In such a manner spring gave way to summer, and at last the day came when Lord Ramsay called his cousin Peter to his study and offered him a bulging coin purse.
“This should cover the cost of a post-chaise from Portsmouth,” he said. “I daresay you will prefer to ride, so you may take Sheba, if you wish. Miss Ramsay will no doubt be exhausted from her long journey, so you may bespeak lodging for yourself, Miss Ramsay, and her maid at the Pelican before you begin the return trip.”
Peter took the purse, but not without reluctance. “I cannot help thinking it would be best for you to meet your bride at the dock yourself.”
“So you’ve said, and I daresay you are right. But an important vote will be coming before Parliament two days hence, and I cannot neglect my obligation to the House of Lords. As you depart for Portsmouth, I will be setting out for London.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Peter, suppressing a sigh.
Richard grinned, undeceived. “Am I to be ‘my lord,’ then? I see I am in your black books, and no mistake!”
“Not at all,” Peter protested with perhaps less than perfect truth. “I cannot but feel sorry for the girl, though, having no acquaintances in England to speak of.”
“Which only proves that you are the best one to meet her, for if I were to do so, my mind would be on my empty seat in the Lords—hardly the measure of devotion a young woman might look for in her affianced husband.” Seeing his young cousin was not entirely convinced, he added cajolingly, “Come, Peter! Oblige me in this, and I promise that when I return, I will be as attentive toward Miss Ramsay as you might wish.”
Peter could not like it, but the end was never in doubt. Having been educated at Lord Ramsay’s expense and then engaged as his steward immediately upon leaving university, Peter was in no position to deny his aristocratic cousin any request; nor, in the usual course of events, had he any desire to do so, for besides being his distant relation, his lordship was a fair man and a generous employer. Still, Peter could not entirely applaud Lord Ramsay’s hasty betrothal, no matter how admirable the devotion to duty that inspired it. He supposed, with a wry twist of his lips, that it was perhaps a good thing his opinion had never been asked. He was not quite certain whom he pitied the most: the gentleman who had offered marriage out of obligation, or the young lady who had accepted out of expedience.
And so it was that at dawn the following morning, he strapped his valise to the chestnut mare’s broad back, swung himself up into the saddle, and set out for Portsmouth. By early afternoon, he began his descent of Portsdown Hill, from which vantage point he could see the network of forts surrounding the city—a relic of the days not so long past, when England was at war with Napoleon, and Nelson had led forth the aptly named
Victory
from this very port to immortality at Trafalgar. Upon entering the city, he located the waterfront inn called the Pelican, surrendered Sheba to the ostler, and engaged two rooms before setting out on foot for the bustling wharf—and not a moment too soon, for the
Concordia
rode at anchor, and her passengers were even now being transferred from ship to shore by means of a bosun’s chair.
Peter scanned the wharf where a dozen travellers now moved about on wobbly legs, wondering if Miss Susannah Ramsay had already been brought ashore, and how he was to identify her. Male passengers greatly outnumbered female, so it should not be difficult, given the limited selection. There stood a middle-aged woman who appeared to be the wife of a prosperous merchant—too old; a younger woman with a child clinging to her skirts and an infant in her arms—obviously not. A female accompanied by a maidservant and dressed in the fashionable pelisse and bonnet of a young lady of quality appeared to be a promising candidate, until she was abruptly seized by a young lieutenant and enveloped in a very public embrace, a scandalous display to which she apparently had not the least objection. Peter could not help smiling a little, wondering how long the Royal Navy had kept the young officer from his bride.
The only other female he could see was a soberly dressed woman of about forty standing a little apart with her husband, a scholarly-looking man engaged in cleaning the sea spray from his spectacles by polishing them on his sleeve. This might be Miss Ramsay’s missionary escort, but if that were the case, where was their charge? As if in answer to his question, the woman stepped aside, giving Peter a clear view of the oddest looking girl he had ever seen.
To call her clothing out of fashion would be a misnomer, as it would imply that such garments had ever been
in
fashion. Dark skirts of some coarse cloth were cut much fuller than fashion dictated, and were liberally sprayed with seawater. Peter could form no opinion as to the rest of her dress, for it was covered by what was apparently a man’s jacket made of what looked like buckskin, heavily fringed and much too large for its wearer. Her bonnet, black and plain as a Quaker’s, hung down her back by its strings, revealing unruly curls of a hue more red than brown. Any less suitable bride for his meticulous cousin would have been hard to imagine.
“Oh, Richard,” murmured Peter, “what have you done?”
“O mercy!” to myself I cried.
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH,
Strange Fits of Passion Have I Known
With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, Peter approached the soberly clad couple.
“Mr. and Mrs. Latham?”
The man put his spectacles back on and regarded Peter through the round lenses. “Yes?”
“I’m Peter Ramsay,” he said, offering his hand. “I’ve come for Miss Susannah Ramsay.”
“Why, look here, Susannah,” said Mrs. Latham, turning to address her charge. “Here’s Mr. Ramsay, come to fetch you.”
Miss Ramsay had been gaping at the bustling waterfront with wide blue eyes and mouth open in an “O” of amazement, but upon hearing Peter’s name, she turned to regard her kinsman and sank into a deep curtsy.
“My lord,” she said breathlessly.
“What—who, me?” stammered Peter, hastily demurring. “No, I’m not—that is, my cousin Richard is Lord Ramsay. I am your cousin Peter, and his lord-ship’s steward.”
“Oh,” said Miss Ramsay, somewhat crestfallen.
“Richard was obliged to go to London to take his seat in Parliament, so he sent me in his place. He sends his regrets, and hopes you will forgive his lack of hospitality.”
This was not entirely true, perhaps, but Peter judged it politic, given the American girl’s obvious disappointment, to stretch a point.
“Well, Susannah,” said Mrs. Latham, offering a gloved hand to her young protégée, “I suppose this is goodbye. Thank you for bearing me company on the journey, my dear.”
Susannah ignored the hand, and threw her arms around the woman instead. “The obligation is all mine, ma’am. Oh, how I shall miss you!”
Mrs. Latham patted her consolingly on the back. “Nonsense! You will be much too busy learning to be a great lady to spare a thought for an old sobersides like me. You must be sure to write, once you are settled, and let me know how you go on.”
Susannah promised fervently to do so, and after tearful goodbyes (at least on Susannah’s part), the missionary couple departed. As they reached the end of the quay, Mrs. Latham glanced almost furtively back at her erstwhile charge, then took her husband’s arm and hurried him across the road. Peter, puzzling over the woman’s curious behavior, shook his head as if to clear it, then hefted Susannah’s portmanteau and set it on his shoulder.
“Well, Miss Ramsay—look here, may I call you Cousin Susannah?—if you will summon your maid, I will escort you to the Pelican Inn, where I’ve bespoke lodgings for the night.”
“My maid? Oh, but I haven’t one.”
“No—no maid?” stammered Peter.
Miss Ramsay shrugged. “I’m used to fending for myself. Take my clothes, for example: I’m not wearing anything that I can’t put on without help.”
Peter, surveying her curious travelling costume at close range, could not doubt that an unassisted female might easily don such garments; the only question, to his mind, was why any female would want to. The greater dilemma, however, was the fact that his cousin’s future bride would be putting up at a public inn with no chaperone—no companion at all, in fact, but her twenty-three year old male cousin. As no hint of impropriety must be allowed to attach itself to the future Lady Ramsay, he resolved to speak to the innkeeper and ask if that worthy individual might spare a chambermaid to wait upon Miss Ramsay—for a consideration, of course, as compensation for leaving the establishment short-handed.
“Very well, then, Miss—er, Cousin Susannah. If you will allow me, I shall escort you to the Pelican. You will no doubt wish to rest after your long journey, and when you are ready, I will have a tray sent up to your room, so you may eat in privacy.”
“Oh, must I?” asked Susannah, her expressive countenance registering dismay. “I have been shut up in a tiny cabin for weeks, and have had quite enough of my own company. There is so much I want to ask—so much that could not be told in a letter. May we not have our dinner together, downstairs?”
Peter could not but see the justice of this request, and so, after seeing his American cousin installed in the Pelican’s best guest chamber with the innkeeper’s daughter to wait upon her, he requested a private parlor where they might, at least, be safe from prying eyes. Alas, someone else had been before him: the private parlor had already been reserved. And so, with a sinking heart, he claimed a table in the back corner, one with high-backed wooden benches which might shield Miss Ramsay, at least partially, from the stares of the curious. Still, this solution left much to be desired, as the same discreet location that he hoped would protect her privacy also hinted at clandestine purpose.
With a sigh of resignation, he settled himself on the side of the table which gave a clear view of the door, drew a book out of the pocket of his coat, and settled in to read until Susannah joined him for dinner.
He had not long to wait. Scarcely half an hour had passed before she sailed into the inn’s public room. He was relieved to note that she had shed her odd buckskin coat and changed her wet garments for dry ones, but he could not honestly say that her new ensemble was much of an improvement. Full dark skirts swirled about her stout leather half-boots, exposing a glimpse of thick black stockings. Tucked into the skirt at the waist was a loose blouse of coarse cotton, none too white. She had apparently made an attempt to tame her hair, scraping it up into a tight bun from which curling tendrils were already beginning to escape.
“I could not rest,” she declared, seating herself on the bench facing him. “There is too much to see, too much to learn.”
Any hope that she might sit demurely with her back to the room faded as she turned to survey her surroundings, then began waving wildly at two men, sailors by the look of them, who had just entered the room in search of liquid refreshment.
“Er, someone you know, Cousin?” Peter inquired, seeing the two men heading in their direction.
“Cousin Peter, this is Tom Crawford and Billy Watkins. Tom is bosun’s mate aboard the
Concordia
, and Billy is—oh, Billy, I’m so sorry! I can’t remember your title.”
“Lord love you, miss, I’m just a common seaman,” said Billy, grinning at her in a way Peter could only describe as familiar.
“Tom and Billy were very kind to me during the long voyage, showing me all about the ship: the sails, and the rigging, and the—the poop deck, which sounds very unladylike to say, although they assure me it is no such thing—”
She colored nevertheless, which made the sailors laugh. Peter was relieved to see that she could blush.
“Tom, Billy,” she continued, “this is my cousin, Peter Ramsay.”
“Mr. Ramsay, sir.” The two men tugged at their forelocks.
Peter thanked the two men for their kindness to Miss Ramsay, and insisted upon demonstrating his gratitude by paying for their drinks—a seemingly generous gesture which made Susannah beam approvingly, but which the two sailors, Britons themselves, recognized as payment for services rendered, and therefore a signal that their familiarity with Miss Ramsay was at an end.
Once the men had taken their leave, Peter bent what he hoped was a stern gaze upon his wayward cousin. “I thought you said you spent all your time in your cabin.”
“Not
all
my time,” she admitted, unrepentant. “But poor Mrs. Latham suffered from seasickness, and I could not stay shut up forever, just because she was too ill to accompany me on deck. It was all perfectly innocent. Tom and Billy and the other sailors were very kind, and so helpful.”
“I’ll just bet they were,” Peter muttered.
“What did you say?”
He shook his head. “Never mind. I suppose you did not know any better. But now that you are in England, Cousin Susannah, such free and easy behavior will not do.”
“I knew it would be different, of course,” she confessed, somewhat daunted. “Will you tell me about him—this cousin I am supposed to marry? I could not determine much from his letters, you know. They were so formal and stiff.”
He gave a little laugh. “Then they gave you a very good insight into his character, for he
is
formal and stiff.” Seeing her dismayed expression, he added hastily, “Oh, he is a very good man, and will not be neglectful of his wife’s comfort. He will do nothing to make you unhappy. But he is very careful of his obligation to his title, and to his family.”
Susannah wrinkled her nose. “He sounds like a very dull stick!”
“He is not, I assure you. He may seem that way at first, I grant you, but he is not without a sense of humour.”
“What does he look like? Is he handsome?”
“He is thirty-one years old—I daresay he told you that in his letter—while as for his being handsome, well, I fear I am the wrong person to answer that, but I believe he is generally accounted to be very well-looking.”
“Does he look anything like you?” Apparently realizing too late that this question, following as it did Peter’s assessment of Lord Ramsay as well-looking, might suggest a flattering appraisal of his own appearance, she hastily amended, “Is there a family resemblance, I mean?”