by Sharon Sobel
“They did not take her belongings,” Milton said and cocked his head towards a nearby table. There, on one of the two chairs set there, was a lumpy carpetbag, dripping melting ice on the wide floor boards. “I took one of the horses and rode back an hour or so ago. It is not very far.”
Will slapped him on the back. “You deserve to be promoted to the house, at the very least, Milton. The lady will be forever grateful, but then, so am I. I feared I would have to leave behind some of my shirts for her.”
“We will leave her here, my lord?” Milton asked, ignoring the promise of a better position.
Will paused, his hand still aloft. “What else can we do? We can hardly bring her with us to Seabury.”
Milton looked down and toed the edge of the worn rug beneath their feet.
“Out with it, man,” Will said. “What do you know?”
Milton looked up and lifted his chin. One would think he was the master and Will at his service. “If we leave her here, are we no better than those who abandoned her on the road? What is she to do? Is she capable of going on by herself?”
Will was genuinely chagrined and had no excuse for himself. Indeed, if he was entirely truthful, he would have to admit that he would enjoy nothing more than spending the rest of his journey to Seabury sharing cramped quarters with a beautiful lady. But would they not then be taking her further and further away from where she belonged?
“You are right, Milton. I suppose I am being too optimistic in imagining we shall find her relatives and restore her to them. She will travel the rest of the way with us, and we will make enquiries at each posting inn. If necessary, I am sure Lady Howard may have a room for her, and she may even provide the entertainment on Christmas Eve.”
Milton looked aghast, and Will could only imagine what he thought.
“She already told me she is a singer, Milton. At the moment, her voice sounds like a hinge needing oil, but she seems to think warm milk might restore her. Indeed, I should enquire at the kitchen if that and more can be brought to her room. Perhaps you would be so good to enquire at each table and see if there is someone who knows something about her?”
“I will do so, my lord,” Milton said as he glanced around the room. No one looked particularly concerned about anything other than trying to keep their eyes open. “Shall I deliver her bag to her room? She may wish to make herself presentable before anyone arrives to claim her.”
Will thought Mrs. Townshend would look perfectly presentable in just about anything she wore, but did not press the point. If Milton knew what he was thinking about the lady, he might suggest hiring one of the inn’s serving girls as a chaperone. In some things, the driver was more sensible than his employer.
“I will bring it up myself, Milton. She already knows me, after all.”
“WHO ARE YOU, truly?” Julia asked, ducking under the quilt as the strange man returned to her room. She remembered his name was Will, and he had said something about Amsterdam and Vlissingen, but that did not make him familiar enough to make himself free in her bedchamber. Someone’s bedchamber. She still had no idea where she was.
He took a step backwards, but held up a large carpetbag, as if it offered some temptation to her.
“I thought we already settled that, Mrs. Townshend,” he said. “I am Lord Willem Wakefield, and I come bearing gifts. Or certainly one gift.”
“Then please explain who you are, and how you come to be in my bedchamber, not to mention why you imagine my maid’s carpetbag to be a suitable Christmas gift. I would very much prefer my maid.”
She must have said the wrong thing, because he suddenly looked very worried about something, and ran his fingers nervously through his dark blond hair. He looked at Mimma’s bag as if it were a strange little beast, but nevertheless came forward, carefully placing it at the edge of the bed. He then walked to his alcove, putting himself at as great a distance from her as could be managed. He leaned against the doorjamb, facing her.
Julia had recovered sufficiently to be more appalled than indignant at his presence in her bedchamber. Even without a looking glass in hand, she knew she looked like a cinder girl or at best, someone who washed up on shore. There was grit in her hair, which hung about her face in damp ropes, and her body felt bruised and battered. Her lip was swollen and when she ran her tongue over her teeth, she tasted blood. Somehow, these things were more unnerving than the fact that she wore only her shift beneath the blankets.
“You are lucky to still be with us,” he said softly, as if reading her mind.
“Us? Who else is here?” she asked, suspiciously.
“My driver is downstairs, making enquiries. But I mean you are lucky to be alive.” He paused, watching her face. She attempted to remain impassive, trying not to give anything away, including the fact that she had no idea what had befallen her. “You were in a terrible crash in last night’s storm.”
It was as if the one word—crash—was the key that opened the stubborn door of her memory. She suddenly recalled the blinding snow, the sway of the coach as it tossed them about, and the final crack that seemed to spell their doom.
“Mimma?” she asked softly.
“Is she your maid?” he asked, and shook his head. “My driver and I found you within the coach, wet and quite cold, and just able to lift your arms so that we might pull you from its broken window. The horses were gone, and we concluded your companions took off without you.”
“Without me,” she repeated. Why would they have done such a thing?
“They may not have been able to find you in the wreckage,” he said, answering her, though she did not think she spoke out loud. “They may have thought you already dead.”
“As I would have been, if you . . . ”
“. . . had not come. But I did. And therein lies your luck, for my coach was probably not more than an hour behind yours.” He shook his head gravely. “Milton, my driver, stopped to see if there was anything to do. He returned to the wreckage at first light, but reports that no one seems to have come back.”
“They must think me dead. They did think me dead.” Indeed, Julia thought herself dead.
“But you are now very much alive. I was not certain how things would go last night, but I believe you will feel much restored when you’ve had your porridge and warm milk.” He walked back to the door and opened it to greet someone in the hall. When he turned back, he held a large tray, replete with steaming bowls and cups.
“Here you are, Mrs. Townshend. Just what you require.” He bowed as would a servant, and she laughed.
Goodness, but it was painful to do so. Her cheeks felt as if they were still frozen, and her skin as fragile as thawing ice.
“May I join you?” he asked, already settling into the chair by the side of the bed. “I have not yet had my breakfast either.”
What could she say? She knew nothing about him, but that he was sitting in her bedchamber and had most likely divested her of her wet garments the night before. He probably slept in the dressing room, only feet away from her, and separated by an unlocked door. But he was a gentleman, and for all his play at being her servant, she knew he had behaved as a gentleman.
She scarcely remembered what had happened in her coach, and knew almost nothing about him, but somehow she trusted him. More to the point, she had very little choice but to do so.
At the moment, she certainly had nothing to fear, for he was much more interested in the porridge than he was in her.
“It isn’t half bad,” he said thoughtfully, as if cooked oats were a tasty new experience for him. As indeed they might be, if he had grown up in a household of wealth. After all, had not Samuel Johnson once opined that oats were food for horses and for the Scottish? The man had overlooked the fact that a great part of England’s population was perfectly willing to enjoy a bowl of porridge.
It required
a fair amount of effort to bring the spoon to her lips, but once she did, Julia savored the aroma for a few moments before swallowing the warm porridge. She closed her eyes.
“I gather your half isn’t bad either,” her companion said. She opened her eyes, and saw that he was nearly finished with his generous portion.
“I suspect it is even better,” she said. “I don’t recall ever enjoying a meal more.”
He nodded, and helped himself to another serving. “Then you are a woman who is delightfully easy to please. I shall have to remember that when we order our dinner this evening.”
“But you are surely a man with rather refined tastes. Why else would you be so surprised at the taste of porridge on your lips? Do you not enjoy it at home?”
“I have not been home for many months, for I am only recently returned from the East Indies. There, one is more likely to be brought a bowl of fruit and nuts to start one’s day. And then, of course, one needs to consider the breakfast served on board a ship, which bears no relation to porridge. Or food, for that matter.”
“You poor man,” Julia said, sympathetic to his deprivation, but a bit envious of his experience of travel and adventure. There had been much talk of the East Indies since the eruption of the volcano there. “And did you endure the wrath of Tambora as well?”
He looked surprised that she knew anything about it. “I endured and survived with nothing more to show than a few burns. They are of little consequence, however.”
He held up his left hand and she saw the skin of his palm was reddened and slightly puckered. It did not look like something of little consequence.
They sat in silence for some moments, as he poured their tea and refilled her bowl. She had a great desire to know more about him, but it was not her business to ask, nor was their relationship likely to be of long duration. And yet he already spoke of dinner, and that was surely hours away.
“Do you intend to remain here, at the inn? I do not wish to prevent you from continuing on your way. The snow appears to have ended.” Indeed, she thought the sun strained to slip through the shuttered windows of the room.
“It has ended,” he confirmed. “And I have a journey of several days ahead of me, even in fair weather. But I cannot leave you here, no matter how excellent the porridge. You are quite alone until someone comes to claim you, and we do not know where your traveling companions might be.”
“I cannot go with you, for it would not be proper.”
“I doubt it less proper than abandoning you in a public inn, and leaving you to your own resources. I suggest you join us, after sending word to your family about your whereabouts. Until they come, I am certain that my hosts would be happy to have you join them for Christmas. Their estate is quite large, with at least twenty bedrooms. It is called Seabury.”
“Seabury,” Julia whispered, at first wondering why it sounded so familiar, and then remembered. “Seabury. That is my destination, as well.”
WILL WAS NOT a man who credited coincidence, usually searching for logical reasons why certain things occurred and calculating the odds that some might intersect. But the likelihood that two coaches at a distance of several days from Rye might be on the same section of highway at the same time, stretched credibility.
Perhaps Mrs. Townshend was not yet right in her mind, and seized on his words as soon as he uttered them. Perhaps she was running from her husband or her family or some desperate situation, and simply needed a place where she would not be found.
Or she remembered that it would soon be Christmas, and did not wish to be alone.
But whatever her reason, he was prepared to accept it. He did not yet understand why circumstances conspired to bring them together, but they had. And she was now his responsibility.
Mrs. Townshend cleared her throat. “I am to sing. I only hope I am still capable of doing so.”
He had suggested as much to Milton, though partly in jest. But he supposed it plausible that Lady Laurentia Howard would invite musicians to Seabury to entertain her guests for the holidays. She was an artist herself, and much of her work was on display at their various homes. She had even created a sculpture garden at her brother’s London house, where he had once enjoyed an afternoon of Italian opera.
And here was Mrs. Julia Townshend, who claimed to be a singer, and whose garments were as fine as those of any lady . . . and whose beauty would be celebrated as much as her voice.
Perhaps she truly was invited to Seabury. After the events of last night, he supposed anything was possible.
She studied him now, as if daring him to voice his doubts.
Of these, he had many, and with good reason. But even if she was not invited, and yet a chanteuse, Lady Laurentia would probably welcome her and allow her to sing, and therefore be the one responsible for introducing a new talent to society. Lady Laurentia would take great pleasure in that. If Mrs. Townshend was not actually a singer, he could hope her people came to claim her before she settled too comfortably into life at Seabury, even though he still was uncertain who she really was, or who her people were.
“I come at Lady Howard’s pleasure. She will thank you for delivering me to her home.”
“And you are well acquainted with the lady?” he asked, unable to shake his suspicions that all was not right.
“I am,” Mrs. Townshend answered, nodding her head.
“I suppose you sing opera?”
“I suppose I do, Will. But I believe my hosts would prefer songs of the season, and folksongs, so that others might join in. I do not believe that great tragical arias would do for Christmas.” She met his eyes, and he thought she might be teasing him. “In any case, we seem to have averted a great tragedy last night, so perhaps I will be asked to sing of heroes and salvation.”
“It is Christmas, after all,” he said.
“But that is not the sort of salvation I meant,” she whispered.
He found himself leaning closer, tempted to understand precisely what she meant, but caught himself before he did anything he might regret. She did not seem to remember the kisses they had shared in the coach. Pulling himself up, he pushed back his chair.
“Well then, let us be on our way, Mrs. Townshend. The sun is shining and the snow has stopped and we may make excellent progress on our journey. I doubt if anyone would miss an old bachelor at a Christmas party, but I cannot deprive our hosts of your talents.” He thought he sounded a bit too cheerful. “Do you require any assistance?”
“Would I delay us too long if I request a bath be brought up? My hair feels as if it was used as a broom to brush away gravel, and I assume the rest of me is no better.” A blush passed over her pale skin when she realized what she said.
He thought she looked beautiful, with some of the earthiness characteristic of the women of the East Indies. But then again, they were to be confined in a rather intimate space for at least another few days, and he understood her concerns.
“I will ask the innkeeper to send up one of the servants, and to bring you anything you require.”
“I have my own coin,” she said, glancing to where her garments were draped by the fire. “I must insist on paying my own way.”
She was right, of course, but he had no desire to explain to their innkeeper why a man and a woman sharing a room should be billed separately.
“Allow me to assume your expenses while we are on the road, and we can settle it up once we arrive at Seabury.”
“That is very kind of you, Will. Or shall I call you Lord Willem? I recall that is what you said.”
He rather liked hearing his name on her lips; indeed, it sounded like notes of music. But now he would be delivering her to Seabury, and some illusions must be preserved. “As we are to be guests in the same household, I suspect Lord Willem would be best. And am I to call you Mrs. Townshend?”
She hesitated
just a moment too long, just enough time for him to wonder if that was her real name.
“Yes. That would be just fine,” she said.
AS JULIA WASHED herself in the deep copper basin that had been brought by a disgruntled maid into her bedchamber, she wondered if she had made a grave error. Lord Willem Wakefield had already vacated the room, without taking advantage of their highly improper situation. He certainly behaved like a gentlemen, but then, so did many other men, grifters and deceivers, all. He might have found her papers in the wreck or she might have murmured something in her sleep, and thus he knew Seabury was her destination. That it was also his destination was too incredulous to believe, even in this season of miracles.
It certainly was no miracle if it was his intention to apprehend her coach on the road, or kidnap her, or hold her for ransom until her relatives paid him a handsome sum. He could not know that Lord and Lady Howard were not even her relatives, as the lady was no more than her sister-in-law, the sister of Julia’s late husband. But Laurentia was a friend, and worried for Julia’s welfare. It was not either of their fault that dear Leighton hit his forehead on a low-hanging beech branch when he rode out one morning. Now both women were left with an unrelenting sense of grief and guilt that such a tragedy had happened. Could Laurentia not have detained him at the breakfast table that morning? Should Julia have held him longer in her bed?
The bond between the two women who loved Leighton was no one’s business but their own. And thus Lord Willem Wakefield was a fool if he imagined Geoffrey Howard would pay him off to secure her release. She would tell him so herself, if it came to it.
Julia rubbed the soap a bit too vigorously over her skin, as if by doing so, she could wash away her returning memories of the crash and her fears that she would freeze to death and her more immediate concerns about her rescuers. But where her skin was already rubbed raw, the rough soap burned, and she wished she had some small bar of her favorite lilac soap tucked into a pocket of her purse. She imagined it would restore her in every way, and give her strength for the next part of her journey, no matter what happened.
