by Godman, Jane
Once they had left the confines of the city behind, they halted at the first coaching inn, and Tom went off to discover whether the ostler or potman had any information about Sir Clive’s direction. Jack dismounted and stretched his limbs, aware of the likely effects of the forthcoming long hours he would spend in the saddle. Rosie, nose in the air, and pointedly avoiding even a glance in his direction, was infuriated to realise he had not even noticed that she was studiously ignoring him.
Tom returned and confirmed that Sir Clive’s carriage had indeed passed this way, “And he was in a mighty bad humour by all accounts. They were headed north, so it would seem that Derbyshire is his goal.”
“What of Harry?” Rosie asked anxiously.
Tom shook his head, “No sign of him, but the potman thought it strange that the ‘pig-snouted gentleman’ – his description, and mighty apt, would you not agree? – requested biscuits and lemonade and carried them out to his carriage and …” Rosie leaned forward eagerly, “… there was a dog in the carriage … a retriever. The ostler said it seemed quite agitated and barked repeatedly at him from the carriage window”
Rosie blanched. Generally, Beau was the most even tempered canine imaginable. She had only once before seen him upset, and that was when Harry, out hunting rabbits, had taken a tumble into a gravel pit and broken his arm. Beau had rushed back to the house and raised the alarm with his insistent barking and then taken her father and Tom to where Harry lay injured. No, if Beau was unhappy, there could be only one reason … Harry was in trouble. She bit her lip, “We must press on, Tom,” she insisted, and the two men mounted their steeds once again.
The road condition varied between poor and appalling, and Rosie was frustrated at the slow pace inflicted on them by the need to avoid injury to their horses from ruts and potholes. Her patience was tried further by the need to stop every ten to fifteen miles to rest the horses or change them for fresh mounts. The message was the same at every stop. “The high-handed gentleman was in a mighty hurry.” It seemed that Sir Clive, travelling by carriage, was putting more and more miles between them with every minute and none of Tom’s soothing utterances could reassure her.
With the darkening skies there came a light rain which seeped through the protection of her cloak and made her teeth chatter. They were approaching the small town of Inglebrook, when Jack gave a muttered exclamation.
“Damn it all to hell, this cursed nag has cast a shoe!”
That settled the matter. They would go no further that night.
There was a small inn set back from the main road through the centre of the town. There were no other customers in the taproom, and Mr Cooper, the landlord, bobbing obsequiously in response to Jack’s request, confirmed that he had two rooms available. He expressed some concerns that they might not be of the standard to which his esteemed guests were accustomed, at which Jack laughed, “’Lud, man! We are cold, damp and worn to the bone with tiredness. I, for one, would sleep in a cow byre if you offered it.”
He gave Rosie – by now a sad, drooping little figure – a sidelong glance from under his brows, aware that she was still furious with him for his comments earlier that day.
“Can you bring us some food?”
The landlord confirmed that he could. His lady wife having cooked, that very day, a pigeon pie and a couple of jellied ox tongues. Rosie’s complexion took on a slightly greenish tinge at the mention of these delicacies and Jack, whilst approving of them heartily for himself and Tom, asked if his young cousin could perhaps beg a bowl of soup? His forehead practically touching his knees, so abject was his bowing, Mr Cooper withdrew to make the necessary arrangements.
Jack and Tom sat on benches at a long, well-worn wooden table and Rosie, after debating for a moment or two, joined them. She deliberately sat as far away from Jack as she could in the limited space available.
“Will we reach Sheridan Hall tomorrow, Tom?” she enquired and he pulled the corners of his mouth down doubtfully.
“We should have been able to make it in two days,” he explained, “But we must find a smith for Jack’s horse in the morning before we can set off again.”
Rosie threw Jack a fulminating look, “So we would have been better off without him?”
Jack gave a short laugh and ignored her rudeness but Tom, stung at the injustice of her remark, attempted to remonstrate with her. “You are unjust, Miss Rosie! Jack has come to our aid …”
Rosie held her peace, but her indignation continued to simmer as she listened to the light-hearted banter between the two men. Mrs Cooper appeared, bright red in the face with exertion and, by the time she had finished, the table groaned with a selection of simple, but good quality, dishes. She clucked her tongue over ‘the young lad’ and fussed around Rosie in a motherly fashion. “Yonder stripling,” she informed Mr Cooper later, in a worldly-wise tone, “Is close to dropping with tiredness, but there is something troubling him too. From the way he looks fearfully at him, it has something to do with the handsome gent, you mark my words. A woman knows these things, Mr Cooper. Aye, and ‘tis a pity the lad has such a pretty, girlish face … but happen he’ll grow out of that.” She placed a steaming bowl of chicken soup in front of Rosie who eyed it gloomily.
“For the Lord’s sake stop behaving like a sulky child and eat something!” Jack snapped at her.
She opened her mouth to retort then, with a sound like an outraged kitten, threw down her spoon so that it clattered loudly across the table, leaped up and ran out into the night air. Jack picked up his fork, hesitated as though fighting an inner battle and finally, with a furious expletive, grabbed up Rosie’s cloak and followed her. Shaking his head in the manner of a long-suffering parent, Tom cut an enormous slice of pigeon pie and applied himself to it with great gusto.
The light drizzle had given way to a steady downpour and Rosie, her only thought to get away from the oppressive atmosphere of the taproom and Jack’s disapproval, quickly found she was drenched and with nowhere to go for shelter. With a little gulp of dismay, she stopped in her tracks and looked back longingly at the soft lights from the inn. But … I will not go back there to be treated like a naughty child by a man who hates me! She continued wilfully onwards, stumbling occasionally on the uneven surface of the unlit road.
“Rosie!” It was Jack’s voice calling out from some distance behind her, and her rebellious nature promptly went to war with her initial feeling of relief. Rebellion won and, veering off the road, she plunged into the inky dark hiding place offered by an expanse of trees. Immediately, she regretted her decision to leave the comparative safety of the road. The canopy of trees obscured even the pallid moonlight afforded by the scuttling clouds and she could not see as much as her own hand in front of her face.
An eerie silence overwhelmed her. The route along the road had been quiet but this was sinister. She could hear her own heart thudding uncomfortably in her ears. Dark shapes created an alien landscape which appeared to close threateningly in on her and she trod cautiously across the uneven ground, not knowing in which direction she was heading. An owl hooted and she jumped in alarm. Behind her a soft rustling in the undergrowth indicated that there were other living creatures abroad this night. Harry’s fantastic stories of wild dogs, and even wolves surviving undetected in the English countryside, came back to her and she shivered in alarm. Trying to retrace her steps proved fruitless and she ended up even deeper in the woods, panic setting in and preventing her from thinking rationally.
The sinister noises grew louder; something was stalking her. Panting, she tried to run, but the shifting sound was close and she knew that it – whatever ‘it’ might be – was just behind her. She was grabbed suddenly from behind by a strong pair of hands clasping her waist and she tumbled forward. Her assailant fell with her and landed heavily on top of her so that the breath left her body with a loud ‘oof’ sound. Desperately, she tried to struggle out from under him and could have sobbed with relief when a familiar, beloved voice growled in her ear. �
��Will you keep still … you bloody wilful little thorn-in-my-side?”
Impulsively yielding to the feelings of mingled joy and relief which swept through her – and ignoring the wet ground and the cold which seemed to penetrate her blood – Rosie turned under him so that she could hug him.
“Here, that’s quite enough of that.” Jack mocked gently, “Let us get you back to that damnable inn and get you warm and dry.” He hauled her to her feet and wrapped her in her cloak. With unerring accuracy, he led the way through the dense foliage and back onto the road. Keeping a comforting arm about her shoulders, he hugged her close against his side and said quietly.
“We will find him, you know.”
Reassured by his confidence, and touched that he understood the fears which had caused her ill temper, Rosie nodded.
Back at the inn, Tom was still seated in the taproom where they had left him, and it was apparent he had made some serious inroads into Mrs Cooper’s feast. He was now nursing a tankard of ale and regarded them with mild interest, commenting on the fact that they were both soaked to the skin.
“Thank you, Tom,” Jack shook the tendrils of wet hair out of his eyes, “Where would we be without your insightful powers of observation?”
Tom, unaffected by this withering sarcasm, merely smiled, “Miss Rosie, you need to get out of those wet clothes this instant else you will catch a chill, and what use will you be to Master Harry then?”
Mrs Cooper, bustling in to clear away the dishes, gave a squeal of horror at their appearance and shooed the ‘young lad’ upstairs to the best front bedchamber, where a welcoming fire was blazing merrily in the grate. With frozen fingers and limbs that felt like lead, Rosie slid out of her jacket, boots and breeches and hung the wet clothing over a rickety chair in front of the fire, where it began immediately to steam. Harry’s lawn shirt clung to her like a second skin, but she had nothing else to wear so she kept it on. Picking up a towel which was remarkable for its complete lack of absorbency, she was sitting on the edge of the bed and attempting to dry her wild curls when, after the briefest of peremptory knocks on the door, Jack marched in carrying a snifter of brandy.
“Oh,” he paused, taking in her state of undress, then, with the unholy light she knew so well dancing in the blue depths of his eyes, kicked the door shut behind him. He too was clad in a damp shirt and stockinged feet … but at least he was still wearing breeches!
“Jack!” she protested, clutching the inadequate towel to her breasts, since the damp shirt was doing a very poor job of hiding them from his appreciative gaze. His eyes roamed lower, taking in the slender expanse of her thighs below the shirt tails, and the smile deepened.
“I brought you some brandy,” he held the glass aloft, “I thought you might need warming up.”
“Thank you.” She took the glass from him and waited for him to leave. Instead, he leaned his shoulders against the door panels, continuing to study her with interest. For something to do, she took a large gulp of the fiery liquid and gasped in shock as it hit the back of her throat. Choking, she placed the glass on the dresser, and watched through streaming eyes as Jack came forward to pat her vigorously between the shoulder blades.
“You are not helping!” she managed to splutter eventually.
“No, but I am enjoying the view.” He pointed out shamelessly, as she realised that she had let go of the towel. Her nipples were thrusting provocatively against the shirt, which had moulded itself perfectly to the contours of her body. She made a movement to cover herself and Jack caught hold of her hands, forestalling her. “Don’t,” he murmured softly, pulling her to her feet and drawing her close, his hands sliding beneath the hem of her shirt and cradling the soft curves of her buttocks. “Since the brandy was not effective … let me warm you up instead.”
Mrs Cooper chose that very moment to burst into the room carrying a spare nightshirt for ‘Master Delacourt’. Seeing that young gentleman in a passionate embrace with his older cousin, whose hands – she later told Mr Cooper, once the vapours had ceased – were actually cupping and stroking the cheeks of the youth’s bare backside, she let out a squeak of horror. Covering her eyes with her hands, she ran from the room.
Rosie, very improperly, went off into a peal of laughter and Jack, with a thunderstruck expression, decided the best course of action would be for them both to turn in for the night. Somewhat regretfully, he bade Rosie goodnight and returned to the room he was to share with Tom.
Chapter Ten
Rosie slept remarkably well and found that everything really did seem much better the next morning. Even the weather, which was fine and dry. Slipping into her now dry clothing, she made her way down to the taproom and found Tom, who, it seemed, would be quite happy to take up permanent residence at Mrs Cooper’s table, essaying a hearty breakfast. Jack, he informed her between mouthfuls of rare sirloin, had already gone to find the smithy and get the troublesome hired horse re-shod.
Breakfast for Rosie was normally a frugal affair, consisting of bread and butter, or a slice of cake, washed down with tea. This morning, however, Tom watched approvingly as her appetite surfaced with ravenous intensity, and she devoured a large serving of ham and eggs. Jack returned as she was eating and cast Rosie a rueful look, which set her off giggling again. Tom quirked an eyebrow in her direction but, blushing, she shook her head. The smithy had been roused from his breakfast and was not in the best of moods. He had promised to shoe Jack’s horse that day, but could not be pressed to give an exact time.
“It seems we must kick out heels in this God-forsaken place a while longer,” Jack remarked, reaching across Rosie to take a slice of bread. Adding, in an undertone meant only for her, “I for one will be heartily glad to see the backside of it.”
Rosie – as he had intended – gasped at this thinly veiled reference to the previous night’s incident. She threw him a blushing, reproachful look, which he returned with one of bland innocence.
When Mrs Cooper came in to bring Jack’s plate, it was glaringly apparent that she viewed him in the light of a monster sent straight from hell to disturb the quiet of her everyday existence. She cast the occasional scared, but challenging, glance in his direction. Muttering under her breath about ‘the ungodly’, she busied herself removing Tom and Rosie’s plates, keeping as far from Jack as was humanly possible.
Tom, astonished at the landlady’s odd conduct, waited until she had left the room and then demanded an explanation.
“For the lord’s sake, Jack! What have you done to Mrs Cooper to cause the poor woman to look at you as if she suspects you of wishing to ravish her here on the taproom floor?”
“Acquit me, if you will, Tom,” Jack drawled in his best affected-gentleman-of-the-ton voice, “I never trifle with the inn-keeping classes. Now, shall I settle our shot here so that we are ready to continue our journey?”
It was some hours later when Mr and Mrs Cooper watched them go with mixed emotions. Mr Cooper had hoped that such prestigious and open-handed guests might linger a while longer. However Mrs Cooper declared herself heartily glad to see the back of such a depraved group.
“For,” she told her husband later, “You do hear such tales of base behaviour from the gentry, and I, for one, did not believe it … until now! But, having seen - with my own eyes - how a fine lordship conducts himself … well, ‘tis mighty glad I am to be of humbler stock!”
The journey was unbearably tedious, and Rosie was soon heartily sick of being on horseback for a second day. At least the sun put in an occasional appearance, and each mile covered took them not only closer to Harry but also to her beloved home. Another vast improvement, from the previous day, was the fact that the circumstances prior to Mrs Cooper’s intrusion into Rosie’s room had led to a thawing of relations with Jack. It could hardly be said that they had resumed their former closeness, but Jack continued to make oblique references to the episode, which kept Rosie in a ripple of embarrassed laughter and Tom frowning in bemusement.
They left the ro
ad briefly and cut across open countryside. The ground was soft after the heavy downpour of the previous night, but Jack threw a challenge over his shoulder.
“I’ll wager I can reach the bottom of that hill before you, Rosie!”
Never one to resist a dare, Rosie spurred her horse into a gallop and thundered after him, reaching the appointed spot just seconds later.
“Dear, dear,” Jack flashed a piratical smile in her direction, “Just behind me, Rosie. I believe that makes me the winner, since you are once again bringing up the rear.”
Darkness had fallen and Rosie was kept awake only by the lazy rhythm of the horses’ hooves and the knowledge that every mile closed the gap between her and Harry. They reached a small town and Tom pointed out wistfully that his stomach thought his throat had been cut. With one accord, the weary trio of horses clattered onto the cobbles of an inn yard.