Mistress of My Fate (2 page)

Inside, the dark taproom with its low ceiling seemed less threatening than I had predicted. Its patrons sat contentedly around the hearths murmuring to each other, sucking on pipes and mugs of stout. Each pair of eyes was raised as I slipped through the door. I kept my hood over my head and lowered my gaze. I am not certain which posed a greater danger to me at the time: that I should be accosted by some malevolent stranger or that I should be recognized by a well-intentioned acquaintance.

Like a skulking thief, I took myself to the furthest corner. It did not matter to me that it was beyond the cast of the fire. I wished only to remain hidden from view as I rested my throbbing feet. My large left
toe and heel were beginning to blister. The state of my skirts, crusted with mud, was nothing short of disgraceful.

I ordered some small beer from the pot-boy in his leather apron, and consumed it so greedily that he stared in disbelief. I doubt he had ever seen a young lady choke down her drink. He refilled my tankard and brought me some bread, which I tore into like a beggar. This meagre meal cost me a penny ha’penny. It was frightening to me how quickly money could be spent. I had only a few coins in my purse, which was all the means I possessed in the world.

Until that moment, I had never before considered the cost of ordinary items. All my earthly needs had always been seen to. There was never any question of expense. I had not imagined that small beer would cost me a ha’penny and a loaf, double that amount. As I fingered my remaining coins, I worried that I might not have enough to complete my journey. My fare would cost a sum, as would any meals. My heart began to pick up pace again. I felt the tiny pearl cross around my neck and thought about the other trinkets in my bundle. What were they worth? One question led to another and, once more, I began to quiver with anxiety.

I had in total £6 2
s
. 9
d
. It was not an inconsiderable sum. Of course, I only discovered this by laying out each of the coins and counting them several times. Imagine that! I can scarcely believe my own stupidity. I am only grateful that country folk are an honest sort. In London or Paris or Rome, I might have been wrestled to the ground and divested of my entire life’s savings. Where would that have left me, I wonder.

It seemed an eternity before the arrival of the mail coach was announced. At the sound of the coach horn my stomach and heart lurched. I sprang to my feet. This was to be it, the chariot that would spirit me away.

“To Cambridge and all stops to London,” cried the innkeeper through his taproom. Just then, the thunder and rattle of the charging team with its heavy wagon shook the walls as it pulled to a halt.

I walked briskly to the yard, where the lumbering black-and-red-painted carriage sat, burdened with boxes and human cargo. Inside the compartment, a woman and two neat but plainly dressed men peered at me through the windows. When I saw that I was to be the sole passenger joining at the White Hart, I grew quite uneasy and crept awkwardly around the horses. The guard, who had jumped from his box atop the carriage, held his watch in one hand while bellowing commands to the inn’s staff. They scurried around him with buckets and tankards, sacks and harnesses. He looked at me sternly and I cowered.

“Please, sir,” I whispered meekly, “I am for Gloucestershire. What is the fare?”

“Gloucestershire? Gloucestershire?” he boomed. “Miss, this coach will take you as far west as Royston and then, at the Bull Inn, you must board a stage for points beyond.”

I stared at him, as if struck dumb.

“The fare for Royston is five pounds and three shillings,” said he, reaching for the ledger in his waistcoat pocket. Like a simpleton, I held out my purse to him. He must have thought me an idiot. In truth, I was little more capable than one. He took £5 3
s
. 2
d
. from me, smiling as he did it. I may have been a blockhead, but he was a rogue!

Hugging my bundle to me, I mounted the step into the sprung carriage. One of the gentlemen inside offered his assistance by tugging my hand. I was hardly seated for more than a moment in the close, box-like compartment when the coach jerked forward and began its hurried progress.

I knew I would begin to weep if I looked through the back window. I resisted the urge at first, and then, as foolishly as Lot’s wife, I turned my gaze over my shoulder. In the wake of our departure, the sign of the White Hart rocked back and forth, its sleek stag waving to me in a final salute. I pursed my face tightly and forced back the tears. The cabin in which we travelled was exceptionally snug and I had convinced myself that sobbing before this audience would only have drawn attention to
my plight. In truth, it was folly of me to think I might escape inspection in such an enclosed space. I was no better than a jarred specimen, and as soon as I had assumed my seat, I felt the questioning eyes of my fellow passengers upon me. You see, everything about my person looked most suspicious.

Although it is no longer the case in the current age, there once was a time when there were only two reasons why a politely attired young lady would be travelling unaccompanied and in an obvious state of distress. The first of these was that she was a lady’s maid who had run off, perhaps with some of her mistress’s possessions. The second was that she was a girl of a good family who had eloped on a promise of marriage. I could tell from the curious looks of those surrounding me that they were deciding in which category I belonged. In truth, I belonged in neither and my circumstances were beyond any that those in the rattling coach could imagine.

I had not prepared myself to be the subject of such scrutiny, nor was I in a fit state to contend with enquiries or even idle conversation. Ashamed of my bedraggled appearance, I wished for nothing more than to make my passage in silence. I therefore kept my head down and my frightened features hidden beneath the shade of my hat. As you might imagine, my unwillingness to engage with any of those within the cabin only excited their interest further. This held especially true for the smirking lady sitting directly opposite me. I could tell from the manner in which she craned her neck and peered beneath the brim of my hat that she was determined to have my story from me. She would prise me open like an oyster. I would not meet her gaze, but this did not deter her. Her dark eyes fixed on me, glowing like two pieces of jet beneath her enormous, beribboned hat. For some time, she attempted to draw my notice, fidgeting, dropping her embroidery and harrumphing in great, proud breaths. Unable to bear it any longer, she finally exclaimed, “My, how bad the road is! I do not recall it being so full of rocks and potholes, do you not agree, miss?”

I looked up, surprised by her address.

“La, but it is not as bad as the stagecoach…” she continued, directing her comments to her husband, who slumbered beside her. “No, the stage is not for those who value manners.”

Oh, this woman was a clever one. She knew precisely how to heighten my sense of alarm; after all, I was to board the stage for the next leg of my journey.

“Please, madam,” I said timorously, “why is this so? I am to join the stage at Royston.”

“My dear miss, I take it that you have not before travelled upon the stage?” she asked, arching an eyebrow and leaning towards me the better to examine my features. I turned from her quickly but her eyes clung to me like burrs.

“No, I have not.”

“Do avoid it if you can. Find some other means of travelling to your destination. If it is possible, hire a post chaise. The stage is filled with none but ruffians and thieves. The coachman will almost certainly be drunk. You are sure to be robbed or to have your pocket picked.”

“Oh,” I uttered, a look of dread overcoming my expression. The threat of yet more danger seemed almost too much to bear. I felt my throat tighten.

Until that moment the gentleman sitting beside my interrogator had been entirely engrossed in a book, and had seemed the least curious among the passengers. But he must have sensed my discomfort, for now he too was staring at my wide-eyed face.

“Poppycock,” he stated firmly. “It is true, the mail provides a better service, but you are as likely to meet with ruffians in this coach as you are upon the stage.”

He then looked at me. “I take it that your friends will protect you from such dangers, miss.”

I knew not how to respond to this.

The gentleman placed his book upon his lap and looked at me sternly.
“You do not mean to tell us, miss, that you travel unaccompanied?”

It was the one question the entire cabin had wished to ask me from the outset. All eyes were upon me, even those of my interrogator’s sleepy husband.

What a child I was! In all of that time, as I had walked the route to the White Hart, as I had waited for the arrival of the coach, as I had sat bouncing against its leather seat, it had never occurred to me to concoct a plausible story to explain my position. I was not, nor have I ever been, a natural liar.

“No…” I stuttered, “I am to meet a friend… of my family…”

“At Royston?” enquired the woman opposite.

“In Gloucestershire.”

“And Gloucestershire is your destination?” asked the bookish gentleman.

A knowing smile began to creep across my female interrogator’s mouth. “How curious that you should be all alone, that your friends should send you off on such a journey unaccompanied. And what of your family?”

“I have none.” I spoke boldly. That was the truth, in part.

“And so you are very much alone in the world,” said the gentleman, with a softness in his tone.

“I am, sir.”

Neither could formulate a satisfactory response to that.

“Well then,” began the gentleman, “I shall see to it that you arrive safely at Royston and that you are not troubled by ruffians and pickpockets along the way. My name is Fortune,” said he, holding out his hand for me to shake it.

I must say that I was relieved, however temporarily, to have the protection of Mr. Fortune, who appeared to me an honest, sensible man. Close in age to Lord Stavourley, he was a solicitor to some families in Norfolk and was en route to London to attend to business on their
behalf. Although he resumed reading his copy of
Tristram Shandy
and said little more to me, there seemed something avuncular in his manner. Every so often he looked up from his book and gave me a genteel nod.

The journey by mail coach was swift and Cambridge seemed not as far as I had believed. Comforted by my new friend’s presence, I occupied myself with a view of the East Anglian landscape and watched the Gothic tops of the colleges rising from the flat, marshy horizon. Our pace began to slacken as we drew nearer and joined with an eddying flow of freight, cattle and carts, steadily pushing their way through the network of narrow cobbled streets. Eventually we came to a stop under the sign of the Eagle Inn. Here, my fashionably adorned inquisitor and her husband disembarked. Before she flounced from the vehicle, she permitted herself a last lingering look at me. “I shan’t tell your secret, Miss Runaway,” she leaned in and whispered, her face aglow with furtive pleasure. I recoiled, ashamed that I should have been the cause of such entertainment and speculation. To her I must have seemed like a character from a romantic novel, though I felt anything but that.

As the mail was running to a timetable, we had only a brief spell at the Eagle, enough time to change horses and gather a further sack of post. I had believed that my protector, Mr. Fortune, and I would be the only two in the carriage, until the final moments before departure when a boisterous party of young men clambered aboard. There were three in total and they heaved themselves on to the seats with laughter and groans. They smelled powerfully of drink, and I dare say that it took them hardly the blink of an eye to notice my presence. The door was slammed shut on the tightly packed compartment. Three foxes could not have felt more at home in a hen house.

I did not venture raising my eyes to them. As they were in high spirits, I wished more than anything not to draw their attention. However, I soon found that to be unavoidable.

“Good day, miss,” said the young man next to me with an exaggerated, unsteady motion. “I am Thomas Masham, and these are my
friends. I shall not trouble you with their names.” The cabin erupted into laughter.

“And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?” he continued.

I spoke quietly: “I am Miss Ingerton.”

“How do you do, miss?”

“Please, sir, I am not well and do not care much for conversation at present,” I replied, shrinking away from him.

“Perhaps you would like a drink to ease you,” said the fattest of the three, offering me a flask he had stowed in his coat pocket.

“No, thank you, sir.” My audience was disappointed that I would not engage with them.

“You claim to be unwell, miss, but how could that be so when you have such a healthy blush upon your cheek. Your face is so round and pretty and your eyes so bright. I would say you are in fine health,” teased Thomas Masham.

I looked away.

“Or perhaps it is my presence that makes you blush…”

His friends chuckled once more.

“I do think she is in love, Tom!” declared the auburn-haired gentleman across from me.

“Ah, Dick,” he sighed theatrically, “I fear the longer I sit beside Miss Ingerton the more attached to her I become. Madam, I have no doubt that by the time we arrive in London you will have agreed to be my wife, or else offer to perform the services of one.”

“That, sir, is quite enough!” barked Mr. Fortune, springing to my rescue.

The young men reacted sharply. Tom bowed his head. “My apologies to you, sir, I did not think that she was—”

“No, sir, you did not think at all and you have greatly offended Miss Ingerton.”

“My apologies to you, madam,” said my assailant, “for my baseness.” He then locked his gaze on me in a hot, predatory manner. “You
see, Miss Ingerton, I am very much in drink, and am no better than a beast. My passions have been raised and I mean to slake them in London.” He finished his sentence with a loud belch.