at it; I’d no excuse to go there – Mrs Ridley is not musical.
There was a rattle of wheels. ‘Here it is now, sir,’ said the spirit. The coach appeared, slowing to take the arch into the inn, the coachman ducking low to avoid the roof. The horses blew gusts of rank breath into the cold air.
The Fleece’s servants rushed forward; doors were pulled open, steps let down. Someone thrust a tankard of ale into the coachman’s hands as he clambered to the ground; men began to untie parcels from the roof of the coach. I was relieved to see there was no ladder amongst them. Was that a good sign, or would Nightingale expect me to find a ladder for him? Jenison didn’t want dancing in the concerts but Nightingale might have different ideas.
The first passenger down was a burly middle-aged man, tall and richly dressed in an astonishingly bright green, and an elaborate wig that made his head seem three times as big as normal. Imperiously, he brushed the servants out of the way, then turned to extend a hand to another passenger unseen.
Out tottered an immensely elderly lady, very tiny, muffled up in a hundred cloaks and shawls. Her gratified simper was not hidden, however, as she allowed the gentleman to help her down. He bowed extravagantly, kissed the back of her gloved hand, murmured a compliment. She blushed.
There were five women in the coach, all well beyond their first youth and all immensely grateful to the gentleman for his assistance. They clustered round him, pressing thanks on him, showering him with appreciative gifts: an apple, a wrapped-up pie ( best London lamb , the giver murmured seductively), a newspaper, a twist of tobacco. The gentleman kissed the hands of his adoring court. Behind the ladies, a young lad stood on the coach steps, ignored and sullen.
The lad seemed to be the only other male on the coach
so this extravagantly dressed gentleman must be Richard Nightingale. I studied him as he paid out compliments by the score, told one elderly lady she must have a dozen beaux, told another he’d never seen such an elegant shawl on a ‘young lady’. One thanked him for such a wonderfully entertaining end to a long tedious journey , another insisted he must visit her if he was ever in her part of the country.
The servants at last managed to usher the ladies away out of the drizzle to the warmth of a fire, a dish of tea and a comfortable bed. The lad went off with a foul glance at Nightingale, suggesting he felt utterly eclipsed. Nightingale, deprived of an audience, yawned hugely and stretched.
I bowed. ‘Mr Nightingale? I’m Charles Patterson, Mr Jenison’s . . . envoy . Was the journey comfortable?’
He squinted as if not sure what to make of me. Then his gaze settled on my shabby coat and frayed cuffs, and he plainly decided he didn’t have to honour me with any particular politeness. ‘Damnable,’ he said bluntly. ‘I’m long past the days I could bear travelling day and night. Where the devil’s the food? And the girls.’
Perhaps Esther was right about the coat giving the wrong impression. ‘Mr Jenison’s booked a room for you at the George Inn,’ I said mildly. ‘It has an excellent reputation. If you’d allow me to escort you there?’
He eyed me for a moment, then raised his head and looked round at the hustle and bustle of the Golden Fleece. ‘Devil a bit of it. I’ll stay here.’
‘I believe—’
‘Ostler!’ he roared. ‘Send my luggage in. Fast as you can.’ And he strode off into the inn.
I sighed, hurried to catch up with him. Jenison was not going to be pleased at the oversettings of his plans; he was a man accustomed to be obeyed. And the George was undoubtedly of better quality than the Fleece, quieter, more comfortable. But it looked as if quieter at least was not to Nightingale’s taste. He ducked under a low lintel into a private parlour, issuing orders to half a dozen servants. Bed, beef, beer: he wanted everything instantly.
He dropped into a
There was a rattle of wheels. ‘Here it is now, sir,’ said the spirit. The coach appeared, slowing to take the arch into the inn, the coachman ducking low to avoid the roof. The horses blew gusts of rank breath into the cold air.
The Fleece’s servants rushed forward; doors were pulled open, steps let down. Someone thrust a tankard of ale into the coachman’s hands as he clambered to the ground; men began to untie parcels from the roof of the coach. I was relieved to see there was no ladder amongst them. Was that a good sign, or would Nightingale expect me to find a ladder for him? Jenison didn’t want dancing in the concerts but Nightingale might have different ideas.
The first passenger down was a burly middle-aged man, tall and richly dressed in an astonishingly bright green, and an elaborate wig that made his head seem three times as big as normal. Imperiously, he brushed the servants out of the way, then turned to extend a hand to another passenger unseen.
Out tottered an immensely elderly lady, very tiny, muffled up in a hundred cloaks and shawls. Her gratified simper was not hidden, however, as she allowed the gentleman to help her down. He bowed extravagantly, kissed the back of her gloved hand, murmured a compliment. She blushed.
There were five women in the coach, all well beyond their first youth and all immensely grateful to the gentleman for his assistance. They clustered round him, pressing thanks on him, showering him with appreciative gifts: an apple, a wrapped-up pie ( best London lamb , the giver murmured seductively), a newspaper, a twist of tobacco. The gentleman kissed the hands of his adoring court. Behind the ladies, a young lad stood on the coach steps, ignored and sullen.
The lad seemed to be the only other male on the coach
so this extravagantly dressed gentleman must be Richard Nightingale. I studied him as he paid out compliments by the score, told one elderly lady she must have a dozen beaux, told another he’d never seen such an elegant shawl on a ‘young lady’. One thanked him for such a wonderfully entertaining end to a long tedious journey , another insisted he must visit her if he was ever in her part of the country.
The servants at last managed to usher the ladies away out of the drizzle to the warmth of a fire, a dish of tea and a comfortable bed. The lad went off with a foul glance at Nightingale, suggesting he felt utterly eclipsed. Nightingale, deprived of an audience, yawned hugely and stretched.
I bowed. ‘Mr Nightingale? I’m Charles Patterson, Mr Jenison’s . . . envoy . Was the journey comfortable?’
He squinted as if not sure what to make of me. Then his gaze settled on my shabby coat and frayed cuffs, and he plainly decided he didn’t have to honour me with any particular politeness. ‘Damnable,’ he said bluntly. ‘I’m long past the days I could bear travelling day and night. Where the devil’s the food? And the girls.’
Perhaps Esther was right about the coat giving the wrong impression. ‘Mr Jenison’s booked a room for you at the George Inn,’ I said mildly. ‘It has an excellent reputation. If you’d allow me to escort you there?’
He eyed me for a moment, then raised his head and looked round at the hustle and bustle of the Golden Fleece. ‘Devil a bit of it. I’ll stay here.’
‘I believe—’
‘Ostler!’ he roared. ‘Send my luggage in. Fast as you can.’ And he strode off into the inn.
I sighed, hurried to catch up with him. Jenison was not going to be pleased at the oversettings of his plans; he was a man accustomed to be obeyed. And the George was undoubtedly of better quality than the Fleece, quieter, more comfortable. But it looked as if quieter at least was not to Nightingale’s taste. He ducked under a low lintel into a private parlour, issuing orders to half a dozen servants. Bed, beef, beer: he wanted everything instantly.
He dropped into a
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