Almost a Lady

414 Pages·2016·1.43 MB·English

by  Feather Jane

Contents
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
About the Author
Also by Jane Feather
Praise for the novels of Jane Feather
Copyright Page
Chapter 1
T
he two women walking arm in arm down The Leas along the seafront in
Folkestone drew admiring glances from those they passed. There was something
striking about their physical differences, one tall and well formed, creamy
skinned, dark haired, with large golden-brown eyes, the other small and slight,
with the pale freckled complexion that so often went with red hair and lively
green eyes.
Meg Barratt paused, slipping her arm out from her companion’s, and turned to
look across the waters of the Strait of Dover. She rested her folded arms on the
wall and lifted her face to the salt spray. The breeze caught her hair, sending red
curls flying around her triangular face. She laughed and put a hand to her
fashionable straw bonnet.
“I can smell a storm brewing, Bella,” she observed.
Her companion, who had stopped beside her, sniffed the wind. “It doesn’t
look like a storm. The sky’s blue, the sea’s blue, not a cloud in sight.”
“Look over there.” Meg pointed towards the horizon. A dark shadow of a
bank of cloud was just visible.
The duchess of St. Jules shook her head with amusement. “You always did
fancy yourself as a meteorological expert.”
“It’s my country breeding, lassie,” Meg returned in a fair approximation of a
broad Kentish accent. “And I can also tell when the tide’s coming in.”
“Even I can do that,” her friend scoffed, peering down at the line of waves
creeping up over the sand below the wall. “Besides, you have only to look at the
harbor.”
Meg glanced towards Folkestone harbor, where a flotilla of boats were at
anchor. The air of urgency was clear even from this distance. Sailors and porters
rushed hither and thither, leaping from ship to shore as the boats were readied
for an on-tide departure. Some were private yachts, some small merchantmen,
and out beyond the harbor bar sat two men-of-war, handsome frigates both of
them.
Her eye was drawn to a sloop-of-war anchored just inside the harbor. The row
of guns on her upper deck gleamed in the afternoon sun. Here too there was the
impression of haste and preparation. A dinghy drew up alongside the sloop and a
man stepped out of the boat and onto the rope ladder dangling down the ship’s
side. He went up with an agile speed and grace that Meg could only admire and
swung himself over the deck rail in one movement. She watched as he climbed
to the quarterdeck, a small figure in the distance but somehow, to Meg’s
imagination, a significant one.
She shrugged at the fancy and turned away from the wall, preparing to resume
the walk. “Where’s Jack this afternoon?”
“At dice with the Prince of Wales,” her friend returned succinctly. “Prinny
will lose his shirt, of course, but in a classic triumph of hope over experience he
sits down at the tables with Jack absolutely convinced that this time his luck will
change.” She chuckled and linked arms with her friend as they continued their
promenade. “I think I’ve had enough of Folkestone, what do you think, Meg?”
“I think it’s time for me, at least, to return home for a while. My mother’s
letters begin to sound plaintive,” Meg replied. “Poor soul, she tries so hard not to
lament my lack of a husband, but she’s really in despair. After all this time I’ve
spent with you and Jack in London, and still not even a hint of a suitor.” She
shook her head in mock dismay. “I’m a lost cause, clearly.”
Arabella shot her a sideways glance. “If you don’t mind my saying so, Meg,
it’s not so much lack of a suitor, it’s lack of the right kind,” she declared. “You
seem to be attracted only to the un-marrying kind.”
Meg gave a heavy sigh, although her green eyes sparkled with mischief. “How
right you are, my dear. For some reason I’m only drawn to bad men. They’re the
only ones who are any fun.”
Arabella grinned. “I can’t help but agree with you. Jack’s not exactly the
epitome of propriety and he wouldn’t be so much fun if he were.”
“The baby’s had an effect on him, though,” Meg observed thoughtfully.
“Since little Charles was born he’s become much more . . .” She sought for a
word. “Not exactly respectable, he’s too much of a gamester for that, but
considered in his manner.”
Arabella nodded, a slight smile on her lips at the thought of her husband and
child. “Talking of Charles, I must get back. I asked the nursemaid to have him
ready by four o’clock so that I could take him for an airing in the carriage.”
Meg glanced again towards the horizon. The bank of cloud was closer and the
sea beneath its shadow was dark gray and restless. “I don’t think you’ll go far
with him this afternoon.”
Arabella followed her gaze. “Perhaps you’re right.”
“You go on home. I want to go to the lending library. Mrs. Carson said she
would put aside a copy of Mrs. Radcliff’s The Italian for me, but she won’t keep
it for more than a day.”
“Very well, you take the footman. It’s only a step to the house from here, so
I’ll go home alone.”
“No,” Meg said firmly. “A duchess needs a proper escort. I, on the other hand,
am quite accustomed to racketing around unaccompanied. Besides, the library’s
only just up the hill.” She gestured towards a narrow lane leading up steeply
from The Leas towards the High Street.
Arabella didn’t argue with her. Her friend needed her solitude at times, and in
this tiny seaside town no one would object to a woman past the age of discretion
taking a walk unescorted. And even if they did, much Meg would care. “I’ll see
you later then.”
She went off with a farewell wave and Meg turned up the cobbled lane, so
narrow that the medieval houses on either side almost formed a roof as they
leaned across it and towards each other, casting deep shadow over the damp and
slimy cobbles that never felt the sun’s warmth.
Out of the sun the mid-April afternoon had a chill to it, exacerbated by the
strengthening wind that now and again whistled down the funnel of the alley.
Meg drew her cashmere shawl closer around her and wished she had brought a
pelisse. Her lavender cambric gown was the height of fashion but too flimsy to
offer protection against the elements.
She broke into the sunshine again as the lane debouched onto the High Street.
The wind was still fresh, though, and she was glad to reach the shelter of the
lending library at the top of the street.
“Good afternoon, madam,” the woman at the counter greeted her warmly. “I
have Mrs. Radcliff’s book for you.” She reached down and placed a volume on
the counter. “Two other ladies are waiting for it.”
“I’ll read it quickly,” Meg promised, caressing the book with her fingertips.
“If it’s anything like The Mysteries of Udolpho, I won’t be able to put it down.”
“I think it’s even better,” the woman said, dropping her voice a little and
glancing conspiratorially around the almost deserted library.
Meg nodded with a smile. “I’ll just take a look around, Mrs. Carson, and see if
anything else takes my fancy.” She wandered off towards the shelves of books
lining the rear wall of the library.
She picked out a copy of William Wordsworth’s tragedy The Borderers and as
usual became quickly engrossed. It was with a shock that she realized almost an
hour had passed. She had no reason to feel guilty, but absurdly she did as she
returned to the front of the library. “I didn’t realize the time . . . I’ll borrow this
too, Mrs. Carson.” She handed over a shilling.
“Best hurry home, Miss Barratt,” the woman advised, wrapping the books in
brown paper. “Looks quite dark out there now.”
Meg glanced towards the bow window. The sun had vanished and it was now
as dark as dusk. “There’s a storm brewing.” She tucked the books wrapped in
brown paper under her arm and hurried into the street.
There were few people about now, and those there were moved quickly, heads
down, as they tried to beat the approaching rain. Thunder rumbled. Meg picked
up her skirts and walked fast towards the lane that would take her back down to
The Leas. Once she reached there the Fortescus’ hired house was barely two
hundred yards along the seafront. Heavy drops of rain splashed onto the cobbles
as she turned into the now dark alley. At least there would be some shelter
beneath the overarching roofs of the houses. She looked down the lane and saw a
carriage drawn up about halfway along. She frowned. The alley was so narrow
there would barely be room for her to squeeze past on either side.
She paused to tuck the books more securely under her shawl just as another
crack of thunder rolled across the sky and the rain began in earnest. It was so
heavy it penetrated the lane; surprisingly cold and unsurprisingly wet, it soaked
her hat in seconds. There were no sheltering doorways, the houses opened
directly onto the street, and resigned to a drenching, Meg set off towards the
faint glimmer of the sea at the far end. The rain rushed through the kennel in the
middle of the cobbled lane heading down the steep slope for the sea below, and
the cobbles themselves quickly became even more slimy with mud and floating
refuse. Meg’s sandaled foot slipped twice and she grabbed onto the doorframe of
a house to regain her balance. The carriage below her still hadn’t moved and she
wondered what business could possibly cause such a large vehicle to enter such
a narrow space. She couldn’t see the horses, who were at the front facing the sea,
but it would need at least four, and they would be impossible to maneuver.
She dismissed the puzzle with a brusque head shake and continued more
carefully on her way, rain dripping down the back of her neck. Her skirts were
soaked, the hem filthy with mud and slime, her sandals were ruined, her shawl
bedraggled, her bonnet resembled a mound of wet straw.
As she approached the carriage the door swung open as if in invitation. Meg
frowned and a flicker of apprehension made her heart beat faster. It was
ridiculous, of course. There was nothing to be afraid of in this sleepy seaside
town, but the open door was barring her from edging past the vehicle. She was
still finding it difficult to keep her footing on the steep slippery cobbles and this
merely increased her apprehension.
She approached cautiously, and called out, “Could you close the door please, I
need to pass.” There was no response. Irritation replaced apprehension. Maybe
the rain had drowned out her voice but how could the occupants of the carriage
not even think that someone might want to pass? And why the devil were they
sitting there with the door open in the middle of a rainstorm?
She tried to pass the carriage on the other side, resting her hand on the back as
she stepped cautiously around. Suddenly the vehicle lurched forward. Her foot
slipped and she fell backwards into the rushing water of the kennel. For a split
second she realized her danger . . . the water in its headlong flood was going to
carry her beneath the carriage down to the sea. And then she realized nothing
more.

She opened her eyes onto a strange and different world. A pitching, tossing
world. She was lying flat on a cot that was more like a box than a bed, but when
this world gave a particularly violent heave she saw the point of the wooden
sides. It was dark and however hard she stared into the gloom she couldn’t
manage to make out anything that made any sense. Her head was muzzy and
aching and her stomach felt somewhat uncertain. It seemed easiest simply to
close her eyes again, so she did.
When next she awoke it was to a light-filled world of quiet rocking. A voice
cackled, “Wake up . . . wake up.”
Gingerly Meg turned her head sideways, aware of a tenderness somewhere at
the back of her scalp. A large scarlet bird with very long tail feathers was sitting
on a perch regarding her with remarkably bright beady eyes. “Wake up,” it
repeated and gave a cackle of laughter.
Meg wondered if she had died and this was some mad afterlife peopled by
scarlet talking birds and an eternally rocking foundation. “Do be quiet,” she said
to the bird, who was still punctuating its repeated instruction with manic
laughter. To her astonishment it fell silent.
Carefully she lifted her head and felt the soreness. There was a lump just