Nell Gwynne's On Land and At Sea (4 page)

Introducing himself as Mr. Felan, “Mr. Pickett’s man,” he was well-spoken enough as he proffered Mr. Pickett’s compliments and a lovely Chinoiserie vase full of scarlet roses.

“Mr. Pickett said to tell you, ma’am,” Felan said in mock-serious tones to Mrs. Corvey, “that he sent the flower of his gardens to the flower of yours.”

Lady Beatrice took the vase. “What lovely roses! They are very fine, Mamma.”

“How thoughtful,” Mrs. Corvey replied icily. “Please convey our thanks to Mr. Pickett. Beatrice, do help me back upstairs now.”

Being apparently blind did mean she never had to pay much attention to other people’s reactions, and she was pleased to turn her shoulder on Pickett’s man and return back up the stairs. His face fell and his smile twisted rather nastily as she and Beatrice departed—of course, as Mrs. Corvey was most emphatically not really blind, she was also able to see and note this alteration in his demeanor.

“An impudent servant; and a nasty piece of work, I shouldn’t wonder,” she said to Lady Beatrice as they passed the first landing. “And a boxer once, I think—did you note the fellow’s hands?”

“I did. They have seen hard usage,” said Lady Beatrice.

“And dealt it out, I’ve no doubt. That sort often goes for a bully-boy, once they get too slow for the ring,” said Mrs. Corvey. “Reminds me of one of Lord Brougham’s followers, was a bit of an enforcer in that to-do back in ’45 about changing the Coroner’s Laws; you may recall, there was quite a bit of resurrectionist scandal then.”

“I believe I heard of it,” said Lady Beatrice. She followed Mrs. Corvey into their suite.

“We entertained the fellow on his master’s business a few times,” continued Mrs. Corvey, “when it was a matter of some concern to the Gentlemen that there might be a resurrectionist ring attached to Lord Brougham’s household.”

“And was there? Was he indeed a resurrectionist?” Lady Beatrice asked with interest, setting the vase on a table where the roses caught the light.

“O, yes, some little business deal between the Lord’s wine steward, this bully cove and the College of Surgeons; all manner of mischief in their respective cellars…but Mr. Pickett’s man brought him to mind because he had just that same manner of speaking you soft and yet being snarky. And he was very rough with the girls, especially Erato. I finally had to remove him.”

Mrs. Corvey, having shed her gloves and shawl, settled down in the armchair by the table. Lady Beatrice, arranging the roses to best show in the sunlight, gazed at her a little moment.

“How did you have him removed, if I may ask?” she inquired finally.

“Shot the bugger in the head and had him dumped in the Thames,” said Mrs. Corvey with a reminiscent smile. She looked sharply at Beatrice, her lenses whirring to a close focus. “You watch yourself around that one, Beatrice. His master may be a Southern gentleman, but our Mr. Felan is a wolf.”

Lady Beatrice nodded. “I shall do so.”

“Wear your garter knife, then,” Mrs. Corvey said with an air of maternal authority; and leaned back in her chair with a worried frown.

At precisely half-past one the following afternoon, a boy from the front desk knocked on the door of their suite, and informed the ladies that Mr. Pickett had arrived for their outing.

“Mind you get him talking as much as ever you can,” Mrs. Corvey said to Lady Beatrice, to whom she had explained her suspicions.

“I don’t believe that will prove difficult,” said Lady Beatrice as they entered the boarding house’s parlor.

It was certainly not difficult to spot Mr. Pickett where he waited by the front door. He was attired in a coat of brilliant crimson with lace at the throat and cuffs; it confirmed Mrs. Corvey’s tentative identification of him as the water-walking yachtsman she had seen. Though the rest of his clothing was fairly sober, it could not offset the effect of the coat, which made Mr. Pickett look rather like a pantomime highwayman. He strode forward, seized Lady Beatrice’s hand, and kissed it resoundingly.

“Your chariot awaits, Miss Beatrice,” said Mr. Pickett. “Your servant, Mrs. Corvey, ma’am. Let us take the salubrious air.”

He led them out to what was in fact an open barouche, drawn by four fine bays. He had evidently come alone, acting as his own driver. Mrs. Corvey was deposited within the carriage; Lady Beatrice was handed up to the driver’s seat, into which Mr. Pickett vaulted a moment later. They set off, taking the beach road south.

They drove first to Tor Abbey, admiring what could be seen of its stately ruins while Mr. Pickett discoursed at length and with admiration on Henry VIII’s dissolution of the monasteries.

“It takes a good strong-willed Englishman to stand up to the Pope,” announced Mr. Pickett.

He further pointed out the antique barn in which Sir Francis Drake had imprisoned a quantity of Spaniards following the Armada. Thereafter he spoke for some time on the subject of Britain’s naval glory, with Lady Beatrice managing to interject the occasional “Quite” or “Really?” all the way to the unbearably quaint village of Cockington. At the sight of its thatched roofs and mellow brick there were positive tears in Mr. Pickett’s eyes, and he spoke for a quarter-hour straight on the rural charms of Devon.

“In just such a village,” he cried, “the great Sir Francis Drake would have been born. There’s a hero for you! Circumnavigated the globe, and brought honor and glory to his native land. They don’t breed ’em like that nowadays.”

“He is a particular hero of yours, then, “ said Lady Beatrice.

“Oh, indeed, Miss Beatrice, ma’am! And, if you will excuse the opinion of a poor Colonial returned to the fold, I do think it’s a sin and a shame our present Queen hasn’t men like that running
her
Navy.”

“How true,” remarked Lady Beatrice, with a glance back at Mrs. Corvey.

Mr. Pickett continued loud in his praises of Drake, all the way through Paignton, Broadsands, Churston Ferrers and was still going when they reached Brixham. It became obvious he had read a great deal on the subject of Drake, as well as Hawkins, Raleigh, and other gentlemen mariners and privateers. At least he had abandoned his “English” accent.

As they idled along the green cliff tops above St. Mary’s Bay, Lady Beatrice seized upon the opportunity afforded by Mr. Pickett pausing to draw breath and said: “Are not you yourself a mariner, Mr. Pickett? Some of our fellow lodgers have spoken with admiration of your yacht.”

Mr. Pickett blushed a bit but looked pleased. “Well, I don’t like to brag, but the old
Sceptre
is a mighty fine boat. I may have won one or two prizes with her; they’re back at the house. The place I’m staying, I mean.” He waved a hand at the open expanse of bluffs, that were empty save for three tiny cottages huddled together. “Look there, Miss Beatrice; wouldn’t that make a fine spot for an elegant residence? You can’t beat the view, can you?”

“It is certainly impressive,” said Lady Beatrice.

Mr. Pickett reined in the horses and the barouche came to a gentle halt. Sitting there above what genuinely was a spectacular view of the Bay, Mr. Pickett edged a little closer to Lady Beatrice and resumed his elucidation upon the glories of English military victories of the 16
^th
century, presenting them to Lady Beatrice under the evident impression that she had never heard of these things and would be edified to learn of them. Lady Beatrice, who had grown up in a soldier’s household, smiled, murmured polite remarks and now and then raised an eyebrow for his benefit. She had been asked to feign ignorance of much stranger things in a professional capacity.

Mrs. Corvey, forgotten behind them, watched with interest as a man in a workman’s clothes emerged from one of the three cottages. He looked up at Mr. Pickett with obvious recognition and started forward across the cliff top, apparently intending to speak with him. Having covered slightly less than half the distance, however, he seemed to notice Lady Beatrice’s presence and halted in his tracks. He watched uncertainly for several minutes before seemingly changing his mind and hurrying back to the cottages, glancing several times over his shoulder on his way. Within the shading edge of her bonnet, Mrs. Corvey’s lenses turned just enough to bring the face of none other than Mr. Felan into focus. Having noted this well, Mrs. Corvey nodded thoughtfully and returned her attention to Mr. Pickett’s monologue.

Keen and fixed though her attention was, she nevertheless became conscious of a certain distraction, now that the carriage was motionless; a sort of thrilling vibration emanating upward, it seemed, though the very wheels. And was there a certain hollow musicality in the boom of the surf?

“Are you quite all right, Mamma?” inquired Lady Beatrice; who, on glancing back at her, had noted Mrs. Corvey’s puzzled scowl.

“Oh, quite all right, my dear; only I was thinking there’s such a funny noise to the sea hereabouts,” said Mrs. Corvey.

“Why, that would be the caves,” said Mr. Pickett. “Lots of sea-caves here, ma’am.”

“Sea-caves, to be sure,” said Mrs. Corvey. “Thank you, young man.”

Profuse as he had been with his praises for the British on the ride out to St. Mary’s Bay, on the return journey Mr. Picket focused his admiration on Lady Beatrice in specific, although in a gentlemanly manner. The subject of elocution lessons was once again raised. Lady Beatrice obligingly set about correcting his vowel sounds and encouraging a greater crispness in his native drawl.

Upon returning to Torquay, Mr. Pickett insisted that they take tea with him, an offer Mrs. Corvey accepted with enthusiasm.

“It’s a nice place, but a little too modern for my tastes,” said Mr. Pickett, leading them up the walk of an ostentatiously grand house of recent construction. “I confess to being a man of old-fashioned preferences. It’ll do until I can build myself something better, though.” He drew a key from his pocket and let them in himself. “Service may be a little slow today; I gave that butler a piece of my mind and sent him packing this morning. No man makes a fool of Tredway Pickett, no sir.”

He led them into a splendidly airy parlor with a view of the sea. It was, however, somewhat sparsely furnished; Lady Beatrice and Mrs. Corvey perched together on the single low settee, while Mr. Pickett dragged close an occasional table and set it before them. Having retrieved a chair from the desk in the far corner of the room, he sat opposite the ladies and bawled: “Alfred!”

A moment later, a footman appeared in the doorway, showing a certain reluctance. “Alfred, kindly take the ladies’ bonnets and cloaks, and tell Mrs. Drumm I want her finest tea for three persons.”

“Very good, sir.”

Mr. Pickett entertained them with light conversation on the subject of his yachting triumphs, pointing with pride to the trophies on the mantelpiece, until tea was duly brought in by the cook and housemaid. The dainties arranged upon the tray—tiny sandwiches, petits fours and buns—looked delicious; but the cook (in keeping with the fierce temper implied by her fading red hair) glared so balefully at Mr. Pickett as she set them out that Mrs. Corvey half-expected them to be laced with arsenic.
Cook’s unhappy in her situation,
thought Mrs. Corvey to herself. She watched thoughtfully as Mrs. Drumm departed the room in highest dudgeon, and an oblivious Mr. Pickett talked on.

“…and, by jingo, it worked, because I shot past him and the scoundrel ran himself on a sandbar! I always say, when a gentleman goes in for a sport, he ought to play to win,” said Mr. Pickett. He noticed the teapot, looked uneasily from Mrs. Corvey to Lady Beatrice, and at last made up his mind. “Ah—Miss Beatrice, ma’am, I believe it would be correct to ask you to do the pouring?”

“I should be delighted,” said Lady Beatrice smoothly.

Tea was served round, and Mrs. Corvey was elated to discover that, whatever animus the cook might bear her master, it did not influence her culinary performance; at least as far as cress sandwiches and tiny cakes were concerned.
Wonder if she can do water ices,
Mrs. Corvey speculated.

“I hope this meets with you ladies’ approval,” said Mr. Pickett. “Fine old English custom, afternoon tea.”

“It is really quite pleasant, Mr. Pickett,” Lady Beatrice assured him. He positively beamed at her. She took a long, slow sip of tea, keeping her eyes fixed steadily on his, and was interested to note the color rise in his face.