Apparently this was to remain a concern to his parents, for as Marty finished his supper and was on his way to bed he overheard his mother trying to reassure her husband, ‘Don’t go fretting yourself about it, dear. ’Twill be just another of his passing desires. She’s gone from the hotel, so there’s not much he can do about it. You know what he’s like. In a few days he’ll have set his sights on something or somebody else and forgotten all about her.’
No I won’t, thought her son grimly as he continued up the stairs. I won’t even be able to sleep for thinking about her. And he was right.
The next morning, exhausted and grumpy, Marty was ready to bite the head off the first person who crossed him. As this turned out to be the head porter he held his tongue and was glad he did, because after being upbraided for having his mail directed to the hotel, a letter was shoved into his fist.
Knowing immediately who it was from, he tore it open, receiving a jolt as he read the grand-sounding address of the correspondent: Swanford Hall. The note was brief and obviously scribbled in a hurry, but its content was wonderfully explicit. Etta wanted him.
Regarding it as too chancy to commit his intentions to paper, besides not being much of a letter-writer, Marty’s only option was to roll up at Etta’s address on his first afternoon off and hope to encounter her. Sadly, his optimism was outweighed by reality. Not daring to venture as far as the mansion he hung around its imposing gates until nightfall, waiting so long that he missed the last carrier and had to walk the fifteen miles home alone in the pouring rain. Thankfully he had Sunday off too which meant he could sleep in, but this failed to salve the bitter disappointment of not seeing her.
His mother, able to read him like a book, said upon his late-coming to breakfast and the drenched clothes that were steaming over the fire, ‘I hope you’re not up to divilment, Marty Lanegan, out capering till all hours.’
Knowing she would disapprove he felt unable to confide, mumbling into his dripping sandwich that it was the fault of his chum Joe who had forced ten pints down his neck.
But this did not hoodwink his mother. ‘Well, you’re drunk with something, that’s for sure, but it’s certainly not beer, there’s not a whiff of it about you.’
Ashamed that she knew he was lying to her, that he had pursued Etta when she had forbidden it, Marty dared not look up from his breakfast. However, this did not deter him from doing exactly the same on his next day off.
To his utter devastation, this attempt was also to end in another drenched failure, and to make it even worse there was a working day to follow. Consumed by thoughts of Etta, teased by the porter and the page alike for his grand ideas, he sought a feminine ear to air his chagrin.
Although wounded that he failed to detect her own heartache while he spoke longingly for another, Joanna was relieved that his expeditions had not borne fruit and she could afford to be magnanimous. ‘Ne’er mind, Bootsie,’ she comforted gently. ‘Sit down there and have a piece of this chocolate cake with a cup of tea. It usually helps to take my mind off any troubles.’
‘Ah, you’re a good pal.’ Martin showed gratitude and accepted the offer. But he was too obsessed with thoughts of the beautiful Etta to be touched for long by this softhearted gesture. Sipping his tea, his mind far away, he told Joanna, ‘I’m not giving up, though. Next time I’m off right up to the door if I have to.’
Joanna controlled her hurt, murmuring lightly whilst inwardly praying for failure. ‘Oh well, third time lucky.’
True to his declaration, Marty did indeed venture much further on his next day off. Using trees and shrubs as cover, he darted from one to another until there was nowhere left to hide, just an expanse of lawn up to the palatial stone residence. Thank heavens that after three weeks of rain the sun had come out. Crouched behind a huge rhododendron, he peeped around it to look up at each mullioned window, trying by sheer willpower to lure Etta to one of them.
Instead, to his horror, three dogs came bounding over from nowhere, hackles raised. He came instantly upright. They sniffed him excitedly, the hound, the Labrador and the flea-bitten terrier, circling him in distrust, but they did not bite, at least not yet. Encouraged, he voiced a cheery greeting, though he could have murdered the canine intruders; at which point they seemed to decide he was no threat and began to snuffle around the bush instead. Keeping a nervous eye on them, he crouched again behind the foliage, whereupon the Labrador proceeded to thrust its smiling, fish-stinking muzzle into his face. Head averted in disgust, he entreated it gently at first, ‘Good lad, off you go now.’ Then when this did not work, he hissed more forcefully, ‘Bugger off!’ With a hurt expression the Labrador lolloped away, the terrier pelting after it. Martin cast an eye over his shoulder to locate the hound, found it cocking its leg against his back and lashed out at it. ‘Wha – you filthy sod! Take your purple bloody testicles elsewhere. Go!’ Luckily it did not retaliate to his rash outburst but loped after its companions, leaving him to flick disgustedly at his soiled jacket.
In the house, others were under chastisement too.
‘Ow! Blanche, are you trying to assassinate me?’ Etta jerked her handsome head out of reach and rubbed the spot where the hairpin had almost lanced her scalp.
‘Sorry, miss!’ The maid was contrite and paid more attention to her task of getting her mistress ready for her afternoon outing. ‘I was just diverted for a second – the dogs seem to have found something interesting in them bushes over there. I just thought it might be a robber.’ She glanced anxiously again at the window. ‘I’m sure I saw a man.’
Etta was immediately rushing to view the scene, hair only half done. Straining her eyes for a sighting, she fixed them on the bush in question where the dogs did indeed seem to be converging.
Blanche was peering out too now. ‘There!’ She caught a glimpse of the intruder’s face. ‘I knew I saw somebody! Shall I inform the master, Miss Ett?’
‘No!’ An excited Etta grabbed her. ‘He’s come to see me. I want you to take a message to him.’
Blanche was aghast. Warned to keep watch on her mistress after the recent escapade to London, she was not so treacherous, but was nevertheless alarmed. ‘Is that wise?’
‘Do you want me to marry that gormless goblin my father has in mind?’ demanded Etta.
‘Oh heaven forbid, miss!’ Loyal to the young woman, Blanche detested the suitor as much as did the bride-to-be.
‘You’d rather I was with a man who loves me? Well, that man is there. His name is Mr Lanegan and he’s waiting for me to elope with him.’
Blanche gasped, clamped a hand to her mouth and spoke through her fingers. ‘It’s that one you asked me to post the letter to a few weeks back!’
‘Yes!’ Eyes bright with zeal the mistress patted the maid’s fat arms and went on breathlessly, ‘Oh, Blanche, I knew he’d come – now, be quick and finish my hair, then I want you to pack as much as you can into a small valise – we don’t want my father to be suspicious. Take it to Mr Lanegan and ask him to go to the village and wait by the stone cross.’
Of a similar age to her mistress, Blanche was quickly infected by the romance. ‘Ooh, but what will I say if I encounter the master and he asks where I’m off with a bag?’
‘Tell him I’ve sent you on an errand with some old clothes to the almshouses.’ Etta rushed back to the dressing mirror. ‘Whilst you’re doing that I shall set out as if for my afternoon expedition as planned and no one will be any the wiser.’ She hoisted her shoulders to express utter delight.
‘And what’s to become of me, miss?’ With a wistful expression, Blanche inserted a swift collection of hairpins. ‘I mean,