The Wastrel. Margaret Moore

three shawls, having decided there was an unseasonable chill in the air that morning after they had stopped for the night. “Heaven forbid I should have the ague!” she had declared.

      She had also wrapped a large scarf round her head, which was topped with a bonnet of her own design generously covered with artificial flowers. It looked more like a centerpiece than a hat. “Folkingham?” she said again.

      “Yes, Aunt. We are to meet Lord Mulholland’s carriage here, remember?”

      “Oh, indeed. Byron!” Aunt Aurora gave her husband a gentle kick.

      “Hail, my nymph!” he muttered sleepily, blinking. He looked not unlike a turtle whose slumber has been disturbed. “Where the devil are we?”

      “Folkingham,” Clara reiterated as the coach came to a stop. They felt the conveyance sway as the driver and some of the passengers climbed down. “I daresay this is the yard of the Greyhound Inn.”

      She looked out the window at the large, pale orange brick building, and saw a confirming sign of that name. “I wonder if we shall have to wait long for Lord Mulholland’s carriage.”

      “It matters not!” Uncle Byron exclaimed. “Such a beautiful day in the heart of a bucolic paradise! It will be a pleasure to wait here!”

      He opened the door and stepped forth like a conquering hero surveying his recently acquired domain. Such was his natural grace and bearing that nobody, either from the top of the coach or the stables nearby, made any comment, and for that, Clara was grateful. She put her hand in his outstretched one and stepped down.

      Folkingham was a delightful village, small but utterly charming. The large green was surrounded by prosperous-looking houses, and the contented bleating of sheep reached them from the surrounding low hills.

      Then Clara noticed several poorly dressed people being handed a small loaf of bread by a couple, neatly and plainly dressed and standing behind a table upon which other loaves were piled. The ragged wanderers gratefully accepted this apparent gift. Munching on their bread, they trudged toward the southern end of town.

      Looking their way, to the south and between the houses, Clara saw a tall, all-too-familiar wall. Either it was a workhouse or a prison. She surmised the tattered and threadbare group were on their way to visit the inmates, and those two kind souls were doing their best to relieve some of their poverty.

      Clara sighed. Even here, poverty and want reared its ugly head. Perhaps she had been foolish to think it would be otherwise.

      “Ah, Arcadian delights abound!” Aunt Aurora cried as she grappled her way down from the carriage, quite oblivious to the straggling walkers. Unfortunately, her appearance seemed to unleash the impertinent snickers of the other passengers.

      “The horses’ll eat that hat!” one wag called out.

      Her aunt didn’t seem to hear the comment as she happily surveyed the street and green. “How absolutely delightful! How picturesque! How truly rustic!” she enthused.

      “Indeed, my Ceres!” Then Uncle Byron realized he had stepped into something he should not have, wrinkled his nose in distaste, scraped his boot on the wheel rim and held out his arm for his wife to take, all his actions accompanied by hoots of laughter from the other passengers of the coach.

      Clara flushed to the roots of her hair, straightened her shoulders and tightened her grip on Zeus’s basket as she tried to lift her fast-muddying skirts a little higher. She, wearing a very severe, plain traveling gown of dark brown, and a most demure bonnet, feared no censure from anyone regarding her clothing. She glanced over her shoulder and gave the passengers a black, chastising look. She had been practicing that look for many years now, and had it to such an art that it was far more effective than any mere words could have been. Not surprisingly, the rabble fell silent.

      “Come, Clara!” her aunt said, grabbing Clara’s arm and strolling toward the inn.

      With Zeus’s basket bumping against her leg, Clara allowed herself to be thus escorted, Uncle Byron following majestically behind.

      The inside of the Greyhound Inn was dim, the oak wainscoting dark and the rest of the walls and ceiling smoke stained.

      A middle-aged man in spotless blue livery and hat in hand approached them, his gaze fastened on Aunt Aurora’s distinctive bonnet. “Mrs. Wells?” he asked, making a small bow.

      “Yes,” Aunt Aurora replied.

      “I’m from Mulholland House, Mrs. Wells. I was sent to bring you in the carriage.”

      “Just as Lord Mulholland promised!” Aunt Aurora cried triumphantly.

      Clara did not point out that if Lord Mulholland had not sent his carriage, they would have had few alternative means of getting to his estate.

      “Byron., my own!” Aunt Aurora said to her husband. “See here! This is the driver to take us to Mulholland House.”

      Uncle Byron regally nodded his understanding.

      “It’s not a long drive,” the driver said deferentially. “Perhaps you’d care to refresh yourself first?”

      “A simple drink of spring water, a crust of bread and the delightful air of the countryside will be enough for me,” Uncle Byron announced. “Under yon towering oak on the charming village green would be the perfect spot for an alfresco repast, don’t you agree, my dear?”

      Clara had an instant vision of the spectacle of her aunt and uncle lunching on the village green. “It is the middle of the afternoon,” she pointed out. “I think it would be better if we were to get to Mulholland House without further delay.”

      The innkeeper’s rosy-cheeked wife appeared. “Ale, sir? Coffee, ladies?” she asked with a pleasant smile.

      “Ah, salve, prophetess!” Uncle Byron declared. “Ale, indeed—something smooth and dark. And tea for the ladies.”

      “I don’t believe there will be time before we must be on our way,” Clara said firmly. “Thank you all the same.”

      “You’re going to Mulholland House?” the innkeeper’s wife inquired cordially. “Ah, a lovely place!”

      Before Clara could steer Aunt Aurora outside, her aunt said, “Who are all those poor unfortunates on the other side of the green?” Proving that she had, perhaps, not been as oblivious to the other attributes of Folkingham as Clara had assumed.

      “Visiting the House of Correction, ma’am,” the woman replied cheerfully.

      Aunt Aurora was horrified. “A jail? Dear me! A jail! Aren’t you afraid to sleep in your bed at night?”

      Clara gave her aunt a fierce look. Supposing the woman was — it didn’t do to remind her.

      “Oh, no. It’s not that kind of jail, really. Mostly vagrants, disorderlies.” The woman lifted her chin with a touch of pride. “Takes them from all of Kesteven, they does.”

      “I suppose the building keeps them warm and dry,” Clara offered doubtfully.

      Uncle Byron shielded his eyes with his hand and sighed loudly. “Deprived of the open air, shut up in a dungeon! It is monstrous! It is cruel!”

      “Don’t upset yourself, my own!” Aunt Aurora cried, putting her arms around him and laying her forehead on his shoulder.

      The driver and innkeeper’s wife exchanged looks over Aunt Aurora and Uncle Byron’s heads. “I believe I heard his lordship’s going to wait tea for you,” the driver murmured.

      “There, you see!” Clara said with some desperation. “We had best be on our way.”

      “Very well, my good man,” Uncle Byron said, suddenly brisk. “You will find our baggage on the coach, clearly marked.”

      Clara thought of the trunks her aunt had decorated in her own inimitable way one afternoon and decided the driver would have no