
In truth, he looked the sort of gentleman who never climbed a tree, despite all the freedom afforded him.
She bristled involuntarily.
Her brothers would undoubtedly call him a ‘Corinthian of the first water’, but his puffed-up self-importance said only one thing to her: dandy . And whatever he thought about having the smaller of the two parlours was lost entirely as he strode inside, leaving the open-mouthed landlord in his three-caped wake.
‘No mention of a parlour for the rest of us, eh, Effie?’ the rosy-cheeked farmwife quipped, raising one of her thick auburn eyebrows. ‘We’ll just have to make do with the tap room and a jug of cider instead!’
‘I’d much rather the tap room and a cider, than share a parlour with that fancy one!’ Effie scoffed, pushing her cloak back to reveal a simple country dress cut far too tightly across her shapely chest.
Briefly, Phoebe gazed in abject admiration; she’d never seen such an ample bosom, even on Sophie who was by the far the most comely of them all.
‘Won’t you join us inside?’ the rosy farmwife cajoled. ‘You can keep young Effie here company, while I unlace me boots.’
She sighed and leaned forward conspiratorially.
‘Bunions,’ she whispered loudly, before shooting a look around the courtyard to ensure all those within earshot had heard her correctly.
All Phoebe saw was the basket of offending roots at Effie’s feet.
‘Young gentl’man don’t wanna hear nothin’ about yer feet, Ma!’ Effie exclaimed, taking Phoebe’s arm as though she’d known her all her life.
‘What he needs is a drink, like us! Come on.’ She dimpled, shaking back her auburn curls and drawing the rapt admiration of most gentlemen nearby.
Moments later, Phoebe found herself being propelled towards The Swan Inn with more strength than she would have ever thought possible of a young girl. And not for the first time since leaving Knightswood, she found a use for Fred’s ridiculously high shirt points. She sank her chin inside them as far as she could, comforting herself with the thought that a bustling farmwife and her dimpling daughter were likely to be the very last people in the world Thomas would suspect of harbouring his runaway sister.
The busy tap room was located down a long corridor and towards the back of The Swan Inn. It was entirely unlike any of the tearooms Phoebe had frequented with her family, yet the faint wafts of roast beef and spiced cider were so enticing, it wasn’t long before she began wondering if falling in with Effie and her mother might not actually be the luckiest occurrence of her journey so far. A young gentleman travelling alone was unremarkable, but a young gentleman travelling with far more comely companions couldn’t be more invisible; and by the time Effie’s mother had secured a window table with little more than a wink, Phoebe was convinced she was managing her new-found freedom very astutely indeed.
‘Ain’t you gonna take off that hat?’ Effie asked, pulling at her bonnet and shaking out a tumble of auburn locks. ‘Bet your head feels ’ot. I know mine feels like a boiled puddin!’
Phoebe swallowed as Effie and her mother busied themselves with the apparently jovial task of stripping off their hats and winter cloaks. Yet all Phoebe’s thoughts were for the fact that she’d completely overlooked the need to remove her own hat occasionally.
Thankfully, Fred came to the rescue once again.
‘I confess,’ she ventured, recalling her brother’s rather alarming experiment resulting in treacle-like locks, ‘that thanks to a small miscalculation with Macassar oil, I’m rather reluctant.’
She smiled, feigning distinct embarrassment.
‘I was attempting Mr Brummell’s latest creation, with a rather unimpressive outcome, so I do hope you will excuse my manners – or should I say lack of them – Mrs…?’
‘Oh, just call me Flora, like the rest of Dunsford!’ The farmwife chortled good-naturedly. ‘And of course we’ll excuse you! Beau Brummell, eh? Well, well, you youngsters do like to chase the fashion!’
She leant forward conspiratorially.
‘And while we’re getting things straight, you mustn’t mind Effie’s straight talking, either. It’s how my late husband and I raised her. Say what yer think, Effie, we always told her, especially when it comes to the young gentl’men; no girl got anywhere by holding back!’
Her eyes misted over while Phoebe choked on a sip of water, wondering how many fits of vapours her own mama would’ve had on hearing such advice.
‘Glass of ratafia and a plate of chicken please,’ she whispered to the serving girl who’d arrived to take their luncheon order.
Flora frowned.
‘I meant … a jug of cider, and plate of your landlord’s roast beef…’ Phoebe substituted in a gruffer tone.
Effie’s eyes lit up as her mother sat back, satisfied.
‘Lunch for a lord,’ they chimed happily.
Precisely one hour later, Phoebe was a little unsure why everything seemed quite so entertaining, but quite certain she hadn’t laughed as much since Sophie fell into a muddy horse trough in her new pelisse.
‘Well, what I says is, a girl can handle a pitchfork just as well as any man!’ Effie concluded, stabbing her fork in the air, as though to accentuate the point.
Phoebe nodded in vigorous agreement, before becoming aware that Fred’s hat had slid to a new and dangerous angle. She adjusted it, only to find the tap room walls behaving similarly. She stared intently, trying to work out what was wrong with them.
‘Ladies, pray do excuse me … I must powder … stretch my legs for a moment!’ she declared with a small, energetic hiccup.
‘Right you are!’ Flora laughed heartily. ‘ Run-dez-vouz back on the coach, as they say – though whoever they are, I’m sure I’ve no idea!’ she added, draining the last of her cider in one impressive draught.
Beaming magnanimously, Phoebe stood up. Or at least, it appeared she’d stood up because she was definitely vertical, but her legs were behaving in a most irregular manner. Indeed, if she didn’t know any better she’d say that rather than standing, she was actually floating . Phoebe checked her person suspiciously, but everything appeared to be connected in much the same way as before, and her head was starting to feel very warm indeed, so she paused only to beam again before making for the corridor.
Fortunately, the fresh air was an immediate tonic – even if the corridor did seem steeper than before – and it was just as she was beginning to wonder if she didn’t make a more convincing Fred than Fred himself, that she heard the voices.
‘I don’t care what bookings you’ve taken, I need your freshest pair, and I’ll pay double whatever anyone else is paying!’
Phoebe paused outside a private parlour, as a raised exchange filtered out into the hallway.
‘I understand, sir, of course, sir… It’s just the local fight you see, sir, it means a lot of The Swan’s horses have been promised already.’
‘I don’t think you heard me,’ a glacial voice returned. ‘I have no interest in bookings or the local fight. All I care about is leaving this inn with your fastest horses within the next few minutes – do I make myself clear? I mean to be in Bridgewater by nightfall!’
‘But … but … that’s impossible, sir! It’s already past luncheon and you’ll lose the light by?—’
‘Do we understand one another?’ the haughty tone cut in again, leaving Phoebe in little doubt as to its owner.
‘Knew he was an arrogant dandy,’ she muttered, just as an imperious march sounded across the floor.
In her head, Phoebe made an elegant escape down the corridor, far away from the disagreeable viscount and his perfect eyebrows, but in reality her floating legs dissolved beneath her, leaving her sprawled across the parlour entrance, face to face with his immaculate Hessian boots.
And worse still, Fred’s old hat took off like an AWOL pudding bowl.
‘Really, Briggs!’ the viscount hissed. ‘I thought The Swan commanded a rather better quality of clientele than drunkards and scoundrels! I may need to rethink my patronage altogether if this proves not to be the case, and especially if fresh horses prove too much of a challenge!’
For a moment there was only a tense silence, then a stream of incoherent apologies filled the air, as the viscount turned and strode away.
Mortified, Phoebe clutched at her exposed head, knowing she needed to retrieve her hat as quickly as possible if she were to avoid detection. She scuttled across the floor in what she hoped was a swift and subtle movement, though she suspected it was neither.
‘Kindly remove your dubious person from my quality establishmen t this second!’ Briggs boomed as she reached the offending item, nearly making her drop it again.
Flushing, Phoebe pressed her hat to her head before turning to face the livid man.
‘I won’t have drunkards blackening The Swan’s good name, and losing me my hard-earned custom, do you hear me? Be off with you now before I send word to the authorities that I’ve a right scallywag here, and no mistake!’
For a second, Phoebe could only blink at the blustering landlord in disbelief. She’d never been spoken to in such a manner, even when she fell through the stable roof, with the groom still abed. Then a loop of her hair slipped out beneath Fred’s hat, and landed in a coil on her shoulder. They both stared at the traitorous lock before Briggs lifted his eyes, incredulity all over his face as he started towards her.
So Phoebe did the only thing left for a girl wearing her brother’s short drawers to do – she picked herself up and fled.