by Cheryl Bolen
He stifled a laugh.
It was no short distance to the posting inn in Chelsea. Thank God she had permitted him to get them out of the freezing rain. Once they were in the carriage, he tossed them a dry rug. “Where is it you will travel by coach?”
“Lincolnshire.”
“Ah, it’s the same with me. You will also be visiting with family for Christmas?” He would be exceedingly happy to see his family, especially his mother. He’d been worried about her ever since she’d suffered apoplexy, even though his sister had taken excellent care of her.
It saddened him to think of all that had changed since he’d left England. Papa had died, and now Philip’s brother was the new marquess. Georgiana had fallen in love and married a duke. And, thankfully, Mama was regaining strength every day. Georgiana said she was finally able to walk without her cane.
“A friend, actually.”
“Allow me to introduce myself,” he said. He always felt a bit deceitful when he abandoned both his aristocratic and his military titles, but he found doing so more easily put others at ease. “I’m Mr. Fenton.”
She did not respond for a moment. Finally, she said. “Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Fenton.”
As the coach drew near the busy inn yard, he thought of a plan that might be advantageous for the woman. “I do hope you realize I am a gentleman.”
“I do hope you are, Mr. Fenton.”
Since she obviously lacked funds to procure a hackney to take them to Chelsea, she must have precious little money. “I thought perhaps I could persuade you to share my coach to Lincolnshire. After all, it’s much warmer with the body heat of four as opposed to the body heat of one.”
“I’m afraid hiring a private coach is much more expensive than the stage coach.”
“Oh, this has already been paid for. I merely seek companionship during the journey.”
By now they had reached the inn yard brightly lit from dozens of lanterns.
She regarded him with suddenly warm blue eyes. The rigidity that had defined her these last twenty minutes vanished like the clearing of the frosty coach windows, and she smiled. “I shall remind you again, Mr. Fenton, I’m a lusty screamer.”
Chapter 2
Had she taken complete leave of her senses? Charlotte had agreed not only to put her life but also the lives of her children into the hands of a total stranger. For all she knew, this Mr. Fenton could intend to sell them into white slavery, whatever that might entail. Flashing into her brain were visions of herself in the harem of a round-bellied Oriental potentate with a turban on his head and curly-toed slippers.
Though, she must own, Mr. Fenton did seem in every way to be a perfect gentleman. He had been most concerned over her family’s exposure to the brutally cold weather.
As was she. Even after the passage of so many years, her stomach still dropped at the memory of lung fever sucking the life from her younger brother one particularly chilly winter. She could still envision Jackie’s tiny body lying in the rough-hewn wooden coffin in their parlor—the same parlor she avoided for years thereafter. During this past year she had borne much but she did not think she could bear the loss of one of her children.
“Where has that nice man gone?” Susan asked. The three members of her family fit nicely on one seat of Mr. Fenton’s coach, the children on either side of her.
Was Mr. Fenton a nice man? He gave every indication of being so. He certainly acted like a gentleman. He spoke like a gentlemen. And if appearances were any indication, he must be a gentleman. It wasn’t just that he dressed as would a man of good taste, fine breeding, and some degree of wealth. His whole demeanor bespoke a man of principle.
She told herself she was not being swayed because he was uncommonly handsome. Which he most certainly was. He was larger than average and of proportions which she deemed most men would envy. His stylishly cropped hair was quite dark, as were his eyes, yet there was nothing menacing or brooding about those dark eyes. Quite the opposite. Like the rest of him, they were friendly and solid and reassuring.
“I think he’s gone inside the inn,” Charlotte said as she gathered each of her children close. He’d told his driver to wait while he put up the hood to his great coat and hurried into the posting inn. “I must tell you whilst he’s away we’ve got to keep a secret from him. It’s rather a game we must play.”
“Oh, jolly good,” Eddie said. “I love games.”
“What is the game?” Susan asked, excitement in her voice.
“We mustn’t tell Mr. Fenton our last name is Hale.” That shopkeeper on the Strand knew Mrs. Hale had stolen Eddie’s coat. Charlotte would be arrested. Had Mr. Fenton come to arrest her? He had called out her name. Was he some kind of magistrate looking for Mrs. Hale? Was he looking to receive a reward from the shopkeeper?
She’d frozen when he’d called out her name. For an instant, she’d wanted to deny she was Mrs. Hale, but she knew one or both of her children would have quickly corrected the falsehood. So she had merely shaken her head, hoping her offspring were too cold and miserable to have noticed the little movement.
“What name will we use?” Susan asked.
“I thought it might be easy for you two to remember Oliver’s grandfather’s last name.”
“Mr. Leeming!” Eddie said.
“Only you needn’t say Mister,” Charlotte patted her son. “You’re to pretend your name’s Eddie Leeming.”
“Then I can be bwothers with Oliver!”
“Let’s not bring Oliver into this.”
“And I shall be Susan Leeming.”
Charlotte nodded. “And I’m Mrs. Leeming.”
“How fun,” Susan said. “Mama?”
“Yes, love?”
“Who is it we’re to spend Christmas with in Linkshire?”
“Lincolnshire. All you need to know is that she’s a very kind lady. Very kind and very beautiful.” It wouldn’t do to tell Susan the lady was a duchess. That was too close to being a princess or a queen. It was too much to expect an impressionable little girl like Susan not to gush about such a connection, and such gushing was the last thing Charlotte wanted.
Last year, at the behest of her brother, who had served with Edward, the Duchess of Fordham had left her home in Lincolnshire to bring Charlotte the heartbreaking news of Edward’s death. The beautiful duchess had gone far beyond what her brother had asked, and before she left Charlotte’s lodgings had extracted a promise. “Give me your word, my dear Mrs. Hale, that if ever you’re in need, for anything, you will come to me at Gosingham Hall.”
Charlotte had clung to her pride for long enough.
The coach door opened, water spraying into the coach. A basket heaped with food was shoved in first, then Mr. Fenton hoisted in his dripping self before slamming the door shut. “I thought if we could eat in the coach we could save a bit of time. I hope to be able to stop for the night at Bury St. Edmunds.”
She had forgotten to account for the cost of a room at an inn. It was a very good thing Mr. Fenton had offered to share his coach with them. And his food.
Eddie’s eyes rounded at the basket heaped with food, and he began to dive in.
“Eddie!” Charlotte chided. “You’re being most impolite.”
“Oh, no,” Mr. Fenton protested, eyeing the boy. “Go right ahead and help yourself to whatever you like.”
“I pwomise not to eat with my mouth open,” Eddie said. “Mama says that’s being impolite.”
Their benefactor had certainly spared no expense. It had been a very long time since Charlotte had seen so much food. There were generous chunks of mutton, small loaves of fresh bread, hunks of cheese, steaming legs of capon, and Eddie managed to retrieve a handful of sweetmeats from the bottom of the basket.
Mr. Fenton’s eyes narrowed at the sweets. “You must save those for last.”
Eddie dropped them, grabbed the capon, which was larger than his head, and began to attack it.
“After you,” Mr. Fenton said to her.
From his deep pockets, Mr. Fenton produced some bottles. “I’ve brought milk for the children and ale for the adults.”
“You’re very thoughtful, and I’m exceedingly grateful,” Charlotte said.
For the next fifteen minutes rain pounded on the coach as it rattled over the streets of the metropolis, and the four of them ate. Charlotte was too grateful to be embarrassed over Eddie’s insatiable appetite. The poor darling had been starving!
By the time the crowded terraces had given way to countrified landscape, Eddie started bouncing around in his seat. “Mama?”
“Yes, love?”
“I have to winkiepiddle.”
“Oh, dear.”
“I think I understand,” a grinning Mr. Fenton said.
For which Charlotte was profoundly grateful.
“Leave it to me.” Their host pounded against the roof of the coach, and the carriage soon halted.
Charlotte met Mr. Fenton’s gaze and sighed. “I hate for you to have to get wet.”
“I have the same needs as your son.”
When he and Eddie returned a few moments later, Eddie was all smiles. “My new coat is vastly warmer than my old coat, Mama.”
“A very fine coat it is,” Mr. Fenton said. “I shouldn’t wonder if people won’t take you for a soldier when you’re wearing it.”
Eddie sat up taller and beamed, never for a moment doubting the veracity of Mr. Fenton’s observation.
Charlotte felt wretchedly guilty for having stolen the coat, but had she to do it all over again she would have done the same thing. If her ship ever came in, she vowed she would go back to that shop on The Strand and repay the shopkeeper. With interest.
“When I gwow up, I’m going to be a soldier. I’m going to be in the cavalry.”
“That’s because my bwother loves horses.”
Mr. Fenton gave Eddie his full attention. “Is that so? Do you ride?”
Eddie scowled up at his mother. “Mama says I’m too little.”
The gentleman nodded. “You are a wee bit young.”
“Will this coach change horses during our journey?” Eddie asked. “Mama says they get too tired to travel all day.”
“Since we got such a late start, we’ll be stopping for the night, so they’ll get a nice long rest while we’re sleeping, but tomorrow we shall need to change the horses.”
“Can I watch?” Eddie asked.
“Of course.”
“Where will we sleep?” Susan looked from her mother to Mr. Fenton.
He answered. “We won’t know the name of the place until we arrive, but we’ll find a posting inn in the town of Bury St. Edmunds.”
Eddie gave him a quizzing look. “What’s a posting inn?”
“It’s a large place that offers rooms to rent for a night for both people and horses, and they also offer food,” Charlotte answered.
“But I cannot sleep without Augusta!” There was panic in Susan’s voice.
Mr. Fenton’s brows lowered. “Who’s Augusta?”
“Her doll,” Charlotte said. She squeezed her daughter’s shoulder softly. “Of course you’ll be able to sleep, love. You and I and Eddie will all share a bed, and we’ll be as cozy as can be.”
“But I want Augusta. I never sleep without her.” Susan attempted to stomp her foot even though her legs were too short to reach the floor of the coach.
Now was not the time to tell her daughter she would never again see Augusta. Susan would have to learn to settle for another doll. One day. Was Augusta special because she was Susan’s only doll or because Edward had given it to her?
Slowly but painfully, they were losing every tangible thing Edward had left them. And slowly and painfully, it tore Charlotte’s heart to shreds.
“Think of what fun we’ll have at the posting inn! It will be an adventure.”
“I want to go to my own house,” Eddie said, working his lower lip into a pout.
“Oh, but soldiers must get used to sleeping in new places,” Mr. Fenton said. “Sometimes they even have to sleep with their horses.”
The lad looked up hopefully at his mother. “Could I sleep with the horses?”
“Not on a cold night like tonight. The three of us are going to bury ourselves under the covers in a nice warm bedchamber at the inn. In fact, I cannot wait to get there.” Charlotte pulled each weary child close beneath the thickness of the rug, and before long, the movement of the coach lulled them to sleep. Eddie’s head rested in her lap, and Susan’s sweet little face pressed into her ribs.
“I pray the roads hold until we make Bury St. Edmunds,” Mr. Fenton said, his voice low.
“Me too,” she whispered. In this kind of relentless rain, the roads could soon be mired in impassable ruts. And then what would they do? She began to regret that they had finished all the food in the basket. What if they were trapped in the coach for days?
In situations like this, she appreciated the presence of a man. Even if he was a stranger.
“So, will you be meeting your husband in Lincolnshire?”
She did not answer for a moment. “I’m a widow.”
“I’m sorry. It must be difficult raising the children on your own.”
She nodded solemnly.
“Might I know your name?”
“I’m Mrs. Leeming.”
“I see. And when did Mr. Leeming die?”
“Last year,” she said in a low voice, then looked up at him. “What about you, Mr. Fenton? Will you be meeting your wife in Lincolnshire?”
“Alas, I’ve never been married.”
“Then you’ll be visiting family?”
“Indeed I will. I haven’t seen my family in many years and am greatly looking forward to seeing them again, especially given that my mother has not been well.”
“I’m certain that having you home will be the best possible tonic to improve your mother’s condition.”
“I hope you’re right.”
She wondered what had kept him from home for many years but did not want to pry into his personal matters.
“So, are you originally from Lincolnshire?” she asked.
“No, that’s where my sister makes her home now that she’s married. This will be the first time I’ve seen her new home—or met her husband.”
“So she’s newly wed?”
He shrugged. “Fairly so.”
“No nieces or nephews yet for you? You seem so good with children.”
“Thank you for saying so. I’ve not been around children very much. Actually, my brother has a son and daughter, but I’ve not met them either. As I said, it’s been many years since I’ve seen my family.”
“I am sure your niece and nephew will adore you.”
“I’m not altogether certain I will see them at Christmas. My sister-in-law can be a bit difficult, I’m told. She may not be able to be induced to leave her house to travel to my sister’s at Christmas.”
“How troublesome for your poor mother!”
He nodded. “Indeed. Especially since she’s quite devoted to her little Hellions—her special name for her grandchildren.”
Charlotte laughed. “I can well understand. I could call mine that sometimes. Especially Eddie.”
“He’s delightful.”
“Thank you.” She sighed and softened her voice. “You have been very kind, and I’m most indebted to you.”
“Reserve your judgment until we reach Lincolnshire. If we do,” he said grimly as the coach came to a stop and he peered through the foggy glass.
Chapter 3
He swiped at the window to clear it and was relieved to see the yellow glow of lanterns illuminating a sign for the Lamb and Staff. They must have arrived at Bury St. Edmunds. And without a single mishap. “I believe we’ve reached our destination.”
Neither child had awakened. “Pray, don’t awaken the children,” he added. �
��They must be exhausted.”
He briefly left the coach to instruct the coachman to procure rooms, and then he returned to find that the children were still fast asleep. “Allow me to carry the lad.” Philip whisked Eddie into his arms. Even though he was shorter than his slender sister, the sturdily built boy had to considerably outweigh her. Mrs. Leeming gathered up little Susan, then stepped down from the carriage.
Despite that it was still raining in great torrents, the coachman had managed to angle the coach under the entry arch in such a manner that they were able to stay relatively dry when moving from the interior of the carriage to interior of the inn via a doorway in the arch.
Their driver met them inside the door with their room keys. “The missus and children are to be in Room 232, and you, sir, are across the corridor in Room 231. The stairs are located behind the tap room.”
Raucous noises from the tap room awakened the children. Eddie looked up at Philip and started to cry. “I want my Mama.”
“I’m right here, darling,” she said soothingly. “We’ll soon be in our room. It will be great fun.” The lad pouted when he saw that his mother carried his sister.
“Would you prefer to walk?” Philip asked. He hated that the boy disliked being carried by him.
Instead of answering, Eddie eyed the room full of strange cackling men, and his grip on Philip’s neck tightened. The poor lad was frightened.
The narrow wooden stairway that led to their chambers was only dimly lit from a single sconce, and each ascending tread creaked with the barest step. He could only imagine how frightening it must be for these children who had probably never before left their home in London.
When they reached the corridor, it was frightfully dark. Could the innkeeper not have sent a chambermaid with a candle? He set down the lad and attempted to insert the key into the door for 232, but it was not easy, given that he could not see what he was doing. It took several tries before he succeeded.
His temper flared when he finally pushed open the door and saw that the room was in complete darkness. No attempt had been made to start a fire on this, the coldest night of the year. “This is not acceptable,” he snapped. “We’ll find another place.”
