Yvonne Goes to York (3 page)

Yvonne smiled suddenly, her large eyes sparkling. ‘Amazing Miss Hannah Pym,’ she said. ‘You give me courage.
En avant
!’

The gentlemen rose to meet them as they entered the dining-room. Monsieur Petit was wearing much the same style of clothes as he had worn on the coach, but Mr Giles was magnificent in evening dress, black coat with silver buttons, black knee-breeches, gauze
stockings
, and ruffled shirt. As the ladies sat down, the maitre d’hotel bowed low before Mr Giles and said, ‘Dinner will be served in a trice, my lord.’

‘My lord?’ Hannah looked amused. ‘Your fine clothes have elevated you to the peerage, Mr Giles.’

 ‘Not Mr Giles,’ said Monsieur Petit crossly. ‘His secret is out. He is recognized here. He is the Marquis of Ware who, for some dark reason, needs to travel incognito.’

‘No other reason but debt,’ said the marquis
languidly
. ‘The duns were after me.’

Monsieur Petit snickered. ‘That diamond pin you are wearing in your cravat, my lord, would fend them off for a time.’

The marquis’s face suddenly became hard and stern and his silver eyes bored into those of Monsieur Petit as he put both hands on the table and leaned forward. ‘Do not be impertinent, sir, or I will drive your teeth down your throat.’

‘An’ I’ll help you,’ commented Benjamin gleefully from behind Hannah’s chair.

Monsieur Petit cast the marquis a venomous look and then turned to Yvonne. ‘You must find the manners of the English very boorish, Miss Grenier.’

‘On the contrary,’ said Yvonne, looking directly at him. ‘I find the gentlemen of England courteous and charming and
safe
.’

She has thrown down the gauntlet, thought Hannah, amazed. He is startled and furious, but she is not afraid.

‘What were your first impressions of London?’ asked the marquis.

‘I came up the Thames past Greenwich on a ship,’ said Yvonne, smiling at him. She was no longer afraid of him. He was nothing more than an aristocrat in debt. ‘So much shipping! it looked to me as if a forest of masts was growing out of the river. And the river itself!
So brown and muddy, with mist drifting over the surface. There were jetties which thrust out fifty paces into the river on either side. There was gleaming mud left by the ebb-tide. Oh, a jumbled impression of warehouses and docks, ship-building and -repairing yards, mean dwelling-houses, the iron carcass of a church being made for assembly in India, or so someone told me, and all the many canals with their ships leading into the river, giving the impression of streets of ships. The mist changed into yellow acrid fog as we approached London. I thought myself in Homer’s inferno, in the land of the Cimmerians.

‘I arrived in London on Sunday.’

‘Ah,’ said the marquis. ‘Our famous English Sunday.’

‘It all had the aspect of a large, well-kept graveyard,’ said Yvonne with a shiver. ‘
Tiens
! How frightened and lost I felt. Shops closed, streets almost empty. It was raining – small, fine, close, pitiless rain. Everything was dirty and impregnated with soot. In the livid smoke, objects were no more than phantoms, and London looked like a bad drawing in charcoal over which someone had rubbed a sleeve.’

‘But the family with whom you are staying no doubt made up for the gloom outside with the warmth of their welcome,’ put in Monsieur Petit.

‘Indeed they did.’

‘Their name being …?’

‘What is it you English say?’ asked Yvonne with a sarcastic inflection on the
you
. ‘Mindyour own business.’

Hannah noticed that the marquis was toying with his food. He seemed fascinated by Miss Grenier. Hannah’s
matchmaking pulses quickened. ‘You must find, Miss Grenier,’ said Hannah, now anxious to keep Yvonne talking, ‘that there are great differences between the English misses and the French.’

‘A very great deal, yes.’

‘Tell us,’ urged the marquis.

‘The English misses are healthier, being addicted to riding and to walking. I teach some ladies French, and so have had the chance to observe their ways closely. I was surprised to find, for example, that it is rare to come across a fashion journal in any of the great houses. And the magazines they do read! No fiction, no chatty column of theatrical gossip, no fashion notes, none of the things you would find in a French journal. Instead, in one magazine for ladies, there was an article on education in the workhouses, one on slavery in America and its influence on Great Britain, and one on the improvement of nurses in agricultural districts. So the English misses are more intelligent. But they do not know how to use this intelligence. No one teaches them the art of conversation. Nor do they know how to coquette.’ Yvonne raised her fan and flicked it to and fro and then flirted over it with her eyes at Monsieur Petit, who stared at her angrily.

‘Go on,’ said the marquis. ‘So young and so wise. You intrigue me.’

‘Everyone pays lip-service to love in this country,’ went on Yvonne, ‘and so husband-hunting is very vulgar. A rich and noble man is much run after. Too effusively welcomed, flattered, and provoked, he
becomes
cautious and is constantly on his guard. It is not 
so in France. Girls are kept under too much restraint to take the initiative; in my country, the game never turns hunter.’

‘But English women are faithful,’ said Hannah. ‘Marriage is a respected and noble institution.
Someone
once told me he had heard one Frenchman say casually to another, “I hear your wife has taken a lover.” Things are managed better here.’

‘I do not think so,’ said Yvonne with a quaint old-fashioned air. ‘Your English mees has much more freedom before marriage than her French equivalent. But
after
marriage – and here I speak of the
bourgeoisie
, not of the lords and ladies – the husband is the head of the household and his wife must be quiet and submissive. They have families of eighteen children.’ She raised her hands. ‘And without shame!’

‘Miss Grenier!’ Hannah looked shocked.

‘You frown then on legalized lust,’ teased the marquis. ‘Eighteen times is hardly an orgy.’

Yvonne blushed. ‘Forgive me. I am too outspoken and it is not fair of you, milord, to underline that fact with coarse remarks.’

‘I humbly beg your pardon,’ said the marquis, his eyes dancing. ‘You are about to tell us they organize things better in France.’

‘Yes,’ said Yvonne seriously. ‘For there the husband will discuss his business at all times with his wife. Here, she is kept in such ignorance so that, should he die, she has no means of taking up the reins of business herself.’

‘Perhaps Englishwomen should marry French
husbands
,’ jeered Monsieur Petit.

She gave him a cool look. ‘It does not always answer, for Englishwomen in business do not know how to charm. There is a French innkeeper at Calais with an English wife. He is all charm and has great interest in his customers, going from table to table to see they have everything they need. But the English wife!
Ma foi
! As the guests get up to leave, she calls out in execrable French, “
Havez vo’ payez
?” No ease of manner. No elegance.’

‘We are nonetheless,’ said Hannah stiffly, ‘a very moral people.’

‘On the surface,’ sighed Yvonne. ‘Very moral. Even your novels read like religious tracts. The fallen woman is always ugly and comes to a hard end, which is not always the case. All is clean and decent on the surface, but the Englishman in his cups can turn beast. Look only at the thousands of prostitutes who throng the streets of London, the houses in the Strand, the young girls of fourteen with babies at the breast. Pah!’

‘My dear Miss Grenier,’ drawled the marquis, leaning back in his chair, ‘we do not drag hundreds of our countrymen to the guillotine to have their heads chopped off.’

‘No, my lord, you just hang them seven a side on the gallows-tree outside Newgate.’

‘After a fair trial, Miss Grenier.’

‘Yes.’ Her face grew sad. ‘Yes, I forget the horrors at home. I have drunk too much wine and that has led me into the rudeness and folly of criticizing my hosts.’

‘We English are so arrogant,’ said Monsieur Petit, ‘that no criticism can dent our smug armour.’

‘Spoken like a true Frenchman,’ said the marquis softly, and Monsieur Petit shot him a startled look.

A newcomer strode into the dining-room and looked around the assembled company through his
quizzing-glass
. His face brightened as he obviously recognized Monsieur Petit. ‘Well, Jimmy,’ demanded the
newcomer
, ‘how goes the world?’

Hannah was startled. Whoever would think that the cadaverous and sinister Mr Smith would answer to the homely name of Jimmy? The newcomer was a young man, foppishly dressed, rouged and painted and padded, with a large black patch in the shape of a coach and horses on one cheek-bone. He had small, watery brown eyes and thin brown hair, backcombed and teased until it stood up on his head, giving him an air of perpetual surprise.

‘My friend Mr Ashton,’ said Monsieur Petit. ‘He will be travelling north with us. Mr Ashton, allow me to introduce our little company. Miss Pym, Miss Grenier, and the most noble Marquis of Ware.’

‘Servant,’ said Mr Ashton laconically. ‘Word with you in private, Jimmy.’

Monsieur Petit rose and the pair went out together.

‘Into the yard,’ urged Monsieur Petit. ‘We will not be overheard in all the bustle. How did you arrive?’

‘Mail-coach. Just got in.’

They strolled into the yard of the Angel.

‘So, monsoor,’ said Mr Ashton, ‘how goes the game? I see the Grenier female is travelling under her own name. What’s a marquis doing on the stage?’

‘He says he is running from the duns.’

‘A marquis? Never. Lords can live on tick until the day they die. But he can’t be after you. Not anything to do with the War Office or anything like that. In fact, he’s the kind who would look better with his head in a basket, eh?’

‘Keep your voice down,’ snapped Monsieur Petit. ‘What possessed you to call me Jimmy? Do I look like a Jimmy?’

Mr Ashton shrugged. ‘Seemed a good English name to me. What d’ye want me to call you? Pierre? Where you learn the lingo anyway?’

‘My mother was English.’

‘Was? Chop her head off, hey?’

‘Listen, you cur,’ said Monsieur Petit savagely, ‘you are being paid well for your help. One more word of insolence from you and I will abandon the project, and before I leave this perfidious country I will shop you to the authorities.’

‘Two can play at that game,’ said Mr Ashton, quite unruffled.

‘Where did our embassy find such as you?’
demanded
Monsieur Petit angrily.

‘I do anything for money,’ said Mr Ashton, stifling a yawn. ‘Not murder, but anything else. Do not exercise yourself, Monsoor Frog. You are on the right coach. Have a word with the girl?’

‘Yes, I showed her a letter from her father tome which he wrote before the Revolution. She does not know that and is convinced her father now wishes to help us.’

‘And when she finds we mean to follow her to him and take him back to France at gunpoint?’

Monsieur Petit smiled slowly. ‘She will do nothing. She goes with him as well.’

‘Such a pretty neck, too,’ said Mr Ashton. ‘Ah, well, I’ve been paid the first half and very generous your people were, too. What’s the drill?’

‘Just make sure she does not give us the slip and leave the stage-coach at any point before we get to York,’ said Monsieur Petit.

‘Right,’ Mr Ashton nodded. ‘And what about Lord Thingummy?’

‘A lazy penurious aristocrat? I would we could take him as well. How many of his tenants, think you, had he beggared before he ran into debt?’

‘As long as he’s no threat, then he can beggar the lot, for all I care,’ replied Mr Ashton. ‘That’s the trouble with your lot. Always hot and bothered about
something
.’ 

3

Mr Ashton was to travel with them, much to Hannah’s dismay, for she had taken the young fop in dislike. He began by letting the other passengers know that he thought he was a cut above stage-coach travel. There was enough straw on the floor, he said acidly, to hide a whole covey of partridges, and he kept picking bits of straw fastidiously from his clothes.

Monsieur Petit added his complaints. He could not understand why inns did not offer napkins to the guests, so that they had to wipe their fingers and mouths on the table-cloths, and he considered the custom of offering slippers to new arrivals a filthy one.
He had refused to wear them. You never knew who had worn them last.

Yvonne looked out at the passing scene and tried to forget the presence of Monsieur Petit and his friend. A good night’s sleep, not to mention the bracing
company
of Hannah Pym, had done wonders for her spirits. The more she thought about that letter, the more she became convinced that it was a fake, or rather a fake in that Monsieur Petit had pretended to have recently received it. Perhaps it was one her father had written to him
before
the Revolution, for her father had been friendly with him then, that she knew. Monsieur Petit wanted her to keep her distance from Miss Pym. Well, she would not. There was something comforting about Hannah’s strength and the amusing devil-
may-care
cockiness of her servant, Benjamin. Yvonne wondered whether to confide in Hannah. For when she got to York, she had no intention of leading Monsieur Petit to her father, not until she had seen her father first, and she felt that Hannah might offer help in enabling her to slip away.

She turned her eyes from the landscape outside and met the silvery-grey eyes of the Marquis of Ware. There was an oddly speculative look in his eyes. Her senses sharpened by danger, Yvonne began to worry about him for the first time. He did not look down at heel. He had given up the pretence of being Mr Giles and was now dressed like a marquis. She saw enemies everywhere and prayed for the day when they would arrive in York. Her father was brave and resourceful. He would know what to do. But Mr Petit
did
frighten
her. She shivered and Hannah pressed her hand. Yvonne gave her a shy smile.

Mr Petit caught that smile and had noticed that press of the hand. Something would have to be done about Yvonne Grenier before they reached York. Then there was the upsetting presence of the Marquis of Ware. His clothes had undergone a change. He seemed to be making no effort to appear impoverished. He would discuss the situation with Mr Ashton when they stopped for the night.

Hannah Pym looked out at the passing scene but with diminished enthusiasm. As they rumbled their way through towns and villages, heads popped out of casement windows to survey the one excitement of the day – the sight of the Flying Machine.

York suddenly seemed a long way away, much longer than its one hundred and ninety-nine miles from London, almost at the edge of the world. The
monotonous
creak, creak, creak of the coach was beginning to get on Hannah’s nerves. She began to feel like a jaded traveller whom nothing can surprise. A tinge of homesickness crept in on her. What on earth was she doing in this still-damp coach travelling to the ends of the earth when she might be in her little flat in London, awaiting the arrival of Sir George?

But perhaps she might come across Mrs Clarence in York and that would be worth any discomfort, any long and tedious journey. Just thinking about someone other than herself always cheered Hannah, and so her thoughts turned easily from Mrs Clarence to Yvonne Grenier. There was something badly wrong with this
coachload, rumbling its way northwards in the failing light; a marquis who had claimed to be ordinary Mr Giles; and a Mr Smith who frightened Yvonne and who had been joined by his foppish friend, Mr Ashton.

By the time the coach jolted its way into Grantham, where they were to spend the night, Hannah had decided to question Yvonne further.

Here was an attractive French girl and here was an aristocrat, and a very handsome one, too. Of course he might be as impoverished as he claimed to be, although Hannah, wise in the ways of the world, knew an aristocrat’s idea of poverty was a far cry from that of the wretches of the rookeries in London. If there was something about Mr Smith to fear, then perhaps that might rouse the knight-errantry in the marquis. Feeling quite warm from all these interesting speculations, Hannah alighted with the others at the Bull and Mouth in Grantham.

The Bull and Mouth was not only a coaching-house but a posting-house as well, which meant it catered for a grander type of customer, and coach passengers were usually relegated to a small dark pit of a dining-roomat the back of the inn. Thanks to the magnificence of the Marquis of Ware, they were ushered into the main dining-room and a good bill of fare was set before them instead of the usual repast of pork in various shapes and sizes.

Monsieur Petit decided to use the supper-time to find out what he could about Miss Pym. If that spinster lady were to get too close to Miss Grenier, then he wanted to know whether she was a creature of consequence who would make a difficult adversary or a pretentious
woman who was aping her betters by having some relative dress up as a footman.

Over the soup, he fixed her with his pale eyes and asked, ‘You are from London, Miss Pym?’

He got a brief nod in reply.

‘Which part of London?’

‘The West End,’ replied Hannah with a faint lift of her eyebrows, as if to imply that such as she could hardly be expected to live anywhere else.

‘It is odd to see a lady accompanied by a footman on the stage-coach,’ pursued Monsieur Petit. ‘Particularly a footman who is allowed to travel inside.’

Hannah smiled but did not offer any explanation.

‘I have never travelled on the stage before,’ said Mr Ashton pompously. ‘Usually take m’own carriage.’

‘And what brought you on the stage this time?’ asked the marquis.

‘Heard my friend Mr Smith was bound north, so decided to join him.’

A large roast fowl was placed before the marquis. He carved off the wings first and offered them to Yvonne. The wings were the favourite part, something that was to drive Lord Byron into sulks, for he could never understand why such delicacies should be given to the ladies. Yvonne indicated Hannah, but Hannah refused, saying she preferred a slice of the breast instead.

Monsieur Petit had been racking his brains as to how to find out more about Hannah. ‘The Season will soon be over,’ he volunteered.

‘Do you not regret missing it?’ asked the marquis with a cynical gleam in his eye. ‘Are not the ladies
pining at ball and saloon, asking where, oh where, is our Mr … er … Smith?’

‘You jest, my lord. I do not frequent the Season. But Miss Pym, surely …?’

He allowed his voice to trail off and looked at Hannah encouragingly.

Hannah smiled at him again and again did not reply.

To Mr Petit’s annoyance, there was an interruption. A fashionable party entered the room, an elegant man with a finely dressed lady and two young girls. The lady saw the marquis and sailed forward, hand outstretched. ‘My dear Ware,’ she carolled. ‘What are you doing in this common inn?’

‘Like yourself, I am travelling, Lady Abbott. Allow me to make you known to the company.’

Lady Abbott held up one gloved hand. Her large eyes surveyed the group. ‘That will not be necessary,’ she said, her tone, slightly amused, implying that the marquis’s company was beneath her notice. ‘Do come and meet my daughters,’ she said.

The marquis gave a sweet smile and raised the
carving
knife. ‘My apologies, Lady Abbott. As you can see, I am too busy engaged in carving this fowl. Do you dine?’

‘We have a private dining-room.’

‘So what brings you to the common dining-room?’

‘My maid told me some fantastical story that you had arrived on the common stage. I found it scarcely credible, but now …’ Her eyes raked over the
company
. ‘Oh, here is my husband. You know Abbott, of course. My daughters, Indiana and Philadelphia.’ Both girls curtsied.

Hannah found herself becoming very angry indeed. Hannah Pym, friend that she was of Sir George Clarence, should be accorded proper respect, not snubbed by this Abbott female. What made it even worse was that Lady Abbott was not going out of her way to be nasty. She obviously believed the company to be beneath her notice. Hannah nervously fingered the corded silk of her own gown.

Yvonne looked wide-eyed at Lady Abbott. She was a handsome woman in a tamboured gown, her oiled head ornamented with feathers. Her daughters, both in their late teens, were gazing up at the marquis with
well-trained
adoration. In looks, they were neither of them out of the common way, but they had been schooled to please and find husbands. Hard work removes pretty innocence, thought Yvonne. I could never gaze at any man with that cowlike look of worship.

‘Pray join us,’ said Lord Abbott.

‘How can I join you,’ said the marquis mildly, ‘when I am obviously otherwise engaged?’

Lord Abbott half-turned his face away, but his words were perfectly audible. ‘But such company! I assume you are travelling on the stage for some lark.’

Benjamin had heard enough. He considered
Hannah
had been slighted. ‘My mistress’s food is getting cold, so why don’t you all go away,’ he said loudly.

‘Are you addressing me?’ Lady Abbott raised her quizzing-glass.

‘Yes, I am,’ said Benjamin, unrepentant. ‘Move along, do, my lady.’ He raised his voice to a mincing falsetto. ‘I’Faith, I was never so bored in all my life.’

‘You outrageous whipper-snapper,’ raged Lord
Abbott
. ‘I’ll have you horsewhipped. You … madam’ – to Hannah – ‘kindly curb your servant.’

‘Indeed I would, my lord,’ said Hannah coldly, ‘were it not that I agree with every word my Benjamin says.’

Indiana promptly swooned. It was gracefully done, for she had spent hours in front of her glass perfecting the art, but the Marquis of Ware did not catch her. That task was left to Benjamin. Indiana opened her eyes and said weakly, ‘Oh, my heart,’ found Benjamin grinning down at her and struggled free with a squawk.

‘I see now,’ said Lady Abbott, struggling for calm, ‘why it is, Ware, that you have elected to go on the common stage.’ She made it sound like acting in the theatre. ‘Obviously your travelling companions suit your low taste.’

Pushing her twittering daughters before her, she flounced off, followed by her husband, leaving the marquis and the rest.

The Marquis continued to carve. The others sat silent, all engrossed in their unhappy thoughts.
Monsieur
Petit was grinding his teeth and thinking that Lady Abbott would be considerably improved in appearance were her head in a basket in front of the guillotine. Mr Ashton was ruffled. He considered himself no end of a dandy, but Lady Abbott’s insults had brought back to him unwelcome memories of many such slights. Hannah was depressed. She had so lately been a servant that she felt sure the stamp of the servant class was marked on her face for all to see. Yvonne had met many such ladies as Lady Abbott
when she visited the houses of the rich in London to teach French. Somehow, she had not particularly minded before. She had been too grateful for the work. But the horrible Lady Abbott had made her feel small and shabby and undistinguished.

‘Such a pushing, vulgar creature, that Abbott
female
,’ said the marquis meditatively, looking around the gloomy faces. ‘’Tis said her father was in trade.’

All the bruised egos turned to him like flowers to the sun. Hannah began to laugh. ‘Did you but mark her daughter’s outrage after she had manufactured that swoon only to recover in the arms of Benjamin?’

The others laughed as well and, in one brief fleeting moment, the odd assortment were united by a
communal
dislike of the high-handed Lady Abbott.

But then Monsieur Petit remembered his mission and reflected that the presence of this marquis was becoming increasingly irritating. He was obviously well known, and no innkeeper on the road would forget their visit. Mr Ashton covertly studied Yvonne. She was a neat piece of work, he thought, fiddling with a goose quill to prize a recalcitrant piece of chicken from between his teeth. He rather fancied himself as a ladies’ man. Perhaps he could flirt with her, dazzle her, and so make her blind to any danger. So ran his conceited thoughts while the object of them looked around the stable security of the dining-room of this English inn and became more determined than ever to ask help of Miss Hannah Pym. This was not Paris, where one learned quickly not to trust anyone but a few close friends, and menace lurked around every street
corner. She felt a pang of envy for the marquis. He was eating neatly and deftly, looking relaxed and amused. He was handsome and burnished and tailored to perfection. She did not believe his tale of poverty. He was armoured by birth and fortune and looks against a world of poverty and danger, snubs and deception. He had only to raise his head and look about him for the waiters to come running, not in the hope of a good tip, but because he was ‘my lord’. The landlord hovered near the table as well, eyes sharp for any sign of slackness on the part of his staff.