Page 10 of Linenfold (The Alice Chronicles #4)

I t takes them nearly an hour with the help of Ned and Joe, the strongest of Alice’s menservants, using ropes and planks, to right the coach and bring it without further damage out of the ditch and down to the house.

From the kitchen Alice watches Allan lead three horses into the stables.

In due course the stricken vehicle trundles backwards into the kitchen court.

Ned and the man called Pearce support the wheel-less corner, two other men pulling from the front.

His Lordship’s shouted directions do not seem to be appreciated by the sliding, cursing men manhandling the coach to a halt.

All are mired to the shoulders and churning the earth to slush, sweating and blown with the effort.

‘Where’s your coach house?’ Alice hears His Lordship ask.

‘No coach house here,’ Joe tells him. ‘We keep our coach in there.’ He points to the woodshed and at that moment Allan appears at the stable door.

‘I think my mistress had in mind to put your coach in the barn, sir,’ he says.

‘It should just about fit and will keep that splintered corner section out of the rain.’

‘Oh, very well. And be careful of it!’ His Lordship’s men maintain blank faces, say nothing, but Ned rolls his eyes and Alice can read his mouthed, ‘Gawd’s sake!

’ They set to once again, and by creaks and jerks persuade it in through the doors.

Jackson follows with the damaged wheel. That is as much as Alice can see from the kitchen.

Behind comes the second coach pulled by two more horses, Philip at the reins.

This is a huge, four-square affair, half coach, half covered wagon, with no outer decoration and with nailed-down shutters at the windows, sturdy and long-bodied, a coach built for the purpose of carrying heavy baggage.

From the straining of the horses and the deep ruts left by the wheels, it is clear that is exactly what it carries.

His Lordship waves them forward towards the barn.

‘In there, next to the other one,’ he shouts up to Philip.

Alice quickly wipes her hands on her apron and flits to the door, just as Philip pulls the horses to a halt by the barn and peers within.

‘Uncle, this coach is not going in there.’

‘Just turn and back it in.’

‘No, this coach is not going in there because there’s no room.’

‘Then make room! Move that one over and slip this one in next to it.’

Alice can see an incident developing. It appears Philip sees the same, for he hands the reins to one of the waiting men below and jumps down. ‘I would speak with you, My Lord,’ he says, taking his uncle by the shoulder out of hearing of the staring men.

‘My Lord,’ Alice says, joining them, ‘there is no room to fit two coaches in.’

‘He’ll just have to squeeze round a bit.’

‘If you want the repairs done, Uncle, the baggage coach stays outside.’

‘Swap them round – squeeze this one in sideways at the back and the other at the front. Plenty of room.’

‘Are you listening?’ There is an edge to Philip’s voice now. ‘There’s no room.’

Hardcastle stands by the barn, legs splayed, fists clenched on hips, irritation rumpling his forehead. ‘If it’s not one thing it’s another! A week we waited before we could make the crossing. The wind’s wrong, the tide’s wrong. It would have been much faster if we’d gone via Calais.’

‘We agreed months ago to make the detour to Portsmouth on our next Paris visit, because we haven’t seen my mother for over a year,’ Philip reminds him. ‘Your sister, sir.’

‘All right! All right!’ Hardcastle stamps around tight-lipped while the bile works its way through his humours. Eventually, ‘Send Pearce into Guildford to find a competent coachmaker to do the repair,’ he tells his nephew. ‘And tell him to hire us a suitable coach.’

‘But the fog, sir,’ Philip says.

‘Be damned to the fog! He can take his delicate fearful self that short distance without losing his way. We leave as soon as he brings back a coach.’

His Lordship’s men unhitch the last two horses and one opens the door of the coach.

Alice is curious to get sight of the sort of cargo they are carrying.

She receives a bigger surprise than she imagined as two young women ease their stiff limbs and climb out.

They are simply if strangely dressed under their cloaks, each in plain woollen gown with waist apron covering skirt front, and a tight jacket, full-sleeved and narrowing to the cuffs.

Each wears a white-worked linen cap concealing her hair, finished with a short brim or bongrace that screens much of the face.

Girdled around the waist of one of them is a small draw-string bag dangling from a cord, bulging as though with pebbles.

The girl notices the direction of Alice’s eyes and catches up the cord to slip the bag down between bodice and skirt.

Alice keeps a similar pocket under her skirt for private personal items.

The two young women are a few years older than herself, Alice reckons. One of them shyly keeps her head lowered, only glancing sideways at the other. Each carries a small bundle and they stand close together. They remain at the coach door as though awaiting instruction.

‘Ah, Honorine, Louise.’ Lord Hardcastle beckons them. ‘ Venez .’ He turns to Alice. ‘These two are under my care to London. This one is Honorine, and that’s Louise. Sisters. De Kergyle by name. Voici Madame Jerrard qui nous a offert son hospitalité à cause de l’accident .’

The two murmur Merci , Honorine glancing up to give a brief smile. She is dark-haired, pale cheeked, which makes her eyes appear darker by comparison. That much Alice can see before the girl lowers her face and the brim conceals once more.

Alice manages to garner enough of her girlhood French to welcome them with, ‘ Vous êtes bienvenues, mesdemoiselles ,’ wondering at the same time whether they are relations of His Lordship, or servants, or who they are.

‘They won’t give you any trouble,’ Lord Hardcastle tells her. ‘Quiet as mice.’

He walks away, issuing orders to his men, and Alice is left with the two sisters.

They must have been chilled and cramped in that coach, she thinks.

The girl called Louise has her hands wrapped in her apron.

All around the box they sat on, other boxes are piled high.

Ned standing nearby is regarding them as he might two strange insects just landed, though the young women seem unaware of it, their eyes modestly lowered.

One of Lord Hardcastle’s men, the man called Pearce, is assuring the girls in crude French that he will hire a coach to take them to London today.

Louise murmurs something, possibly of thanks, before both girls turn away.

Time to take them into the house, Alice decides, and summons more of her remembered French to assure them that there is ‘un feu dans le grand salon’ .

At the mention of a fire, the two smile at each other, brightening perceptibly. Alice shepherds them to the house and leads them into the hall towards the fire at the far end. The little secretary starts at her entry as though waking from a doze.

‘I have brought your two young travel companions to warm themselves—’

She gets no further. With a small cry of alarm, Louise turns away. Honorine quickly runs a comforting arm round her waist.

‘Out! Out!’ Master Cranley flaps his arms at them. ‘They cannot sit in here, these are not gentlefolk!’ He stands and stamps one stockinged foot on the floor. ‘Be off! Off!’

Even without translation, his meaning is crystal.

Mortified, puzzled, annoyed on the women’s behalf, Alice bites her lip.

‘Come,’ she says and shepherds the pair from his presence.

In the kitchen, she draws a bench to the hearth for them to sit.

Still seething, she pours some of the warmed ale into two pewter mugs.

At Maureen’s disgruntled, ‘We only use the earthenware in here,’ her annoyance spills over.

‘I don’t need your counsel, thank you, Maureen!

’ She hands the ale to the Frenchwomen. Whatever they think about her angry tones, they do not seem in any confusion about their welcome in her kitchen.

Their murmured Grand merci , their hands wrapped around the mugs, bear testament to their gratitude.

Lord Hardcastle enters carrying a small wooden chest the size of a deedbox, finely carved in linenfold style.

He puts it on the kitchen table while he draws off his gauntlets, placing them on the lid.

He is a florid-faced man, substantial in form though not fat.

His cloth is fine and if it were not for that and the silk-embroidered doublet, silver buttons and buckles, lace collar and cuffs and those gauntlets, he might pass for no more than a prosperous farmer.

He unlooses the ties of his cloak and holds it out to an excitedly hovering Rose.

Clearly used to a sufficiency of servants, he works off his soaked and muddied shoes and leaves them where they lie.

The despatch of his man Pearce in search of a replacement coach has softened his humours and perhaps reminded him of the courtesies.

‘Philip Sewell here is my nephew and part of my household,’ he says, indicating the young man entering.

‘Anything you need to know, he will help you.’ He indicates the two women by the fire.

‘These two don’t speak English. Daughters of a weaver from the west. They’re under my care.

I expect they prefer not to join us in the hall, they’ll be more comfortable here. They can fetch and carry if you need.’

Joe entering the kitchen addresses Alice. ‘All stalled and watered, mistress. There was five in the end.’

‘The fifth one’s my mount,’ Philip explains.

‘Thank you, Joe,’ Alice says, and turns to her guest. ‘My Lord, if you and Master Sewell would like to go through to the hall when you’re ready, Master Secretary is waiting for you there.

I shall bring you ale directly.’ She thrusts the hot poker into the flagon of ale where it bubbles and spits, and reaches to wrap two more hot bricks in cloths.

His Lordship looks around him, indicates the three men awaiting orders. ‘My men will fit in with whatever arrangements you can make for them. Your hall is through there?’

He takes up the linenfold box and he and Philip make their way up the screens passage.

Alice shows his lordship’s men the servants’ dining parlour where they may rest while they await Pearce with a coach.

She pours two mugs and leaves Maureen simpering and smiling at the men and heating more ale for them.

In the hall the secretary is on his feet, bowing and confused. He is all contrition. ‘My Lord, I beg your clemency. I did not hear you come in.’

Seated in the carved chair pulled from the end of the table to the fireside, Lord Hardcastle leans to put a palm on his secretary’s chest. ‘Sit down, Cranley, your old bones have been tossed around unmercifully this morning. Take your rest.’ He accepts his ale with a nod.

‘Such shameful conduct,’ the secretary murmurs, bowing again. ‘I humbly ask forgiveness, My Lord.’

‘Oh, go to, go to, man.’ He has mellowed significantly from thwarted passenger to irritably good-humoured master.

He leans back, props his feet on the hearth.

‘There you were, sleeping like a babe. I’d not have woken you for worlds.

Now sit down, for the Lord’s sake. It was Philip dropping the poker disturbed you, the clumsy fellow.

’ He toes his nephew kneeling at the fire, poker in hand.

‘What have you to say for yourself, boy?’

‘Clearly, My Lord, I am a clumsy fellow. My mother has oft said so, and now it is proven.’ But Philip looks neither embarrassed nor chastened.

‘Graceless pup,’ his uncle says, reaching to give him a great meaty clap on the shoulder. Philip drops the poker again, and the little secretary starts and plops back onto the settle.

Rose comes tripping into the hall carrying two hot bricks wrapped in cloths.

Alice watches her place one on the hearthstone for His Lordship and hand the other to his nephew.

‘Sir,’ Rose says to Philip, ‘your boots are so muddied, I shall dry and clean them for you.’ She bends to work them off and takes the brick to nudge it into place under Philip’s stockinged feet.

When they are back in the kitchen, ‘While you are dealing with Master Sewell’s boots, Rose,’ Alice says, ‘you may also clean His Lordship’s shoes on the floor here and Master Cranley’s on the trivet over there.’

Rose picks up the two pairs of shoes. She says nothing but her mutinous look says it all.