The Original Miss Honeyford (4 page)

“Yes,” muttered Honey, looking down at her lap. In fact, since the day she was first blooded, she had not stayed for the kill, being unable to bear it. But it seemed such a
womanish
thing to confess to.

Honey enjoyed hunting simply because of the hard riding involved and because it put her on easy terms with the men.

“You are not by any chance traveling to London, Miss Honeyford?”

“Yes, I am to make my come-out.”

“I can see you now at Almack’s, swearing like a trooper as you fall over Lady Jersey’s train.” He looked at her dress. “You will need to become a trifle more modish.”

“I am to have a fine wardrobe when I reach London,” said Honey, putting her chin up. “It is not necessary to wear fine clothes in the country.”

“You surprise me. There are more gentlemen, Miss Honeyford, trapped into marriage at a country house than ever ran into the snare during the Season.”

“I am only going to stay with my aunt to enjoy the pleasures of the metropolis.
You
do not hunt the fox because you have no taste for it. For the same reason,
I
do not hunt a husband.”

“Perhaps just as well,” he mocked. “We men are sadly old-fashioned, and a lady who hunts, drinks brandy, and smokes cheroots might be considered too intimidating.”

“Not to a man of honesty and integrity.”

“Ah, so you
do
have hopes.”

“Yet that is not my sole reason for going,” said Honey, wondering if this tall, elegant gentleman could read her mind, could see her pleading father and hear his request to bring home a son-in-law with money who would help to manage the land. She had a sudden picture of arriving home with this elegant, lazy fop, and grinned, a gamin grin which made her look like a cheeky schoolboy.

“Yes, you are quite right.” He smiled. “We would not suit.”

“I never even contemplated such a thing,” said Honey.

“No, but you thought it, and a rare joke you thought it too.”

“My dear sir, if I may say so without offense, you are a trifle too old for someone of my tender years and so the thought never even entered my head.”

“Very true. I am thirty and that is a great age. But I still have all my own teeth.”

“Do the ladies examine your teeth before they contemplate entering matrimony with you? It sounds like a horse fair.”

“They have no chance to contemplate any such thing. I have so far successfully escaped the parson’s mousetrap.”

“My lord, you are boasting. One would think all the ladies in society were storming your doors.”

“Well, sometimes it does seem a little like that. It is not my charm or my looks they desire, but my title and fortune.”

“Are you rich?” asked Honey.

“Very.”

“Oh.” Honey scowled ferociously into her now empty brandy glass. She wondered what it would be like to be very rich, and, at the same time, it hit her with force that her father was relying on her to bring home a husband, that they were desperately in need of money. She did hope all the marriageable gentlemen were not like this lazy lord. But there would no doubt be some military gentlemen like Captain Jocelyn. Her face brightened.

Lord Alistair watched the changing moods on her expressive face with some amusement. He had never before in his life met any female, old or young, who was so little impressed by him. For the moment, he found the novelty refreshing, although he was sure that any extended period of time in this farouche child’s company would bore him to tears.

“Are you not nervous at venturing so far alone?” he asked.

“I am not alone,” said Honey. “As I have already pointed out, I have a coachman and two grooms.”

“A young lady should not be left in a posting inn to her own devices—particularly a young lady who drinks brandy like water. There are some dangers on the road that even the best of servants would be at a loss to handle.”

“Pooh, I am equal to anything.”

“Anything?”

“Give me an example?”

He leaned back in his chair and smiled at her, a wicked, seductive smile. “Imagine if I decided to subject you to an excess of civility. You could, of course, scream, but who are the servants going to believe? You or me?”

“You, my lord.”

He rose from his chair, looming large in the candlelight, his shadow running up to the rafters of the room. “So if I were to approach you—”

He broke off, and sat down abruptly. While he had been getting to his feet, Honey had been searching in her bulging reticule. He found himself looking at a neat pistol held steadily in one small hand.

“It would be silly to even ask you if you know how to use that,” he said.

“Very silly,” replied Honey, outwardly calm and inwardly shaken by that threatening wave of masculine sensuality which had emanated from him as he had stood up.

“And it is loaded?”

“Of course.”

“What an extraordinary girl you are. I am sure you will set London by the ears.”

Honey tucked the pistol away in her reticule and rose to her feet. “I bid you good night, my lord,” she said. “I make an early start in the morning.”

He rose to his feet again and made her a low bow. “I wish you every success during the Season, Miss Honeyford,” he said. “Try not to frighten us poor gentlemen too much.”

Honey turned and left the room.

Lord Alistair remained standing for several minutes after she had left, a quizzical smile on his face.

Honey soon plunged down into sleep—and straight into Lord Alistair’s arms. He was holding her very tightly and his lips came down on hers in a searing kiss. She wanted that kiss to go on forever, and, when he released her, she cried out with loss.

Her own cry awoke her and for several moments she lay in bed, blushing all over, feeling she had been deliberately haunted. The last man in the world she wanted to hold in her arms was Lord Alistair.

She tossed and turned and slept in fits and starts for the rest of the night.

Lord Alistair was crossing the hall as she made her way down the stairs in the morning. He turned and looked at her and then swept off his hat.

Honey looked at him and blushed painfully. She mumbled something and fled outside to where her carriage was waiting.

She fervently hoped she would never see him again.

Her long journey during the next few days passed without incident. By dint of paying the inn servants their vails on her arrival at each posting house, she was ensured of prompt and willing service. Of course, on her departure, when it transpired there was no more largesse forthcoming, they were apt to turn surly, but there was little they could do by that time to make Honey feel uncomfortable.

At the end of the week, she met with a setback. On her arrival at The Green Dragon in Rawson in Bedfordshire, she was told there was no room for her. In vain did she plead that her father had sent her bookings for each posting house ahead with the mail coach. The landlord professed ignorance. The Green Dragon was full to bursting point, and it transpired there had been a prize fight near the town that very day. At last the landlord volunteered the information that the only hope she had of a bed that night was some six miles west on a minor road at The Boar’s Head. Honey’s coachman listened carefully to the directions and once more they were on the road with the light fast fading from the sky.

The last slanting rays of the sun eventually lit up the frontage of The Boar’s Head as Honey’s coach lurched around a muddy, rutted bend in the dreadful road.

It was so old and ill-kept that it looked as if it were about to fall down and become part of the surrounding countryside. In the last century, it had been a popular place, but due to subsidence, the road had proved unsafe for the great, lumbering stage coaches, and so the London road had moved six miles to the east, leaving it largely abandoned.

A fantastic jumble of chimneys loomed above the roof, and two oriel windows on the front made it look as if it were glaring down the road, wishing ill luck on the fickle travelers who had deserted it so long ago.

But on that night it had, perhaps, a more cheerful view. Three men, travelers like Honey who had been unable to find an inn in the town, could be seen moving between the inn and the stables.

The rooms, in the old tradition, had names instead of numbers—Rose Parlor, Cliff Parlor, Crown Chamber, Key Chamber, and Moon Chamber. The landlord looked like a small tenant farmer with his large groggy face and bovine stare. His wife looked like his twin, and her broad hips in their voluminous skirts brushed either side of the stairway as she conducted Honey up to the Moon Chamber.

The room was fireless and damp, and the towels used by the last inhabitant had been merely dried, rather than washed, and put back again complete with brandy smell and snuff stains.

Honey became weary of all her independence. She stuck her head out of the window which overlooked the stable yard, and, seeing the groom, Abraham Jellibee, crossing the yard, she hailed him and told him to get fresh towels and hot water.

Then she sank down into an upholstered chair, which sent up a cloud of dust, and contemplated the legend carved on the mantel:

At length Abraham arrived with towels and hot water, grumbling that it was unbecoming to his livery to act as an inn servant.

“Then find a servant,” snapped Honey, exasperated.

“Don’t seem to have one ’cept a poor lass that’s mazed in the head and a liddle boy. Seems you must dine in the coffee room, miss, the roof of the dining room having fallen in this age.”

“There are private parlors!”

“Them’s into rooms for us grooms and such. Better I stand behind your chair tonight. There’s a mort o’ loud johnnies in the tap.”

“And have you grumbling about being a waiter? Besides, you will be dining there yourself.”

“Begging your parding, but Jem and Peter’s for taking the carriage into town.”

“What is the matter with it?”

“Don’t rightly understand, but Jem said as how it was a liddle thing, and besides we could fare better in the town for victuals.”

“Leaving me here to take pot luck?”

“Now, hasn’t I just said as how I’d stay?” said Abraham with all the familiarity of an old country servant.

Honey bit her lip. She had coped very well on her own during the last week, but this was not a posting inn, and such company as there was would be gentlemen from the prize fight.

But a vision of Lord Alistair’s sleepy blue eyes flashed before her. He had made her feel young and silly, and he had had the impertinence to haunt her dreams. She would show him!

So, not stopping to consider that it was a very sad thing to do—to go on trying to show off to a man who wasn’t even present—Honey dismissed Abraham, who left after only a token protest, since he had had the foresight to inspect the kitchens on his arrival.

Honey changed her dress, wondering what would be served for supper. There had been a cow grazing in the field next to the inn when she had arrived. It looked like one of Pharaoh’s lean cattle and you could have hung your hat on its hip bones. Doubtful if there would be beef; probably pork. After some deliberation, she tied a yellow, plush velvet poke bonnet on her head. It gave her a rather blinkered view of life, but she had worn it during the week and found strangers inclined to ignore a female whose face was largely shut from sight. She stuffed her pistol into her reticule, wondering at the same time whether she was being
missish
by taking it with her for protection, and the weight of it dragged on her arm.

Above the door of the coffee room was a sign:

Honey opened the door of the coffee room and walked in. Three gentlemen were seated at the top of a long deal table. Honey took a place at the bottom, showing her profile to the company so that nothing could be seen of her face, the hideous poke bonnet hiding it effectively. A brief glance at the young men before she sat down had shown her they were of the Corinthian persuasion since they were wearing Belcher neckerchiefs, loudly striped waistcoats, stuff coats, leather breeches, and top boots. Two of them lowered their voices as Honey took her place, but the third kept saying loudly, “Yarse. Yarse,” and laughing inanely.

To Honey’s amazement, she was served promptly, the main dish being chicken pie which was thumped down in front of her with great puffings and pantings and adjurations to “eat it while it’s ’ot” by the landlord’s wife. Even when the chicken proved to be rabbit and when the pastry reminded Honey obscurely of the day the roof at home had leaked and soaked the family Bible, she stoically ate as much as she could and prepared to make the best of things.

All three gentlemen had started talking loudly again. Their conversation was, mercifully for Honey, in too broad a cant for her to understand, and only by the frequent salacious laughs could she judge it was definitely not for the ears of a young lady. Not wanting to attract attention to herself, Honey did not call for her usual glass of brandy but contented herself with asking for canary instead. The landlady brought the wine, removed the dishes, and retired.

There was a lot of whispering and giggling from the three men, and then one said, “I say, miss or madam, we’ve been laying bets as to your age, not being able to see nothing with that
’straordinary
bonnet.”

Honey pretended to be deaf and studied a gruesome picture of a dead dog on the opposite wall. Under it ran the legend, “Died last night, poor Trust! Bad pay killed him.” This landlord, or the previous one, evidently wanted all his customers to understand he did not give credit.

Honey stiffened. There came the sound of chairs being scraped back. Then she relaxed. They were leaving.

But they stopped behind her chair.

Honey was just about to reach for her reticule, which was on the chair next to her, when a rough hand seized the poke of her bonnet and jerked the hat off her head. It was as well she had loosened the ribbons or she might have found herself dragged to the floor.