work. Once more, she was where she felt she belonged, the centre of attention. Normally, she would have drunk lemonade, but everyone was drinking fortified French wine – the English merchants strengthening wine with brandy. She began to talk about her adventures, about running away from home, at first frankly and then, as the wine went to her head, she began to brag.
It was too much for Mr Fletcher. Emily had reached the point in her narrative when she had taken over the whole running of the inn single-handed. ‘Now, now,’ he chided, ‘you are going too far, Miss Freemantle. You must admit Miss Pym organized the inside work and Lord Harley arranged all the outside work. Mrs Bisley here has been washing dishes and making beds and cleaning the bed-chambers for all of you.’
Stopped in mid-flight, Emily looked at him tipsily and then her eyes narrowed.
‘That looks very much like my wig,’ she said. ‘How did you come by it?’
‘I gave it to him,’ said Hannah, cursing inwardly. ‘You have no need of men’s clothes, my child.’
‘Just helping out the poor,’ jeered Captain Seaton.
Mr Fletcher leaped to his feet, his face scarlet. He tore off the wig, walked round the table, and laid it in front of Emily, and, looking like an angry fledgling with his short-cropped hair, he stalked out of the room.
Emily rounded on Hannah. ‘You had no right to
‘I meant to discuss the matter with you,’ said Hannah, standing her ground, ‘but I forgot.’
‘What di’ye think of your pauper lawyer now, Mrs Bisley?’ laughed the captain. ‘Can’t even afford a decent wig.’
Lizzie burst into tears and ran from the table.
There was a silence and then Lord Harley’s voice, dripping ice, said contemptuously, ‘You silly goose. How dare you humiliate poor Mr Fletcher so? You could have had a word with him in private. But not you. You were bragging and bragging and puffing yourself up and he rightly pointed out that everyone else had been working much harder. I’ll buy the poxy wig from you. How much?’
Emily looked at him white-faced. She could have stood his contempt, for she had cast him in the role of villain, but Old Tom the coachman was shaking his head at her in a reproachful way, and cozy and fat Mrs Bradley was actually looking at her with dislike. Her only ally was the captain, and who wanted an ally like that?
‘I hate you all!’ she shouted. Hannah watched as she stumbled from the table and then from the room.
‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘Landlord, I shall leave you to serve the port.’
She went up to Lizzie’s room and knocked softly on the door. There was no reply. After a moment’s hesitation, she went in. The room was empty. She stood for a moment, baffled, and then went to the room Mr Fletcher shared with Lord Harley and leaned her ear against the door. She could hear Lizzie crying and the low sound of Mr Fletcher’s voice comforting her.
Perhaps it was the best thing that could happen, she thought. But what a silly child Emily is. I will never be able to make a match for her. And yet I wish Lord Harley could have seen her when she was alone with me in the kitchen. So natural. So charming. I will not go to her. She deserves to suffer a little.
She went back downstairs and determinedly began to talk of every subject she could think of to keep the conversation going.
Up in the Blue Room, Emily was putting on a warm cloak and a felt hat and gloves. Bagshot was a town. There was bound to be another hostelry, and surely the storm had abated. All she had to do was walk a little way, find another inn, and send them to collect the trunks.
Glad only that the rest of the travellers were still in the kitchen and not in the dining-room, she made her way softly to the main door of the inn.
Gently she opened it and then closed it softly behind her. She could hear the scream of the wind, but it had stopped snowing and a path had been shovelled through the courtyard to the gate.
She left the shelter for the high-walled courtyard and turned right.
And then the full force of the blown snow driven by the wind struck her. It was as if some white monster had been lying in wait for her, and then pounced. In the swinging light of the lantern over the arch to the courtyard, she could see long blown fingers of snow reaching out to her just before she was engulfed in a stunning white maelstrom.
5
William Shenstone
Emily gasped and wheeled about, turning her back to the driving wind and snow and raising the hood of her cloak over her head. A craven voice inside her was telling her to go back, but a stronger voice urged her on. There must be some other hostelry quite near.
She turned around and put her head down and struggled forward into the raging darkness. Emily was typically English in that the occasional erratic savagery of the climate took her by surprise. This could not be England, she thought, this dismal arctic waste, this lower ring of purgatory. Soon the wind would drop and the stars would twinkle.
A snow-drift loomed up in front of her on the road and she waded right into it. She battled her way back out and shielded her eyes. Now any form of habitation would do. But there was nothing but the high eldritch screech of the wind and the blowing, stinging, blinding snow. No yellow candlelight flickered to mark even the lowest cottage.
She was very, very cold and becoming more frightened by the minute. She was about to turn and retreat the way she had come when she saw a light in front of her, flickering erratically in the dark.
She forged towards it and almost collided with a man carrying a lantern. ‘Oh, sir!’ cried Emily. ‘Where is the nearest inn?’
He held the lantern high and Emily saw a rough uncouth face and a mouthful of broken teeth. ‘Well, what ’ave we ’ere?’ said the man.
‘Nothing, nothing,’ said Emily, suddenly frightened. She backed a pace. He seized the front of her cloak and dragged her up against him. ‘Give us a kiss,’ he said.
His horrible breath fanned her face. With a whimper of pure terror, she kicked him on the shins and, as he fell back, she ran past him, struggling through drifts, plunging through them, heading ever farther away from the inn.
Lizzie Bisley came back into the kitchen followed by Mr Fletcher, who was wearing his old wig. Emily’s wig still lay by her place.
Hannah noticed Lizzie’s eyes were red from crying and wondered whether she had been crying over Mr Fletcher’s humiliation or her own predicament. Probably both, thought Hannah, sharply ordering Mr Burridge to pass the port.
Captain Seaton opened his mouth to say something, caught Lord Harley’s eye, and closed it again. Lizzie and Mr Fletcher were talking in low whispers. Something would have to be done about that lawyer fellow, thought the captain. When he had first been introduced to Lizzie, he felt he had discovered a gold mine. Here was a rich widow, frail and feminine, looking for a strong man. He had no intention of letting such a prize be snatched from him.
Hannah rose from the table. She was suddenly anxious about Emily. She felt the girl had had long enough to come to her senses. Excusing herself, she went up to the bed-chamber. There was no Emily, but her trunks were still there. Hannah was just about to go downstairs again when she decided to look in the wardrobe. She recognized Emily’s missing cloak almost immediately. She had noticed it particularly when she had hung it away the evening before. It was of thick wool and lined with fur.
Beginning to feel alarmed, she ran lightly down to the kitchen. ‘I fear Miss Freemantle has gone out.’
‘Gone out!’ demanded Lord Harley. ‘You cannot mean she has gone out in this storm.’
‘I am very much afraid so,’ said Hannah. ‘We had better organize a search party.’
Lord Harley rose to his feet. ‘No need to risk everyone else’s lives. I will go myself, and should I need help, I
