The Virgin's Auction (10 page)

Making the final turn she saw the carriage. It was pulled up by the curb. The coachman was a round, bald man. He was directly under a streetlamp, huddled as if he had been sitting too long in the chill.

She stopped beside the large, old coach, Peter a twitchy presence at her shoulder.

He must have heard their footsteps, for he peered over one shoulder. He raised a eyebrow in enquiry, swaying slightly.

“Sir, are you waiting to drive someone out of the city?” asked Melissa.

“That I am, Miss. You the ones I’m waiting on?” His voice was thick, and slurred.

“I believe so.”

“Where is it you’re wantin’ to go, then?” He turned a little further in his seat, so he could see them more clearly.

“
Bourton-on-the-Water. In the Cotswolds. Do you know it?”

“Aye.
A fair piece. Well, then, best jump in. We’ve got some travelling ahead of us.”

Melissa pursed her lips slightly, and remembered what Mr Tell had told her: “The driver I’ve chosen for the final leg is a drunkard.” Reading the protest that immediately rose to her
lips, he interrupted her before she could speak. “Now, now, hear me out. He drives well enough for the purpose, but more importantly, his memory’s shot. He’s that one as will have the best and longest look at you, and knows exactly where you are placed. But he won’t remember it. By the time a week has past you will have faded from recollecting. I say it’s worth the risk. He’s not been known to crash. Well, not because of drinking, at any rate,” he added judiciously.

She wrestled with her prejudice against trusting such a man with anything,
then let him convince her.

Now she and Peter climbed into the carriage and settled themselves on the seat facing forward. Although the squabs on the seats were worn through in places, the coach itself was clean and well swept. Two travelling cases sat on the floor of the coach. They were the sort a well-to-do serving man or woman might carry. Not new, but in fair condition. Melissa assumed their belongings were inside, as Mr Tell had told her they would be.

The carriage lurched into motion, and she took a deep breath, feeling tension return now she was once again sitting still, entrusting her fate to another; to a drunkard.

“
Bourton-on-the-Water?” Peter suddenly said. “What’s there? Why is that where we’re going? We’ve never been there before.”

“No reason in particular, other than that it’s lovely there, I’m told.”

Peter waited for her to explain. She took a deep breath, realising
this
was now the moment for the overdue explanation. Now when all contentment had fled, she could put it off not one second more.

She closed her eyes to gather her thoughts together, then opened them, determined not to hint in any way that their escape had been expensive beyond their immediate means. If he asked she would lie and say the sale of the household effects had paid for it. Hopefully he would not think of it.

“It’s not so much about where we go. Rather, from what we go.” She paused. In the wavering light from the passing streetlamps, she could see his face. He looked confused, as well he might. “Father didn’t leave us very well off. In fact, he left us very badly off. Very badly indeed.”

“What do you mean?” His brows were drawing down in a scowl.

“There was no money. And there were many bills. Some of which were quite large.”

“So
. . . we are running away to avoid paying bills?” His mouth fell open. He was aghast, romantic notions falling away, she was sure.

“More or less,” she said. She had no desire to explain the exact circumstances. Far better he did
not know what sort of men Father had been dealing with. Let him keep some illusions.

“But we can’t do that! That’s dishonourable!”

“Maybe so. But the alternative is to rot in a debtor’s prison. And that would do no one any good.”

“We can work it off. Something could be arranged. But we can’t just run away. Why, we’ll never be allowed to go back-”

“No, we won’t,” she said quietly, breaking in.

For a long moment there was silence.

“We’re not going back? Not ever?” His voice was small, and she could hear the shock in it.

“No. Never,” she responded.

“But . . . but what of the house? What of our belongings?”

Her eyelids drooped, as the horror in his voice recalled her own sorrow at that break with all roots, with the only foundation of security they had known since mother’s death. “We’re leaving them behind.”

The pause was heavy with emotion.

“I won’t!” he said suddenly.

She looked up to find him half out of his seat, his fists clenched and outraged determination writ large on his face. “Peter!” she said in consternation, “you don’t-”

“I
won’t
, and you can’t
make
me! You can’t make me run away from a debt of honour! You can’t make me leave home!
I’m
the man of the house!
Me!
You don’t get to make those decisions and not ask me!”

It was Melissa’s turn to be shocked. Peter had never spoken to her like that. Defiance was simply
not in his nature. It was the last thing she had expected, and certainly not what they needed right now.

“You don’t have a choice,” she said. “We’re not stopping the carriage.” She turned a steely look on him. He must be made to see how serious she was. God only knew what she would do if he continued to challenge her. Pray that his habit of obedience would be enough to keep him in check now.

There was a short battle of wills. She saw him clench his teeth in agitation, before he turned his head aside to gaze stonily out of the window.

“This isn’t
right
,” he said in a low voice.

“You’ll just have to trust me to know what’s best for us,” she replied.

She waited for him to say something more, but he was silent. Quietly she breathed a sigh of relief, leaning slowly back against the squabs. Now she was glad she had not told him until their flight was a
fait accompli
.

Chapter Eight

The coach drove steadily through the night. Melissa and Peter slept in snatches, woken by the jolting over the roads. The moon rose eventually, and by its light Melissa watched Peter as he lay along the seat, breathing heavily. Both of them had been uprooted, and the future was uncertain. But she would do anything in her power to protect him.

Outside the carriage the countryside was silvered by the light of the moon. The night was clear and the stars bright. The miles of undulating countryside seemed very odd and empty after a life
in the narrow streets of London; eerie and still. It gave her a chill to look out at them and know she was going from all knowledge of how to govern her life efficiently. Things were out from under her control now, and she must wait and see what happened next before she made more plans.

This past fortnight had held more new and terrifying experiences than she could have imagined
facing. For someone whose world had been so small, so tightly controlled in every way she could manage, she thought she had coped astonishingly well. She had not faltered, had seen through her vision of escape without a hitch.

Though she could almost certainly not have contrived it without Mr
Tell’s assistance, she thought in this one instance it had been permissible to break her own rule about not relying heavily on others.

After all, it had worked. It had all worked. She could acknowledge the tiny thrill that threaded through her at the thought. She had done it. She had really done it. They were free of London!

Terrifyingly free, but free nonetheless.

The road before her was uncertain. She would need all her wits about her to slip into such a foreign life as she now planned: a serving maid or some sort of working girl. She wanted to be well thought of in her adopted community, respectable and proper, if suitably humble. So she must learn all the rules that governed the behaviour of such a person, not as she had known them from the outside looking in, but as one who wore them every day.

If she slipped up then she would be seen as putting on airs or getting above herself, and no one liked that in a servant.

It was a circumscribed life, she was sure, but they would be safe together she and Peter, and that
was truly all that mattered.

She opened her eyes again just before dawn. Birds were chirping in the hedgerows as the coachman pulled into a small village, though the
sky was still mostly dark, with the barest hint of dawn at the horizon. The horses came to a stop, and the carriage rocked as the coachman climbed down from his seat.

Careful not to wake Peter, she exited the stuffy carriage. She took in a deep breath of the fresh, cold morning air. It was unbelievably crisp and delicious. London was never so free from smog. Oh, she could drink air like this all day! She smelt other scents on it: manure from the stables of course, and the fields around, and – she sniffed experimentally, her dulled senses giving her all too few labels for the subtle aromas that made up this place – wet dirt?
Frost on growing things, and what she could only describe as a sort of leafiness.

The coachman was talking to the
ostler, who had come out of the inn at the sound of their arrival.

“Aye, a pint will go down well,” he was saying. “Put the ‘
orses up nice an’ comfy, an’ ‘ave ‘em ready again at two.”

“Right you are,” the
ostler replied, and walked to the heads of the tired horses.

“Excuse me,” she called, trotting a few steps to catch up with the coachman. “Did you say we’re stopping for a while?”

“Don’ know about you, Miss, but I’m havin’ somethin’ to eat. An’ then a wink o’ sleep. No need to be dashin’ harum scarum abou’ the countryside, now is there?” His tone was deliberate and a little insinuating, and she wondered what he thought about his nocturnal passengers.

“Of course not,” she said with a tight smile.
“An excellent idea. And we are to meet back here at two of the clock, I believe I heard?”

“
Tha’s right, Miss. I’ll be gettin’ along, then.” He turned and waddled away, not bothering to tip his cap or acknowledge her at all. There it was, of course. She was not a gentleman’s daughter anymore, so why should he mind his manners? What had she to say about it, or about anything?

Feeling strangely glum, she went back to the carriage. The
ostler had unhitched the horses and was leading them off. She climbed the two steps up into the carriage, and gently shook Peter awake.

“Let’s go inside where it’s more comfortable,” she said to him as he blinked at her, still sleep-mazed and confused. She saw dawning realisation sweep over his features. His young mouth set in what was just short of a pout, and he got up and went with her sullenly.

Her dejection increased. She wanted an ally in this, not this sulky obstacle. Did he not owe her a little gratitude, at the very least?

She sighed as she acknowledged his ignorance of
the debt between them. A debt she must strive to forget lest it waken her resentment of him.

They carried their luggage into the inn. A young woman came towards them, wiping her hands on her apron and eyeing them up and down.

“Can I be helpin’ ye?” she asked politely, taking in their crumpled but good-quality plain garments.

“We’d like two rooms, please,” said Melissa. For a moment she contemplated asking for a private parlour, as any gentleman’s daughter should. But
that was foolish, and besides she could not justify the expense. They would eat in the tavern.

“O’ course, Miss.
Righ’ this way.” The serving woman had absorbed Melissa’s well-cultured speech, and was instantly more deferential. Melissa realised she would have to alter the way she spoke, too. There was so much to remember.

They were shown upstairs to a small pair of cosy rooms set under the eaves. Light was not yet coming in through the windows but it would be soon. She drew the curtains tightly shut on her own room, turning from them to see the serving girl still hovering in the doorway.

“We’ve porridge ready if you’d like summat ta eat; with lovely fresh cream. Or if you’d like to wait a couple hours there’ll be sausages an’ bacon.”

Melissa looked at Peter
in enquiry. He stood just inside her room, his hand shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched. His scowl looked out of place on his angelic face. “I’m going to bed,” he said gruffly, went to his room and closed the door with a bang that Melissa knew was meant for her.

“Later perhaps,” she said to the serving woman. She asked to be woken at twelve o’clock, and sent the servant on her way.

There was water in the ewer, and a cloth. She used it to wipe her face and hands, then took off her dress and climbed into bed wearing her chemise. She had expected to lie awake after dozing in the carriage, but within moments she fell into a deep sleep.

A polite knock on the door woke her, and she heard a voice calling out that it was twelve o’clock.
She gave an acknowledgement, and footsteps receded down the hallway. She felt groggy and rather dislocated. Slowly she dressed. With clumsy fingers she pushed her hair into something approaching order, rubbed her grainy eyes and left the room.

At Peter’s door she knocked and called out. When there was no response she knocked again, and then opened the door. The bedchamber was empty.

Panic struck instantly. He was gone! Why had he not woken her? Where might he be? She dashed down the stairs and into the common room of the tavern. A barmaid looked up from her slow-paced sweeping, but otherwise the room was deserted.

She ran out into the stable yard. Peter was leaning up against the outside wall, leisurely chewing,
the remains of a wrinkled winter-stored apple in his hand.

“Oh God, you are here!” she exclaimed in relief, her thundering heartbeat slowing. She put one hand against the lintel to steady herself as tremors shook her.

Trying to hide her frightened reaction from him, she deliberately smoothed her expression and smiled a little. She need not have bothered with the concealment. Peter was oblivious as usual.

“These are good. Do you want one?” He held out another apple to her. She took the three steps necessary to reach him and took the soft, furrowed apple, slightly warm from his grasp.

His mood changes were bewildering, but she was not fool enough to turn down an overture of peace. She took the fruit and bit into it, even though she did not feel like eating. As soon as the scant juices hit her throat she realised how very hungry she was. With quick bites she ate the rest.

“Where did you get these?” she asked in between mouthfuls.

“The goodwife in the kitchen.” 

“We are to meet the coachman at two of the clock. Shall we go inside and get a proper lunch?”

“Let’s.” He led the way into the inn. His usual spring was back in his step.

They ordered the hearty mutton stew that was on offer. It came with freshly baked bread still warm from the oven. Both of them ate with gusto. Near the end of the meal Melissa cleared her throat.

“I suppose you’re wondering what we shall do in Bourton-on-the-Water,” she said tentatively.

“Rather,” he replied, keeping his eyes on his stew as he chased the last chunks around in his bowl.

“I shall look for work as a seamstress.” It was her first choice. She preferred the idea of independence; not working under the command of superiors and beneath the same roof as a number of strangers, men among them. “If not that, there may be a gentry family nearby who need a lady’s maid.”

“A lady’s maid?
What do they do?”

“They look after the lady of the house,” said Melissa rather vaguely. In truth, she had never had a lady’s maid and had no very specific idea of their duties, but it could not be anything too highly skilled. She took care of all her own needs, so she must surely be able to see to those of another. She
would manage to do the job, if she could find a position. She was bright and could learn quickly.

“You should
not
be doing such a thing,” said Peter intensely.

“Pardon?”
She was caught by surprise, her own mind preoccupied trying to imagine how her new role might be.

“It’s no sort of
position for the daughter of a gentleman,” he said. She could see a peculiar blend of anger and desperation on his face, as if he were begging her to come to her senses. “Nor is being a seamstress. You
must
reconsider.”

“I’m afraid there’s not much choice, Peter dear. We’ve only a little money, and the clothes and things in our bags.”

In truth, there was a fair sum in the purse and wallet Mr Tell had given her. With careful management it might easily keep them for two years, maybe as much as three, for she had heard many things were cheaper in the country and she rather thought that meant such basics as food and lodging.

Yet
she had no intention of wasting any asset. If they could earn their keep she would keep the rest in reserve. The future might hold anything at all, and money bought freedom and choices.

“And what of me?
What would you have me do?” He asked the question a little wildly, as if she might suggest he join the circus or some such craziness.

“I thought we could find you work on one of the farms, or in the village. You’re a healthy lad-”

“A
farmer
? You want me to work as a farmer?” His eyebrows disappeared under his curls.

“I know it’s not very exciting, but it’s a respectable living,” she said defensively, measuring the prospect for the first time not as she saw it – a far better option than the plans Black Jack had made for them – but as he must: a terrible fall from the lofty heights of scholarship and a respectable profession that had always been his birthright.

She could almost see the hundred objections on the tip of his tongue. For a long moment he sat and glared at the wall. Then he took a deep breath.

“If that is what you think best,” he said.

She had been braced for a lengthy and arduous battle. This sudden capitulation left her incredulous.

She narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously, searching for some sign of his true mind. But he ducked his head, avoiding her gaze as he drank the last of the water in his mug in one long mouthful,
then wiped his mouth on his sleeve. She managed not to cluck at his bad manners.

“I’m going out for some air,” he said, rising to his feet.

“I’ll come with you,” she replied, also standing, anxious to pursue him and see this matter through to the end.

“I would rather be alone, if it’s all the same to you,” he said, cold and stiffly polite.

She hesitated, not knowing how to follow him in the face of his blank refusal, certain that their conversation was not yet done but not wanting to force the issue so hard she pushed him further away.