1
Oscar Wilde
Hannah Pym arose at four in the morning in a bedroom in the Bell Savage Inn in the City of London and prepared for adventure.
For Hannah, adventure lay in the Flying Machines, as the stage-coaches were called. A legacy left her by a late employer had given her new freedom. She had already made one journey to Exeter and had had many adventures, which had only whetted her appetite for more.
She lived in Kensington, and the thickening fog of the day before had made her take the precaution of travelling to London and booking a room for the night at the inn so as to be in time for the coach in the morning. She lit a tallow candle on the mantelpiece of her bedchamber and carried it to the toilet table, where she sat down and studied her face in the glass.
Hannah had taken to studying herself closely in the glass since her last journey, not because she thought she was beautiful, for she knew she was not, but to see if she had begun to look like a lady. Her late employer’s brother, Sir George Clarence, had befriended Hannah Pym, ex-housekeeper now and, thanks to his brother’s generous legacy, a lady of independent means. Hannah was flattered and pleased at this new and unlikely friendship and hoped that the elevation to such distinguished company would begin to show in her features.
Her gown was of fine cambric and her linen of the best because of Sir George’s suggestion that she help herself to Mrs Clarence’s wardrobe. Mrs Clarence was the wife of Hannah’s late employer, who had run off years ago with a footman, leaving her clothes behind. The clothes were all very well, thought Hannah, but it was the face that was the problem. She was middle-aged, in her forties, with thick sandy hair and large, odd eyes that seemed to change colour according to her mood. Her nose was slightly crooked, her skin sallow, and her mouth long and humorous. Her figure was distressingly thin and flat-chested, but she had fine hands and neat ankles and long, slender feet. It was the eyes that betrayed her late servant status, thought Hannah. Ladies had hard, autocratic stares. They did not have curious, eager eyes.
Hannah felt she could not expect such adventures as she had experienced on her last journey on the Exeter road, when she and her fellow passengers had been drawn together by accident, robbery and snowstorm. Hannah knew that it was possible for a coachful of people to travel long distances without saying a single word, English reserve always triumphing over curiosity.
From down below came the bustle of preparation. The coach she was to take to Bath – no,
She rose from the toilet table and packed her trunk. Then, with a feeling of great daring, she put on her head a velvet turban with a ‘banditti’ plume and a veil hanging to the shoulders.
Hannah had paid her shot in advance. The inn waiters were hovering in the corridors, eager hands outstretched for tips. Hannah parted with some small change and then went out into the foggy courtyard. She gave her ticket to the coachman, noting that he was a dandified young man in a double-breasted coat and with a wide, low-crowned hat. Most coachmen were like Old Tom of her previous journey, fat and grog-faced and muffled in shawls. But this coachman belonged to the new, younger breed. He had adopted a haughty, supercilious air and looked as if he was hoping for the arrival of some outsiders to talk down to. The outsiders were the people who paid half-fare to travel on the roof of the coach. But it seemed that Hannah was the first arrival.
She stood for a moment surveying the coach. It was a new, smart turnout with high red wheels but with the body of the coach covered in the usual studded black leather, the oval windows being picked out in red. She climbed inside.
The early morning was freezing cold, and she could smell the fog, a sulphurous smell that seemed to emanate from the hell it created to the London onlooker’s eye. Figures outside the coach flitted in its gloom like demons. Who would the other passengers be? thought Hannah. An article in a magazine she’d read said the passengers of coaches usually consisted of one drunken sailor, one lawyer, one military gentleman, one mother with a nauseous child, and one faded lady who always complained mendaciously that her own private coach had gone ahead with her baggage.
The coach door opened on the far side from where Hannah sat and a couple climbed in. Hannah flicked a curious glance at them. The woman was small and pretty in a kittenish way and the man was handsome in a regular, uninteresting fashion. He helped her to a corner seat before taking the seat opposite and she thanked him effusively, calling him Mr Judd, and he replied, calling her Mrs Judd. A dull married couple, guessed Hannah, hoping the other passengers might prove to be more entertaining.
There was a rattle of wheels in the courtyard and Hannah rubbed at the glass with her glove and looked out to see an expensive carriage rolling into the courtyard. A coachman in splendid livery of scarlet and gold sat on the box and two footmen stood on the backstrap. The carriage drew up alongside the coach. The footmen jumped down and opened the carriage door and let down the steps. A young lady, fashionably dressed, got down, followed by a stern, middle-aged woman. The footmen then started to unload a quantity of luggage from the roof and hand it up to the guard of the coach.
The dandified coachman opened the door of the coach and ushered both ladies in, bowing very low. The young lady took a seat in the corner opposite Hannah and her companion sat beside her.
Hannah immediately noticed that the girl had been crying. Not that her eyes were puffy and red, but there was a weary sadness about them.
The girl saw Hannah looking at her and gave a tentative smile; her companion frowned awfully and tapped the girl on the wrist in an admonitory way before throwing Hannah a haughty look.
The coach dipped and swayed as the coachman climbed up on to his box. The guard sent out a triumphant fanfare and The Quicksilver set out slowly on its way into the blinding, choking fog.
The roads would be frozen hard, thought Hannah, so there was no danger of their being stuck in the mud outside the village of Knightsbridge. Her eyes began to feel sore with the strain of peering out as she searched for familiar landmarks. Inside the coach was an ivory timetable lit by an oil-lamp, marking out the times and stages of their route.
The soft light of the lamp fell on the girl’s face. She had fallen asleep, as had her companion, so Hannah had an opportunity to study them both at leisure. The girl was not beautiful. She had a thin, sensitive face and high cheek-bones, which were considered most unfashionable in an age when women wore wax pads inside their cheeks to give them the required Dutch-doll effect. Her mouth was full and sensitive and peculiarly sensual, and the lashes that covered her eyes were long and silky. Under her bonnet, her slate-coloured hair was fine and wispy.
Her companion was rigidly corseted. She had the bosom and profile of a figurehead on a ship. Her clothes were fine but looked as if they had been made for someone else. The servant part of Hannah’s mind decided they probably had been. This woman was a paid companion and the clothes had probably belonged at one time to an employer.
Hannah turned her attention back to the outside world. The fog was thick. They would soon be nearing Kensington and Thornton Hall, where she had lived all those long years, working her way up from scullery maid to the rank of housekeeper. Sir George Clarence, who had inherited the Hall, had told her that he had started work on the gardens. Hannah had looked forward to seeing the improvements, but the fog blanketed everything.
She tugged at the strap and let down the window and hung out. The Quicksilver was travelling in a line of coaches and mail coaches, one lighting the way for the other. She could see their torches flaring up ahead, but as for the scenery at the side of the road, she could not even make out where she was.
