by Mara
Genova frowned. “Did you not have friends your own age? Go to school? In our wandering life a part of me longed for a settled home and lifelong friends.”
“Whereas I often longed to travel. Even to join my father in the East. A folly, that, when he cared nothing for me.”
Genova briefly squeezed her hand, and this time Damaris welcomed it. But she didn’t want to talk about her parents.
“So you think Fitzroger is simply an ex-officer?”
“It could be so. Military action requires a fire inside, for most men don’t easily kill their fellows. In some it smolders on for a while.”
“Smolders,” Damaris echoed, liking the word for all the wrong reasons.
It must have shown, for Genova said, “Be careful. It can be... inflammatory.”
Damaris searched her face. “I had begun to suspect that you and Ashart wanted to marry me off to him.”
“Faith, no! What made you think that?”
“It would be logical.”
“Hardly. I’m sure it would be lovely. For him. Perhaps for you.” She laughed. “You’ve startled me out of my wits, but I assure you, we’ve never spoken of it. Everyone assumes you’ll marry a grand title.”
“As I will.” As defense against insanity, she summoned a name. “The Duke of Bridgewater, perhaps.”
“A duke! Is he young, handsome?”
“He’s twenty-seven years old, and from the engraving that accompanied my trustees’ report, he’s as handsome as I am beautiful, which makes a fair match.”
Genova’s eyes widened. “You have a report on him?”
“And on nine others. Including,” Damaris added with a grin, “Ashart.”
“Oh, my. May I have it?”
“Of course. But in exchange I want every scrap you know about Fitzroger.”
“Aha! You are tempted by him.”
“I’m merely curious. He’s a puzzle.”
“Curiosity killed the cat,” Genova warned, but frowned in thought. “Let me see. I don’t know much. Ask me a question.”
“Why did he arrive at Rothgar Abbey days after Ashart?”
“Ash sent him back to London to supervise the delivery of his wardrobe, extra horses, and such. He hadn’t intended to stay at Rothgar Abbey.”
“See? He is a servant.”
“More an obliging friend. Another question.”
“How old is he?”
“Twenty-eight.”
“Does he have any plans for his future?”
“To go to America.” Genova clearly knew Damaris wouldn’t welcome this news. “He’s at odds with his family and doesn’t want to stay in England. His father, Lord Leyden, died a couple of years ago, but if Fitz hoped for reconciliation after that, it hasn’t happened. In fact, the main strife seems to be with his brother, the new viscount. Have I earned the report?”
“That depends on whether there’s more to tell. What caused the estrangement?”
“I truly don’t know. Before visiting Rothgar Abbey, I didn’t move in these circles, you see.”
“But you’re close friends with Lady Thalia.”
“Yes, but that’s the extent of it. When my mother died, my father retired. Then he married again and we moved to my stepmother’s house in Tunbridge Wells. There I met Lady Thalia and we became friends. She and Lady Calliope invited me to accompany them to Rothgar Abbey only to rescue me from my stepmother.”
“She’s cruel?”
“Oh, no. She’s very gracious, and she makes my father happy. We just don’t get on.” She smiled. “She’s very conventional.”
Damaris laughed. “I see. Pirate shooting is not admired.”
“Oh, don’t mention that. People make far too much of it. As for scandal, Thalia will probably know. She loves gossip. I’ll ask her if you wish.”
Damaris was suddenly hesitant. If Fitzroger had done something terrible, did she want to know?
“Ash did mention that Fitz’s brother threatens to shoot him on sight,” Genova said. “But Lord Leyden seems a most unpleasant man. How did Ash describe him? ‘A great, blustering, uncouth brute.’ Apparently he created a scene at the coronation three years ago. Another peer jostled him in the crush and he flew into one of his rages and had to be hustled away.”
“Lud, he sounds like a madman. Could that explain his threats?”
“It’s possible.”
“Poor Fitz. Yes, if Lady Thalia knows more, please do find out, but you’ve certainly earned your reward. Lord Henry is to send my belongings to London, so I’ll give the report to you there. I warn you, Genova, it paints a poor picture of the Trayce fortunes.”
“Oh, Ash has told me all. It needs only economy and good management.”
Damaris wasn’t sure if Genova’s words reflected admirable resolution or insane optimism.
They settled to more cribbage, and the time flew until the next halt. The final one, thank heavens.
The horses were changed and their cooling bricks replaced with hot ones. A man with a taper lit the candles inside the carriage. They were ready to resume when a sudden crash was followed by a shriek and people rushing past the windows.
Damaris leaned over to Genova’s window, which looked toward the inn. “What’s happening? That sounds like the dowager screeching.”
Genova let down the window and called the question.
“Someone threw a stone through the carriage window, miss,” one of the outriders called.
The servants had left their coach to try to help, and people were pouring out of the inn to see what all the fuss was about. Add some barking dogs, and they had chaos.
At least the dowager had stopped shrieking her complaints.
“I’m getting out,” Damaris said. She pulled on her cloak and leaped out of the coach without assistance, then hurried to the big, gilded coach. Yes, the right-hand window was only vicious shards.
The dowager and Lady Thalia were being escorted into the inn. Fitzroger was there, but instead of looking at the damage he was looking at the crowd. Looking for who’d done it, she realized.
She went to his side. “Is everyone all right?”
“Yes, but it’ll mean a delay while the hole’s covered.” He glanced at her briefly, but then returned his intent attention to the noisy throng.
Damaris looked that way, too, but saw only gawkers, some chewing on food they’d carried out with them. “Someone threw a stone?” she asked. “Who?”
“No one saw him.” He turned fully to her. “Why not go into the inn? It’s cold out here.”
Join the dowager and Lady Thalia again? No, thank you.
She pulled up her hood, regretting that she’d brought neither gloves nor muff. “I’m warm enough. This is quite exciting. Do you think it was someone with a grudge against the nobility?”
“That’s possible.” But then she thought he cursed under his breath.
She followed his look and saw two servants emerging from the inn, each carrying a tray of steaming flagons. Refreshments for the stranded travelers provided by an opportunistic innkeeper. A burly maid headed toward them.
Fitz stopped her, took two, and drank from one as if thirsty. Then he said, “Mulled cider,” and gave the other to Damaris.
She thought he was acting strangely, but she was glad of the warm pot between her hands. The spicy steam was delicious, but when she sipped she pulled a face. “It’s very sweet.”
“All the better for vinegar,” he said, then walked over to talk to the men who were discussing how to cover the hole in the window.
Damaris thought his words had been intended as a tease, but they had come out curtly because he was on edge. Why? She didn’t see how he could have prevented a chance bit of malice.
She looked around, wondering if any of the people standing around was the culprit. A fat man appeared sullen, and an old codger leaning on a stick looked as if he was enjoying their predicament, but she couldn’t imagine either of them throwing a stone and not being noticed doing it.
>
Two young women were flirting with anyone willing to play, but Damaris didn’t suppose they’d damage a coach for the chance. Well, she amended, they could well be whores, so they might, but it seemed unlikely.
Then she was startled to catch a man snarling at her as he bit into a chicken leg. She stared, then made herself look away, excitement bubbling. Had she found the villain? Fitzroger would be impressed.
She considered what she’d seen. The man was in his twenties, she thought, and of average build. In the uncertain evening light, brightened only by carriage lamps and the flambeaux outside the inn, she couldn’t tell his hair color, but she thought it had been reddish.
Scots? Some Scots hadn’t abandoned the rebellion of 1745, when they’d risen to try to restore the Stuarts to the throne of England.
But he hadn’t looked like a rebel, and he certainly hadn’t been in Scottish plaid. His clothes had been those of an ordinary Englishman, perhaps even a gentleman. He wore riding boots and breeches, and his three-cornered hat had been trimmed with braid.
She sneaked another look and caught him looking at her again. This time he smiled. Or she thought it was supposed to be a smile. It looked more like a leer, because his upper lip was distorted a little and his front teeth were crossed.
She looked away again, embarrassed to have thought ill of someone because of a facial impediment. Poor man. She remembered a child in Worksop whose mouth wouldn’t close properly, so she looked like an idiot when she wasn’t.
She saw Genova over near the inn and moved to join her, but then Ashart went to Genova’s side, offering to share his flagon of cider. Love was absurd but not to be interrupted.
Instead Damaris wandered around, inhaling the steam from the pot in her hands, glad of a chance to stretch her legs on this long journey. The inn sign declared the place to be the Cock and Bull, which made her think with a smile of a “cock and bull” story, one that no one could believe.
This almost seemed like one. Who would expect a stone thrown at a marquess’s carriage in a quiet English town? It had probably been a mischievous boy with a slingshot, causing much more trouble than he’d planned. He’d probably fled as fast as he could, praying no one had seen him.
The high street was busy and had a number of other inns along it, all with bright windows and flambeaux outside. Most of the shops were still open, their lit windows brightening the scene, especially when the light played on snow and ice. Damaris noticed that the day’s thaw was freezing everywhere, and took care where she stepped.
Word of the strange event must be spreading, for people were coming out of inns, shops, and houses to look down toward the Cock and Bull. Some pulled on shawls or cloaks and began to hurry in their direction. A whole family arrived, adults carrying tiny ones. She heard a child chatter about the “golden coach.”
Damaris bit her lip at the thought of the dowager’s reaction to becoming a sideshow. Serves her right for traveling in a gilded monstrosity. Vinegar again. She made herself take another sip of the drink, sickly as it was. She certainly didn’t want to end up as sour as her mother, but a sip was all she could bear. She’d never liked sweets, her temperament aside. She glanced around and surreptitiously poured the rest out on the ground.
More people were pouring past now, and Damaris stepped back to avoid being jostled. She wished she had gone into the inn after all. She came up against a waist-high wall and heard trickling water. She turned to look over the wall and saw a pond below. There was a water mill nearby, she realized, and a stream had been blocked by a weir to provide the power. The weir was half-frozen, and quite beautiful where it caught the lights, while the falling water made a kind of musical accompaniment. Delighted, Damaris looked back, thinking to call Genova over, but she was still with Ashart.
Hammering told her work had started on the carriage, but she thought it would be a while yet before they could leave. The carriages were now surrounded by a crowd so there seemed no point in going back there. Instead, she turned back to the lacy ice of the weir and the music of the water, placing the empty pot on the wall so she could tuck her hands beneath her cloak. The scene soothed her, but it also made her think.
Her mother would have thought it foolish to stand in the cold looking at ice and listening to water. Abigail Myddleton had been ruthlessly practical, and yet she’d succumbed to the charms of a rascal. Even though Damaris’s father had returned home so rarely, she had understood the nature of that charm. He’d been a big, robust man who glowed with life as if he had a lamp inside him, one constantly lit.
She remembered his last visit most clearly. She’d been fifteen, and he hadn’t come to Worksop since she was eight.
She had to admit that she’d been entranced by him herself. She’d even dreamed of his rescuing her from Birch House and carrying her off to the Orient, where she’d see the wonders he told her of and live adventures at his side. She’d hated her mother for carping at him, for always complaining.
For those few, brief days she’d thought her father loved her. Then he’d left, and she’d seen no evidence that he’d given her a thought thereafter. She’d recognized that he’d wooed her simply to hurt her mother. When word of his death had reached them nearly two years later, she’d thought it served him right.
At that intolerant age, she hadn’t thought kindly of her mother either. Why screech at a man who paid no attention and never would? Why endlessly complain about him? Why cling to some promise he’d made to return to her and live in Worksop as her faithful, decent husband?
How common was it to despise both one’s parents? It was a depressing thought, when people generally turned out to be like their parents. Perhaps she was destined to be both sour and selfish.
The hammering stopped. That probably meant they could leave soon. Despite the beauty and the music, this place was doing her no good. Even the chattering crowd sounded threatening, and she eyed the people standing nearby with concern.
It was illogical to be afraid, but she wanted to get back to her party, to Fitzroger. She shifted her position and almost slipped on the ice. She grabbed the wall to steady herself and sent the pot flying to splash down into the water below.
Instinctively she leaned to watch, as if following the pot’s fate could prevent its destruction. Someone bumped up against her, obviously doing the same thing, but threatening to send her in the same direction.
She pushed back frantically, but her feet hit the same patch of ice and went out from under her entirely.
There was a shocking moment of loss of contact with the earth, and then she landed with a crash, flat on her back.
The moon’s up early, she thought dazedly, staring at the sky. Then the moon disappeared.
“Are you all right, milady?”
“What happened?”
“Likely she’s killed herself.”
“Wicked icy, it is.”
People were all around staring down at her. Like birds of prey, Damaris thought, the breath knocked out of her. Help! she tried to shout, but nothing came out.
“Damaris! Are you all right?”
Fitzroger. Thank God. He knelt by her side and took her hand. “Speak to me.”
At last she could suck in a breath. “I slipped.”
“Are you hurt?”
She assessed her body. “No, I don’t think so.”
He gently raised her to a sitting position. “Are you sure? No serious pain?”
She considered that. “No. Just shaken.” She laughed to prove it. “It knocked the wind out of me, that’s all. Help me up, please.”
She hated being the center of a crowd again.
“What’s amiss?” That was Ashart calling, probably coming over.
Oh, no. She didn’t want a fuss. “I’m fine,” she insisted to Fitzroger. “Truly. Help me up, please.”
“All’s well,” Fitzroger called back. “Damaris fell, but it’s not serious.” To the onlookers he said, “The lady isn’t injured. Thank you for your concern.”
&n
bsp; As they took the hint and moved away, he carefully raised her to her feet, keeping an arm around her. “Can you walk, or shall I carry you?”
“I can walk, I’m sure. Just give me a moment.”
“Of course. What happened?”
“I slipped on some ice. Or began to, so I grabbed the wall. There’s a wall there and a stream. A weir. Very pretty.”
His hold tightened. “Calm down. It’s probably better not to talk yet.”
She inhaled and made herself settle down. “It’s all right. But I knocked a pot into the stream. One of the inn’s pots.”
“A few pennies will cover it. I believe you can afford that.”
The joke put everything in proportion. “I looked over to see what had happened to it and someone bumped against me. I panicked, stepped back, and fell.”
“I knew this crowd was dangerous. Are you able to return to the coach now? We’re ready to leave.”
She saw that everyone was aboard and waiting for her. “Oh, I’m sorry. Of course.”
She hurried toward her coach, still grateful for Fitzroger’s arm around her.
“It’s such a strange feeling to suddenly lose contact with the earth,” she said. Then he’d rushed to her rescue and everything had been all right.
As they neared the coaches, she heard, “What’s causing this interminable delay? I want to leave this benighted place!”
Damaris hastily thanked Fitzroger and hurried to where a groom stood ready to open the carriage door for her. As she reached him, the burly maidservant rushed up and put another flagon of spiced cider into her hand. “You’ve had a shock, miss! The gentleman said to take this. The pot’s paid for an‘ all.”
Damaris thought of refusing, but everyone was impatient to set off. She climbed in, struggling not to spill the drink. The groom slammed the door as Genova asked, “What happened?”
“I slipped on some ice. Could you hold this a moment?”
Genova took the pot, which was as well, as the coach jerked into motion then, toppling Damaris into her seat.
