by Martha Keyes
“Well,” Samuel said, trying to keep his tone cordial and light as he stood and smiled, “I do not wish to keep you from the myriad of things you no doubt have to do. I merely wished to make myself known to you and welcome you to Rushbury.”
The Gilmours rose with him. “We are delighted to make your acquaintance, Mr. Derrick.”
He bowed, and Sir Clyde saw him to the front door, with Samuel only half-listening to the polite small-talk as he accompanied him.
His pace as he returned to the parsonage was brisk, his brows drawn together, and his eyes on the ground. He had spoken the day before of the eventful spring they were likely to have with so many newcomers among them, but he had hardly realized how true his words were likely to be.
“And what’s got you in a brown study today?”
Samuel looked up and halted in his tracks, confronted with Burke. He sighed. “I’ve just come from Amblethorne.”
Burke nodded his understanding and began walking next to him. “I take it Sir Clyde is not the type of person you were hoping he would be?”
“No, nor the type of person you were hoping for.”
Burke’s brow puzzled, and his head tilted to the side in a question as they came upon the gate to the garden.
“If they don’t take to you and your approach,” Samuel said, “I fear they will have no compunction at all in replacing you with someone they do like—an outsider, no doubt.” He shook his head and sighed.
Burke entered the garden gate, folding his arms and staring at the ground. He brought up a hand to rub his chin.
“I had the distinct impression,” said Samuel, “that their good humor extends only to those who do not cross them.”
Chapter 3
For a journey that promised to change Georgiana’s life in almost every respect, the first three-quarters of it were surprisingly dull. Nothing of account happened between London and Rotherham, and there was only so much conversation to be had with her father when he was constantly nodding off to sleep between every change of horses.
Her mother had been very concerned that she employ a maid immediately upon arrival at Granchurch, but Georgiana had every intention of taking her time. If the village of Rushbury was as rural as she had been led to believe, there could be no reason to hurry. Perhaps she would even find that the cost was unnecessary.
When she and her father parted ways at The Crown in Rotherham, she watched the sad light that gleamed in his misty eyes and felt the reluctance in her father’s arms as they pulled away from their embrace.
He sniffed and blinked rapidly, putting a finger behind his glasses to rub at his eyes. “I know, Georgie, that your life has not taken the path that you or I had perhaps anticipated it would, but I want you to know that a part of my heart has been grateful that you have not yet married.” He smiled pathetically and put a gloved hand to her cheek. “It has meant that I have had more time with you myself, and I cannot find it in me to regret that.”
Georgiana emitted a tearful laugh and pulled him in for another embrace. “Nor I.”
“Give Sara my love,” he said, planting a kiss on her cheek and pulling away. “I know you will take care of her.”
He helped her into the post-chaise, where Jane sat waiting. One of the side pockets inside bulged at the bottom, heavy with the weight of the pistol Georgiana had promised her mother she knew how to use.
The chaise pulled away from The Crown and onto the lane north toward York.
Jane was an easy companion, following Georgiana’s lead in conversation and silence, and the first two stages of the day passed without incident.
Turning north at Rastrick, though, brought them onto roads so choppy that Georgiana and Jane were both required to stabilize themselves using the sides of the carriage to keep from sliding all about.
Five miles after the last change of horses, a deafening blast sounded, and the carriage came to a halt.
Georgiana shared wide-eyed glances with Jane as a loud voice sounded.
“Hand over the gee-gaws!” Footsteps approached the chaise, and Georgiana slid over on the seat toward the side pocket, pulling out the cold, hard metal handle of Archie’s spare pistol with trembling hands.
The door to the chaise opened—less violently than Georgiana had expected it to—and a man whose face was covered and whose hat was pulled down deep onto his forehead peered in. His hat tugged upward with his eyebrows as his gaze settled on the occupants inside the chaise. Apparently he was not accustomed to finding two women alone in such equipages.
Jane cowered, curled up in the very corner, with her legs pulled up onto the seat, an arm pulled up to her chin, and the other arm extended with Georgiana’s reticule in hand. No wonder Mama had been hesitant to allow Georgiana to finish the journey with no one but Jane for company.
But Georgiana was not going to allow some ruffian to send her into the wilds of Yorkshire without her reticule or, if Jane had her way, likely all of Georgiana’s most valuable possessions.
Forcing her hands to remain steady, she leveled the pistol at the man. “I assure you that I will pull this trigger if you so much as flinch.”
The man’s eyes widened and his hand drew back from the outstretched reticule as he moved his head back out of the chaise.
“I am a very fine shot,” she said, perjuring herself as she forced away thoughts of her questionably fruitful lessons with Archie last summer. “But you may put my words to the test if you wish.”
The man swallowed, his eyes crossing slightly as he stared at the pistol barrel she pushed closer toward him.
“If I’d’ve known it were two ladies, ma’am,” he said, backing up more, “I wouldn’t’ve….” He swallowed again.
She didn’t believe him for a second. If she hadn’t been pointing a pistol at him, she believed he would have gladly run off with everything he could manage to hold in his arms. And his calling her “ma’am” stoked her temper dangerously.
“Go,” she said, pleased with how stable her voice sounded. “You have ten seconds before I shoot this pistol.”
He stepped back and turned, moving out of sight. A moment later, a clucking noise sounded, followed by galloping hooves, the sound of which grew more faint with every passing second.
Georgiana’s hands shook as she laid the pistol down on the seat beside her, shutting her eyes to compose herself.
A sob sounded, and Jane crumpled in half, sobbing into her hands.
“It’s all right, Jane,” Georgiana said, unable to prevent the clipped quality to her voice. She moved to sit beside the maid and laid a comforting hand on her back.
The postilion appeared at the door, looking very flustered. He looked little more than a youth, no doubt new to his position, and his throat bobbed. “Are you well?”
Georgiana bit her tongue to keep from asking why in heaven’s name he hadn’t used the blunderbuss in his possession. “Yes, thankfully my brother had the forethought to send his pistol with me—” she nodded her head toward it “—or else I think we must have been quite done up.”
The postilion nodded, swallowing again so that the lump in his throat dipped behind his cravat and then reemerged. “Beggin’ your pardon, miss, but the blunderbuss jammed when I pulled the trigger—” he held up the offending article in his hand, and Georgiana reared away from the open end, which pointed toward her and Jane in the postilion’s careless hand “—and then, before I knew what was happening, there was a man pointing his own pistol at me so that I hadn’t a moment to check what might have kept it from working.”
Georgiana took in a breath and manufactured an understanding smile. He was clearly shaken up by the encounter, and taking out her fears and frustrations on him would do no good at all. “I am sure none of us anticipated such a thing to happen. But we are all safe, and that is what matters. Please forge on. I would like to arrive at Granchurch before dinner if at all possible.”
He nodded and bowed deeply, shutting the chaise door firmly.
Jane had c
omposed herself somewhat, but her body convulsed with a large, irrepressible sniff every few seconds.
Georgiana didn’t know whether to comfort her or wring her neck. Where would they be if Georgiana had been as poor-spirited as her maid had been?
The bumpiness of the road did nothing to assuage her temper, and the worst of it was that she knew that she had only herself to blame, so confident had she been that the journey would occur without hiccups.
The roughness of the current road gave way to one worse—impossible though it had seemed to Georgiana that any track of road could be more neglected. Her only consolation as she jostled to and fro, unable to anticipate the movements of the chaise, was that they were within a couple miles of Granchurch House. The end was in sight, and not a moment too soon, for she didn’t know how she could abide much more of such a rough journey.
A particularly large and unexpected dip sent Georgiana off her seat, her head hitting the carriage roof, crushing her bonnet. The jolt was accompanied by a creak and then the unmistakable sound of splintering wood. The chaise tipped precariously before toppling over. Georgiana and Jane collided against the side, smashed up against the window, with the door above them.
Georgiana was not the type to utter cursings, but she had to bite her tongue in this one instance, as she tried to hold herself in a way that prevented her crushing Jane.
The door opened above them, and the postilion’s pallid face appeared. A bit of the color returned when he saw both women conscious inside the chaise, but he gave another large swallow, and Georgiana was sure that the skin covering the large knob in his throat would begin to chafe against his cravat if he insisted on doing so any more.
“I…I…the road…it—”
Georgiana reached a hand up to him, keeping a tight rein on her temper. “Never mind that. It is an atrocious road and certainly not your fault that whoever runs this parish has no care at all for the poor souls required to travel upon it.”
He assisted her and then Jane up through the door, where the three of them surveyed the damage to the chaise.
Georgiana grimaced at the sight of the snapped wheel. One of the spokes jutted out awkwardly, broken as it was near the inner hub. Her eyes moved to the valises and portmanteaux, some of which had managed to stay in the box behind the chaise, others which had tumbled onto the road where clouds of dirt were still settling. She put a hand to her temple and shut her eyes, taking in a large breath before speaking. Perhaps Daphne and Archie had been right. This had been a huge mistake.
“How far are we from Rushbury, sir?” she asked the postilion, who was surveying the damage with the most pitiable fear in his eyes. “Sir?”
He tore his eyes away from the carriage. “I believe it is but a half mile or so, though I have never been there.”
“There is nothing for it, I fear,” she said on a resigned sigh. “We must walk the remaining distance to Granchurch House, though you”—she looked to the postilion—“will need to go to the village to find the nearest wheelwright.”
He nodded.
“We must all carry as much as we can manage, for it is quite clear”—her nostrils flared—“that we cannot trust anyone who might come upon this wreckage to be the decent sort of people who would leave the things be.”
The postilion took up the largest of the valises, and Georgiana selected one of the mid-sized portmanteaux to carry in one hand and a larger one for the other hand—both containing articles of clothing and other items she had no wish to part with.
Perhaps Archie had been right when he told her she was not provincial enough for Yorkshire. She certainly hadn’t packed as though she were, and she was already coming to regret it. But as the alternative was to leave her belongings to whatever dubious figures frequented such an excuse for a road, she steeled herself to the prospect of carrying the heavy bags the remaining distance to Granchurch.
Georgiana found herself repenting of her ingratitude for the ride in the chaise. However bumpy and uncomfortable it had been, surely it was much better than trudging the distance as they were now obliged to do.
Chapter 4
Samuel sat on the edge of the chair next to Miss Sara Paige’s large, four-poster bed. She wore a cap to cover her gray hair, and she coughed into her hand.
“I do think that you would benefit from a bit of mild exercise, Miss Paige—a gentle, short walk outside, even.”
Miss Paige looked toward the window, a glint of sadness in her blue eyes. “It will seem silly to you, no doubt, but I cannot help thinking of Matilda. She was recovering—I am sure of it—until she ventured outside for such a walk, and it was but a week later that….”
Samuel grimaced and nodded. He doubted Miss Baxter’s death was related to her venturing outside—he suspected that it had more to do with the medieval practices of the apothecary who attended her—but he was too kind to say such a thing. Miss Paige was no hypochondriac, but he suspected that her cousin’s death had made her feel much more vulnerable than usual, and she had plenty of time to dwell on such thoughts now that she had no companion to direct them elsewhere.
“I hope you may get some good rest this evening,” he said, rising from his chair. “May I return tomorrow? To ensure that your cough is not worsening?”Another visit to Granchurch House was the last thing he wanted to be doing on a day as busy as the morrow promised to be, but he couldn’t help feeling compassion for the woman.
“Though I must remind you that I am no doctor—just a vicar who happens to have a bit of knowledge of such things. If you are truly concerned for your health, I think it behooves us to have the apothecary sent for.”
She waved a dismissive hand. “A bumpkin with no knowledge at all of what makes people ill or well.”
He chuckled softly. He couldn’t argue with her assessment. Mr. Wilson was decades behind in his care, and his brusque manner did little to endear him to those under his care.
He set his hat atop his head. “Well, I shall hope you are feeling better tomorrow. I cannot allow you to be ill for much longer. I am counting on you to assist me in welcoming the newest residents of Amblethorne to Rushbury.”
A gentle knock sounded on the half-open door of Miss Paige’s bedchamber.
A footman stepped into the room. “A Miss Georgiana Paige has arrived from London, ma’am.”
Miss Paige’s expression brightened, and she instructed the footman to have her sent up.
“I will leave you to your…” Samuel paused.
“Niece. My brother’s daughter,” Miss Paige replied.
“I will leave you to your niece, Miss Paige.”
“Thank you kindly. You are the very best of vicars. And doctors.”
He bowed and turned to leave.
He let out a gush of air through his nose as he strode down the hall. The arrival of Miss Paige’s niece was very fortunate—it was nearing dinnertime, and he could eat an ox.
“It is just up this way, miss.” The voice of the footman sailed up the stairs, and Samuel, pausing at the top, glanced at the woman following behind the servant, though she was mostly concealed by the footman’s form.
The newcomer was here. The new Miss Baxter.
Samuel’s curiosity warred for a moment with his desire to avoid interaction with strangers, particularly those from London—indeed, how long would this one last in Rushbury?
But his curiosity won out in the end. He needed to know how this woman would shift the balances of the village. Would she keep to herself, as the old Miss Baxter had done? He certainly hoped so—he hardly needed any more to worry about than the Gilmours had given him.
The footman and the woman approached the top of the stairs, her hands empty while his were laden with a valise and two portmanteaux. Samuel noted two more valises at the base of the stairs.
He nodded at the footman. “Hello, Andrew.”
Andrew smiled back and bowed deferentially.
“How is your mother?” Samuel asked. Her gout was always worst in the spring.
Andrew grimaced. “On the mend, we hope, though she still cannot walk without great pain.” His eyes shifted as if he remembered the woman behind him.
“Can I assist with your other belongings, ma’am?” Samuel asked.
The footman paused and glanced behind him. The woman moved so that she could see Samuel, and his eyebrows went up at the sight before him.
She was no ma’am. She was young—indeed, certainly younger than thirty—and even taking into account her brown hair which was both crushed and frazzled, there was something about her he found alluring. He was no judge of the latest fashions, but he had little difficulty concluding that her traveling dress—dusty and wrinkled as it was—was of the first stare. She was no great beauty, and he puzzled for a moment over what it was about her that he liked.
There was a hard set to her jaw, her face was red, and her hairline looked to be damp, a strange thing indeed given the cool March air.
She donned a very manufactured smile. “That is very kind of you, sir. I would carry them myself, you see, but I confess that I am a bit fatigued from having done so for the past mile and more.” There was a decided bite to her voice.
“Good heavens,” he said. “Did your coachman mistake the address? Or did you ride the Mail to the village?” He could hardly believe either of his own suggestions, though, for only the silliest of coachman could make such a mistake in an area as sparsely inhabited as this, and it was far less than a mile to the village from Granchurch. Perhaps the woman was simply exaggerating. She would not be the first woman to do so, by any means.
She certainly did not look like she belonged on the Mail, though.
“No,” she said. “The fault, I’m afraid, lies entirely with these things you in Yorkshire apparently call roads but which bear greater resemblance to a war zone.”
Samuel blinked twice. “Have you been to a war zone?” Samuel couldn’t help but ask the question. He didn’t know whether to be amused or exasperated by the woman before him.
She only narrowed her eyes irritably in response to his question, but he could have sworn that the slightest twitch trembled at the corner of her mouth, producing in him the strangest desire to make her laugh.
