have cost Emily. ‘I am delighted to accept your gift, Miss Freemantle,’ he said, executing a low bow. ‘Not only is it an excellent wig and much finer than anything I could afford, but when I wear it, I shall have the joy of remembering your pretty face.’
He took the wig. ‘Stay and have some punch with us,’ said Lord Harley.
‘No, I thank you,’ said Emily faintly. ‘Miss Pym wants me in the kitchen.’
When she had gone, Lord Harley finished making the punch, urged the others to help themselves, and went through to the kitchen at the back and knocked on the door. Hannah opened it an inch. ‘Lord Harley?’
‘A word, if you please,’ said Lord Harley.
Hannah opened the door slightly more and slid through like an eel so that his lordship should not catch any glimpse of Mrs Bradley in her bath.
‘I wish to speak to you about Miss Freemantle,’ he said. ‘She is exhausted and has had quite an ordeal. I think you should send her to bed.’
‘She is young and robust,’ said Hannah. ‘I have dealt with many young housemaids, you know.’
‘But we are talking about a
‘Ho, yes,’ said Hannah, squinting down her nose. ‘Well, let me tell you, my lord, and this may come as a surprise, but servants can be every bit as frail and sensitive as their betters, but the reason they rarely go into declines or have the vapours is because they just have to get on with life. Miss Freemantle has been pampered enough. This is a blessed opportunity to lick her into shape.’
‘If she falls ill,’ he said grimly, ‘I must hold you responsible.’
‘Do that,’ said Hannah, grinning at him suddenly, and then slipped into the kitchen again.
‘Now, Mrs Bradley,’ said Hannah. ‘Out of the bath and into your night-gown.’ She picked up a huge huckaback towel and held it out.
‘Right you are, m’dear,’ said Mrs Bradley. She put both chubby hands on either side of the tin bath and heaved. Nothing happened. She stared up at Hannah, her eyes wide with consternation. ‘I be
‘Fustian,’ said Hannah. ‘Miss Freemantle, take one of her hands and pull at the same time as I take the other.’
Both tugged mightily, but the only result was a wave of dirty bath-water over the floor.
Lizzie added her efforts but to no avail.
‘I’ll need to get one of the men,’ said Hannah.
Mrs Bradley, who up until then had been restored by the warmth of the bath and a quantity of French brandy, turned almost as awful a colour as she had been when she came in out of the storm. ‘You will be quite decent,’ said Hannah. ‘Miss Freemantle, go to the linen press on the first landing and bring a thick sheet to cover her.’
Emily did as she was bid and returned to find Lord Harley waiting outside the kitchen door. ‘What on earth is going on?’ he asked. ‘I’ve been told to wait here by Miss Pym until called.’
‘We are in need of your help,’ said Emily. ‘Mrs Bradley is s-stuck in the bath.’ She began to giggle helplessly, leaning against the kitchen door. Lord Harley began to laugh as well.
The door opened a crack and Hannah’s cold eye surveyed the laughing pair. ‘Pull yourselves together,’ she admonished. ‘My lord, be as quick and deft as you can, for Mrs Bradley is sore embarrassed.’
They followed Hannah into the kitchen. Not only Mrs Bradley’s body was covered by a sheet but her face as well.
‘Give me your hands, Mrs Bradley,’ ordered Lord Harley. Two hands appeared from below the sheet. He gave a great heave. The bath tilted and more water flooded on the floor but Mrs Bradley remained stuck fast.
‘I am sorry about this,’ he said, bending over the coffin-shaped tin bath to examine her more closely. He took off his coat and rolled up his shirt-sleeves and slid his hands into the water under the sheet and then, as a squawk of sheer outrage rose from Mrs Bradley’s lips, under her bottom. With one almightly wrench he lifted her clear from the bath and set her down on her feet.
Panting and blushing, Mrs Bradley wrapped the sheet round her ample body.
‘Like Venus rising from the foam,’ said Lord Harley gently and kissed one plump cheek.
‘Oh, go on with you, me lord,’ giggled a newly coquettish Mrs Bradley.
Lord Harley grinned, picked up his coat, and strode from the kitchen.
Mrs Bradley submitted docilely, glad her ordeal was soon to be over, as Lizzie and Hannah began to towel her down. Soon she was dressed in her night-gown and wrapper, flushed and rosy.
She moved to the door. ‘Wait till I tell my folks I had a lord’s hands under me bum,’ she said and went out, closing the door behind her.
Emily began to laugh helplessly. Hannah and Lizzie joined in, and still laughing, the three women began to empty the bath and clear up the mess on the floor.
Then Hannah set to brewing a posset for Emily to take to Mrs Silvers, the landlord’s wife.
Mrs Silvers was sitting up in bed knitting. As soon as she saw Emily, she sank back against the pillow and groaned. ‘I feel so poorly,’ she whispered. Emily thought Mrs Silvers looked recovered and had a suspicion that lady was going to make the most of being waited on, but she simply handed her the posset and told her gently to drink it up.
Emily returned to the kitchen to find there were dishes still to be washed and pots to be scrubbed. But she was too tired to protest. Hannah let her work for half an hour and then said, ‘You may go to bed now, Miss Freemantle.’
‘But both of you must be tired as well,’ said Emily.
‘We have not been out in a snowstorm. Off with you,’ commanded Hannah.
Emily went upstairs. She had left her sodden clothes lying on the floor. She slowly picked them up and arranged them over a couple of straight-backed chairs in front of the fire. Wearily, she made ready for bed. All she wanted to do was sleep and sleep.
But no sooner was her head on the pillow than she felt very wide awake indeed. Images of the evening flashed through her mind: the feel of Lord Harley’s strong arm at her waist, how they had stood laughing outside the kitchen door, how sweet Mrs Bradley had looked when he had kissed her. A great roar shook the inn. She climbed from bed and went to the window and drew back the curtains. She could see nothing but whiteness.
She climbed back into bed. She wondered if Miss Pym had learned that Mr Fletcher had accepted that wig. What an odd woman she was. She was surely not a lady, and yet she had an air of authority. Then there was Mrs Bisley. Not only Mr Fletcher but all the men treated little Mrs Bisley with courtesy and kindness. And she was quite old. But Emily had to admit that Lizzie Bisley with her brown hair and pansy-brown eyes managed to look defenceless and fragile and much younger than her years. What a pity about the gross captain. Emily felt sure Mrs Bisley was making a terrible mistake.
She fell into an uneasy sleep and awoke as Hannah Pym climbed into bed beside her.
‘I apologized to Mr Fletcher,’ said Emily sleepily, ‘and gave him the wig as a present, which he accepted most graciously.’
‘I knew you would,’ said Hannah.
‘Why?’ asked Emily.
‘Because I have discovered this day,’ said Hannah firmly, ‘that although you have been badly spoilt, underneath it all, you are a young lady of resource, courage and humour.’
‘Really!’ said Emily, experiencing a glow of pleasure.
There was no reply. She twisted about and looked at her sleeping partner, but it seemed that Hannah Pym had fallen neatly and quietly asleep.
Along the corridor, Mrs Bradley and Lizzie lay side by side in a big four-poster bed.
Lizzie turned on her side and Mrs Bradley’s voice sounded in the darkness. ‘Reckon you’ve made a mistake with that captain, m’dear.’
Lizzie sighed and said faintly, ‘I cannot do anything now. I gave my word. Oh, Mrs Bradley, I wish it would snow and snow and snow so that we might never reach Exeter.’
‘All it takes is a little courage,’ said Mrs Bradley comfortably. ‘Now, me, I ain’t got none, but if I was you, I would ask that Miss Pym for help. Her could take on a whole battalion of Napoleon’s soldiers.’
‘My late husband,’ said Lizzie, ‘was a strong man. He made all the decisions for me. I never even had a thought of my own. But you know how it is. My family were so proud of him. Everyone kept telling me I was lucky to
