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Emily had been about to enter the room for she had heard their voices, but as she heard the full import of Mrs Bradley’s country logic, she shrank back. Her lips trembled. How she longed to be home again with dear Mama and Papa and dear Miss Cudlipp. How she longed to be fussed over and petted.

As she moved away, she heard Mrs Bradley say, ‘As to this here slipper, landlord says it’s hanging where leather should hang. Where might that be, do you reckon?’

Emily went on down the stairs, turning the problem of the slipper over in her mind to stop her from thinking about anything else. She went into the kitchen and sat down at the table. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked Hannah.

‘I’ve made some broth from a bit of scrag end hanging in the larder. Thank goodness, the larder is well stocked with meat. I shall prepare a bowl of it for you to take through to Mrs Silvers.’

‘I resent waiting on that lady,’ said Emily haughtily. ‘She looks perfectly well to me.’

‘And to me,’ agreed Hannah.

‘Then why …?’

‘Because I doubt if she usually gets one day’s rest from one year’s end to the other,’ said Hannah. ‘So humour her.’

Emily suddenly jumped to her feet. ‘Leather!’ she exclaimed. ‘Hanging where leather should be!’

She ran through to the larder and looked up into the darkness of the ceiling where joints of meat hung on hooks. She ran back to the kitchen and seized a chair and carried it into the larder and stood on it. And there, high up among the joints, Lizzie’s slipper was hanging.

Emily took a hooked pole and lifted it down, crowing with delight. Hannah came in. ‘I’ve found it!’ said Emily. ‘No work for me tomorrow. I shall spend the whole day in bed. If I only had a novel to read.’

‘Well, go and tell the others it has been found and then come back and get the soup for Mrs Silvers,’ said Hannah.

Emily’s loud announcement that she had found the slipper received a lukewarm reception, the others having become thoroughly tired of looking for it.

She returned to the kitchen and picked up the tray that Hannah had prepared and took it into Mrs Silvers. ‘Just set it down on the table beside the bed,’ said Mrs Silvers faintly. Emily did as she was bid and then her eyes fell on a small pile of books on the window-seat. ‘Books,’ she cried in delight. ‘Are there any novels among them?’

‘I think so,’ said Mrs Silvers. ‘Guests leave books from time to time.’

Carrying a candle over to the window-ledge, Emily eagerly studied the titles and then sighed with pleasure. There was a three-volume novel entitled The Castle of Doom. She looked inside the volume. The steel engravings were about the most lurid she had ever seen. ‘May I borrow these?’ she asked.

‘Of course,’ said Mrs Silvers, now sitting up in bed and slurping soup.

Clasping the precious books to her bosom, Emily left the room and ran up the stairs. Half-way on the stairs, she met Lord Harley, who was coming down. She glanced at him and then the full memory of that sensuous dream sent a tide of hot embarrassment flooding through her body. She gave an odd ducking motion of her head, darted past him, and on up to her room.

Lord Harley tried to put her out of his mind. He should never have contemplated marrying one so young in the first place. In the coffee room, the coachman and the guard were once more at loggerheads. They were drinking dog’s nose, a wicked drink consisting of beer laced with gin, damned in London as a ‘whore’s drink’, even in the Coal Hole Inn in the Strand, which was famous for the concoction. The coachman and the guard tried to fight each other, but both were so very drunk that all they managed to do was swipe the air in the general direction of each other. Resisting a temptation to knock their heads together, Lord Harley went out into the storm and across to the stables to see that the horses were being cared for. They were only coaching horses and had nothing to do with him, and yet it was part of his upbringing to see that the horses were warm and well fed before going to bed.

Lizzie and Mr Fletcher had retreated to a cold corner of the taproom, away from the fighting in the coffee room. ‘You must be very careful,’ said Lizzie quietly. ‘Captain Seaton tried to kill you.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, very sure. Miss Pym seized that tray and the bullet hit it instead of you. I wish this storm would end so that we could get away and be safe.’

He took her cold hands in his. Hannah Pym peered round the door. She saw them sitting holding hands and shut the taproom door quietly and then stood with her back against it. Things were progressing nicely and she did not want anyone to go in and spoil the budding romance.

‘When you say you wish we could get away,’ said Mr Fletcher in a voice that trembled slightly, ‘I could find it in my heart to wish you meant you and me … together.’

Lizzie blushed and hung her head. ‘I cannot press my suit,’ said Mr Fletcher, ‘for I have only a very little money and everyone would say I was pursuing you for yours.’

‘No one who knows you could think that,’ said Lizzie shyly. He tightened his grip on her hands.

‘Oh, my poor heart,’ said Mr Fletcher desperately. ‘I do so awfully want to kiss you.’

‘Then kiss her, you fool!’ muttered Hannah, who was listening outside the door. She saw Mr Hendry approaching and held up her hand. ‘You cannot go in there, Mr Hendry. I have just washed the floor.’

‘But I thought I saw Mrs Bisley go in there with Mr Fletcher.’

‘No, you are mistaken,’ said Hannah, a militant gleam in her eye.

Inside the taproom, Mr Fletcher closed his eyes and leaned towards Lizzie. His first kiss fell on the side of her mouth, his second on her nose, until, with a shy little laugh, she put her hands on either side of his face and guided his lips to her own.

As soon as Mr Hendry had retreated, Hannah pressed her ear to the door panels. Silence. Beautiful silence, thought Hannah with satisfaction.

7

Werther had a love for Charlotte

Such as words could never utter;

Would you know how he first met her?

She was cutting bread and butter.

William Makepeace Thackeray

Hannah arose promptly at five. The first thing she became aware of was the utter silence. Then she realized what it was. The wind had ceased to blow. She drew back the curtains and opened the window and looked out. It was a clear, starry, frosty morning. But the fallen snow lay deep and high and hard and glittering. They would not be able to travel that day.

She turned and looked at Emily. The girl was lying asleep with a volume of the romance she had been reading lying open on her chest. Hannah gently removed the book. She firmly believed that reading novels was a very bad thing for a young impressionable girl to do. It gave her exaggerated ideas of romance. Hannah shook her head sadly, thinking of Mrs Clarence. All that love and passion that had fizzled away like a guttering candle, leaving two people bound by the ties of marriage who had nothing in common. It was much better, thought Hannah as she went to the kitchen, to find someone one liked and then, if one was lucky, love might follow.

She could see that wretched under-butler in her mind’s eye. His name had been Mirabel Flannagan. Mirabel had been a popular name among the aristocracy about fifty years before and, like all fashionable names, had died out at the top level and lingered on at the bottom. Men should have names like George, or John, or Harry, thought Hannah. It was Mirabel’s legs that had seduced her mind, Hannah remembered ruefully. He had splendid calves. Also it had been spring when he had begun to pay her attention, and spring was a dangerous time. Now Emily would be a perfectly suitable bride for Lord Harley. She was beautiful and had good bones, so her beauty would last. She was young and would change and grow as soon as she was removed from the doting affection of her parents and governess.