by Emily Larkin
“Five minutes!” she begged.
It took four and a half minutes, and it was the wagon driver who found Mr. Bellyrub. He was fast asleep inside a bucket that lay abandoned on its side. A bucket that Willie knew both she and Mayhew had checked earlier. “You little rascal,” she told him sternly.
Mr. Bellyrub twitched his ears, but didn’t bother to open his eyes.
“Into the basket, little man,” Mayhew said, scooping the kitten up.
Mr. Bellyrub didn’t object to his change in circumstance; he purred as he was placed in the basket. His sister tried to scramble out. Mayhew closed the lid ruthlessly. Willie heard Scout’s indignant squeak.
Mayhew fastened the strap, sat back on his heels, and blew out a breath. Then he stood and checked his pocket watch. “Quarter to eight. We’ll be in Twyford by half past, Miss Culpepper, I promise you.” He turned to the wagon driver. “Thank you, Mr. Williams. We’re extremely grateful for your help.”
Mr. Williams grunted and turned away.
Willie almost burst into helpless giggles. She met Mayhew’s eyes and saw laughter leap across his face. His lips twitched and a muscle jumped in his jaw. He said, with barely a quiver in his voice, “Shall we depart, Miss Culpepper?”
“Yes,” Willie said, and her voice was almost as steady as his. “Let’s.” She picked up her reticule and looped it over her wrist—and then her amusement snuffed out, because this was the end of their adventure together.
The lieutenant carried her across the rutted, muddy stretch of ground between the barn and the lane, set her carefully on her feet, and ran back for the kittens and the hoe. He returned, grinning, and handed her the hoe with a flourish. Willie tried to grin back, but it felt unnatural on her face, an imitation of cheerfulness.
They set off together, Willie using the hoe as a walking stick, the lieutenant slowing his pace to match hers. Water sparkled on grass blades and tree leaves and hung in spiders’ webs in bright, trembling drops. The world seemed fresh and new and clean. Birds sang and grasshoppers chirped and with every step that Willie took her spirits should have risen; instead, they sank.
All too quickly, they reached the fallen oak. It was bigger than Willie had thought, a colossus of a tree, its trunk thicker than she was tall.
She looked at that great trunk and the shattered branches and the squashed hedgerows on either side of the lane. “We’re very lucky,” she said soberly.
“Yes,” Mayhew said, equally soberly.
The oak lay squarely across the road. There was easy no way around, not unless they backtracked and ventured into the muddy paddocks on either side of the hedgerows. “We’ll climb over it,” Mayhew said, setting down the basket.
And that was what they did: they climbed over the great, slain oak, finding a path through the tangle of branches, clambering and crawling, and always Mayhew was there with a hand outstretched, ready to steady Willie, to brace her, to help her.
He jumped lightly down on the other side and held up both hands to her. “Slide. I’ll catch you.”
Willie perched for a moment on the gnarled trunk, and then did as he bid, sliding, her gown snagging on the rough bark. Mayhew caught her, his hands around her waist, and set her carefully on the muddy ground. “All right?” he said, smiling down at her.
“Yes,” Willie said breathlessly, terribly aware of his hands at her waist.
Mayhew released her, and scrambled back up into the oak. “Won’t be a minute,” he said, and he was true to his word: less than a minute later he reappeared, with the hoe and the kittens and her reticule.
He lowered all three items to her, then jumped lightly down. “How’s your ankle?”
“I barely notice it,” Willie said.
“Good,” he said, and glanced past her. “We’re almost there.”
Willie followed his gaze: the curve in the lane, the church spire peeking from behind the trees. “Yes,” she said, and felt a pang of something that might have been sorrow.
The bell in the church spire struck the quarter hour—eight fifteen—and as the echo died away, a horse and cart came around the bend in the lane.
“Cross your fingers, Miss Culpepper,” Mayhew said. “We may not have to walk.”
The cart was small and crude and filled with firewood, but there was room for them to both perch on the tailboard.
Mayhew lifted her up, handed her the basket, then helped the driver to turn the vehicle. “Our luck has finally turned,” he said, climbing up alongside her.
“Yes,” Willie said. But she didn’t feel lucky as the cart rattled towards Twyford; she felt an absurd sense of loss, and a sadness that was close to grief.
Mayhew sniffed, scenting the air, then sniffed again, and she saw that he’d caught the lingering aroma of cow dung.
He glanced at her, clearly hoping she hadn’t recognized that smell.
“And they rode into town in a dung cart,” Willie said jauntily.
Lieutenant Mayhew huffed a surprised laugh and Willie laughed, too, at the expression on his face—but deep inside, she felt like crying.
Chapter Ten
Five minutes, Mayhew told himself. They’d be in Twyford in five minutes. And that was good. It was better than good; it was excellent. Miss Culpepper’s trunk would be waiting for her, and she’d have time to bathe and change into clean clothes. Right now, she looked as if she’d been dragged backwards through a hedge, but by ten o’clock she would once again be the respectable, faintly aloof young lady he’d met yesterday morning: her hair tidy, her gown unwrinkled, everything about her pristine and immaculate.
He preferred her as she was now, perched alongside him on this dung-cart-turned-firewood-cart, with her messy ringlets and her grubby clothes. This young lady was the Sweet Willie he’d heard so much about, the girl everyone in the second battalion had loved for her spirit and her resilience and her joie de vivre.
Not that the respectable Miss Culpepper of yesterday morning hadn’t been attractive. She had been. Just not as attractive as this muddy, messy, vividly alive young woman beside him.
The horse’s hooves clopped and the wheels turned and the cart jolted and splashed its way through ruts and puddles, and now it was only four minutes to Twyford, probably less.
Resolve had been gathering in Mayhew’s belly for hours, slowly accreting into something solid and weighty, but now that Twyford was mere minutes away, it put out claws and took hold of his innards and grabbed hard, no longer resolve, but urgency.
Urgency, because once they reached the coaching inn, they would say their farewells.
Urgency, because Miss Culpepper was off to Vienna next month.
Urgency, because he might never see her again.
Another fifty yards rattled away beneath the cart wheels, while his urgency grew until he simply had to speak, even if it was foolish and even if he had no chance.
Mayhew took a deep breath. “Miss Culpepper? I know it’s irregular, but . . . while you’re in Vienna, may I write to you?”
It was more than irregular. It was, in fact, verging on improper. Single young ladies and single young men did not correspond with one another. Not without the permission of the young lady’s parents. Not unless there was an acknowledged connection between them.
But Miss Culpepper had no parents and she was perfectly capable of making her own decisions.
She didn’t reply immediately, but she did look at him. Her gaze was serious and he saw that she understood that he wasn’t merely asking to correspond with her; he was asking to court her. A year of letters, perhaps two years, and then, when she’d fulfilled her commitment to the Pikes and he’d obtained his captaincy, he would ask for her hand in marriage.
Mayhew held his breath. His heart thumped loudly with hope. Miss Culpepper had turned down six offers in the past year and she could very well turn him down, too. She hadn’t wanted to marry a baronet, or a baron’s son, or a vicar, but maybe, just maybe, she did want to marry a soldier.
He tried to loo
k as if her answer wasn’t desperately important to him. If she said No, he’d smile and say something light and friendly, and then in three minutes’ time, when they reached the inn, he’d help her down from the cart and bow politely over her hand and let her go. A chance lost forever.
“Yes,” Miss Culpepper said. “I would like that.”
Mayhew’s heart gave a great leap. “You would?”
“Yes.”
A smile grew on his face. Miss Culpepper liked him. She liked him so much that she’d agreed to correspond with him. She wanted to correspond with him.
Mayhew felt jubilant, felt like laughing aloud, and then he did laugh out loud, because it really was too absurd to have made the equivalent of a proposal while perched, damp and filthy, on the tailboard of a dung cart.
Miss Culpepper laughed, too, dimples dancing in her cheeks, and then their laughter faded and their grins faded and they just sat there, looking at each other, smiling ever so faintly.
Mayhew had never felt anything quite like this—the warmth in his chest, the joy, the hope, the sheer wonder that he’d met this particular woman out of all the women in the world and that possibly, hopefully, in a year—or perhaps two—they would marry.
If Miss Culpepper didn’t meet someone else in Vienna. If she didn’t lose interest in him. If nothing untoward or—heaven forbid—disastrous happened to one or the other of them.
He suddenly wanted, quite desperately, to ask her to marry him now, right this very instant. Mayhew bit the words back. He couldn’t ask her to marry him today, or even this week or this month. Not when Miss Culpepper was bound for Vienna. Not when he was still merely a lieutenant.
But if he couldn’t ask her to marry him now, he could take her hand, and so he did.
Miss Culpepper didn’t object. On the contrary, she gripped his hand back, a firm grip, a grip that said I am yours and you are mine, a grip that made him feel even more hopeful about the future. The world glowed with sunshine and happiness. They could do this, he and Miss Culpepper. It would be hard, a year apart, perhaps even two years, but they could do it. He knew they could do it.
The first houses of Twyford came into view. Mayhew released her hand, because it wasn’t acceptable for unmarried young ladies to be seen to be holding hands with unmarried young men. “When do you leave for Vienna?” he asked.
“In two weeks.”
“I’ll write to you before then,” he promised. “I’ll write to you tomorrow. Where should I address it?”
She barely had time to tell him before the cart slowed to a halt. Mayhew looked up at the sign swinging overhead in the breeze. This was it, the place they’d been trying to reach for what seemed like forever: the coaching inn in Twyford, where Miss Culpepper would meet Sir Walter Pike in . . . He pulled out his pocket watch and saw, with relief, that she still had an hour and a half before that appointment.
He shoved the watch back in his pocket and jumped down from the cart, lifted Miss Culpepper down and set her carefully on her feet, then retrieved the basket and the hoe. One of the kittens mewed plaintively. Most likely Scout.
Mayhew checked that Miss Culpepper had her reticule, then raised his hand in thanks to the farmer.
The man nodded back, flicked his reins, and the cart clattered off, with its load of firewood and its aroma of cow dung and the tailboard upon which Mayhew had sat while he’d asked what was perhaps the most important question of his life.
“Do you need the hoe?” he asked Miss Culpepper. “Or will my arm suffice?”
She smiled up at him. “Your arm will suffice. It’s only a few steps.”
Mayhew leaned the hoe against the brick-and-plaster wall, made a mental note to have one of the ostlers return it to the barn, and gave Miss Culpepper his elbow. Together they entered the inn. It was low-ceilinged, warm and dimly lit and fragrant with the smells of coffee and baking bread.
The plump, smiling innkeeper welcomed them and confirmed that yes, Miss Culpepper’s trunk had come yesterday on the stagecoach and was upstairs, and that yes, her room was ready for her, and that yes, water would be heated immediately for a bath, and that yes, he did have a walking stick that she might use while she was here.
Mayhew inhaled the smell of baking bread and knew that finally, after nearly twenty-four hours of mishap and misfortune, things were going their way.
He placed the basket on the floor and took Miss Culpepper’s hands, while the innkeeper bustled off to fetch the walking stick. This moment felt like an end, but he knew it wasn’t. It was a beginning. Their beginning. His and Miss Culpepper’s. He could wait a year for this woman. Two years, if he had to. Because she was worth it.
“Well,” he said. “I guess this is good-bye.”
“It’s au revoir,” Miss Culpepper told him. “Not adieu.”
They smiled at each other a little foolishly, and Mayhew wished that he could bend his head and kiss her, but he couldn’t. Not with the innkeeper standing there, plump and smiling, holding out a walking stick.
Reluctantly, he released Miss Culpepper’s hands. Reluctantly, he picked up the basket again. Reluctantly, he took a step back.
“I’ll write to you every week,” he said, and what he actually meant was, I’m madly in love with you.
“It’ll write to you, too,” Miss Culpepper said, taking the walking stick from the innkeeper.
She looked utterly disreputable, with her uncombed hair and her grubby shawl, her wrinkled gown and those filthy half boots—and at the same time, she looked extraordinarily lovely. Sweet Willie. His Sweet Willie. The Sweet Willie who’d be his wife in a year. Or perhaps, two.
If everything went well.
Mayhew didn’t want to say goodbye. He wanted to blurt a proposal, wanted to beg her to marry him today. But marriage today wouldn’t have been possible even if she hadn’t been going to Vienna with Sir Walter Pike’s daughters. Not without a special license, not without his commanding officer’s permission.
Mayhew took another reluctant step back. One of the kittens squeaked faintly in the basket. “Goodbye, Miss Culpepper.”
“Goodbye, Lieutenant.”
He managed a smile. “Enjoy Vienna.”
A door opened behind her, giving Mayhew a glimpse of a private parlor. A stout, well-groomed man emerged—and halted abruptly. “Miss Culpepper!” he exclaimed.
Chapter Eleven
Miss Culpepper jerked around. Her face paled. She looked as appalled as the man did.
Mayhew didn’t need an introduction to know who this newcomer was. It was blindingly obvious. The man was Sir Walter Pike.
What was also blindingly obvious was that their disasters weren’t over yet. In fact, the expression on Pike’s face told Mayhew that the greatest disaster of all might be upon them.
Miss Culpepper clearly realized that, too. She put a hand to her damp, misshapen bonnet, as if she wished she could somehow hide her appearance, but it was no use. Everything about her was unkempt. And bedraggled. And grimy.
Mayhew put the basket down on a wooden bench and took a hasty step forward. “Sir Walter Pike? I can explain everything.”
The man looked him up and down, visibly dismissed him, and turned his attention back to Miss Culpepper. “You,” he said, a whiplash of anger in his voice. “You are dismissed, Miss Culpepper.”
“It’s not what it looks like,” Mayhew said, and in contrast to Sir Walter, his voice was calm and reasonable.
Sir Walter ignored him. “You were meant to arrive last night!” he snapped at Miss Culpepper.
“We missed the stagecoach at Abbots Worthy,” Mayhew said. “It was my fault.”
Sir Walter paid him no attention. “You are late,” he said, his voice sharp with accusation. “Late and untrustworthy and slatternly and—”
Rage ignited in Mayhew’s chest. “And you are out of order, Sir Walter. You know absolutely nothing about what befell Miss Culpepper yesterday!”
“I know enough that I don’t want her anywhere near my daughters,
” Sir Walter Pike said, and his tone wasn’t merely disrespectful, it was exceedingly disrespectful: a verbal sneer of contempt.
Mayhew took a step closer. “You would be lucky to have Miss Culpepper as companion to your daughters,” he told the man. “She’s the most outstanding female I’ve ever met. She has more fortitude and more character than you will ever have! She’s too good for you and your daughters, you small-minded, pompous prat.”
Sir Walter stopped glaring at Miss Culpepper and glared at Mayhew instead. He drew himself up. “You are out of order, Lieutenant!”
“No, you are!” Mayhew thundered back. “You’ve jumped to conclusions—offensive conclusions—without even asking what happened, and then you’ve had the insolence to insult a lady to her face. Heaven help the Empire if you’re an example of His Majesty’s diplomats, because you’re an ill-bred, ill-mannered buffoon.”
Sir Walter flushed an ugly shade of red. “Who the devil are you?” he demanded, trying to look down his nose at Mayhew, which, given that he was a good four inches shorter than Mayhew, didn’t work.
“Lieutenant William Mayhew,” Mayhew informed him. “Lord Mayhew’s son.” And he enjoyed saying that ‘Lord,’ because this stout, pompous man was merely a baronet. “I am the person responsible for Miss Culpepper missing the stagecoach, and I am responsible for her appearance. She is entirely blameless! Which you would know, if you’d bothered to ask her what happened, instead of assuming the worst!”
Sir Walter flushed even redder, and glared at Mayhew.
Mayhew glared back at him and realized, suddenly, that they had accumulated a sizable audience. At least a dozen people were watching agog from the doorways to taproom, coffee room, and kitchen.
Sir Walter came to the same realization a split second later. The color in his face mounted until it was almost puce. He took a step sideways, towards the street.
Mayhew stepped sideways, too, planting himself firmly in the man’s path. “Apologize to Miss Culpepper,” he said, in a hard voice.
