That evening, having been to the George and Dragon, where Matty and Johnno introduced him to a host of village folk, all of them friendly and welcoming, Jake leaned against the forge entrance. His coat was tossed over his left shoulder as he looked across the village green at the lights beginning to twinkle in Squire Lloyd’s grand house. Sweet perfume filled the air from the white roses and honeysuckle climbing through the apple tree next to the forge, and everything was quiet, save for the squabbling of the ducks on the pond. There was no drunken brawling, no constant traffic, no shouting and street cries, no swaggering whores and no jangle of different bells. Just peace. Except for the darned cockerels. He smiled wryly. He and Rozzie had left one behind, and come here to find thirty-one! Every darned cottage had fowls, with a strutting cock to lord it over them. Come dawn it would be well nigh bedlam! Well, he could put up with that for the sheer pleasure of being out in the country at last. From his attic window he didn’t look out on dirty alleys and the dock basin, but on green fields and the embankment along which the canal was to pass. And beyond that he could even see the wild estuary, where the hazardous Severn tides reversed the flow of the river.
He looked up at the stars glittering in the deep ruby that remained of the sunset. Never had he seen such a heavenly pageant as tonight’s dying sun. Such wondrous colours and patterns, painted upon a sky so clear that he felt he might reach up and pluck some of the stars. Frampney was living up to his dreams, but one thing jarred his contentment, and perhaps it was the greatest thing of all: he’d lost Beth. A nerve twitched at his temple as he blinked back the tears that had seldom been far away all day. A grown man, reduced to helplessness by love.
He watched a fine carriage drive slowly around the green, expecting it to turn into the squire’s driveway, but instead it passed by and came steadily toward the forge. He straightened as it halted by him. The liveried coachman addressed him. ‘Would you be Jake Mannacott?’
‘Who wants to know?’ Jake asked uneasily, not for the first time wondering exactly where and how Beth had got the twenty guineas.
Another voice answered. ‘Sir Guy Valmer wishes to know.’ The carriage door opened and a fashionable gentleman climbed down.
Jake sharpened. The gent who’d found Beth when she fainted? What could he want? Beth said he didn’t know her.
Guy glanced curiously over the handsome smith, of whose existence he only knew because of Weasel’s diligence. Weasel also learned that Jake and his daughter had suddenly left Gloucester with enough money to buy into a prosperous village smithy. ‘Mannacott, enquiries have led me to believe you may know something of Elizabeth Tremoille’s present whereabouts,’ he said, flicking the lace at his cuff.
It was the money. Jake thought, fearing his new life was about to be snatched away before it had begun. ‘Elizabeth who?’
‘Oh, come now, let’s not play childish games. I’m talking about the woman you’ve lived with for the past year. I know she was your mistress.’
‘All right, I lived with Beth. But why do you want her?’
Ignoring the question, Guy went into the shed, looking around at the array of tools and at the fire that still glowed red-hot. ‘My finding her can only be to her benefit, I do assure you.’
‘I don’t know where she is.’ Jake followed him in.
‘I understand you came here to purchase a partnership, and obviously you’ve succeeded. Where did you get the money?’
Jake felt cold. ‘I saved it.’
‘Twenty pounds? Allow me more intelligence than that! Beth gave it to you, didn’t she?’ Jake said nothing, and Guy picked up a poker that lay with its tip in the heart of the fire. As he examined it, the glow reflected in his compelling grey eyes. ‘Beth gave it to you, didn’t she?’ he said again.
‘I’m not saying anything to you, Sir Guy.’
‘For fear of incriminating her?’
‘I wouldn’t know what you mean.’
Guy gazed steadily at him and saw that Jake genuinely didn’t know where the money came from. ‘Look, I mean her no harm, I just want to find her.’
‘I don’t know where she is, Sir Guy, if I did, I’d—’
‘You’d what?’ Guy watched the emotion on the other’s face.
‘I’d try to get her back! That amuses you, doesn’t it? The thought that a man like me would even hope she’d come back to him? Well, I hope, because I worship that woman more than anything else on God’s earth. But I’ve lost her.’ Jake turned his head away quickly, knowing that his love was too naked, too painful.
Guy put the poker down. ‘It doesn’t amuse me in the least. True love should never be mocked. So, you don’t know where she could have gone, but she did give you the money?’
‘That’s my business, Sir Guy.’
So she had. Guy tugged his hat low over his forehead. Pieces of the puzzle had begun to slip almost mockingly into place. Why couldn’t he have realized earlier that the reason Bessie Alder looked so familiar was her strong resemblance to the portrait of Beth Tremoille at Tremoille House? Now, too late, he understood why the cook’s starving niece spoke so well and understood the finer points of German wine. He’d had his prey in his grasp! A nerve fluttered at his temple and his lips pressed together. What had happened on that common? She’d definitely stolen her stepmother’s money, but had she murdered as well? And where had she gone with the 980 guineas she’d kept for herself? London, of course. He returned to the carriage. ‘Back to the Crown, Dickon. We’ll leave for Town at first light,’ he said, as he slammed the door.
Midnight struck as the Cheltenham Rocket arrived in the capital, and entered the huge yard of the important coaching inn, the Swan with Two Necks. It stood on the north side of Lad Lane in the City, and was noisy with travellers, vendors, ostlers, dogs, ticket office bells and horses. There was such a crush of coaches, carriers’ wagons and post chaises, to say nothing of piles of luggage, that it was some time before the Rocket’s weary team could finally be manoeuvred to a safe place to discharge its passengers. The last part of the journey had been accomplished at a snail’s pace because the capital was ringing with word of a great victory for Wellington at somewhere called Waterloo, near Brussels. Crowds were out in the streets, most of them delirious with delight and singing ‘Rule Britannia’. But there was dissent too, from those who feared the price of peace, and the Rocket had passed several disturbances that reminded Beth of Cathedral Lane, with hooded groups breaking windows and chanting ‘No starvation! No landlords!’
As Beth and the nervous young couple climbed down, the coachman slid from his perch. ‘I brought you safe and well, sir, ladies,’ he said, extending his hand hopefully. It was the custom to tip drivers, so he was rewarded. The portly, balding innkeeper, Mr Waterhouse, a famous man in the coaching world, emerged from the taproom, wiping his damp hands on his apron as a troop of cavalry clattered past in Lad Lane. The young husband called out to him. ‘Sir, has there really been a great victory?’
‘There has indeed, sir. Word was brought from Brussels this evening, and is spreading like wildfire. Some like it, others don’t. I’ve heard the Prime Minister’s house has been stoned and the Houses of Parliament are besieged by a mob, but Hyde Park’s all celebrations. I just hope there’s no trouble around these parts.’
The young wife shrank timidly against her husband. ‘I’m frightened, Jeremiah.’
Jeremiah put protective arms around her. ‘I’ll look after you, Amelia.’ He turned again to the innkeeper. ‘Have you a room for tonight?’
Mr Waterhouse was soothing. ‘Certainly, sir.’
‘And for me?’ Beth asked quickly.
‘Indeed so, madam. You’ll all be safe in the Swan.’
The young couple hurried inside, but Beth loitered, just gazing up at the inn, which was four storeys high, with balustraded galleries to the numerous bedchambers. She had escaped, she was anonymous, and the stolen money was still in her possession. Her new life had begun! Turning, she began to follow the other passengers, just as the bells of nearby St Lawrence Jewry began to peal joyfully, drowning every other sound in the yard. Gradually every church in London seemed to join in until the joyous cacophony echoed across the starlit sky. War was over and the Corsican finally defeated; now would come the aftermath.
Once inside, she gave the name Mrs Alder and asked for a meal, a room and a hot bath for the following morning. Widows were permitted much more latitude, such as travelling alone without any questions asked, and she explained away her lack of luggage by saying it had all been sent ahead several days before. A tired serving girl led her into the dining-room where she was soon served bacon, eggs and fresh-baked bread. To Beth it was a feast fit for a queen, and she felt comfortably drowsy when at last she made her way up the external staircase to her room on the second-floor gallery. She was exhausted as she prepared for bed, and within moments was fast asleep.
The sun shone brightly the next morning, and after enjoying the hot bath she’d requested on arrival, Beth went down to breakfast feeling really clean for the first time in over a year. The yard was still busy, some church bells still pealed in the distance, and in a nearby street people cheered a military band. While taking breakfast she listened to the conversation of gentlemen poring over an extraordinary edition of the London Gazette that contained details of the great battle. Exhilarating as the news was, she had other things to think about. Now she was in London, she had to decide what form she wanted her new life to take. Even more urgently than that, she had to find some more clothes. One set of togs simply wouldn’t do for a lady in the world’s greatest city. At midmorning she set out to see what could be done. It wouldn’t be easy, because buying a new dress entailed going to a dressmaker or purchasing a length of material to make up. Neither option was practical when she only had the clothes on her back, so she would need luck.
The overnight riots might have been fleeting and scattered, but the results were in evidence. Broken windows were being reglazed or boarded, dragoons were conspicuous and, lying amid the horse dung on the cobbles, she saw a torn banner bearing the motto Bread & Blood. A newsboy stood on a corner with a wad of broadsheets under his thin arm, chanting, ‘Castlereagh’s house under sie-ee-ge, Castlereagh’s house under sie-ee-ge.’ Nearby, a rival was yelling, ‘Full account of victor-ee-e, full account of victor-ee-e.’ Flags, banners and bunting fluttered from windows and across streets, and shop windows displayed laurels and patriotic slogans. Passing vehicles were decked with flags and more laurels, and every stagecoach seemed to carry young bloods yelling with excitement and throwing their expensive hats in the air. But she saw other things too, a gathering of surly labourers in a shabby yard, and a sailor and whore coupling in a damp alley.
It was in a much quieter little street near St Paul’s that she saw the sign of a fashionable dressmaker, Madame de Sichel. The bow windows of the double-fronted premises displayed an array of samples, from bonnets and gloves, to chenille flowers and mannequins in modish gowns. It was as good a place as any to start, she thought, going inside. Maybe there had been some orders that had been cancelled at the very last minute. The room inside was very plain, but beautifully decorated. There were floor-standing mirrors and wall mirrors, and chests of drawers from which spilled fripperies of all kinds. Several chairs stood against walls, sheet-covered garments hung from the picture rail, and a tapestry curtain shielded the entrance to whatever rooms lay beyond. The doorbell was still tinkling as an attendant, squat, olive-skinned and middle-aged, came hastily from the back to attend her. Casting swift eyes over Beth’s clothes, and probably assessing her purse at the same time, she nodded superciliously. ‘May I ’elp you, madame?’ she asked in a heavy French accent.
‘I was robbed during my journey to London and have nothing left except these clothes I wear, so I need an entire new wardrobe as quickly as possible. My name is Alder, Mrs Alder.’
Suddenly the curtain jerked aside again and another woman emerged, her grandiose manner suggesting she was Madame de Sichel herself. She was in her forties, tall, angular and rather horse-faced, in a high-necked, long-sleeved mauve muslin gown that appeared to be decked with every known flounce, frill, bow and embroidery stitch. What her hair was like was the vicar’s dog’s guess, because she wore an improbable red wig to which was pinned a little square of very costly cream lace.
‘Mrs Alder? I am Madame de Sichel, and I will attend you in person,’ she said in a decidedly English voice. ‘I believe you will not require the pattern books, because I am convinced I already have an entire wardrobe that will fit you.’
An entire wardrobe? Surely it was too good to be true, Beth thought, as the dressmaker produced an inch tape and began to measure her from head to toe, before declaring, ‘Well, madam, you are the same size as the late Lady Harcotleigh. Such a tragedy and she so young, but it means I have been left with a wardrobe of completed garments.’ The dressmaker ushered her to a comfortable chair and gave her the latest edition of the Mirror of Modes, one of the most important magazines of fashion. ‘If you would care to examine page twenty-three. There is a new design from Paris that is a real masterpiece of beauty. I am sure it will be exactly to your taste, and I have the finest apple-green mousseline de soie that would be a perfect thing over a shell-pink satin slip.’ Madame de Sichel then snapped her fingers at the attendant, who disappeared beyond the curtain, permitting Beth a brief glimpse of a room full of seamstresses.
Beth turned to page twenty-three. The dressmaker was right, the gown engraved there was beautiful, with dainty flounces at the hem and ribbons floating from the tiny puffed sleeves. It was also going to be exorbitantly expensive to make up. Common sense suddenly prevailed as she realized her excitement had begun to run away with her. On leaving Gloucester she’d had 500 guineas, and had already spent some of them on the journey from Cheltenham and the inn here in London. What was left had to provide her with somewhere to live and support her afterward. She couldn’t afford Lady Harcotleigh’s wardrobe, or anything in the Mirror of Modes.
She was about to close the magazine on her moments of madness, when an advertisement on the opposite page caught her attention.
A gentleman of quality desires a tenant for a modest house of great beauty and solitude by the sea. Available on excellent terms due to the owner wishing to settle the property before departing for Jamaica. Particulars from Mr Henry Topweather, Agent, 15 Easterden Street. Mr Topweather answers letters post paid, and advertises if desired, not otherwise. All at his own charge, if not successful.
A modest house by the sea? Excellent terms? How perfect that would be? Away from the past with all its memories, good and bad, and from the present with its uncertainties and fears. At such a house there would surely only be a future. She would call upon Mr Topweather to ascertain what was meant by ‘modest’. She was about to close the magazine again when, unbelievably, her own name leapt out at her.
Miss Elizabeth Tremoille. As has been done on previous occasions since the death of Mr Esmond Tremoille of Tremoille House in the County of Gloucestershire, it is hereby again requested that the above lady, only daughter of Mr Tremoille, contact Withers, Withers & Blenkinsop, solicitors of Caradine Street, London, where a letter from her father awaits her.
Beth was transfixed. Her father’s London lawyers had a letter for her? Might it concern the lost will?
The dressmaker interrupted her thoughts. ‘Behold, madam, the late Lady Harcotleigh’s wardrobe.’ She swept a grand arm at the wonderful garments now miraculously hanging from the picture rail. Beth struggled to collect herself. The garments were exquisitely beautiful, and she would have liked nothing more than to wave an equally grand arm and say she’d have them all, yet knew she couldn’t. They were beyond her means, and somehow she had to wriggle out of what was bound to be a very embarrassing situation. ‘Madame de Sichel, I am quite overwhelmed by the magnificence of these clothes, and I really would like to try everything on, but I am afraid I do not have the time now as I have realized I am going to be late for an important appointment with a house agent.’
The dressmaker’s face fell, but then perked up again. ‘I can have the clothes delivered for you to try on at your leisure.’
‘That would be most agreeable,’ Beth answered, ‘I am staying at the Swan in Lad Lane.’ At least she’d have the joy of parading in the incomparable wardrobe, before returning it as ‘unsuitable’. Then her gaze fell upon a décolleté peppermint muslin gown, gathered softly at the high waistline by a little drawstring. Next to it there hung a grey corded silk spencer, buttonless, with a high flaring collar. Both garments were so very much to her taste that she simply had to wear them now. ‘Madame de Sichel, I must have those this instant.’
The dressmaker dimpled vainly. ‘Oh, yes, indeed, Mrs Alder.’
Minutes later, the purchase price having been paid, Beth emerged into the sunshine in her new clothes. With the gown and spencer she had little black patent shoes, an elegant grey silk bonnet trimmed with green and cream chenille roses, a cream silk pagoda parasol, dark green gloves, and a capacious new grey satin reticule. She was she was anxious to go to Caradine Street, and hastened to the nearest hackney coach stand. Soon she was on her way to the premises of Withers, Withers & Blenkinsop, her fingers crossed that she’d find word of her father’s final will. The route took the coach down Easterden Street, and she glanced up at the name Topweather painted in gilt on a first-floor window. She would go there next.
But a great shock greeted her two junctions later, when the hackney coach halted opposite the lawyers’ premises in Caradine Street, for drawn up before the stucco porch of Messrs Withers, Withers & Blenkinsop was Sir Guy Valmer’s green travelling carriage, with Dickon seated placidly on the box.