Yvette’s gaze swung between Mrs. Quimby and Mrs. Pettigrove. The women glowered daggers at each other. Animosity permeated the air.
Yvette firmed her lips, then looked directly into Mrs. Pettigrove’s eyes. “You took my funds and hired a hackney with them, then left me stranded on the docks.”
Mrs. Pettigrove sucked in a sharp breath and clutched at her ample bosom. “I did no such thing. Mr. Collingsworth told me to go along, that you had other arrangements.”
Yvette eyed her doubtfully, but given Mr. Collingsworth’s frightening behavior on the docks this morning, she grudgingly admitted the matron might be telling the truth.
Mrs. Quimby drew herself up, and after giving Mrs. Pettigrove, what Yvette presumed was a dismissive glare, turned her full attention to her. “Miss Stapleton, as you have a room reserved, we’d be delighted to have you stay with us for as long as you wish.”
Yvette suppressed her instinctive pity for Mrs. Pettigrove. Her arrival at this inn was no coincidence. She knew Yvette was staying here. Yvette had naively told her she had a room at the Banbury Inn when Mrs. Pettigrove had asked her about her plans this morning.
“Oh, you’ve a room reserved?” Mrs. Pettigrove said, in apparent surprise.
Yvette narrowed her eyes.
You know I do.
“I thought I had one too.” Mrs. Pettigrove drew in a ragged breath. “But there’s been a, a misunderstanding.” She spoke haltingly, withering before them.
Angling her head, Yvette scrutinized the matron. Was she telling the truth? Why hadn’t she mentioned she was staying here this morning. No, something was too smoky by far.
“I’m certain Willard’s missive said he had obtained a room for me at the Banbury Inn.” Fingering her brooch, Mrs. Pettigrove muttered, “There’s a logical explanation of course.”
Yvette worried her lower lip, compassion engulfing her. Blister it. The woman didn’t deserve her sympathy.
Mrs. Quimby visage softened. “We only have two vacant rooms. One must be held for an infrequent guest who’s not in residence, but has paid in advance.”
She scribbled in the ledger before opening a drawer and rummaging about in it. Meeting the older woman’s eyes she apologized. “I’m sorry, but I simply cannot permit another to utilize that room.” Returning her attention to the drawer, she continued, “The other room is intended for Miss Stapleton and her companion.”
Oh no! Yvette’s head snapped up, her eyes rounding in horror.
From the gasp and swift, contrite glance Mrs. Quimby sent her, it was apparent she realized her gaffe. She closed the ledger with a thump as she hastily lifted a key from the drawer. “Miss Stapleton, no doubt you’re exhausted and would like to be shown to your room.”
“Companion?” Mrs. Pettigrove’s voice held a hopeful note.
Cringing, Yvette clenched her teeth.
No, no, no.
This is too much. She had been a personal maid to that—that—meddling gossip for the past two months. Lord above, she didn’t think she could she bear sharing a room with her again. Not so soon.
“Miss Stapleton?” Mrs. Pettigrove’s voice wavered and tears swam in her nondescript eyes.
Yvette eyed her. She truly did not want to share her room with her. She wanted a room to herself. Was that too much to ask? She’d been through a great deal these past weeks. And Mrs. Pettigrove was extremely difficult. Yvette blinked away the sharp sting of tears.
Mrs. Pettigrove laid a plump hand on her arm. “Please? I could act as your chaperone. It would be most improper for you to stay here alone.”
Yvette’s heart twinged again. Drat, she was too compassionate by far, and Mrs. Pettigrove had a valid point about the chaperonage. Bother it all.
Head bowed, shoulders slumped in defeat, she exhaled a slow, deliberate breath. “The room is intended for two.” Relaxing her vice-like grip on the counter’s edge, she turned and met Mrs. Pettigrove’s watery eyes.
Lord she didn’t want to do this. “Please,” Yvette forced herself to say the words, “share it with me.”
Mrs. Pettigrove promptly lost her prior semblance of humbleness and began issuing orders with the efficiency of a general.
“Mrs. Quimby, have my trunks brought above stairs at once. Do you have a laundress on staff? Good. I shall need a note delivered. I presume my room is supplied with paper and ink? I thought as much. I shall need a maid to assist me with my unpacking, and I must have water for bathing immediately.”
She laid a pudgy hand on her stomach. “Might I trouble you for a tea tray? Some seedcake perhaps? And fruit? And some pastries, of course. Oh, and lemon curd and clotted cream if you have it. Crumpets for the curd, and fruit preserves?”
Her monologue at an end, she eyed Yvette. “‘Tis commendable you knew your Christian duty. It speaks of your genteel breeding.”
Mrs. Quimby snorted and mumbled something unintelligible, though Yvette distinctly heard, “More hair than wit, greedy gut.”
Her compassion evaporated, as an unpleasant wave of hot anger rolled over her.
Christian duty? Breeding?
Was Mrs. Pettigrove truly that bird witted? Yvette clamped her teeth over her bottom lip to dam the sharp retort struggling to escape. She couldn’t, however, prevent her foot from tapping a cadence of vexation.
She stole a sidelong glance at Mrs. Quimby.
The innkeeper, her face a mask of composed annoyance, stared at Mrs. Pettigrove. “It is past tea time.”
Was that satisfaction Yvette heard in Mrs. Quimby’s voice?
A moue of disappointment contorted Mrs. Pettigrove’s full lips. “Oh, I suppose I’ve no choice but to wait until supper is served then. If you’re sure?”
“Quite sure,” snipped Mrs. Quimby.
“What time is supper served?” Mrs. Pettigrove’s gaze hovered on the entrance to the dining room. “I’m quite famished. I haven’t had a bite to eat since luncheon.”
Yvette’s eyes narrowed once more. When was that? An entire hour ago?
Mrs. Quimby didn’t answer Mrs. Pettigrove but remained silent, pressing her lips into twin lines of disapproval. Yvette presumed she waited for her approval.
She met Mrs. Quimby’s troubled gaze and attempted a smile. “‘Tis all right.”
Drawing in a shaky breath, she feared she might burst into tears. It wasn’t all right, not at all. Nothing about this was right. She should have her own room, deserved her own room. It wasn’t fair for Mrs. Pettigrove to commandeer her chamber, even if Yvette was in need of a chaperone.
The nasty ache behind her eyes throbbed full on now.
At Mrs. Quimby’s doubtful look, she attempted a smile. Not trusting herself to speak, her throat clogged with unshed tears, she nodded her approval.
“Supper begins at half-past seven.” Mrs. Quimby handed Mrs. Pettigrove the room key.
Calling for a maid, and a strapping young lad whom she introduced as her son, Henry, Mrs. Quimby sent Mrs. Pettigrove on her way.
“That was kind of you.” Mrs. Quimby smiled at Yvette.
“I spent the past two months in a tiny cabin with her.” Yvette drummed the counter with her fingers. “Trust me when I tell you, she is not a congenial companion.”
“I shall arrange for supper to last longer than usual this evening.” Mrs. Quimby came around the counter, then handed Yvette her room key. “I’ll have a bath prepared, and a tray of food too. Perhaps wine as well? You look as if you would benefit from a glass of sherry.”
“I don’t tolerate spirits. They sicken me, but tea would be wonderful.”
Taking a step toward the stairs, the hair raised on the nape of Yvette’s neck. She shuddered and looked over her shoulder into the common room. Had someone been standing in the entrance just then?
“You’re quite sure no one inquired about my arrival?”
Chapter 5
“No one, but the sailors,” Mrs. Quimby assured Yvette. “By-the-by, Miss Stapleton, they didn’t leave the keys to your trunks.”
Yvette patted her reticule. “I have a set, thank you.”
Her uneasiness lingering, she followed Henry as he climbed the narrow staircase. Nodding his head at the lone door at the end of the hall the lad volunteered, “The inn’s been busy these past weeks. That’d be the other vacant room. It connects to yer room. The door between the chambers be kept locked though.”
Yvette reached for her satchel. “Thank you, Henry.”
“Do ye wish to bathe or eat first?” Gaze glued to the floor, he shuffled his feet. “Mam told me to ask.”
“Food, please. I’m ravenous.”
“Molly’ll bring it straightaway then.”
Entering the chamber, Yvette stopped cold. Merciful God in heaven. She searched the room again. There was no mistake. The room held a single bed. She was tempted to revoke her offer to share the room. It was either that or share the lone, much too small bed, with Mrs. Pettigrove’s plentiful form. She’d never get any sleep. Was there even room for two people in the bed?
That had been hours ago. Yvette was inclined to be more charitable now that she was bathed and her stomach was full. She had endured weeks with Mrs. Pettigrove in a room far smaller than this. Another night was endurable. Tomorrow she fully intended to find other accommodations, and she’d have Mr. Dehring make them in a fabricated name.
She giggled. She rather liked Cordelia Daisywagon.
She had another reason for feeling benevolent. She’d discovered a jewelry box earlier when she’d unlocked her trunks intent on finding a lightweight nightgown. A note in Fairchild’s perfect script explained the jewels, and the cash stuffed atop them, had been inside a safe at Papa’s office. Papa must have moved them there after Edgar arrived in Boston. The captain of the Peaceful Wind had been paid handsomely to keep Yvette’s trunks under lock and key the entire voyage.
She’d unabashedly searched Mrs. Pettigrove’s possessions in hopes her other missing valuables might be unearthed. She’d no luck. Her conscience pricked her. Perhaps Mrs. Pettigrove had been telling the truth on the ship.
Wearing only a light shift, her hair wrapped in a towel, Yvette relaxed against the overstuffed armchair. She had given herself over to the luxury of her bath. It had been pure, calming bliss.
Supper had been superb. She licked her lips again. Even now she could taste the fresh strawberries and clotted cream. She’d eaten every bite of the food Mrs. Quimby had sent, and she didn’t regret it one bit. She had not been this full, well, ever that she could recall.
True to her word, Mrs. Quimby had extended supper past the ninth hour. Yvette imagined Mrs. Pettigrove’s antics at having her meal delayed. She grinned. Patience wasn’t a virtue of Mrs. Pettigrove’s either, especially when it came to mealtime.
Yvette scooted to the edge of the chair, then unwrapped the towel from round her head and briskly rubbed her hair. Bending over, she shook her head and fanned out the damp strands. She curved her lips into a half-smile. Somersfield, where Vangie and the babe she carried waited. There she would be safe from Edgar and his relentless attempts to wed her. Ian was a member of the Diplomatic Corps, and in his stables he employed several soldiers who had no work when the war ended.
Yvette doubted Edgar even knew she had a cousin. He’d never met her, and Vangie had only visited London once. Her other visits with Yvette had been at Rosewick, Papa’s country estate. Edgar refused to visit there. Until he’d arrived in Boston, Yvette hadn’t spent more than a half hour in his company, and no conversation had ever arisen about Vangie.
He had been at university when Papa and Belle-mére married and afterward was busy being a man about town. He hadn’t wanted his mother to marry Papa and had kept his distance the first six years they were wed. Poor Belle-mére had often commented how much she missed her sons, especially after she moved to Boston.
Yvette narrowed her eyes in resolution. No man would force her into marriage, no indeed. There was more to marriage than a cracking good match, and most of what she knew about the sacred institution left her cold. Wives were expected to be their husband’s shadows and ignore their indiscretions.
Balderdash!
The tales Pippa had whispered about Belle-mére’s first marriage haunted Yvette. The abuse Belle-mére suffered at the Earl’s hands. Yvette shuddered in remembrance. Her heart broke for her stepbrother, Rory, the Earl of Clarendon. His marriage had ended tragically when his wife had died after giving birth to a stillborn son. With her last breath, she had confessed the child wasn’t his.
Yvette yawned and stood up, then ran her fingers through her hair to speed its drying. They caught on a tangle. She winced and tears filled her eyes when the snag jerked her scalp. Pippa had brushed her hair nightly since she was a small child. But Pippa was in Boston, with the Fairchild’s and Yvette’s dogs, Apollo and Artemis.
Tears washed over her cheeks. Lord, she missed them. Fairchild and his sons, Isaiah and Josiah, had been a part of her life since she was two. After Papa and Belle-mére died, they had consoled her. They were her family now, and she’d been forced to leave them and her dogs behind to escape Edgar. They would return to England of course, at the earliest opportunity, but Yvette had no idea how soon that would be.
Fairchild had tried to protect her. He’d reported Edgar to the authorities and had posted guards around the manor. But Edgar was clever. He’d hired men to help him using the jewels and money he stole from the mansion to pay them. Isaiah had ended up with a cracked skull, three other staff had been wounded, and two of the guards had been killed.
That’s when she realized Edgar would stop at nothing. He wasn’t sane. That very night, with only minutes to pack, Yvette had been smuggled from the rear of the manor, while one of the maids had pretended to be her and had left through the front entrance.
Throwing the towel on the chair, Yvette climbed into bed, curled into a ball, and sobbed. She was alone and afraid. She missed her parents and Pippa and Giles and his sons. Artemis and Apollo weren’t curled next to her on the bed. She wept until exhaustion claimed her and, at last, put an end to the tormenting memories.
Not more than an hour later, a tipsy, and very noisy Mrs. Pettigrove trundled into their chamber. Yvette pretended to be asleep, having no desire to hear her litany of complaints about supper. Little good it did her. Mrs. Pettigrove plowed about the room, banging into things, and muttering beneath her breath, before stopping beside the bed, breathing heavily.
“Miss Stapleton, are you awake?”
Yvette held her breath.
“Miss Stapleton?” She was nudged by a pudgy finger.
Yvette didn’t move.
Mrs. Pettigrove shook Yvette’s shoulder, none too gently. “I need your help to undress.”
Bother it all. Yvette sat up, then swung her legs off the edge of the bed. “Let me light the lamp.”
It had been no easy task to undress the half-foxed Mrs. Pettigrove and see her tucked into bed. And Yvette wasn’t the least bit surprised when rhythmic, grating rattles filled the room mere moments after the dame’s head settled on her fluffy pillow.
Yvette wasn’t as fortunate. She lay awake staring at the flickering moonbeams slanting across the ceiling. Her thoughts shifted to earlier in the day, to Laird McTavish. Thank goodness he’d happened by when he did. He had saved her from God only knew what. He disturbed her in the most intriguing way. Even now thinking of him brought a ripple whispering across her flesh.
A rude noise rumbled throughout the room, interrupting her fanciful musing. Yvette wrinkled her nose in disgust. She closed her eyes and sighed. The grittiness under her eyelids, and the thickness in her head, were evidence sh
e had cried herself to sleep and had slept but minutes before Mrs. Pettigrove had lumbered into their room.
How she had wanted—no needed—a peaceful night’s sleep. She attempted to turn on her side and stopped short. Mrs. Pettigrove was lying on her hair.
“Oh for pity’s sake.” Tugging, Yvette managed to extract her hair from beneath the matron’s hefty arm. She rose from the bed, then eyed the armchairs on either side of the room. They simply would not suffice. “There isn’t even an extra blanket to create a pallet on the floor,” she muttered.
Mrs. Pettigrove rolled to the middle of the bed, threw her arms wide, and released a ponderous expanse of wind.
Yvette swirled away from the bed in fatigued exasperation. Her gaze caught a bright reflection. A moonbeam angled through the billowing curtains, pointing its frail finger at the brass knob on the adjoining room’s door. The handle, illuminated by the enticing glow, drew her persistently closer. “I couldn’t,” she said, even as she reached for the handle.
“‘Tis way past midnight. If the other guest was going to arrive, wouldn’t they have done so by now? Hadn’t Mrs. Quimby said this room was only used on occasion?”
Yvette bit her lip in indecision. “I haven’t heard any movement.”
Mrs. Pettigrove snorted, releasing another startling round of thunderous expulsions. They echoed grotesquely throughout the bedchamber.
“That tears it.” Before she allowed her conscious to stop her, Yvette seized her dagger, then turned the key and twisted the knob. The door glided open.
The curtains were parted. The moon’s bright rays bathed the chamber’s large, empty bed. With a small huff, she released the breath she held. The room was unoccupied. She tiptoed to the window and peeked at the street.
Nothing.
Not a hint of movement. Stepping backward, her decision made, she drew the panels.
Highlander's Hope Page 4