Chapter 17
There had been no more nocturnal excitements; that first night hadn’t been discussed again, and even Cecilia was beginning to think that she and Miss Macintyre must have been imagining things.
Despite the old governess’s assertion that she’d been wide awake and reading, might she not in fact have been dozing over her book after the long, exhausting day she’d just endured?
In which case, could her recollection of events necessarily be depended upon?
At any rate, the Constantines were fully occupied with the small army of helpers who had descended on Albery Hall.
After a couple of days, all the rooms had been swept and thoroughly cleaned, and the outside, too, was looking much more orderly.
They now had a usable large, formal dining room, should they ever have need of it, complete with the long table and heavy old oak chairs that had been there already, as well as the smaller, cosier room in which they took their meals together.
They all agreed that they were poorly supplied with bedlinens, napkins, towels, drinking glasses, and a score of small, homely items to make the house cosier.
Should their mother suddenly announce that she was coming for a visit, or arrive without any notice at all – which they all thought was quite possible – they would not yet be ready.
It was time to think of those things that they definitely lacked, even if this list would be too long to be purchased all at once.
Transport was something the sisters had not considered when they made their plans to set off for Suffolk; they had worried about getting there, but not about how they would go on when they arrived and the coach had been sent back.
But now they had discovered that Albery House was a little out of the way; even the village was a fair walk, unless one crossed the beach, and the nearest market town, Debenbridge, decidedly further.
They knew they could easily afford a new carriage, horses, and expensive male servants to go along with it, but it seemed a waste when they would use the whole equipage so very little.
Luckily, along with Mrs Albery’s ancient travelling carriage, there was a little Norfolk cart, which was what a dog cart was called in these parts, sitting dusty and shrouded in cobwebs in one of the outbuildings.
Jem Kersey, the new gardener, immediately set to cleaning it and inspecting the traces for signs of decay, and a solid, young grey gelding was procured from some nearby connection of Mrs Pritty’s, guaranteed by his owner to be already accustomed to pulling a light vehicle.
They named him Copenhagen, after Lord Wellington’s famous steed, though it was doubtful that the two animals had very much in common otherwise.
Miss Macintyre rather unexpectedly said that she was happy to drive the cart, leaving Jem to his other work, as she had been used to do so from her youth, and would teach Cecilia the skill if she wished.
‘You should all learn, for the sake of your own independence, but at the outset, Beatrice will be too nervous and Bianca not nearly nervous enough, so as I am a trifle out of practice and even shorter on patience, I will begin with you.’
On their first expedition, though, Miss Macintyre did not ask her to take the reins, since they had a schedule to consider, and they set out together early one morning to attend the auction and explore the town in which it was held.
Mrs Pritty had told them that they should stable the cart and horse at the Crown and Castle Inn, where they might also take luncheon in a private parlour, should their stay require it.
‘It’s not market day,’ that lady said reassuringly, ‘so it shouldn’t be too terribly busy; no cattle fouling the streets or the like.
You’ll do well enough, and if you buy anything large, it can be delivered.
Small items will fit snugly in the big boxes under the seat, if they’re packed in properly.
You be sure and tell Mr Marjoram the auctioneer that he’ll have me to answer to if there’s any breakages through his staff’s carelessness. ’
The road wound inland along the river, among trees green with spring growth, and Miss Macintyre handled the horse and vehicle in fine style, with her usual calm assurance, causing Cecilia to wonder what else she could do that she had hitherto kept concealed.
In less than an hour, she was turning confidently under the arch of the favoured inn, where an ostler came bustling out to assist them.
‘Farmer Eary’s young grey and Mrs Albery’s old dog cart,’ he said laconically. ‘You’ll be the new ladies up at the Hall, then. It’ll be the auction you’re here for. You’re in good time for the viewing; it’s but a few steps away, if you turn right directly out of the yard.’
Cecilia was again a little disconcerted that everyone they met should so readily know all their business, as was definitely not the case in London, but she was too keen to see the goods on offer really to worry about it much.
The town was an agreeable jumble of half-timbered buildings, local brick, and colourfully painted plaster, stretching out along the riverbank and away from it inland.
A few moments later, she and her companion were stepping out of the strong sunlight into the large, barnlike building that was Marjoram’s Auction House, established 1771.
They registered to bid, were given a numbered paddle – once again, everyone she spoke to seemed to know exactly who she was already – and began to look about them.
It was a treasure trove, with a far greater variety of goods than she had expected.
There was furniture, of course, but also crates of crockery and all sorts of household goods, as well as carts and farm implements in one corner.
Not being in need of a plough or harness, Cecilia soon found a pair of sofas upholstered in dark-green brocade; they were comfortable, in excellent condition, with no rips or stains and no sign of woodworm in the frames, and Miss Macintyre agreed that they were just the thing, and would look very well indeed in the parlour.
They’d also been asked to look at china – anything that matched, Bea had said, would be a vast improvement – and spent an agreeable half-hour debating the merits of various colours and styles.
There was time to return to the inn for coffee and saffron buns before the appointed hour, so Cecilia was feeling on excellent form when she entered the barn again and took a seat on a hard chair, one of many that had been set out in rows before the auctioneer’s podium.
On her wise companion’s recommendation, they’d seated themselves towards the rear, so that they could survey much of their competition with ease.
A few other prospective buyers had already found their places, mostly women and older men, younger men of all ranks seeming to prefer to stand at the side, as though sitting down was a sign of weakness.
They saw no one they knew, which could be no surprise, but they must be aware of both covert and frank glances being shot their way, depending on how bashful or bold the person in question should be.
A tall, red-faced man in a bright-green jacket stepped up to the podium, examining his enormous turnip watch, and began, introducing himself formally as Charles Marjoram, Esquire.
He spoke fast and seemed already to know almost everyone present, directing largely incomprehensible jokes at them when they bid, or did not bid.
A downtrodden-looking assistant, who was the chief butt of his humour if nothing fresh arose, showed small items to the crowd, and pointed out larger ones.
It soon became clear that the auctioneer was one of those men who liked to consider themselves as a wit; Cecilia could feel Miss Macintyre shifting restlessly at her side.
But despite his prolixity, the lots passed by rapidly enough, until the number of the sofas came closer, and then it was time.
Miss Constantine sat up straighter and clutched her paddle in both gloved hands.
Surely, she thought, people who lived here could buy sofas at any time; why should they be particularly in need of these ones, today?
She might even be unopposed, and gain a great bargain she could bear home in triumph.