The first two hours of the trip seemed so familiar… as if I were listening to Mama and Lydia gossiping about officers.
I will admit to some consternation as we walked out of the coaching station at Ramsgate. I had traded a sensible maid of middling years, substantial girth, and a fearsome countenance; for a child of perhaps fifteen who was afraid of her own shadow, being chased by ruffians. It was not much of a trade, but I did not regret the change—not really. I imagine if we had a few more minutes to think about it, my aunt and I would have worked out something more appropriate, but given the look of the men, I was not sorry for my actions. My uncle would be, but I was not. Of course, my father, would think it a great joke and ignore it—in the unlikely event I even told him about it.
The girl bent over to fuss with her shoelaces as we walked out of the yard, which indicated she at least had more sense than my own fifteen-year-old sister (though it should be noted that the average donkey has more sense than Lydia). I felt relatively certain we had not been seen exiting the station, so I was half-confident we were safe enough. Naturally, there were a hundred things that could happen to a coach in a twelve-hour drive, so there was still some danger, whether the men gave chase or not.
I was sitting across from the young girl, so we could not speak, (not that I would have even given my name in such a closed space anyway). I was in the forward-facing seat with my companion directly across. A pair of women faced each other on my left who reminded me of my mother and some of her compatriots. The first lady spent the entire time gossiping about people and places I doubted anybody cared about, while her companion, (or victim—I could not determine) sat across from her, either agreeing with or echoing the more voluble one. I found it easy enough to ignore their chatter, since it so closely resembled what passed for conversation in Longbourn's parlour.
When we came to the first coaching station, I remembered my aunt's warning clearly. It was at least possible our antagonists might catch us up, but it would become increasingly unlikely if we kept moving at the usual pace. That supposition, combined with the warning from the coachman that they would leave in twenty minutes with or without us, caused me to keep my companion close. We tried several times to at least introduce each other after we used the necessary but were rudely (and occasionally criminally) jostled before we could manage it. Never in my life had doing such a simple thing as an introduction been so difficult.
We were just being jostled back to the coach by one of the station grooms when I saw the shiniest, most beautiful, most clearly expensive coach I had ever seen, roll into the yard about forty paces from me. The well-dressed-liveried footman perched on the back step startled at the view of my companion, but I was distracted by the station's groom chivvying the passengers back into the mail coach. They appeared to be serious about their schedule, and it had been impressed on me several times that they left on time.
By the time I managed to get my attention back on the new coach, quite the handsomest man I had ever seen marched over toward us. He was just the sort of man my sister Elizabeth favoured: tall, black hair, and embarrassingly handsome; but the expression on his face could split wood or curdle milk. He seemed furious at finding my companion there. I had no idea who the man was, but the theory that he was the ringleader of the rough men did not seem impossible. I had heard vague runouts of wealthy men who preyed on women by the dozen, though I had no ideas if they were true or just sensationalism.
The handsome brute immediately set my teeth on edge by assuming I was kidnapping my companion, who appeared to be his sister. He started in on me with a voice that would have frightened me to death if it did not sound so much like my mother's. If he followed her example, the threatening tone would show more bark than bite. On the other hand, one glance at his carriage showed him to be a man who probably carried more in his coin purse than my father made in a year. He was clearly a man who expected answers, and obviously had no compunctions about throwing his weight around.
I looked back and forth between the man and my rescued waif in consternation. I finally worked out from the way she was trying to get his attention with every move short of the smack on the head he deserved, that he was her brother. Of course, having no experience with brothers, (alas—four sisters) I vaguely knew there were both good and bad brothers. I had less than a minute to determine if this was the sort of brother that I could release my charge to.
In the end, it was easy. The angry brother kept accosting me while my charge tried to talk sense to him. He was having none of it, but she was obviously not afraid of him. She was frustrated, but unafraid.
When the groom lost patience and yelled it was time, I took it to mean 'now or never', since I did not have enough money to buy another ticket on the next coach. I was a friendless, penniless, powerless female, far from home, facing off against a rich as Croesus swell with a bad temper. It took only a second to consider my duty to the silly child complete, since nothing but my good heart made me help her in the first place.
It took mere seconds to turn thought to action by running like the wind to jump in the coach.
As I left the station, I stared straight forward, not willing to let the man get a better look at me. There is something very frightening about being threatened with the magistrate. Common sense suggests any magistrate worth his salt would side with me and tear a strip off him, but my limited experience in life had never convinced me there was a surfeit of common sense or fairness among men.
I wondered as I moved farther and farther away from the altercation how the young girl would handle the situation. Would she ring a peal over her brother's head, or meekly accept his censure? Would she tell the whole story or leave selective bits out? Would she laud me or blame me? The latter question seemed like it could only have one possible answer, until I considered my own sister who was about the same age. If Lydia were placed in the same situation, she would have three scapegoats identified before leaving the first station, and I might well be at the top of the list.
In the end, I decided there was little point in worrying about it. The chances of meeting either of them again was vanishingly small and they were easily recognisable, so avoiding them if we ever did happen to be in the same room should be child's play.
I spent the next half hour daydreaming about the young girl giving the brute what-for. The dream was pleasing, though admittedly unlikely.
It was eighty miles from Ramsgate to Gracechurch Street. A mail coach made about nine miles per hour, so the journey takes nine to ten hours. Mail coaches did not mess about, changing horses frequently and quickly, so they did not really take the time to allow the passengers to eat. I carried a small basket the maid had prepared for the journey. We left just after eleven, so I expected to arrive around eight. It was late to be travelling, but not absurdly so. A private ball (which I had yet to experience) would not even start until nine and would frequently go until dawn. Young ladies of the ton might do those three or four times a week during their season, so I was not pushing things too far—if I was accompanied.
Doing so unaccompanied was far less acceptable, but the die was cast so there was nothing to do about it. I imagined the lackadaisical brother would not be the only person receiving some chastisement that day, although nobody would give a second thought to sending a maid alone by coach. The guard was armed, and even though his only responsibility was protecting the mail, it was enough to dissuade most mischief.
The rest of the trip was rather tedious. It consisted of endless hours of being bounced here and there, listening to the endless droning of our fellow passenger. The two noisy passengers were exchanged for two men who looked like merchants about four hours from London. This might have made me exceedingly nervous, except I had invited a woman sitting outside in the half-price seats to take advantage of the wasted ticket, and she served as my chaperone. I never did get her name nor really speak with her, but the arrangement was to both of our advantages. We did share some food we both carried, and we both spent some of the hours doing work to pass the time, but mostly it was just something to endure.
Mr Cyrus, my uncle's coachman met me at the door of the coach when it arrived, and we made it back home to Gracechurch Street in another half-hour.
The children had already gone to bed, which was convenient as I felt compelled to explain why I had arrived sans-maid. My uncle did not particularly care for the turn of events, but he told me he had learned a lesson early on from his father that he could never teach his sister (my mother), despite considerable effort. He hoped to have better luck with me, so I listened with rapt attention.
"There is no profit in whingeing about things you can do nothing about, but there is also no improvement if you do not squeeze any difficult situation for all you can learn. Learn from the past and then let it go."
I took that to mean that he was not about to make me listen to the harangue the child's brother was receiving in my dreams, though probably not in reality.
Uncle Gardiner asked if I could draw a picture of the crest, which I could not. With that, we decided we had no way to make any further inquiries, and no compelling reason to involve himself in another family's personal business, so we considered the matter closed.
I returned to Longbourn a fortnight later and told the story to my next-youngest sister, Elizabeth, under a vow of secrecy. Lady's reputations are astonishingly fragile things, and I had not the slightest desire to tempt fate, so Lizzy and I decided not to tell either of our parents, and we most certainly did not tell any of our sisters.
Lizzy finally went to sleep with the matter firmly in the past, never to be discussed again.
I went to sleep with rather uncharacteristically dark thoughts.
If I ever meet this bad-tempered-lackadaisical brother, I will certainly tell him my thoughts, and he will not enjoy the experience even a little.