The Masqueraders
By Georgette Heyer.
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To
G. R. R.
The Masqueraders
I
A Lady in Distress
It had begun to rain an hour ago, a fine driving mist with the sky grey above. The gentleman riding beside the chaise surveyed the clouds placidly. “Faith, it’s a wonderful climate,” he remarked of no one in particular.
The grizzled serving man who rode some paces to the rear spurred up to him. “Best put up for the night, sir,” he grunted. “There’s an inn a mile or two on.”
The window of the chaise was let down with a clatter, and a lady looked out. “Child, you’ll be wet,” she said to her cavalier. “How far to Norman Cross?”
The serving man rode up close to the chaise. “Another hour, ma’am. I’m saying we’d best put up for the night.”
“I’d as soon make Norman Cross,” said the gentleman, “for all it’s plaguily damp.”
“There’s an inn close by, as I remember,” the servant repeated, addressing himself to the lady.
“En avant, then. Produce me the inn,” the lady said. “Give you joy of your England, Peter my little man.”
The gentleman laughed. “Oh, it’s a comforting spot, Kate.”
The inn came soon into sight, a square white house glimmering through the dusk. There were lights in the windows, and a post-chaise drawn up in the court before it.
The gentleman came lightly down from the saddle. He was of medium height, and carried himself well. He had a neat leg encased in a fine riding boot, and a slender hand in an embroidered gauntlet.
There was straightway a bustle at the inn. An ostler came running; mine host appeared in the porch with a bow and a scrape and a waiting man sped forth to assist in letting down the steps of the chaise.
“Two bedchambers, for myself and my sister,” said the gentleman. “Dinner, and a private room.”
Consternation was in the landlord’s face. “Bedchambers, sir. Yes—on the instant! Polly, the two best bedchambers, and fires to be lit in them!” A serving maid went scuttling off. “Sir, the private room!” Mine host bowed, and spread a pair of deprecating hands. “But this moment, sir, it was bespoken by a lady and a gentleman travelling north.” He looked slyly, and cast down his eyes. “But they stay only for dinner, sir, and if your honour and the lady would condescend to the coffee-room? There’s never a soul likely to come tonight, and ’twill be private enough.”
There was a rustle of skirts. My lady came down from the chaise with a hand on her servant’s shoulder. “The coffee-room or any other so I get out of this wet!” she cried, and swept into the inn with her cavalier behind her.
They found themselves straight in a comfortable large room. There was a table set, and a wood fire burning in the hearth. A door led out into a passage at the back, where the stairs rose steeply, and another to one side, giving on to the taproom.
A trim girl in a mob cap brought more candles, and dropped a shy curtsey to the lady. “If you please, my lady, should I take your ladyship’s cloak? Your ladyship’s abigail … ?”
“Alack, the creature’s not with me!” mourned Madam Kate. “Take the cloak up to my chamber, child. So!” She put back the hood from her head, and untied
