The little man looked gloomy. ‘The coach travels through the night I believe.’
‘Yes. They’re changing the horses now.’
And it was true. The original team was being led out of the traces and the horsemaster was backing in four fresh beasts.
‘Well, we’d better drink up in preparation,’ said Cuthbert and followed John into the inn.
Half an hour later and all the passengers were getting on board. The German lady had spent the time half threatening, half pleading with the guard to check her luggage.
‘Please to make sure that everyzing is in its place.’
‘I assure you, Madam,’ the man repeated, with just the slightest edge in his voice, ‘that there are three bags and one hat box in the basket.’
‘But are zey mine?’
‘Yes, Madam. I put them in there myself.’
Slightly mollified the woman got in and plonked herself in the corner where she petended to fall asleep immediately. John, studying her, noticed that one of her eyes remained slightly open and drew his own conclusions.
It was now almost three years since the life of his wife, his beloved Emilia, had been cut so brutally short in the gardens of Gunnersbury House. Three years in which he had run the gamut of emotion, from grieving widower to a man in love once more. For in that time he had again met the capricious Elizabeth di Lorenzi, older than he was and as different from him as a nun to a courtesan. Where he wanted marriage, she would have none of it; where he wanted to settle, she wanted to rove wild and free. Indeed he had almost given up all hope of her when a mysterious letter had arrived, virtually commanding him to go and see her at her magnificent home just outside Exeter. And it was for this reason that he had caught the all-night stagecoach driving to that city, leaving his daughter, Rose, in the charge of her grandfather, the formidable and fascinating Sir Gabriel Kent.
What, he wondered, could Elizabeth possibly want with him now? He had thought when he had last seen her that there was no chance for them. That there was hardly a word left to say. And now this extraordinary summons. With a sigh, John snuggled down into his cloak and attempted to go to sleep.
Beside him Cuthbert Simms, neat as a dormouse, slept quietly, his head falling gently onto the Apothecary’s shoulder. Opposite, the dark young lady, bonnet removed and held in her lap, slumbered, leaning her head against the wall of the coach. But it was the Black Pyramid and Nathaniel Broome who amused John on the odd occasions when he opened his eyes. They inclined inwards, resting one upon the other like a pair of elderly ladies, snoring gently, Broome softly, the Black Pyramid with a deep sonorous note that befitted his size. John’s thoughts stole upwards to the two unfortunate women who sat on the roof, and his conscience pricked him that he had taken a seat inside at the very last moment. So much so that he considered giving it up at the next stop.
He slept as best he could and when next he raised his lids he saw that dawn was just starting to streak the sky and the coach was slowing down as they drove into the village of Thatcham. At The Swan with Two Necks they changed horses again and the passengers were given a forty minute stop for breakfast. Stretching and yawning outside while the others made their way within, John gallantly assisted the two females sitting above to descend. One of them had a very familiar face and the Apothecary became convinced that he had seen her before somewhere. The other was an altogether sensible type of woman with a friendly visage and clear blue eyes. This, despite the fact that she had spent the night sitting bolt upright in the chilly and damp conditions.
John made a bow. ‘May I offer you my seat for the next stage of the journey, Madam?’
She shot him a look of pure gratitude. ‘I would be delighted to accept, Sir. And at the next stop I shall surrender it to Mrs Gower with whom I have just shared a terrible night in the elements.’
The Apothecary nodded. ‘I can imagine. I shall see if any other gentleman would be willing to change with her.’
The woman curtseyed. ‘Thank you. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Lucinda Silverwood.’
‘And I am John Rawlings.’ He bowed and she responded with a brief bob.
‘I am going to Devon to join my daughter who is expecting her first child shortly,’ Mrs Silverwood continued.
And John, remembering the fuss that Emilia’s mother had made at the time of Rose’s arrival, felt a momentary touch of bittersweet sadness as he recalled the time when he had first laid eyes on his daughter.
‘I am sure you will be a great comfort to her,’ he said. ‘And now, Madam, allow me to accompany you in to breakfast.’
As they went inside the last two remaining passengers climbed down from the roof and John glanced at them. One was a plumpish fellow, clearly bald beneath his somewhat ornate wig of curling brown locks. He had fat pink hands and a startled expression caused by the fact that his eyebrows were scantily defined. The other man, by contrast, had raven black brows and a savage hawk’s face, which was pitted and scarred by the ravages of smallpox. His eyes were dark and as John stared he turned a look on the Apothecary which made John start at its ferocity and quickly turn his head away. He made his way inside the inn without glancing back.
Within it was all comfort as the landlord, used, no doubt, to coaches arriving at this ungodly hour of the morning, had produced a fine bill of fare. A large ham jostled a side of beef and from the kitchen came the reassuring smell of eggs being fried to a crisp. John took his place at the large trestle table which had been set for the occasion and bowed Mrs Silverwood into her place. Behind him he could hear a commotion and, turning slightly, saw that it was the hawk-like man insisting on dining in a private parlour. The landlord, looking put out, was somewhat reluctantly showing him to a snug leading off the passageway.
John turned to the second woman who had travelled on the roof and whose face was so familiar to him.
‘Forgive me, Madam, but I feel that perhaps we have met before. Do you recall where that could have been?’
She turned on him a beaming smile and said in a broad Welsh accent, ‘No, Sir, we have never met but I expect you might have seen me in the theatre. My name is Paulina Gower. Not that I am in the first rank of actresses, mark you. I expect ’tis more likely that you have seen me playing a maid or some such thing.’
John lit up. ‘Of course. I was — many years ago I might add — a friend of Coralie Clive’s, though I believe that she has now retired completely. Unlike yourself?’ he added, a slight question in his voice.
Mrs Gower looked sad and knowing simultaneously. ‘I wish that I had married well — as did she — though I learn she is now widowed, poor soul. But yet to give up the stage entirely would be difficult indeed.’ She sighed. ‘However I’m afraid that I do not have the choice. I must continue to work in order to survive.’
John pulled a sympathetic face. ‘We live in hard times, I fear.’
Cuthbert Simms spoke up from across the table. ‘Indeed we do, Sir. At my age I am still forced to teach to make ends meet.’
‘But surely,’ said John, addressing the two of them, ‘you both love what you do and to continue it is no hardship.’
But he never heard their answers because at that moment the breakfast party was rudely interrupted by the arrival of the German woman who was shrieking at the top of her voice.
‘Ach, but some of mein luggage is missing. There is a thief here. Vere is the coachman?’
‘Having his breakfast as you should be, Madam,’ somebody answered rudely.
She glared in their direction, unable to identify who it was who had spoken.
‘I can eat nuzzink. I am fit to vomit with all this jigging about.’
‘Well don’t do it in here,’ the same voice replied.
The Fraulein — at least John presumed she was such — gave another basilisk stare, turned on her heel and marched into the interior of the inn, clearly to find the driver and twist his ear. There was a general sigh of relief as she left.
Thirty minutes later they were clambering back on board. Most of the men — with the exception of Cuthbert Simms who claimed fear of the rheumatics — had taken their seats on the roof so that the two ladies could have some respite from the elements. John noticed that the man with the hawkish face had also gone within and had huddled down in his cloak to sleep. The German woman, hurrying up at the last minute, having rechecked the basket and deciding that all her luggage was complete after all, got inside with bad grace and a grumpy expression. The coachman cracked his whip.
‘Next stop Marlborough, ladies and gents.’
And they set off.
