The aristocrat of the roof did not reply. The guard was unfastening one of the leaders so as to ride to the Half-Way public house between Kensington and Knightsbridge to get help. He roused the watch on the way, and two watchmen came to march the now conscious highwayman off to the nearest roundhouse. The guard returned with a squad of men. All the passengers, who had climbed back into the coach for shelter, were ordered to dismount. The leader was hitched up again, and with a great shoving and pulling, the Exeter Fly was back on the road.
It was only then that the inside passengers realized the full discomfort of wet and frozen feet. ‘We cannot proceed,’ said Hannah firmly to the coachman. ‘We are all soaked and like to catch the ague.’
‘Get as far as the Half-Way house,’ said the aristocrat, ‘and get the ladies a room where they may change into dry clothes.’
‘And just who’s giving the orders around here?’ demanded the coachman with heavy sarcasm.
‘The man who is about to buy every man jack of you as much rum and hot water as you can drink,’ he replied coolly.
‘Now, that’s different,’ said the coachman. ‘Very.’
At the Half-Way public house, Mrs Seaton, Mrs Bradley and Hannah had their trunks borne upstairs to a bleak room above the pub and began to look out dry clothes. Hannah thanked God she had had the foresight to put another of Mrs Clarence’s cloaks in her capacious trunk. The cloak was of red merino lined with fur. She changed into one of her own black wool gowns and a flannel petticoat, also of her own, wool stockings and half-boots, crammed her beaver on her head, and turned her attention to her two companions. Mrs Seaton had taken more black items of clothing out of a trunk that seemed to contain nothing but black clothes. She was probably much older than she appeared, thought Hannah. In her thirties, perhaps late thirties. Mrs Bradley’s trunk seemed to contain a great deal of foodstuff: a trussed chicken, two jars of jam, a ham, and a large jar of pickles. But somewhere at the bottom she found fresh clothes, or rather a change of clothes, for the smell that arose from her new wardrobe was a powerful mixture of sweat and moth-balls and benzine.
When they descended to the taproom, it was to find a merry party going on. Edward Smith and Captain Seaton had both been wearing top-boots and had not had to change, but the lawyer, who had been wearing buckled shoes and stockings and who could not be bothered changing his clothes, was sitting huddled by the fire with his shoes stuffed with newspaper on the hearth and his wet stockings hanging over the high fender.
A glass of rum and hot water was handed to Hannah. She looked at it doubtfully. In this hard-drinking age, servants drank as much as their betters, but not Hannah. But she was still cold and she did not want to fall ill and therefore never be able to have any more adventures. For Hannah, now that the peril of the highwayman was over, felt elated and happy and ready to tackle any frights the journey had to offer. Still, she hesitated. She had never drunk anything stronger than coffee in her life. She had seen too many female servants end up in trouble through a fondness for strong drink. She squinted down her nose at the rum and sniffed it cautiously. She became aware of being watched and looked up. The tall aristocrat was leaning against the corner of the high mantelpiece, scrutinizing her with a look of amusement in his black eyes. ‘Your health, madam,’ he said, raising his own glass.
‘Your health, sir,’ echoed Hannah and, screwing up her eyes, she downed the contents of the glass in one go. She gasped and choked and Mrs Bradley slapped her on the back. The rum then settled in Hannah’s stomach and a warm glow began to spread through her thin body. The aristocrat had turned away to speak to the landlord. She studied him curiously. Perhaps he was not an aristocrat, but merely some adventurer. But then, he had an air of command, of authority, and his blue coat was expensively cut and of the finest material. Underneath it, he wore a striped waistcoat over a ruffled shirt. A sign of aristocratic arrogance, or sheer bravery, was that he wore the shirt ruffles at his wrists in full display. Since the French Revolution, still called the Bourgeois Revolution, and the American War of Independence, still called the Colonial Wars, gentlemen were careful not to flaunt their rank before the common people. Strangely enough, what could drive a London mob roaming the streets looking for trouble into violence was the sight of a gentleman sporting ruffles or a band of white at the wrists, that little display of linen which drew the line between gentleman and commoner. This gentleman was wearing, instead of one of the cocked hats that were only just going out of fashion, a wide-brimmed hat with a low crown.
Hannah turned her attention to Mrs Seaton, sitting by the fire with her captain. Very odd, thought Hannah, her eyes darting with curiosity. Everything black. Of course her father or mother could just have died, rather than a former husband, and she might have married the captain before the period of mourning was up. What an odd sort of husband the captain was – too loud and beefy and gross for such a dainty woman.
Then the coachman was shrugging on his greatcoat and wrapping a massive woollen shawl about his shoulders and calling to the passengers to take their places. Mr Fletcher, the lawyer, unhitched his stockings from the fender and put them on, modestly turning his back on the company as he pulled them on over white sticklike legs criss-crossed with purple varicose veins. Hannah found herself getting quite excited at the sight, not because she found the poor lawyer’s legs attractive, but because the conventions were being shed, one by one, at an early part of the Great Adventure. They were all explorers, she thought, giving a genteel hiccup, heading out into the jungle of the unknown.
Fresh straw had been put in the carriage and, luxury of luxuries, hot bricks. ‘Probably that there gran’ gennelman, m’dears,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘Coachman would never get landlord to busy hisself with our comfort.’
‘Grand gentleman, pooh!’ said Captain Seaton. ‘Something wrong with that fellow, if you ask me. Adventurer, mountebank or deserter. Yes, yes. Just mark my words.’
Off they went. The coach began to pick up speed as it moved through Kensington Village. And then they were racing along the long straight road that led past Thornton Hall. Deaf to cries of outrage from the other passengers. Hannah seized the leather strap and let down the glass and hung out of the window. There was the square box of Thornton Hall. No smoke was rising from the chimneys. With me gone, thought Hannah, the lazy dogs are probably all still abed. ‘Goodbye!’ she shouted, and then pulled up the glass and sat down, smiling into the glaring eyes of the other passengers.
‘How come you did that there?’ demanded Mrs Bradley. ‘You’re like to kill us all with cold.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Hannah. ‘I was saying goodbye.’
‘To what?’ asked Edward Smith suddenly.
‘To my past,’ said Hannah grandly, and then smiled in what she hoped was an enigmatic way.
The snow began to fall, not very heavily, but in large, pretty flakes. The coach moved slowly on through the winter landscape. Hannah’s head began to nod. Although she never slept very much, she had had no sleep at all the night before. She had a very odd dream. She was back at a servants’ dance in the servants’ hall and waiting for the arrival of Mr and Mrs Clarence to grace the festivities. When they came in, he looked, as usual, a brooding, handsome man, but Mrs Clarence was dressed as a Shakespearian page in doublet and hose and with a little cloak hanging from one shoulder. ‘Disgraceful,’ Mr Clarence began to shout. ‘How dare you dress as a boy!’
The coach jolted over a rut and Hannah awoke with a start. What a strange dream. It had been so vivid. And yet Mrs Clarence had never dressed as a boy. Hannah’s eyes fell on Edward Smith, now asleep opposite. Surely that was the reason for her dream, for Edward was pretty enough to be a girl masquerading as a boy.