Paggles had grown frail in her old age; Mrs. Spurgeon’s clarion voice was enough to reduce her to tears. Though it was not in Abigail’s nature to court strife, she dearly wanted to rebuke Mrs. Spurgeon when Paggles clutched her arm in terror, wailing, “Please don’t let her send me to the poorhouse, Miss Abby! I’ll sit in the other carriage, if that’s what she wants.”
Abigail decided it would be cruel to force Paggles to remain in the chaise merely to satisfy her own urge to triumph over Mrs. Spurgeon. “No one is sending you to the poorhouse, darling,” she assured Paggles, as she helped her into the baggage coach. She gave Evans, Mrs. Spurgeon’s maid, a handful of shillings to look after the old woman.
Mrs. Spurgeon now assumed the chaise, and called for her birdcage. Abigail would not have objected to a collection of lovebirds, finches, or canaries, but when a servant brought forth a large brass cage containing a scarlet macaw with evil-looking claws and a monstrous beak, she became alarmed. Most parrots, in her experience, were well-behaved, but some sixth sense told her this one was trouble. “Oh, no,” involuntarily escaped from her lips, a reaction that seemed to please Mrs. Spurgeon.
“You must treat Cato exactly as you would an intelligent child, and say nothing before him you would not wish to have repeated, Miss Smith,” said she. “Some people find it disconcerting. But I believe that one should always guard one’s tongue.”
After no further delay, other than Mrs. Spurgeon’s being sure that Evans had forgotten the medicine chest, and Evans having to convince her that she had not forgotten the medicine chest, the chaise proceeded up Baker Street at a sedate pace, followed by the baggage coach.
With her considerable bulk and her parrot cage, Mrs. Spurgeon took up one side of the carriage, leaving Abigail to share the other seat with her nurse-companion. Mrs. Nashe proved to be an attractive young widow with the soft manners and speech of a true gentlewoman. Mrs. Spurgeon remained indifferent to any conversation between Miss Smith and Mrs. Nashe until the former complimented the latter’s clothes. Mrs. Spurgeon then felt obliged to inform Miss Smith that Mrs. Nashe’s smart clothes were all cast-offs from Lady Inchmery, a former employer. Needless to say, Mrs. Spurgeon did not approve of the practice of giving one’s clothing to one’s servants. In her opinion, it was nearly as bad as granting them pensions.
As they turned onto the Great North Road, Abigail proposed opening the curtains. There had been snow, and the countryside was bound to look like a winter wonderland in the morning sun. Mrs. Spurgeon, who certainly knew how to dampen youthful enthusiasm, curtly informed Miss Smith that views of rollicking countryside invariably caused her to vomit. Ditto the flickering of lamps. Therefore, the three ladies were obliged to sit in the carriage with the curtains closed and the lamps doused; Mrs. Spurgeon’s threat, though not quite believable to Abigail, was too horrible to be ignored.
Contented with the arrangements, Mrs. Spurgeon went to sleep, and her snoring was quite as stentorian as her speaking voice. “How do you bear it, Mrs. Nashe?” Abigail whispered.
“My husband was only a poor lieutenant,” the nurse-companion replied, pausing to squint in the darkness at her employer. A loud snore reassured her. “When he died of wounds he sustained at Ciudad Rodrigo, I was left destitute, to make my way as best I could. Mr. Leighton pays me very well, you see, and I have an elderly mother who depends on me for an income.” As she spoke, she caressed the simple gold band she wore on her left hand, and the expression of longing in her dark eyes would have melted the hardest of hearts.
“All the same, I could not do it,” said Abigail.
“She’s lonely and unhappy, Miss Smith,” Mrs. Nashe said gently. “I know what that’s like, you see. And, compared to my last situation, this is ideal.”
“Oh? Was her ladyship a harsh mistress?”
“The Countess was merely indolent, but her son, Lord Dulwich—!” Mrs. Nashe shuddered delicately. “When I left Cliffden, I felt I’d made a narrow escape.”
“Lord Dulwich!” cried Abigail. “He told me his mother was dead.”
Mrs. Nashe’s eyes widened. “Do you know his lordship, Miss Smith?”
Abigail blushed. “A little,” she said.
“I assure you both his parents are living. They are fine people, but the son is no credit to them. He’d take the most shocking liberties, then tell me if I ever complained to his mamma, she’d only turn me out of the house…which, of course, is exactly what happened. Her ladyship had some vestige of a conscience, however; she gave me a few clothes, and a very good letter which enabled me to find a place with Mr. Leighton. I’m happy to be where I am, Miss Smith. At least there are no men to molest me.”
“I’m very sorry for you, Mrs. Nashe.”
“Please do call me Vera—I can scarcely bear to be called Nashe. It reminds me of all that I have lost,” she said, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief.
The reassuring snores abruptly ended, and the lonely and unhappy Mrs. Spurgeon banged on the roof with her stick until the coachman opened the panel. “Stop at the first inn you see,” she barked. “And do slow down, you fool! Your reckless driving is making me quite nauseous.”
“Slow down, you fool!” screeched her macaw, making Abigail jump.
The panel slid shut, and Mrs. Spurgeon suddenly confided to Abigail that her bladder was no bigger than a button. “We shall be obliged to stop at every half mile. Inconvenient, I know, but it can’t be helped.”
“Inconvenient” proved to be rather an optimistic view of things. At their fourth stop, Abigail looked longingly at the baggage coach as it went on ahead of them. Refreshed after a nap and a pot of tea, Mrs. Spurgeon proposed letting Cato loose in the carriage for the rest of the journey. Abigail objected in the most strenuous terms.
“You would not keep a child in a cage for two hours together, Miss Smith,” cried Mrs. Spurgeon, quite shocked by the young woman’s cruelty.
“I might,” said Abigail, rather tartly, “if the child had claws and a beak.”
“Claws and a beak! Beaks and claws!” screamed the macaw.
“There’s really nothing to be afraid of,” Mrs. Spurgeon said smugly, opening Cato’s cage and allowing the large bird to climb on her shoulder.
Abigail shuddered in revulsion. Cato had more in common with a small dragon than with the sweet little tame goldfinches she herself kept at home.
“Don’t worry,” Vera Nashe assured her. “I’ll give him a cuttlebone to chew.”
“Do please keep him on your side,” Abigail urged Mrs. Spurgeon, just as the scarlet macaw, sensing her fear, beat his wings and crossed the distance between them. His long gray talons closed on Abigail’s shoulder and his beak fastened on her ear. One icy blue eye peered into hers. “Claws and a beak!” he croaked.
Abigail screamed in terror, and Mrs. Nashe was obliged to rescue her.
Mrs. Spurgeon said repressively, “It’s really only a tiny amount of blood, Vera,” as Mrs. Nashe pressed her handkerchief to Abigail’s torn earlobe and Cato returned to his mistress.
Fortunately, Mrs. Spurgeon had not exaggerated the extreme smallness of her bladder. When the chaise stopped at the next inn on the Great North Road, Abigail quickly escaped. She was relieved to see the baggage coach standing in the yard. Without bidding her chaperone adieu, she sought refuge in it,