Lady Roma's Romance

by Cynthia Bailey Pratt

  “If you’ll allow it.”

  He nodded, and his hand rose up to wipe his face. “I wouldn’t dare do it without you. Who is to make sure I face the correct direction and say the right words?”

  “Sabina will help you.”

  “She helped last night. She made me see ... I still don’t understand why you feel you must go now, today. Surely, if you wrote Mr. Donovan a letter?”

  “I don’t know why. But I feel I must. If he goes off to Ireland, who knows what may happen? Irish women are said to be very fascinating. It’s safest if I go, too.”

  “Then God speed you, my daughter.” He squeezed her ‘round the shoulders and pressed an awkward kiss into her temple. “If those banns are read, I should like an announcement sent to me of the date and time of your wedding. I must see how it is done. Perhaps if I see your Mr. Donovan married, I can gather some useful hints.”

  “Just say ‘yes’ whenever you are asked a question. Oh, and remember to breathe.”

  A clock dropped a rain of mellow notes into the air. ‘You’d better go,” Lord Yarborough said. “The Mail does not wait.”

  She threw her arms around him and kissed his bristly cheek. “Ireland isn’t that far,” she said. “You and Sabina are to come to visit, do you hear?”

  “Go. With my blessing.”

  There was no time to cry, though her cheeks were wet when she bid farewell to Wilde and several other servants who found cause to be in the hall. The temporary maid was crying more loudly than any of them. Pigeon’s disapproving sniff turned into an explosive cough.

  Fromont and Company’s coach office in Market Place seemed strangely sleepy. One would never guess that this was an exit point that saw a coach leave no less than every three hours. Roma inquired whether she and her maid would be accommodated as arranged last evening. “Yes, it’ll be along,” the clerk said, yawning as if it were dawn instead of nearly noon.

  When it did at last arrive, it was no light-bodied sporting vehicle, designed and built to cover the greatest distance in the shortest space of time. Like a pumpkin that had not been transformed nearly enough, the body of the coach had been painted a baneful orange, the wheels showing the remains of battered green paint, like the curling tendrils of a fairy-tale gourd gone bad. The four horses that drew it, however, seemed restive and eager, the near off-side one pawing the ground in anticipation.

  Pigeon opened the door, and her nose wrinkled in disgust. “When was this conveyance last cleaned, I wonder?”

  The driver threw the reins to the ostler and leapt down. He leered at her genially. “Cleaned it this morning, my beauty.”

  “Jack-sauce!” Rather than risk further insult, Pigeon entered the coach to inspect it before permitting her mistress to ascend. “I suppose it will have to do.”

  “How are the roads, driver?” Roma asked. “This weather. ..”

  “Bless you, miss, this ain’t nothing to old Thunderer here. This coach’s been on this run for five years and never been over once barring that time near Marlborough. Slid into this corner on a little patch of ice no bigger than your hand. Nobody hurt, though.”

  “It’s a great comfort to have a truly competent driver like yourself on the box,” Roma said. He gave a hitch to his moleskin trousers and expanded his already broad chest to the danger point for his buttons. After that, Pigeon had nothing to fear. The driver even wiped off the windows for them so they could see the passing scene unobscured by years of greasy hand prints.

  The two seats opposite were unoccupied this morning, but the clerk gave the driver to understand there might be passengers to pick up in Devizes. “If the weather don’t make ‘em go to ground like hedgehogs,” the driver said, nuzzling from a small brown bottle. “I’ll get this lot to London as soon as I can, but I don’t count on having any more passengers.”

  “There should be a band playing,” Roma said softly as they started forward with a great leap. Pigeon closed her eyes resolutely, but Roma felt quite sure she wasn’t praying.

  “Go ahead and sleep if you can,” Pigeon said. “I never can sleep on coaches.”

  Almost at once, the maid’s head began to bounce and nod just as her father’s had last night. Roma, feeling tired but finding herself awake to the uttermost fiber, tucked her cold hands into her second-best rabbit muff and put her head against the wall.

  Her doubts had kept her up late, even after she’d stopped packing at two o’clock in the morning. Now, for better or worse, she had embarked upon this journey. All the second-guessing lay behind her, at least until she saw Bret again. If only she wouldn’t keep seeing his face before her mind’s eye with this amazed and miserable expression. The amazed part was all right, but the misery was all wrong.

  The brief stop at Melksham did not cause Pigeon to move so much as an eyelash. Roma called softly, “Driver? Do I have time to partake of some coffee?”

  He looked at his watch. “No time this stop, miss. We be making good time with just the pair of you lightweights aboard. They be time at Devizes, miss.”

  “Very well.” She didn’t know if coffee would make this keyed-up wakefulness better or worse, but she could do with it. Wilde and the cook had put a stoppered bottle of tea in the basket which now reposed under Pigeon’s feet. She wouldn’t disturb her just for that.

  The snow had melted under the kindness of the sun, leaving a damp brown landscape, as dreary as an over-varnished picture. Few people were about even in the towns, for though the day was bright, a steady breeze blew, bringing the promise of more wintry weather. The new horses didn’t seem to mind this breeze so much as had the first quartet. Though the distance did not pass in a twinkling, they arrived in Devizes some little time ahead of what they’d anticipated.

  Pigeon woke up as they pulled into the inn yard. “Oh, my lady, do forgive me. I don’t know what came over me.”

  “You were tired, that’s all.”

  “But I had intended to play cassino with you to while away the time.”

  “Thank you. The time passed. Time always does. The driver says we may dismount here and take some refreshment. We are ahead of time.”

  They passed the driver on the way into the inn. He was talking, or rather listening, to a married couple who reminded Roma irresistibly of Jack Sprat and his wife. They were, it seemed, the passengers to join them on their way to town. “Fifteen minutes, please, miss,” the driver called.

  The inn was apparently quite popular, some lively fiddle tune playing in the taproom, punctuated by slamming doors somewhere away in the depths and the shouts of happy men demanding more beer. “Come away, my lady,” Pigeon said in a whisper at her ear, “this is no place for the likes of us.”

  “I don’t care if it’s a pit, so long as they have coffee.”

  The landlord, noticeably thin in a business that tended to heavy men, came out from the tap, wiping his hands and closing the door. The noise level dropped appreciably. “Coffee, miss? Step to the quality parlor, there. ‘Tis empty and the girl’ll bring in.”

  “We’ve only a few minutes.”

  “I know, I know. Billy Linch allus in a hurry.”

  Roma didn’t know whether this tag referred to himself, the driver, or some mythic character. She and Pigeon headed toward the door indicated. A voice from behind them asked, “Landlord? Is that the Bath coach?”

  “No, sir. ‘Tis the Lunnon coach. Bath coach not for half an hour, sir.”

  Roma had turned before the landlord answered. “Bret?”

  No trace of the reaction she feared appeared upon his face. He was upon her in two strides, it seemed, his arms around her as if he’d gather her into his very heart. He jerked the ribbons under her chin, and her hat fell off. Roma paid no mind, kissing him with a fervency equal to his own. He smelled of beer and pipe tobacco, and she thought, “How wonderful...”

  “It is, isn’t it?” Bret said. Still holding her, he glanced around. “We can’t talk here.”

  “In here, Mr. Donovan.” Pigeon opened the par
lor door. Roma noticed that she’d apparently caught her hat. As Pigeon closed the door behind them, she said, “Bring that coffee, you looby. I’ll tell the driver we’re going no further. Thank God.”

  Bret sat Roma down upon his knee in a large green armchair. For long blissful moments, they kissed. Then Roma sat upright, or nearly, and said, “I don’t think we should.”

  “Why not, my prim armful?”

  She tried to look prim, but her mouth would not yield to control. A smile would keep breaking through. “We are strangers to each other. You are going away.”

  “I was going back, witch, as you very well know. All the way here, I kept telling myself I was a fool. Why let my stupid pride stand in the way of a wonderful life? After all, everything had been offered to me, fortune, position, and a beautiful and compliant wife.”

  “Oh, who is that?”

  He slid his hand behind her head and pulled her down to rest against his shoulder. The teasing note left his voice as he leaned his cheek on hers. “Roma, I can’t leave you. I’ll do whatever you want. Be a lapdog of a husband...”

  “But that’s not what I want. I want you to do what you want to do.”

  “I can’t have that. The army has no use for me.”

  “Oh, your leg, I’m too heavy,” she said, starting to rise. He kept her where she was. “It’s the other one.”

  “Oh. Well, if you can’t have the army life, what life would you take instead? The brewery?”

  “Not if it means I can’t have you.”

  “But you have me.” Roma kissed his brow. “Can’t you feel that you have me?”

  “Even in Ireland?”

  “Even in the moon.”

  “No. It’s too much to ask.”

  “You haven’t asked. I’m the only one who asked anyone anything, and I, sir, was rejected.”

  “You were not.”

  “Indeed. ‘No, I can’t marry you, Roma Yarborough. You’re a star out of my reach,’” she said in mock-heroic accents.

  “I never said anything so nonsensical.” He turned so that he could stare into her eyes from only inches away. “Roma, you know I love you. Will you marry me?”

  The maid came in with the coffee. Finding the “quality” in so peculiar a place as seated together in the chair, she stood goggling. Pigeon walked in. “The driver says... Oh! Get out, you silly wench. No, give me the tray.”

  “Actually, Pigeon,” Roma said. “I believe I will have an ale. I shall have to learn to like it if I am to marry a brewer.”

  “Make it two, please, Pigeon,” Bret said, reaching up to kiss his fiancée.

  “I’ll make it three!”

  She did not come back for quite some time. Bret said, after a long while in which they only talked of nothing, “You’ve missed your coach. Shall we wait for another or return to Bath?”

  “Could we be married at once in London with a— what do they call it? A special license?”

  “Yes. We could. I confess it has rather a hole-and-corner sound to it.”

  “Then we’ll go back to Bath. That way Lady Brownlow can come. She wanted you to marry me, didn’t she?”

  “Yes. She’ll gloat, I’m afraid,” Bret said. “Roma . . . some of your friends may not come to our wedding. Not many people will approve of your throwing yourself away on me.”

  Her hair had become quite disarranged during their “nothing talk.” She reached up now and dislodged a half-fallen pin. “The ones that come will be our true friends. For the others, I don’t care a pin,” she said, laying it in his hand.

  * * * *

  It was a very well attended ceremony, whether from friendship, love or curiosity, Roma did not inquire. As she came down the aisle, she saw Mother Brownlow sitting in the front pew, turned to watch her. The shining tears slipped down her face. An incredibly aged man, bald and liver-spotted, faultlessly dressed, handed her his handkerchief, white as a dove in the dimness. Glancing at Roma, he winked a bright eye. Roma inclined her head graciously and closed one eye at Bret’s great-uncle from Ireland.

  After that, she had eyes only for the one who waited at the far end of the aisle, standing beside the bishop.

  “Remember to breathe,” her father whispered as he gave her hand to Bret.

  Roma felt her beloved’s fingers trembling as she took her place beside him. As the bishop began the ceremony, reading from the Book of Common Prayer, she tried to use her father’s advice but she found it nearly impossible to draw a full breath when she saw the tears in Bret’s eyes as he made his vows.

  “And do you, Valencia Vivia Roma Yarborough, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

  She heard Bret chuckle as she agreed. Her training held. She did not laugh as she met his gaze while he placed the ring on her finger. While signing her name in the vestry afterwards, however, she could laugh and did.

  “It’s a good thing I didn’t find out sooner,” Bret said.

  “Would you have refused me?”

  “Would it have done me any good to refuse you? I tried once, you know, and look where I am now.”

  “Where are you?”

  Bret drew her close, heedless of the indulgently smiling bishop. “Wherever you are, always.”

  Copyright © 2004 by Cynthia Bailey-Pratt

  Originally published by Zebra (ISBN 0821776363)

  Electronically published in 2014 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228

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  This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.