seemed, lacked even food or inebriants. Their toes poked out of their flapping shoes, their children were barefoot, and their clothing was in filthy tatters. Women suckled babes and men made water openly, children squatted to empty their bowels exhibiting a chortling interest in what they produced. But shame and modesty are luxuries only those with money can afford, said Argus. Now Mary saw that for herself.
“How do they manage to live?” she asked a sensible-looking fellow passenger after he tossed a few pennies at a particularly ragged group of these wretched walkers.
“Any way they can,” he answered, wondering at her interest. “’Tis not the season for work on the land-too late for sowing and planting, too early for harvest. Those walking south are going to London, those walking north probably to Sheffield or Doncaster. Hoping for a job of work in a mill or factory. None of these are on the parish, you see.”
“And if they find a job of work, they will not be paid enough to afford both food and shelter,” she said.
“That is the way of the world, marm. I gave that lot my pennies, but I have not enough pennies for them all, and my shillings I must save for myself and my own family.”
But it need not be the way of the world, she said silently. It need not be! Somewhere there are enough pennies. Somewhere, indeed, there are enough shillings.
The journey was very long. What had begun in Biggleswade at seven ended in Huntingdon at seven, the coachman smiling from ear to ear at the speed of his progress. So tired she felt light-headed, Mary discovered that the closest inexpensive inn was some distance away at Great Stukely. Well, nothing for it: tonight she would stay at the post house where the coach had stopped, since she was to board another at six in the morning for the wearisome leg to Stamford.
A meal of properly cooked roast beef, roast potatoes, French beans, peas and hot buttered rolls put new life into her veins, and she slept comfortably-if not for long enough-in a clean feather bed with well-aired sheets. However, half-a-crown was
The coach did not reach Stamford until nine that night, in a twilight that ordinarily would have enchanted her, perfumed and misty. As it was, the Grantham stage left early-why do they always leave early? I need to sleep, and I have learned that I cannot sleep sitting bolt upright in a smelly coach.
From Stamford to Grantham she found herself squeezed in between two selfish old gentlemen and facing two children sharing one seat. Since both were boys, and of quite the wrong age for a coach journey, they drove their mother to the edge of dementia and the other passengers to the edge of murder. Only a sharp crack around the shins from one old gentleman’s cane saved four people from the hangman’s noose, though the mother told him he was a heartless brute.
Grantham had a coach depot attached to a huge post house and was the centre for a network of stage routes; the town sat on the Great North Road that ran to York and finally to Edinburgh. The only trouble was, Mary learned, that east-west routes did not matter as much as north-south ones. No conveyance bound for Nottingham was due until the day after tomorrow, which left Mary on the horns of a dilemma: did she spend a day of inertia in this busy town at a decent inn, or frugally? Having severely suppressed a qualm of conscience, she elected the elegant post house alongside the depot, secured a room in the back sequestered from the noise of the yard, and ordered a tray of food. A whole two crowns poorer, Mary still couldn’t feel very guilty. Not after those awful boys and their goose of a mother. And who could ever have dreamed that so many old gentlemen with huge paunches travelled long distances by stage-coach?
A full night’s dreamless sleep did much to mend her temper and her headache. After ringing for hot water and a tray of coffee and rolls, she set out for a brisk walk to sample Grantham’s attractions-not many, and not inspiring. The constant stream of traffic, however, she found fascinating, especially the post chaises, curricles, phaetons, carriages and barouches of the wealthy. Every vehicle going north or south went through the hub of Grantham because the horses kept by its posting inns were superior.
After a good luncheon she walked to the river Witham and stood upon its bank, only then realising why she felt a trifle flat.
Such a charming prospect! Willows, poplars, reeds, ducks and ducklings, swans and cygnets, the widening ripple of some fish kissing the water’s surface-how much nicer it would be did she have company! Specifically, the company of Mr. Angus Sinclair. Once the notion dawned, she acknowledged the fact that adventures were more satisfying if shared, from the horrors of the stage-coach to the sights of the countryside and its inhabitants. With Angus, the talkative and inquisitive lady could have been laughed at, those two dreadful little boys easier borne, the argument about whether the windows should be open or shut put in its proper perspective. The visions fell over each other in her mind, crying to be told to some dear friend, yet no dear friend was nigh to hear them.
I have missed Angus acutely, she admitted, not quite the same Mary after five days on the road in public coaches. I like the way his beautiful blue eyes sparkle with enthusiasm or humour, I like the way he watches out for me when we walk, I like his kind nature and his dry comments. Nor did he spoil it for me by speaking words of love-oh, I could not have borne that! Had he said them, I would have had to send him away. In the ordinary scheme of things I do not overly care for men. They are either overbearing and self-opinionated like Fitzwilliam Darcy, or stuffed with romantic rubbish like Robert Wilde. But I do not think of Angus as a man. I think of him as a friend more satisfying by far than female friends, who care only for eligible marriages and
The ducks had gathered, expecting bread, and she had none; turning from the river with a sigh, Mary walked back to the inn and spent the rest of the day reading
And hey-ho, back to the stage-coach on the morrow! Aware that she was heading west now, and that Nottingham was a much shorter distance from Grantham than Stamford, she had climbed into the conveyance in a sanguine mood, rested enough to be at the depot early, thereby securing a window seat. Unfortunately such desirous objects depended upon the coachman, and this day’s coachman was a surly brute who stank of rum. Not five minutes after she was ensconced in her window seat, Mary found herself evicted from it to make room for a party of five men. As they were downy fellows up to every trick of travel, they had tipped the coachman threepence for the best seats. The sole female passenger, she was relegated to the middle of the backward facing seat, and was subjected to leers and pert remarks from the three opposite her and groping hands from the two flanking her. When they realised that she had no intention of talking to them, let alone flirting with them, they judged her above herself and proceeded to make her journey the worst misery she had suffered to date. When the coach stopped to change horses she was imprudent enough to complain to the coachman, and got naught for her pains except to like it, or walk. Advice that the men on the roof and box thought brilliant: no help there. Everyone on this stage was drunk, including the coachman. A furious Mary took her place in the cabin afterward sorely tempted to hit the fellow on her right, stroking her leg; but some instinct told her that if she did, she would be overpowered and subjected to worse.
Finally Nottingham arrived. All but one of her companions shoved her aside in their hurry to alight, while the stroking one held back, bowing to her mockingly. Head up, she descended from the coach and went sprawling in a heap of reeking, watery manure; the stroking man had tripped her. She fell headlong, tearing the palms of her gloves as she tried to save herself, and her reticule flew to land feet away, its contents spilling out. Including her nineteen gold guineas. Bonnet dangling around her neck and twisted to half blind her, she lay staring in horror at her precious coins, subsiding into more muck. What a slipshod place, an unruly little corner of her mind kept repeating: no one sweeps or cleans.
“Here, let me,” said a voice.
In the nick of time. The glitter of gold had attracted much attention, including from the coachman and the stroking fellow.
The owner of the voice was a big man who had been watching the coach come in. He reached Mary before the others could, gave them a cold glance that saw them back away, then lifted her to her feet. Quick and lithe, he gathered up her guineas, her reticule and its other contents. The reticule was handed to her with a smile that transformed an otherwise menacing face.
“Here, hold it open.”
