The LadyShip

Kidd

Chapter 1

Miss Elinor Bennett’s days began early, and each was much like the one before. Nevertheless, she had no complaint. The life of the landlady of a posting inn on the Bath Road was anything but dull and, Miss Bennett being young and female, The LadyShip enjoyed a prosperity that was the envy of larger but more orthodox hostelries.

This was not to say that the sole attraction of The LadyShip was its unconventional mistress. To the contrary, it was distinguished by a number of small comforts that added up to an admirable whole. The inn’s few bedrooms, though small, were remarkably clean and comfortable. The kitchen boasted of an exceptional goose-liver pie and the taproom of an ambrosial ale, the source of which was local but untraceable by the most determined interrogator. Several private parlours were equipped with well-stocked writing-desks for the benefit of those with urgent business to transact, and a stable of messenger boys (recruited from the neighbouring villages) stood ready to convey any private letter anywhere within a half-day’s ride from Newbury. An elegantly appointed dining-room was available for large parties, and a snug coffee room, with a number of fine Morland prints on the walls and a supply of chess and backgammon boards in the cupboards, was open to any guest at any hour.

Not to be endured at The LadyShip was the bustle and noise of a common coaching inn, where muffled passengers under the tyranny of the guard’s timepiece rushed into the dining-room to gulp down a morsel of breakfast and a scalding cup of coffee while the horses were changed with the tight efficiency of a house catering to hundreds of such travellers in a day. At The LadyShip, the discriminating traveller enjoyed at his leisure the amenities of the establishment while pursuing his journey in a private chaise and the most commodious manner possible, even if—as occasionally occurred—he were in a tearing hurry on business that Miss Bennett’s staff was far too discreet to enquire into.

Nevertheless, there was no doubt that the first thing to catch a traveller’s attention—and, if he were male, his fancy—was the sight of the landlady’s youthful but authoritative figure standing on her doorstep to welcome a guest and to oversee the activities of her staff. She was well above average height, but built along boyish rather than Junoesque lines (a circumstance Miss Bennett herself considered a mixed blessing). Clad in a plain blue or green kerseymere gown, often with a scarcely more decorative apron tied around her waist or an old woollen shawl thrown over her slim shoulders, she nevertheless held herself with a dignity that commanded both respect and admiration. From the massive Creighton, the smithy, down to the most inconspicuous stable-boy, Miss Bennett’s employees were ever ready to serve her; and if a newcomer to this company made the mistake of viewing the young mistress as anything less than a lady, he was soon put to rights by his seniors, who advised him to look sharp or he would find himself seeking employment elsewhere.

Miss Bennett further discouraged any impression she might have given of helpless femininity by maintaining a resolute demeanour and concealing as best she could her native charms. In this she was not entirely successful, although she wore her glossy chestnut hair pulled back into a severe knot and she did not trouble to cover her capable-looking hands with gloves or to protect her naturally fine complexion by the application of strawberry lotion. Her full mouth was set in purposeful lines from the habit of three years—since she had taken over the management of the inn on the death of her father—and the necessity of appearing firmly in command of her business.

The business was, to be precise, not Elinor’s but that of her brother, Edward, who was serving with the army of occupation in France. Since the great victory at Waterloo the summer before, she had looked forward to Ned’s return—not, as might be supposed, to relieve her of her tasks, which she did not find burdensome, but to free her attention for her younger sister, Lucinda, who, at sixteen, was just released from the most genteel educational establishment her sister could find for her in Bath and was ready—at least in Elinor’s fond estimation—to be presented to an even more genteel society outside the classroom, thereby to raise her above the status of mere innkeeper’s daughter.

However, until her brother’s return, all the plans Elinor had so carefully laid for her sister’s future must remain in abeyance. For the nonce, business continued much as usual. Elinor had risen at dawn and, as was her habit as soon as she had dressed, she glanced out of her window to take the measure of the new day—a crisp morning in late October. A brief rain during the night had settled the dust brought in yesterday from the highway and had given the grey-painted stables a new-washed look. The leaves were well gone from the trees surrounding the spacious cobbled yard of The LadyShip, but it was not yet plainly winter. Elinor liked winter; she found a nip in the air exhilarating.

Below her window to one side stood a farm tumbril being unloaded by a sturdy lad who threw his sacks of potatoes easily over his shoulder to haul them into the kitchen. To her right, across the yard, an ostler was harnessing a new horse to the breaking-in cart under the watchful eye of Nash, the head groom.

The coffee room below, Elinor discovered when she had descended into this chamber by way of the curving staircase that led to it, had already been in use that morning by some traveller making an early start. A bright fire burnt in the grate, and the waiter—a dapper individual with black hair parted in the middle and slanted black eyebrows that gave him a puckish look—was laying a fresh white cloth on one of the round mahogany tables. He looked up when Elinor came in and bade her a good day.

Good morning to you, Evans. Getting off to an early start, are we?

In my opinion, madam, Evans said, raising his brows just enough so that they formed a straight line across his forehead, "the young gentleman did not get to bed last night at all. He breakfasted on coffee and oysters."

Did he pay his bill? Elinor asked, smothering a laugh.

Evans confirmed that he had, in accents suggestive of a pre-dawn struggle to convince the young gentleman of his obligation to meet this reckoning. Elinor commended Evans for his handling of a delicate situation and went on her way through the dining-room into the adjoining taproom and thence down the central hall to the lobby, which fronted the High Street. All was in order there, as it was in the kitchen (already redolent of meat pies and fresh-baked bread) on the lower level.

This spacious apartment was the pride of The LadyShip— and of its chatelaine, Mrs Nash, the stout, silent, but kindly-eyed wife of the head groom. Highly polished platters and cooking vessels lined the shelves covering one entire wall, and from the ceiling were suspended a number of hams, tongues, and flitches of bacon. A tall oak cupboard held a set of blue Staffordshireware, and beside the fire stood two matching high-back settles, upon which off-duty staff members liked to take their ease or a tankard of homebrewed at the end of a long day. These were unoccupied at present, but at the large deal table along the opposite wall sat Teddy, the young boots, apparently mounting guard over Flora, a red-cheeked little kitchen-maid, who was shelling walnuts into a china bowl.

Bidding these youngest members of her staff a friendly good-morning, Elinor then returned by way of the staff stairs to the taproom and thence through the yard door, where she stood for a moment surveying her domain with the satisfaction of one who has seen a modest enterprise blossom into a full-blown success. She smiled at Mr Creighton, who gave her a gruff but deferential good-day, and at the farm boy who, having delivered his potatoes, was now on his way home; he blushed, tipped his cap awkwardly, and slapped his surprised old mare across the shanks with the reins.

Elinor then crossed the yard to the stables, where she found her head groom readying four horses for a private carriage that was expected momentarily. Two postilions in The LadyShip’s green-and-grey livery and the outrider from the carriage in question lounged about watching this operation, but when Miss Bennett appeared—as she was wont to do just when she was least expected, the senior boy later informed their visitor—the postilions doffed their broad-brimmed green hats, and the outrider left off whistling The Huntsman’s Chorus to give her an unpracticed bow. At the sound of this movement, Nash, an open-faced countryman of middle age, turned to greet her and, on her enquiry, to say that he anticipated a busy morning.

Business, for the moment at least, was slack, if expectant. The air was still. The inn sign, decorated with the prow of a sailing ship on which was carved an aristocratic lady in a coronet, was silent on its hinges. Elinor returned to the inn and seated herself at her desk to look over the accounts. It was no more than a few minutes, however, before the sound of hooves could be heard to the east, and she was obliged to step into the yard to greet the carriage Nash had been preparing for. Its occupants—a stout, red-faced tradesman and his wife, with their three over-dressed daughters—consumed two helpings each of hot chocolate and rolls while their horses were being changed. Then, close on their departing dust, came a sporty gold-and-white phaeton driven by a young sprig under the tutelage of an experienced former mail-coachman well known to the local inns.

This aspiring whip was followed during the course of the morning by a family party consisting mainly of small and very grubby children; a pair of elderly bucks in the sort of hired post-chaise referred to for its colour as a yellow bounder; a young man on foot who offered to paint a more artistic sign for Miss Bennett’s eminently deserving establishment and who was only with difficulty persuaded that she liked her sea-going lady; and a very fat gentleman in a park phaeton who ate all Mrs Nash’s jam tarts and then complained about the price.

Shortly after noon, however, a much more welcome gentleman drove through the arched entranceway in an elegant curricle drawn by a fine pair of matched bays and brought his vehicle smartly to a halt in front of the stable doors.

Elinor, who had observed this arrival from the window of the dining-room, tore off her apron, smoothed down her hair, and emerged into the yard to greet the newcomer with a smile and an outwardly composed countenance.

Welcome, Mr Allingham! We have not had the honour of your company for some weeks, I believe.

Marcus Allingham descended from his curricle and handed the reins to the ostler, who led the still-frisky bays into the stables. Mr Allingham had been driving himself in apparent disregard—except for a multi-caped driving coat thrown over his shoulders and a black beaver hat, which he immediately removed to Miss Bennett—of the chill in the air. Beneath the coat he was neatly but conservatively attired, and his light brown hair was cut in the short Bedford crop, giving him a rather aesthetic appearance despite the considerable breadth of his shoulders.

Elinor knew, however, that Mr Allingham’s looks were deceiving; he was wealthy enough to be able to array himself in the height of foppish fashion if he so chose, and to travel with an entourage of outriders and baggage coaches. She was also aware, from occasional glimpses afforded her, over the years that he had been stopping at The LadyShip on his way from London to his estate in Wiltshire, that his narrow, rather stern mouth could relax into a charming smile, and that behind the cool blue-grey eyes lurked a guarded warmth. Allingham dealt firmly with subordinates, getting what he wanted not by rapping out orders but with a look suggesting that his claim to attention was more pressing than anyone else’s; however, he acknowledged any service with his disarming smile and a sincere thank-you.

Elinor, aware of her ambiguous relationship to him—not quite a servant, yet not an equal—treated him with an amiable civility that she hoped did not err to either the too-forward or the over-reserved, and she was from time to time rewarded by a softening of his habitual reserve. She had, indeed, convinced herself that this reserve was assumed, much as was her own, for the sake of dignity and general convenience in dealing with persons with whom he did not require, or desire, a more intimate connexion. With these he could be ruthless, slaying an encroaching mushroom with exquisite politeness or mocking what he considered stupidity with a bland malice. But Elinor remained firm in her conviction that a still-active sense of humour lay in reserve behind Marcus Allingham’s outer defences.

Miss Bennett, he said to her, pausing on the step beside her and shaking her hand, how do you do? I seem to have arrived at an auspicious moment—which is to say, I am not in competition with a coach-and-four for the attention of your ostlers nor with a party of schoolgirls for the use of your coffee room.

Elinor glanced at him to see if he was in one of his sardonic moods or merely quizzing her. He had occasionally—almost unconsciously—seemed to do so in the past, but his eyes were just then on his horses being led away, and she could not read them. When he turned back to her, however, it was with a friendly smile, and she breathed easier, knowing now how to respond.

You are never inopportune, sir, she said, with an answering smile. Will you take some refreshment before continuing on your way?

I thank you, ma’am. A glass of wine might be pleasant before I must execute a small errand in the village. I daresay the estimable Evans will be ready to serve me a nuncheon later on.

Mr Allingham insisted that his hostess join him in this refreshment and, after handing his hat and coat to Petra, followed the maid into the parlour that was generally reserved to Miss Bennett’s private use, just off the lobby. When Elinor had decanted a bottle of wine and returned to the parlour with it and two glasses on a tray, she found him stroking a large tortoise-shell cat that was curled up on a round table next to a porcelain bowl of potpourri, its tail wrapped around its well-cushioned haunches. The afternoon light entering the leaded windows that looked out onto the street, together with the crackling fire in the grate, lent a warm glow to the low-beamed room. Elinor ducked her head slightly to enter the room, and when she looked up, she found him smiling at her.

This is very prosperous-looking animal, Miss Bennett!

Elinor looked away from him on the pretext of setting the tray cautiously down on the other side of the table, and poured out the wine. Do you not recognise Boney, sir? I believe you were introduced shortly after Mr Thomas Raikes left him here for me—as a favour, he assured me, but I thought it prudent not to enquire into what it was I had done to deserve it.

Good heavens! Can this be the same creature? That Boney was the scrawniest excuse for a kitten I’d ever seen.

Indeed, yes. We named him after Bonaparte, of course, who was equally famous hereabouts at the time. We have taken to calling him the Emperor now—for he has prospered quite as eloquently as his namesake has fallen—but he is certainly the same cat. You see—he remembers you.

I must be flattered, Allingham said, rubbing Boney’s ears and eliciting a smug purr for his efforts. "That is—he is not a toadeater, is he? I would not have expected it of this establishment, but if he was raised under Dandy Raikes’s auspices, there is