A Melody for Rose (The Wednesday Club Book 2)

by Sahara Kelly

  He mulled over this strange occurrence until the carriage slowed and he saw the signpost directing them to Webbleton, their destination. The change in motion awoke the maid, and she blushed as she briefly apologised to Rose for falling asleep.

  Rose brushed it aside. “It’s a tribute to my Lord’s fine carriage,” she smiled. “I confess to feeling quite relaxed myself.”

  “And I believe we may have arrived, Miss Rose,” said Miles, peering out of the window.

  Rose glanced at the maid. “Jenny, we have one stop to make before reaching Lady Mountfort’s. A quick visit to a music shop. Since we will not be staying long, you may remain here in the carriage. No sense in you getting cold…”

  Jenny blinked. “If you say so, Miss. Can I stretch me legs a bit? Always get cramped after a long ride…”

  “Of course,” nodded Rose. “But stay near the carriage, all right? I doubt we’ll be more than fifteen or twenty minutes?” Rose shot a questioning glance at Miles.

  He agreed. “No more than that. And here we are.”

  The coach drew up in front of a small shop window, nestled beneath a thatched roof from which hung a discreet sign bearing the silhouette of a bird—a lark, Miles assumed.

  Within moments, he and Rose were walking toward the door.

  “Let me handle this, if you would?” Miles touched her elbow.

  She frowned. “Why? It’s my music at risk here, Miles…”

  “I know that, sweetheart, but this is the country now. There are ways of dealing with countryfolk, and most of them have to do with the traditional way of thinking…”

  “In other words, women are somewhat simple and matters such as this should be left to a man?” Her lip curled.

  He grinned. “I’m afraid so, yes. We don’t want to frighten whoever is inside. And you might.”

  She rolled her eyes, but nodded. “All right. Let’s see how it goes.”

  There were lights burning inside, clearly visible through the front window, so Miles knocked on the door and then opened it. “Hullo?”

  “Come right on in, sir,” answered a voice from the back of the room. An older man emerged, wiping his hands on a rather grubby towel. “And what might ye be wanting in the way of printing today?”

  “You’re a printer?” Miles looked puzzled. “We understood you were Lark Publishing…”

  The man nodded. “I am that, sir.” He bowed his head. “James Lark’s me name. I print all kinds of things. M’wife suggested I call meself Lark Publishing. Sounds more official.”

  “So you’re really a printer, then, Mr Lark?” Rose stared around her at the boxes and stacks of paper.

  “Yes, Ma’am. And a good one, too, if I may be allowed to say so.” He squared his shoulders. “From books, to plays, to music. If you brings it to us, we’ll make it into a proper document and send as many copies as you wants wherever you wants.”

  His slight country accent was soft and pleasing, and Miles was hard pressed to see this man as a purveyor of stolen goods. “Mr Lark, we were wondering if you could help us answer some questions about a piece of music that you printed recently.”

  “Be happy to, sir.” The man smiled. “I loves me work. What would you like to know?”

  Rose reached inside her cloak and removed the rolled papers. “This piece, sir. I would like to know the origin if possible…the source? How you came by it?”

  “Let me see here,” he said, making sure his hands were clean before touching it.

  The clouds were darkening, so he lit another branch of candles and spread the sheets out on the desk in front of him. “Ah yes. I remember this one. Pretty tune. M’wife sings with the church choir, you know. She picked out the melody as we was printing it.”

  “It is indeed a pretty tune, as you say. But can you recall who brought it to you?”

  Mr Lark’s forehead wrinkled as he took a few moments to think about it. “Well, now, I reckon it was one of Sir Fredrick Aldredge’s lads what brung it,” he said.

  “Aldredge?” Miles’s eyebrows shot up. “He has servants bringing you things?”

  “That’s right, sir. All kinds of different things. Music now and again, books mostly.” He leaned forward. “And pretty bad ones, I’ll tell you that. M’wife likes a bit of a read now and again, an’ she’ll take a story before we prints it, just to make sure it’s all correct like. Some of ‘em?” He shook his head. “She says they’re awful.”

  “Do you have other…what can I call them…suppliers?”

  Lark nodded. “I do, sir. Nobody’s banging down me door, but I get at least three or four jobs a month. Some months, like in the summer, it gets busy.” He grinned. “I reckon those country house parties get a bit boring. People got to have summat to keep themselves occupied, so they write books. I’m not objecting…”

  “But you print them anyway?” Rose asked.

  “That’s our job, Ma’am. If a London publisher wants it, I’ll print it for them at a good price. I have many contacts in town…I used to have a printing house there, but it got too rich for my blood, and m’wife wasn’t doing well in town air. She’s doing much better out here and to be honest, I’m far happier with birds outside m’windows rather than soot and stinks.” He shrugged. “’Tis easier and cheaper to work out here. My contacts in town appreciate the savings.”

  “If I may pry a little,” said Miles gently, “how does the process work?”

  “Well now, when I moved here, word got out I was an experienced printer, and that I keeps in touch with all my London friends—publishers and distributors and the like. I got a couple of books from locals, and one was good enough that I thought London might be interested. And that’s how it started, really.” He shrugged. “Just lucky. Now they regularly let me know what they’re lookin’ for. So if I was to get a book come in that fits what they want, then I send a bit of it along, just for a look-see. They know my charges, so they come up with an offer for the seller and I pass that along. If it’s accepted, then when London sends the money, my fee comes out of it, I print it and off it goes. The money stuff is done through a draft at the bank, of course. I have to go to Malmsey, but it’s much easier. Just walk in with the letters, show ‘em to the man behind the counter and go home with me money.”

  “That works for music, too? You found a music publisher in London who was interested?”

  “Yes indeed, sir, although that end is more about distributors than publishers,” replied Lark. “I don’t work with them so much. They made the usual enquiries and we gave ‘em our rates for the printing of it…” he gestured to the music, “the runner brought me the original, I sent a note off to town, and a pretty quick reply on that one, I must say. So I printed it, sent it off, and a little while later I got a notice that my fees were ready and would I print another two dozen copies of it. That settles it for me.”

  “And when it goes to people like Selwyn Dunstable? In London?” He touched the music again. “I paid him for it…”

  “Dunno, sir, to be honest. I just print the stuff.”

  “So you don’t receive payment from London purchasers for the item itself, only the printing costs?” Rose emphasised her point.

  “That’s right, Ma’am. The bank gets notified of what goes to me. It’s all handled by them, which is a good thing for those of us not too good with money. I’ve had no trouble getting me payments at all.”

  Miles looked at Rose, who stared back, her expression of confusion mirroring his own.

  “Well, thank you, Mr Lark,” she smiled. “You’ve been a great help. And good luck with your business.”

  “Thank you, Ma’am, Sir. Anytime you have anything needin’ printing, I hopes you’ll keep us in mind.”

  Gathering up the music, Rose smiled and turned for the door, as Miles echoed her thanks.

  Once in the street, both stood there for a moment or two, Miles in shock, Rose still looking very puzzled. Then a fat raindrop splattered onto his nose and he grabbed Rose’s hand, hurrying her to the c
arriage and shoving her inside without delay.

  “Sorry about this, Davis,” he shouted to his driver. “You’re looking to get a bit wet, I’m afraid. Head for Mountfort Meadow. It’s about five miles south of here.”

  “Aye aye, milord,” answered the man on the box, gathering the reins.

  “And spring ‘em,” called Miles as he shut the carriage door.

  It took off with a lurch and all three passengers grabbed the handles, the seat and whatever else they could find. Rose grabbed Miles’s arm, which was quite acceptable. Jenny the maid grabbed his knee, which wasn’t quite so acceptable but he overlooked it when she realised what she’d done and blushed a fiery red.

  “Mountfort Meadow?” asked Rose when she got her breath back.

  “Yes. Definitely. I need to see my aunt. It’s now become not a choice but a matter of importance.

  “Why?”

  “Because, my dear, Sir Freddie Aldredge, the man sending so much work Lark’s way, is one of my aunt’s lovers.”

  “Um…” Rose blinked. “He’s what?”

  Miles sighed. “It’s rather complicated.”

  Rose promptly grinned. “Oh good. I like complicated. It makes life more interesting.”

  He shook his head, a matching grin on his face. “In that case, you are about to be utterly and completely captivated.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Rose clung to the carriage seat as they rocked and swayed their way over sodden lanes. The rain had gone from a shower to a steady downpour within minutes, and she spared a thought of sympathy for the driver and the horses.

  Miles was a solid presence next to her, but Jenny was not looking happy at all.

  “Are you all right?” Rose touched the girl’s hand as it clutched the cushion.

  “A bit queasy, Miss,” she whispered, her face white.

  The carriage slowed a little, then came to a stop, and Jenny sucked in a breath of air, gasped it back out and then dived for the carriage door, opening it, jumping out and running behind the nearest bushes.

  “Oh dear,” said Rose. “It never occurred to me she might be travel sick.”

  Miles shrugged. “In this weather, and on this road, I’m not surprised. It’s always been a bumpy ride to Mountfort Meadow.”

  “Is that a light?” Rose leaned out of the door and peered into the gloom. “It is. Perhaps we can find some shelter there for a little while.”

  “We’re not that far…” Miles leaned out as well.

  The driver rounded the carriage. “Not sure we can go much further, milord. Road’s terrible and gettin’ worse.”

  His words were followed by ominously unpleasant noises from behind the bushes.

  “Yes, well, you may be right.” Miles sighed. “Stay here, Rose. No sense in both of us getting wet. I’ll go and see if that cottage might be able to give us shelter.” He looked at his driver. “Keep an eye on them. Don’t leave the carriage.”

  “Of course not, milord.” The driver nodded.

  She watched him walk toward the little light, hoping that it might offer some kind of respite from the miserable rain, which drummed on the roof of the carriage. “Would you like to sit in here for a little while?”

  The man turned and smiled at her, ignoring the steady stream of water cascading from his hat and down over his shoulders and back. “Nah, but thank you, Miss. I’m as wet as can be right now. Can’t get no wetter’n that, so I might as well just stand her. His Lordship’ll be back in two shakes, I’ll be bound.”

  Sure enough, it did seem like only two shakes when Miles reappeared, as wet as his coachman. “It’s a small cottage. Nice people, but not a lot of room. So I suggested that Jenny and Dobson take shelter and we make our way on to Mountfort Meadow, and they were happy to agree. They’ve taken the brunt of the journey so far, it only seems fair.”

  Rose digested that news. “You do know that I cannot drive a carriage…”

  “But I can,” he grinned. “Now come along, Dobson.” He turned. “Miss Jenny? Are you still with us?”

  The maid emerged from behind the bushes, pale, bedraggled and presenting an accurate picture of utter misery. “Barely, sir,” she whispered.

  “We’ll get you dry and warm in no time. Dobson here is going to go with you to that nice little cottage just a few steps up the lane. And you can settle yourself there until you feel better. How’s that?”

  Jenny managed a wobbly curtsey. “Thank you, sir.” She looked worried. “But Miss Rose…”

  “Miss Rose will be just fine.” Rose answered for herself. “Now here’s your bag, Jenny. We’ll send a message from Mountfort Meadow when we are ready to return. You be a good girl now, and perhaps you can help whoever lives in the cottage. Heed Mr Dobson.”

  “Yes, Miss.” Jenny looked relieved as the burly man came up to her and took her arm, tucking her cloak around her as best he could.

  “Right then. Off with you.”

  “Don’t turn ‘er over, milord,” Dobson called back over his shoulder.

  “Have a little faith, man.” Miles pushed his hat down firmly on his head.

  Rose fastened her bonnet tightly beneath her chin.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Miles leaned in to the carriage.

  “I’m coming to sit on the box with you. Do you think I’d let you have such an adventure while I’m sitting alone in here, bouncing around like a pebble in a waterfall, all by myself?”

  “You certainly will not.”

  “Nonsense.” She tucked her gloves into her sleeves. “I have always wanted to ride on top of the carriage, Miles. And do you think I care about the rain? It’s rain, for God’s sake. Water. It’s not going to bother me at all.” She looked at him, her gaze beseeching him to understand. “Give me this moment? Let me be a bit wild? Nobody else ever has and I don’t know if anyone else ever will…”

  He looked uncertain, a little worried.

  She moved to him and put her hand on his shoulder. “Please?”

  He sighed. “I should have known I’d lose that argument. Come on then. But one peep out of you about being wet or cold, and it’s right back inside you go at that exact second.”

  She jumped into his arms with a delighted laugh. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

  He slid her to the ground, taking advantage of their closeness by dropping a quick kiss on her warm nose with lips that were already cooled by the rain and chilly temperatures.

  Dobson and Jenny had disappeared down the murky lane, so Miles climbed onto the box and held out his hand.

  Rose gathered her skirts in a quite scandalous fashion and clambered up to her seat beside him. “This is going to be so much fun, Miles,” she chuckled. “Let’s go. I can’t wait to see Mountfort.”

  He clicked the reins, handling them with comfortable expertise, as Rose fully expected him to. He’d not take on such a task unless he knew he could master it.

  The going was slow, though, even slower than before. The road, such as it was at this point, was overrun by small streams and occasionally they had to stop so that Miles could push branches out of the way.

  He was adamant about her remaining where she was, and on that point she could only agree. Her skirts would hamper her and her boots weren’t made for wading.

  She was already soaked through, but the excitement of sitting beside him as he steered the horses further down the lane…well it was quite powerful, and she almost broke into a merry song. But she caught herself just in time. Arriving at Miles’s aunt’s home in the middle of an impressive storm, singing…yes, that was not really the sort of image she should be presenting.

  “I hope your aunt won’t mind us dropping in like this,” she shouted at Miles, making herself heard over the noise of the wind and the rain.

  “She will be delighted.” He kept his eyes on the team. “I should warn you though.”

  A fierce gust rocked the carriage and Rose grabbed for her bonnet, hanging on to the sodden brim. “About what?”

 
“She is…well, you could say she’s a little eccentric…”

  As he spoke, the carriage rounded a bend and the bushes and trees disappeared to reveal a house. Or possibly a middle European castle that had been reduced in size and dumped into the forests of England.

  There were turrets, quite a few of them, ivy wreathing some of the side walls, and fanciful topiary creatures ringing the driveway. Rose gasped at the enormous gargoyles positioned either side of the front steps, and also the massive doors that could have withstood an invading army.

  “Oh my,” she breathed. “It’s…”

  “Yes, that’s pretty much everyone’s reaction to it.” He pulled the horses to a halt, pleased to see that there were lights within. A very loud creaking sound pierced the air and the mammoth door swung open.

  Standing in the doorway was a man, or at least Rose thought it might be a man. She blinked. He had to be well over six feet tall, and nearly that much around. To say he was huge was an understatement.

  He was also completely bald, a fact made obvious as he bowed low. “Lord Linfield,” he boomed. “Please enter. Your conveyance will be cared for.”

  Rose looked at Miles, her eyes wide.

  “That’s Boris. The butler.”

  “It is?” She gulped.

  “He’s very gentle. Only eats one cow a day…”

  Rose wasn’t quite sure if that was a jest. Then she saw Miles’s lips twitch and shook her head. “We’re both soaking wet. This is a fairy-tale castle not that far from London and apparently has an ogre for a butler. And you’re teasing me. You should be ashamed.”

  “I should,” he smirked. “But the best is yet to come.”

  *~~*~~*

  “Hallo Boris, you old rummy. How’s my aunt?”

  Miles grinned up at the massive butler who bowed back. “She is well, my Lord. And will be enchanted to see you. I fear she might be slipping into a megrim with this terrible weather.”

  He and Rose stood and dripped on the serviceable mat inside the front door, and Rose’s eyes were wide as she tried to soak in the magnificence surrounding her.