They had since named the dog Bess, scrubbed her with soap at the nearest inn yard, and showered her with bits of meat from every table they sat down to. All the food was seeming to have a very good effect, as Viola was certain little Bess had even managed to put on weight in the following days. Anybody could see that her ribs no longer showed as much as they had.
Of course, this sudden introduction of plentiful food had led to some rather noxious fumes, but other than that she was lovely.
What a delightful trip! They had stopped no end of times so that lovely little Bess might have a walk around or Juliet might write an ode to a charming vista.
Juliet, the youngest of them, was their resident poetess and these creations would be read to great approbation after dinner.
Her book of poems had confoundingly been left behind several times and, as they did not have Van Doren to send back to retrieve it like they did last year, the earl finally hired a fellow to do the job.
Young John Martin followed behind the caravan and would be alerted to the fact that Juliet had forgotten her book of poems again. She was certain it had been left in the last inn’s breakfast room. John would tip his hat and set off for it.
Though Rosalind was continually surprised at how often Juliet lost track of her most precious possession, she was approving at how much more cheerfully John Martin went back for it than Van Doren ever had.
Viola, as had become her habit, had ordered plates of ham absolutely everywhere they stopped. Lovely little Bess was very approving of the idea as she always got her fair share. Further, everybody considered it a great success that Viola only had to get out of the carriage one time to walk about in the fresh air due to a stomachache from too much ham.
Bess had to get out rather more times, as they were alerted to by a sudden series of noises followed by noxious fumes in the carriage.
Cordelia, a natural actress, had performed her Desdemona speech to entertain them of an evening and while several candles were knocked over during her enthusiastic performances, no fires were started. This was very comforting to everybody, especially the earl who no doubt thought back to the two times the house had been on fire under similar circumstances.
Bess had, at first, been a bit startled by Cordelia’s acting, as it was exceedingly energetic, but the little dog got used to it soon enough.
Miss Mayton had brought her latest favored romantic novel and read from it in the evening. Then, were they all not too tired, she might reminisce about one of her lost loves.
It was the merriest party going and Rosalind was exceedingly entertained by it all. In the quiet interludes between all these entertainments, she dreamed of her true love, whoever he might turn out to be.
It was the beginning of her adventure, and there had been surprises round every corner.
Just this afternoon, they’d descended upon The Angel in Basingstoke and encountered a charming French lady finding herself at sixes and sevens. Her name was Madame Marie Tussaud and she had been on her way to Town for a display of wax figures at the Lyceum.
Apparently, the lady had made it her business to construct these wax figures and they were to be shown for the first time in England. However, one of her carriage wheels had broken, necessitating an overnight stop.
The Benningtons had been determined to entertain the lady and insisted she dine with them. The modest lady had hesitated and demurred, first claiming she was tired, then hinting she was ill. The Benningtons saw through it all—the poor madame feared she would be an imposition. They would not allow her to feel so, however, and pressed her from all sides. She had finally seen that they would not be put off over a false sense of delicacy and agreed to dine with them.
Now, they were having a jolly dinner with the lady. Unfortunately, Bess had made one little interruption of the noxious fume variety, prompting windows to be thrown open.
Madame Tussaud had appeared nearly overcome by it and held a perfumed handkerchief to her nose. She was mollified upon understanding that Bess was a lovely little dog who they’d rescued upon the road and the noxious fumes were her only fault.
“Madame Tussaud,” Rosalind said, “our Miss Mayton has spent some time in Paris.”
Miss Mayton nodded. “Oui, c’est vrai,” she said.
“Ah, Miss Mayton,” Madame Tussaud said, “you speak French.”
“Just enough to exchange words with my dear Phillipe,” Miss Mayton said. “All the words of love, you understand.”
It did not appear to Rosalind that Madame Tussauddidunderstand, as she had just looked around as if wondering where Phillipe might be located just now. To clarify, she said, “Phillipe was one of Miss Mayton’s desperately tragic loves.”
“He was a poet,” Juliet said, “as am I. He died very sadly, though.”
Madame Tussaud nodded. “The terror has swept through all of Paris,” she said. With a long sigh, she murmured, “The guillotine’s word is sharp and cannot be unsaid.”
“Oh, no,” Miss Mayton said, “he did not leap to the great beyondthatway. You see, he wrote me a poem declaring his undying passion. Unfortunately, the young fellow who was supposed to deliver it to me was distracted by a cockfight and forgot all about it in his pocket. Poor Phillipe had been watching out his garret window, hoping to see me come running down the street to accept his undying passion, which I can assure you I would have done. Alas, as the sun set over the rooftops of Paris, he finally surrendered to despair. He hung himself with a note pinned to his shirt—pour l’amour d’Eloïse je ne peux plus continuer.”
“That means, for the love of Eloise I cannot longer go on,” Juliet said.
“Yes, I understand French,” Madame Tussaud said, appearing rather stunned to hear of Phillipe.
That did not surprise Rosalind. Nobody had experienced the terribly bad luck in love that Miss Mayton had.
