Beatrice Goes to Brighton Read Free

abducted,’ said Hannah wildly.
    The groom had found Lady Beatrice’s baggage in the coach and was returning with the coachman.
    ‘What’s all this, then?’ demanded the coachman. There was a babble of voices above which Hannah’s sounded loud and clear. ‘Lady Beatrice is being taken away by force.’
    ‘Ho, now.’ The coachman, like most of his kind, was fat and grog-faced and swathed in shawls. He lumbered towards the carriage. The man inside let down the glass.
    ‘Are you running off wiv thet ’ooman?’ demanded the coachman.
    ‘Stow your whids, coachee,’ growled the man. ‘I am merely taking Lady Beatrice to Brighton in a more comfortable carriage.’
    ‘Let her speak for herself,’ shouted Mrs Hick.
    Lady Beatrice leaned forward. ‘I am going of my own free will,’ she said quietly.
    ‘That’s that, then.’ The coachman rounded truculently on the watchers. ‘Who started all this ’ere fuss, then? Let’s be ’aving ye.’
    ‘It was I,’ said Hannah unrepentantly. ‘I am sure that man was holding a pistol or a knife to Lady Beatrice’s side.’
    The coachman turned away in disgust and could be heard to mutter something about women with bats in their belfries who read too many romances.
    The other passengers surveyed Hannah reproachfully when they were all on board again.
    ‘Trouble is,’ said Mrs Hick, who was now eating a large sandwich, ‘you was so taken up wiff the idea of speakin’ to one of the nobs, that you got carried away.’
    Well, there was one lesson Hannah Pym had learned from Lady Beatrice. She drooped her eyelids wearily, curled her lip, and turned her head away.
    ‘You learned that offa her,’ jeered Mrs Hick with all the dreadful perspicacity of some vulgar women and drunks. ‘Don’t come the ’igh and mighty wiff me. Reckon that so-called footman o’ yourn ain’t none other than your son.’
    This was greeted by a roar of laughter from the other passengers and Hannah felt like the uttermost fool. She felt she was standing astride the yawning gulf of servant and lady with a foot on either side and not knowing quite how to behave.
    She settled back and closed her eyes firmly. She thought of Mrs Clarence, her late employer’s dainty, pretty wife. Now Mrs Clarence, mused Hannah, had been a real lady. She had treated everyone just the same. ‘But she must have had low tastes,’ jeered an awful Mrs Hick-like voice in her head, ‘or she would never have run off with that footman.’ Hannah turnedher thoughts to Sir George Clarence. Now there was a gentleman! He had even taken her to Gunter’s for ices, introduced her to his bank, taken her to the opera.
    ‘But you can never hope for anything else,’ sneered that awful voice again. ‘I do believe you are getting quite spoony about him, Hannah Pym, and he knew you as a servant.’
    Hannah opened her eyes and looked out of the window to banish her thoughts. A watery sunlight was struggling through the clouds. There were wild daffodils blowing by the roadside, dipping and swaying in the blustery wind. Soon the leaves would be back on the trees and there would be summer to look forward to.
    The journey continued on in blessed silence, blessed for Hannah, who did not think she could bear any more insults.
    But when they arrived in Cuckfield and entered the White Hart, somehow the splendour and elegance of the famous inn brought out the worst in Mrs Hick.
    She saw Hannah looking with interest at a tall man who was lounging at his ease in the corner. Hannah was wondering who he was. In an age when most people were not much taller than five feet, he seemed a giant. He had lazy blue, amiable eyes and golden hair, tied back at the nape of his neck with a blue silk ribbon. He had a strong, handsome face, lightly tanned, broad shoulders, and the finest pair of legs Hannah had ever seen. He was wearing a beautifully cut coat of fine blue wool with gold buttons, wornopen over a silk waistcoat embroidered with peacocks . His