by Jane Feather
“I think in your present frame of mind, it would be safer to walk away from the edge of the cliff,” he commented, his voice dry.
“I’m getting back into the chaise.” She raised a hand to the coachman, who drew rein, waiting until she was back inside and the door firmly closed.
Alexandra felt hot, and her heart was racing. If he hadn’t done the gentlemanly thing, would she have resisted him this time? She would never know. Oh, why was this happening to her? If she hadn’t been so angry at the perversities of fate embodied in the person of Peregrine Sullivan, she would have burst into tears.
It was mid-afternoon by the time they turned under the arched entrance to the Angel’s coaching yard. Alex was by now stiff and heartily sick of the whole business. She knew that without her persistent escort, her excitement at the prospect of being so close to journey’s end would have made nothing of her ills, but now she could only see hours of anxiety ahead of her until she could rid herself of the Honorable Peregrine.
Peregrine handed Sam over to a groom with the instruction to give him a good rubdown and a bran mash. The coachman, with much the same relief, relinquished his team to the ostlers. “You’ll be restin’ ’ere, then, ma’am?” he inquired as Alex stepped out of the chaise.
“For the night, yes,” she responded. She walked into the inn, where Peregrine was already talking with the landlord.
“There’s a chamber available abovestairs on the side and another, rather larger, at the front. I think you’ll be more comfortable on the side. It’ll be quieter than facing the street, so if you’re agreeable, I will take the one at the front.”
It wasn’t worth telling him she was quite capable of making her own decisions when it came to her own accommodations. He was right that she would prefer the quieter room, so she merely gave him a curt nod and addressed the landlord. “Would you have the tea chest and my portmanteau brought up from the chaise to my chamber? And I would like hot water immediately, and then I will dine in my chamber in half an hour.”
For such a timid-seeming mouse, Mistress Alexandra, once away from Combe Abbey, had a very commanding way with her, Peregrine reflected. “I’ll see to your things.” He beckoned to a man in a leather apron. “Come with me.”
“If you’ll follow me, ma’am.” The landlord went to the stairs, and Alex followed him up to a small but fairly comfortable chamber at the side of the building. “Will you wish to keep the bed to yourself, ma’am?” the man asked. “If so, it’ll be three shillings a night. If you don’t mind bundling, then I can let you ’ave it for two.”
“I’ll pay the extra,” she said, tossing her hat and cloak onto a bench at the foot of the poster bed. She had no choice, since she would have to leave the tea chest locked in here overnight when she went to Barton, instead of taking it with her as she’d intended. Her original plan, before Peregrine had intruded, had been that the coachman would drive her to Barton, where she could unload the chest, and then he’d drive back to collect her and her possessions the following day. Now she was obliged to spend money she didn’t have to waste simply because the Honorable Peregrine felt a perverse need to help her with something she could manage perfectly well herself.
The man bowed and backed out, and a few minutes later, Peregrine appeared with the servant, who was struggling under the weight of the tea chest. Peregrine put her portmanteau on the bed and glanced around as the servant set the chest in the corner of the room. “This seems adequate.”
“Yes,” she agreed shortly. She opened her coin purse for something to give the servant, but Peregrine forestalled her, tossing the man a sixpence.
“I’ve bespoken a private parlor where our dinner will be served in half an hour,” Peregrine informed her. “The landlord tells me that he has a leg of mutton with red currant jelly and a halfway decent burgundy in his cellars.”
“I prefer to dine alone up here,” she stated.
“Why?” he asked simply.
She stared at him in astonishment. “Why? You would ask that. Sweet heaven, you have windmills in your head.”
“Not so,” he denied. “But I cannot see the virtue in dining alone shut in this chamber when you can sit at a proper table in what I trust will be good company. I am considered good company, in general,” he added on an almost plaintive note, but his eyes were dancing.
It was no good. She was standing like Sisyphus watching the immense boulder roll back down the mountain. And maybe it would be wise to yield on this one issue. She needed to ensure that he didn’t suspect her intention, and what better way to do that than to appear to accept defeat, lull him into thinking that he had won. After dinner, she would plead fatigue and retreat to her chamber. It would be simple enough to slip away. There was a livery stable at the bottom of the High Street where she could hire a horse. With any luck, she would be with Sylvia before nightfall.
“Oh, have it your own way,” she said with a gesture of resignation. “I’ll join you in half an hour.”
“I look forward to it, ma’am.” He bowed his way out of the chamber, moving aside to give entrance to a serving girl with a jug of hot water.
“ ’Ere y’are, ma’am.” The girl set it on the marble-topped washstand. “Will there be anythin’ else?”
“No, thank you. That’ll be all.” The girl bobbed a curtsy and disappeared, and Alex swiftly turned the key in the lock. She went to the small casement, which opened onto a narrow side street. She leaned out, listening to the bustle from the High Street at the front and the shouts from the coaching yard at the rear. But the lane below was deserted. She couldn’t escape that way, though. There was no drainpipe and no ivy or wisteria, either. It would have to be the inn’s back door into the yard.
She left the window and went over to the bed, where she opened her portmanteau. She had a second string to her disguise buried at the bottom, beneath the dowdy gowns and limp petticoats appropriate for Mistress Hathaway. It was her swift-escape costume, something that she and Sylvia had concocted in case Alex had to beat a hasty retreat and couldn’t risk appearing either as herself or as the drab librarian. It wouldn’t pass muster at close quarters but from a distance would draw no remark.
She made sure everything was still there, then went to the washstand, dipping a cloth in hot water and applying it to her throat and neck. She couldn’t wash her face without ruining her makeup, but she felt fresher. She looked at herself in the beaten-copper mirror and grimaced. What a hag. In truth, she couldn’t really blame Peregrine for his curiosity once he’d actually laid eyes on the true face of Alexandra Douglas. She pinned up her hair again, pulling it tight against her scalp. It made her look even worse, but that was all to the good. She wanted everyone in the inn to have her present image indelibly printed in their minds.
However, she could do without the humpback, she decided, swiftly unbuttoning her gown, pushing it to her waist so that she could untie the pad. She flexed her shoulders with relief, then thrust her arms back into the sleeves and refastened the bodice.
The clock on the mantel struck the half hour, and she cast a last glance around the chamber before leaving it, locking the door behind her and slipping the key into the pocket of her kersey apron. Then she made her way downstairs. The serving girl showed her into the private parlor, where Peregrine awaited her, standing before the fire, cradling a glass of wine. He shook his head when she came in.
“I found myself hoping I would see someone else, but I suppose ’tis something that you’ve got rid of the dowager’s hump,” he observed. “Is it necessary to maintain the rest of that disguise here, where no one knows you?”
“If I appeared as myself, sir, I would draw instant remark. Young women traveling unchaperoned are certain to cause talk. Particularly a young woman traveling in the company, however unwelcome, of a strange man.”
“I could pretend to be your brother,” he suggested, filling a glass from the wine decanter. “A perfectly suitable escort.”
“You could also not be here at all,�
� she retorted, taking the glass he proffered. “Thank you.”
“ ’Tis a fine burgundy, as mine host promised,” Perry said. “Will you come to the table? There’s some excellent smoked trout to keep us busy until the mutton is ready.”
Alex was too hungry to fence further. She sat down and helped herself to the smoked fish and a hunk of barley bread. A salad of watercress and tender herbs accompanied the fish.
“So, I’m assuming there’s a good reason for us to be in this town,” Perry observed. “May I know what it is?”
“No.” She buttered her bread liberally. “At the risk of repeating myself into tedium, ’tis none of your business, sir.”
“I fear you crossed the line into tedium quite some time ago,” he commented, filleting his trout. “But I keep hoping you’ll change your tune. I’ve always been an optimist, you see.” He smiled amiably as he leaned forward to refill her glass.
Alexandra helped herself to a little of the salad, observing, “You must be doomed to disappointment much of the time, then.”
“Oh, no. Very rarely, as it happens.” He leaned back in his chair. “Optimism runs in my family. We Blackwaters are seldom downhearted.”
“How many of you are there?” Despite herself, she was curious.
“Three brothers. I have a twin, Sebastian, and we have an older brother, Jasper, the fifth Earl.” He sipped his wine. “How about your family? I know you have an invalid cousin, but do you also have siblings?”
“One.” And then she caught herself. She had pretended she had an invalid cousin in her conversation with her stepmother. Why on earth couldn’t she have kept to that fabrication now? Even though it seemed a harmless enough conversation, one that it would be all too easy to allow to continue under the relaxing influence of wine and good food, it was far too dangerous to drop her guard for so much as a syllable.
“Brother or sister?” he prompted.
She shook her head. “I have no interest in this conversation.”
“Probably because you know all the answers. I, on the other hand, am very interested in learning the answers.”
She put down her fork. “You are incorrigible, Mr. Sullivan. You’re like a runaway horse. Tell me what it’s like to have a twin.” If she could keep the conversation on him, they might manage to brush through dinner without mishap.
“I can’t imagine what it would be like not to have Sebastian,” he said seriously. “As a small boy, I always felt sorry for people who didn’t have a twin.” He laughed. “I couldn’t understand how they managed to live alone, without that special connection . . . it’s hard to describe, really.”
Alex found herself drawn into the topic without even being aware of it. “I think I know what you mean, though. Sy—” She bit her tongue. But it was too late now to draw back completely. “My sister and I are only eleven months apart. I don’t really remember a time when she wasn’t there.”
Peregrine gave no indication that he had noticed her slip. He buttered bread, observing, “Our father died when we were very young, and our mother, to all intents and purposes, abandoned her children and retreated into her own private world. The three of us had only one another to rely on.”
“Of course, you have an older brother, the earl.” Alex sipped her wine. “Are you as close to him as to your twin?”
“In a different way. Sebastian and I share more than our physical features.” He laughed lightly. “We always know what the other’s thinking. That doesn’t happen with Jasper, but without him, I don’t know what would have happened to us.”
“Tell me.”
He began to talk of his childhood, the miseries of their school days, the protection Jasper had given his brothers, and the glorious delights of vacations in the wild countryside of Northumberland. He said little about his mother, but it was enough for Alex to know that maternal estrangement had been as much a part of his life as it had been of hers.
He was different talking so personally like this, she thought. His expression was both reflective and soft, and she felt drawn to him in a different way, as if she could understand so much of the childhood that had produced the man because in so many ways it mirrored her own.
Then, suddenly, he stopped and smiled at her. “You certainly managed to divert the conversation, Mistress Alexandra. But let us talk of something else altogether. Your chess game, for instance. How old were you when you first learned to play? And don’t think to hoodwink me again. I know perfectly well that you play a first-rate game.”
“How could you know that?”
“What kind of gull do you take me for?” He leaned over to refill her glass. “I know your mind, ma’am. And I know how competitive you are. You decided to play me for a fool, and you succeeded, I grant you that. But not to the extent you may think. I knew what you were doing. So, how old were you?”
She inclined her head in acknowledgment. She could hardly deny what he so obviously knew. “I don’t really remember a time when I didn’t know how to play. My father played a great deal, and I think I learned just watching him when I was very small.”
“This would be in the vicarage, then.”
Careful, Alex told herself. For an instant, she had forgotten the narrative. “Yes,” she said blandly. “In the vicarage, of course.”
Peregrine’s smile was as bland as her tone. I don’t believe you’ve been inside a vicarage in your life. “Of course, your father was a considerable scholar.”
She nodded.
He took another sip of wine. “It seems very unusual for an impoverished country vicar to have the means of such considerable scholarship, not to mention the acquisition of the books you were telling Sir Stephen about.”
“My father was the youngest son of seven,” she stated firmly. “He was well educated, and he inherited the family library. It was all he inherited, apart from a small country living. Does that satisfy your curiosity, sir?”
“Not in the least,” he said amiably. “But I’ll live with it for the time being.”
Silence fell, and it was with relief that Alex welcomed the arrival of the maidservant with the mutton and the red currant jelly. “There’s a nice onion sauce to go with the mutton, sir . . . ma’am. And a dish of roast spuds. Very good they are.” The girl set the dishes on the table. “Will that be all for the moment, sir . . . ma’am?”
“Yes, thank you.” Peregrine nodded dismissal and took up the carving knife. “May I serve you some meat, ma’am?” He carved several thick slices, laid them on a plate, and passed it across to her.
“Thank you.” She poured onion sauce on the meat and took a spoonful of potatoes, her mouth watering at the rich scents. And for the next fifteen minutes, Peregrine left her in peace to enjoy her dinner; he was too hungry himself to continue with his catechism, and the companionable silence continued apart from his asking her to pass the red currant jelly and the soft sound of pouring wine as he refilled their glasses.
At last, Alex put down her fork and sighed with pleasure. “That was the most delicious meal I can remember in ages.”
“Really? I didn’t find Sir Stephen’s table particularly unsatisfying.” He wiped his mouth and took up his wine glass.
It wasn’t that, Alex reflected, it had just been impossible for her to enjoy eating while maintaining her charade. One instant of relaxation, and there was no knowing what she might let slip.
“It was adequate,” she said vaguely. “But I didn’t particularly enjoy the company.”
He nodded. “I can understand that. Lady Douglas has a most unpleasant tongue.” He looked at her thoughtfully. “I have been wondering why she dislikes you so much.”
Alexandra flushed uncomfortably. “She dislikes most people,” she muttered.
He shrugged. “I grant you she’s not the friendliest of souls, but she seems to reserve a particular vitriol for you. I wonder why.”
“I daresay she resents the money Sir Stephen pays for my employment,” she said. “They are both penny-pinchers, but at le
ast Sir Stephen can see the advantage in a certain outlay that will produce profit in the end. Lady Maude doesn’t have the wit to see that.”
Perry chuckled. “I can see you have no more love for the lady than she has for you.”
“Why should I have?” Alex challenged.
“No reason at all.”
The door opened again, and the maid came back with another tray. “A nice piece of cheese, sir . . . ma’am, and Mistress Hoxforth’s plum tart. She says, would you like a slice? An’ there’s cream fresh from the cow.”
“Well, I would certainly,” Peregrine declared. “Mistress Hathaway?”
“Please.” Alex smiled at the girl, who set pie and cheese on the table with a jug of thick golden cream, scooped up the dirty plates, and disappeared.
“This is indeed a feast.” Peregrine passed his plate as Alex cut into the pie. She laid a large slice on his plate and took a smaller piece for herself.
“I shall retire very early,” she said when she had eaten the last crumb. “The day has been very tiring, and I need to seek my bed. So, if you’ll excuse me, sir.”
He rose immediately. “Of course, but I trust you don’t have bad dreams. ’Tis not wise to sleep on a full stomach.”
“That’s an old wives’ tale,” she retorted. “I give you good night, Mr. Sullivan.”
He bowed to her back as she left the chamber, then sat down again, cut himself a chunk of cheese, refilled his glass, and continued his repast, a very thoughtful look in his eye.
Alex unlocked the door to her chamber and locked it again behind her. She was not in the least tired but was instead filled with a renewed energy at the thought that she would be with Sylvia in little more than an hour. The church clock chimed five as she went to the bed.
She shook out the unremarkable woolen breeches, leather jerkin, and linen shirt of a young working man. A woolen cap, woolen stockings, and shoes with paste buckles completed the costume. She had practiced putting her hair up under the cap so that no chestnut wisps escaped. But she had to do something else with her face. Mistress Hathaway’s visage was all too remarkable and not at all appropriate for a youth.