Cheers to the Duke

by Sally MacKenzie

  No. There was no point in making things more uncomfortable than they already were. She’d been lucky this coach was wider than normal and could squeeze six people inside, because she certainly didn’t want to spend another night in London. And the man wasn’t dangerous—his wife was seated on his other side, after all. He was just male and oblivious.

  She’d be in far worse straits if the weaselly-looking fellow sitting diagonally across from her were in Beefy Thigh’s place. The Weasel had been staring at her as if she were a tasty sweetmeat ever since they’d left London. Fortunately, two other men were wedged onto the bench next to him, preventing him from sliding any closer.

  She turned her head to stare glumly out the window.

  Oh, hell!

  Could things get any worse? The snow, which had been lazily dusting the buildings when they’d left Town, was now falling in thick curtains. It covered the grass and decorated the trees. If it kept up at this rate . . .

  No, the road had to remain passable. She needed to get back to the Benevolent Home for the Maintenance and Support of Spinsters, Widows, and Abandoned Women and their Unfortunate Children today. It was almost Christmas Eve.

  She let out a long breath, fogging the window. She could do with a little luck, but luck—or at least the good variety—had not been her companion on this journey.

  She’d had such high hopes when she’d set off from Little Puddledon yesterday. Mr. Harris, the owner of the Drunken Sheep in Westling, had again increased his order of Widow’s Brew, the ale she produced with her fellow residents of the Home. Even better, he’d told her he’d visited his brother in London and had persuaded him to give their ale a try. She’d been so thrilled, she’d almost hugged the man. Getting Widow’s Brew into the London market had been her dream ever since she’d perfected the recipe. Here, finally, was her chance.

  Some chance. She pulled a face at the passing scenery, her stomach knotting in anger and frustration. Oh, what a colossal fool I’ve been.

  The pasty-faced man seated directly across from her sneezed, a great, wet eruption—and only then pulled out his handkerchief to give his nose a honking blow.

  Splendid. That was all she needed—to come down with a horrible head cold. It would quite put the final flourish on this fruitless jaunt.

  She frowned. It wasn’t as if she’d gone running up to London only to fulfill her personal ambition. The Home needed the money. The more ale she sold, the less they had to depend on the whims of their noble patron, the Duke of Grainger.

  Well, patrons now. When Pen Barnes, the Home’s former hop grower, had married the Earl of Darrow in August, the earl had promised to lend his support to that of his friend, the duke.

  Ha! Caro had learned from sad experience to trust a peer only as far as she could haul a full hogshead of ale—which meant not at all.

  Her frown deepened to a scowl. Apparently, she could trust a London tavern keeper even less. The Westling Mr. Harris had very much mistaken the matter. Yes, his London brother had been eager to discuss terms, but the commodity he’d wished to purchase had not been her ale.

  Her lips twisted into a humorless smile. She’d made good use of her pocketknife then. The dastard would think twice before putting his hands on the next businesswoman he encountered.

  For all the good that does me.

  Her shoulders slumped. To be brutally honest, the bounder’s bad behavior wasn’t the real cause of her dismals. No, her spirits were so low because she’d finally realized that her dream of breaking into the London market was pure self-delusion. Pen and Jo—Lady Havenridge, Baron Havenridge’s widow and the founder of the Home—had tried to tell her that, but she’d refused to listen. She’d had to slam her head into the truth before she’d believe it.

  She’d last been to London when she was seventeen, thirteen years ago. She’d forgotten how large and busy and overwhelming it was. Even if she could somehow brew ten times—a hundred times—the quantity of ale she did now, her output would be only a tiny drop in the enormous vats of the London breweries. And if she did get any orders, she’d never be able to deliver reliably. Little Puddledon was too far from Town.

  Oh, Lord. How I wish—

  The coach lurched, skidding a foot or two.

  “Lawk-a-daisy!” That was Beefy Thigh’s wife. “We’re gonna end in a ditch, Humphrey. See if we don’t.”

  Beefy Thigh—or, rather, Humphrey—put his large hand over his wife’s. “Don’t fret, Muriel. The coachman knows what he’s about.”

  Caro heard the quaver in his voice if Muriel didn’t.

  He turned to the somberly garbed man sitting directly across from him. “Ain’t that right, Reverend?”

  The clergyman looked up from his book—a Bible—opened his mouth and—

  Was interrupted by an expressive snort from Pasty Face, who then had to make quick use of his handkerchief.

  “I’m getting off at the Crow,” Pasty Face said. “I don’t want to break me neck.”

  Muriel sucked in her breath and then moaned.

  The clergyman gave Pasty Face a reproachful look before smiling at Muriel. “Now, now, madam. Remember what the Good Book says.” He patted his Bible. “‘Be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed, for the Lord thy God is with thee whithersoever thou goest.’ Joshua chapter one, verse nine.”

  Pasty Face snorted again, this time with handkerchief at the ready. “The Lord can go with me into the Crow.”

  The reverend scowled. “Sir, you border on blasphemy.”

  Pasty Face shrugged. “As long as I border on a nice, warm fire with a pint in me hand, I’m good.”

  Caro’s thoughts veered off on a new path. The Crow wasn’t London, but it was on the main coaching route and closer to Little Puddledon. If she could persuade its tavern keeper to serve Widow’s Brew, word would spread. She might find a larger market that wasn’t too large.

  Should I get off and talk to—

  No. Mr. London Harris’s wandering hands—it was truly shocking how different two brothers could be—and the Weasel’s wandering eyes had reminded her of the dangers a woman traveling alone faced. If she stopped, chances were good she’d be stranded at the Crow for several days. Even if the tavern keeper himself wasn’t a lecher, she was certain to encounter more than one drunken, lascivious lout on the premises. Her poor pocketknife would be worn to a nub.

  Not to mention coaching inns were terribly expensive, and she was short of coin. And she was needed back at the Home.

  Muriel was still whinging. “Humphrey, maybe we should get off, too.”

  “But yer sister is expecting us, dumpling. She’ll worry. Ye know that.”

  “Y-yes. But what if we do end in a ditch? What if we freeze to death? What then?”

  “Zounds, woman! It’s just a little snow.” The Weasel finally stopped staring at Caro long enough to scowl at Muriel.

  Caro looked out the window again to confirm that the “little” snow had now given the stone walls running along the road white caps.

  Pasty Face snorted again and dabbed his nose. “Mebbie it’s not much if yer a polar bear. I don’t have a big white fur coat. I’m gettin’ off at the Crow and sittin’ in front of the fire, warmin’ me coattails.”

  That did sound appealing.

  “What is your opinion, madam?” The clergyman suddenly turned to Caro. “Do you think the weather too, er, uncertain for further travel, especially for delicate females such as yourself and this lady?” He nodded toward Muriel.

  Caro blinked at him. Delicate female? She’d wager she could work longer, harder hours than this sermon-writing, Bible-toting parson. And there was nothing uncertain about the weather. But she couldn’t afford—on any level—to take shelter at the inn, and if Muriel and Humphrey got off, the Weasel was certain to move over and sit next to her. Ugh!

  “I’m not getting off the coach,” she said as they rattled into the innyard.

  “Well, I am,” Pasty Face said. And, true to his word, as soon as the coachman unlatch
ed the door and pulled down the steps, Pasty Face was out and heading toward the Crow’s light and warmth and liquid refreshment.

  Caro looked longingly after him, tugging her cloak’s collar closer in a vain attempt to keep out the cold. She’d like to be sitting by the fire—

  Remember the lubricious louts.

  “If ye need to use the privy, do it straightaway,” the coachman said. “We’re not stopping long. I want to make it to Marbridge afore the weather worsens.”

  “Do ye think it’s safe to go on?” Humphrey asked, Muriel gripping his arm and peering anxiously around him.

  Caro held her breath.

  The coachman nodded. “Aye. The road’s good—straight and flat—and the horses are steady. The snow’s not too bad . . . yet. But the sooner we leave, the better.” He scowled at them. “So be quick about yer business. I won’t wait fer ye if ye dillydally.”

  The coachman stepped back, and Humphrey, the clergyman, and the Weasel clambered out, the Weasel managing to “accidentally” brush his hand over Caro’s knees as he passed.

  “Pardon me,” he said, sending a noxious cloud of stale breath her way.

  She forced a smile, fingering the knife in her pocket, and decided she could forego the jakes. Braving the cold and, more to the point, the filth of the public outhouse wasn’t appealing, but she especially didn’t want to risk being caught alone by the Weasel or to open herself to the possibility that he could rearrange the seating while she was gone.

  Muriel must have come to the same conclusion, at least about the outhouse.

  “So, yer traveling alone, are ye?” she asked after the men left, eyeing Caro with a nervous mixture of curiosity and suspicion.

  Mostly suspicion.

  Caro was tempted to say, no, she had an imaginary companion by her side, but bit her tongue and forced a smile instead. She was a good saleswoman and selling herself—that is, her skill and dependability as a businesswoman—was often part of convincing skeptical tavern keepers to take a chance on her ale. She’d use those skills now. “Yes. I’m going home for the holidays.”

  No need to clarify that home meant the Benevolent Home for the Maintenance and Support of Spinsters, Widows, and Abandoned Women and their Unfortunate Children.

  “Did I hear you’re visiting your sister?” She’d also found that throwing the conversational ball back to her inquisitor usually worked very well—as it did this time.

  Muriel’s face lit up, and she rattled on about her sisters Mildred, Mirabel, and Miranda, who all lived just outside Marbridge, and how she went back every Christmas to celebrate the holiday with them.

  Caro nodded and made encouraging noises to keep the woman talking, counting the seconds until the men returned and they could resume their journey. One of the things she most hated about Christmas was the way people dug up their old, moldering memories and dressed them up with garlands and candles and nostalgia. The past was best left in the past. Fortunately, most of the women at the Home agreed with her.

  Humphrey and the Weasel returned then. Humphrey climbed right in, but the Weasel loitered in the cold.

  Oh, Lord. He’s going to try to take Pasty Face’s place.

  Caro gripped her knife, ready to pull it out the moment any part of the Weasel touched her. If he thought she’d bear his insults politely, he was going to be very painfully surprised.

  Humphrey turned into an unwitting ally. “What are ye doing out there, sir?” he said. “Get in afore ye freeze yer arse off.”

  The Weasel shrugged—or perhaps shivered. “I’ll g-get in when the reverend comes back. No need to s-sit longer than I have to.”

  “But ye’ll catch yer death out there,” Muriel said.

  “Naw. I’m used to the c-c-cold.”

  That was definitely a shiver. In any event, the coachman appeared just then to put an end to the Weasel’s plot.

  “Get in, man.” His voice had an edge to it. “We need to be off at once. The coachy coming from Marbridge said the roads are getting worse.”

  “But what about the reverend? He’s not back from the privy.”

  The coachman put his hands on his hips. “Are ye wanting to keep him company? Because ye shall if ye don’t get in the coach right now.”

  There was a momentary standoff, and then the Weasel grumbled and climbed in. He leered at Caro the moment his rump hit the other bench.

  “Why don’t ye join me?” He patted the spot next to him.

  “Good idea,” Humphrey said.

  “Do move over, dear.” That was Muriel. “We’ll all be more comfortable.”

  Ha! Caro would be vastly more uncomfortable—as everyone else would, too, after she stabbed the Weasel in the leg.

  She was saved from violence by the clergyman, who came stumbling up at that moment, still buttoning his fly.

  “Just in time, Reverend,” the coachman said. “We were going to have to leave ye here.”

  “Sorry.” The clergyman hoisted himself in, forcing the Weasel to slide over. “Balky bowels.”

  That was more information than Caro wished to have, but she welcomed anything that forced the Weasel away from her.

  The coachman started to put up the steps—

  “Wait! Oh, please, sir. Wait.”

  He stopped and looked—they all looked—toward the inn. A young woman, carrying a small satchel, and a young boy, about six or seven years old, half ran/half slid over the snow-slick cobblestones.

  “Sir,” the woman said, her voice tight and breathless, “I’ve a ticket for an inside seat. They said I might have a place here, since the gentleman got off.” The coachman frowned, hesitating.

  “There’s only one seat and two of you,” the clergyman said. “You won’t fit. Go back to the inn.”

  Now there was Christian charity.

  The coachman scowled. “Now see here, Reverend. This is my coach. I’ll be the one making the decision about who rides and who doesn’t.”

  “I’m the one who has to sit next to them.”

  The coachman’s scowl deepened. “Unless ye wish to get out and stay at the Crow—or take a seat on the roof.”

  “Have her sit on the outside if she needs to travel.”

  The Weasel and Humphrey began to grumble as well. The matter was clearly getting out of hand.

  Caro spoke up when Muriel didn’t. “A child can’t sit on the roof.”

  The man of the cloth—and the balky bowels—shrugged.

  The young woman didn’t waste her time with the clergyman. She addressed the coachman again. “Please, sir. We need to get to Marbridge afore Christmas, and yers might be the last coach to get through.”

  The coachman looked at her a moment longer and then let out a long breath. “Very well. But the boy will have to sit on yer lap. No crowding the reverend.”

  The woman nodded and handed the coachman her satchel as the boy scrambled in. Then she followed awkwardly. Her right arm must be injured. It was hidden under her cloak as if in a sling, a lump that she made no attempt to use.

  Caro expected the reverend to inch over toward the Weasel; there wasn’t much room, but the boy was as thin as a reed. Instead, the fellow gave the woman a sidelong glare and opened his Bible, not budging a hair’s breadth.

  The atmosphere in the coach dropped to rival the temperature outside—well, that wasn’t so surprising as the coachman was still holding the door open, waiting for things to sort themselves out. But it wasn’t just the frigid air causing the chill. It was also the icy stares Humphrey and the Weasel gave the newcomers. Muriel sniffed and made a show of pulling her skirts back, not that she was close enough to risk being touched by either of them.

  Caro looked back at the woman. The other people in the coach weren’t members of the ton—far from it. Their clothing wasn’t any grander, though the woman’s and the boy’s were visibly threadbare. But what emboldened her companions to treat the poor mother with disdain must be the air of defeat and desperation that clung to her.

  It was the
same air that clung to so many women when they first arrived at the Benevolent Home.

  The boy pressed against his mother and, once she’d managed to sit, climbed onto her left leg, careful not to jostle her injured arm. She gave him a small smile that did nothing to dispel the dark shadows under her eyes or the tightness of her expression and hugged him close.

  Much to Caro’s surprise, she felt a flood of compassion.

  She frowned. Jo was the tenderhearted one, not her. Caro was the Home’s clear-eyed, practical businesswoman. A tender heart could be a liability when striving to make a tidy profit.

  The coachman heaved a relieved sigh. “All right, then. We’ll be on our way.” He started to close the door.

  “Wait!”

  This time it was two loud, boisterous young men, swathed in multi-caped greatcoats, who pounded across the innyard, skidding to a stop just before they knocked the coachman over. One had to use the coach to break his forward progress, setting the vehicle to rocking.

  “Are you going to Marbridge?” the one not leaning on the coach asked, his words slurring slightly.

  “Aye.” The edge was back in the coachman’s voice.

  “Splendid,” the other man said. “That’s where we’re going.” He reached for the door.

  Surely the coachman wasn’t going to evict one of them—well, two of them? The mother threw Caro a panicked look. The woman guessed, likely correctly, that she would be the first one thrown out. Caro was afraid she’d be the second.

  Just let them try.

  Fortunately, Caro didn’t have to defend her seat. The coachman stood his ground—and held onto the door, keeping it from opening any farther.

  “As ye can see, I’m full inside. If ye want to leave today, ye’ll have to ride atop.”

  The men shrugged.

  “All right. We’ve got coats”—the first man lifted a bottle—“and brandy to keep us warm.”

  Muriel gasped. “Humphrey, say something,” she hissed as the coachman finally closed the door. “It can’t be safe to have those drunken bucks riding with us.”

  “Likely they’re the ones at risk,” the Weasel offered. The coach swayed as the men hauled themselves up to their seats. “Though if they’re drunk enough, they won’t feel it when they fall off and hit the ground.”