carried out, Cecily sought refuge in the parlour to clear her addled thoughts. A coachman who quoted Shakespeare! What manner of man was he? The first time she had seen him, she had been struck by the gentleness of his speech. And now this! Could he be a gentleman? Would a gentleman have any reason to drive a mail coach?
She shook herself roughly, commanding herself to make no more of this foolishness. The doctor had given her the most probable answer. Her coachman was nothing more than the son of an actor—or worse, an actor himself. He could hardly be a gentleman, for gentlemen, she knew, regarded coaching as nothing more than a pastime, a lark for those idle enough and rich enough to engage in it. But this man clearly made his living on the box.
Had he truly recognized her in his stupor? She devoutly hoped he had not, for if he was an actor, it would be most uncomfortable should he make it a habit to spout forth in such a manner again before the servants. She anxiously wondered whether she had done anything to encourage his brash behaviour and recalled their first encounter to her mind.
There had been the one compliment he had made her, most improperly. But he had not required much in the way of reproof to discourage him, and after that, he had been careful not to transgress again. Cecily admitted freely that she was used to being obeyed and approached with respect. She had no notion of being treated otherwise. But that did not mean, she told herself, that she would not recognize arrogance and impertinence when she encountered it. The coachman, she firmly believed, had been neither of these. Nor, she concluded, had she done anything untoward to encourage any sort of unseemly behaviour.
It was simply that on several occasions he had not seemed to be conscious of the difference between them. Perhaps his parents had raised him with revolutionary principles, as actors were said to do. That could account for it.
* * * *
But presently, she received another shock, this time from the hands of Mrs. Selby. After completing her duties, the housekeeper found Cecily alone in the parlour and confronted her with two objects, one in each hand.
“I thought you should know, Miss Cecily, that I found these in the young scoundrel’s bag when I was unpacking it like you asked me. I set one of the maids to do the unpacking, for I’ve got better things to do than occupy myself with a scapegrace’s belongings. But Sarah come back down to me and told me she’d found these in amongst his things, so I thought I’d better have a look myself. Do you think they were stolen?”
Cecily took the two small volumes the housekeeper held in her hands. They were covered in the finest brown leather, and she could see that they had been handled with great care. Opening them one after the other, she found that they were impossible for her to read—for one was in Latin, the other in Greek.
Her heart began to beat a strange tattoo.
“No, I do not believe they were stolen, Mrs. Selby,” she eventually said, running her hands softly over the fine bindings. She had seen the inscription inside a front leaf, “To my dear son, Jack,” with a name in a flowing hand. She tried to make out the signature, but it was too stylized to read. It was of no consequence, however.
“Please put these back with his belongings, Mrs. Selby,” Cecily said, “and do not say anything more about them. They belong to the coachman.” As the older woman made her way back up the stairs, Cecily followed her to Jack’s room.
She had given orders for him to be placed in one of the servants’ rooms that was not being used at present. There she saw that the doctor was nearly finished with his work. Doctor Whiting was covered with perspiration from the effort of setting Jack’s leg. Jack, she could see as she stepped to the bed, was, unfortunately, still awake. He lay with the back of one hand on his forehead, his mouth set in a grim line.
“How is he, Doctor?” Cecily
She shook herself roughly, commanding herself to make no more of this foolishness. The doctor had given her the most probable answer. Her coachman was nothing more than the son of an actor—or worse, an actor himself. He could hardly be a gentleman, for gentlemen, she knew, regarded coaching as nothing more than a pastime, a lark for those idle enough and rich enough to engage in it. But this man clearly made his living on the box.
Had he truly recognized her in his stupor? She devoutly hoped he had not, for if he was an actor, it would be most uncomfortable should he make it a habit to spout forth in such a manner again before the servants. She anxiously wondered whether she had done anything to encourage his brash behaviour and recalled their first encounter to her mind.
There had been the one compliment he had made her, most improperly. But he had not required much in the way of reproof to discourage him, and after that, he had been careful not to transgress again. Cecily admitted freely that she was used to being obeyed and approached with respect. She had no notion of being treated otherwise. But that did not mean, she told herself, that she would not recognize arrogance and impertinence when she encountered it. The coachman, she firmly believed, had been neither of these. Nor, she concluded, had she done anything untoward to encourage any sort of unseemly behaviour.
It was simply that on several occasions he had not seemed to be conscious of the difference between them. Perhaps his parents had raised him with revolutionary principles, as actors were said to do. That could account for it.
* * * *
But presently, she received another shock, this time from the hands of Mrs. Selby. After completing her duties, the housekeeper found Cecily alone in the parlour and confronted her with two objects, one in each hand.
“I thought you should know, Miss Cecily, that I found these in the young scoundrel’s bag when I was unpacking it like you asked me. I set one of the maids to do the unpacking, for I’ve got better things to do than occupy myself with a scapegrace’s belongings. But Sarah come back down to me and told me she’d found these in amongst his things, so I thought I’d better have a look myself. Do you think they were stolen?”
Cecily took the two small volumes the housekeeper held in her hands. They were covered in the finest brown leather, and she could see that they had been handled with great care. Opening them one after the other, she found that they were impossible for her to read—for one was in Latin, the other in Greek.
Her heart began to beat a strange tattoo.
“No, I do not believe they were stolen, Mrs. Selby,” she eventually said, running her hands softly over the fine bindings. She had seen the inscription inside a front leaf, “To my dear son, Jack,” with a name in a flowing hand. She tried to make out the signature, but it was too stylized to read. It was of no consequence, however.
“Please put these back with his belongings, Mrs. Selby,” Cecily said, “and do not say anything more about them. They belong to the coachman.” As the older woman made her way back up the stairs, Cecily followed her to Jack’s room.
She had given orders for him to be placed in one of the servants’ rooms that was not being used at present. There she saw that the doctor was nearly finished with his work. Doctor Whiting was covered with perspiration from the effort of setting Jack’s leg. Jack, she could see as she stepped to the bed, was, unfortunately, still awake. He lay with the back of one hand on his forehead, his mouth set in a grim line.
“How is he, Doctor?” Cecily
Similar Books
