by Vanessa Gray
She did not reflect on the reasons why she felt so sharply the disapproval of a man she scarcely knew. After all, Stuston had not been blind to her faults, nor had Whitcomb. Nor had either been in the least backward about letting her know his opinion.
Halfway down the stairs to the foyer of the embassy, she paused. Suppose she could not find another coachman on such short notice? She could not properly ask the ambassador to provide them with one of his own staff. The sudden recollection of an adage of her governess, a long time ago, came to her. “A bird in the hand, my dear, is worth two in the bush. That means, of course —” Nell forgot now the tedious explanation of that moral.
But the fact was true. Better, perhaps, the evil she knew than one she did not know.
She realized all at once that she had not informed the coachman of their intention to leave in the morning. She set out to find him. She ran him to earth in the servants’ dining hall. She stood in the doorway watching him, unable to believe what she saw. This was a different Reeves. She had thought him on the far side of middle age, gruff and soured, without humor. This man looked to be in his early thirties, no more. He was laughing, and clearly something he had just said had put the entire staff into an uproar. “And then —” he was about to continue.
One by one the servants caught sight of the elegant Miss Aspinall in the doorway, and one by one they fell silent. At length, alerted by the alteration in his audience, Reeves turned and saw her. The change in his expression would have been ludicrous, she thought, had it not been somewhat unsettling. She had been mistaken in him. She felt he had played her for a fool.
“Reeves,” she said, frost edging her light voice, “I should like a word.”
He nodded briefly and rose from the hard wooden chair. By the time he followed her down the corridor to a small room which was probably reserved for the housekeeper, he had suffered a sea change. He stood before her now, slightly bent, head somewhat bowed in an attitude of humility. She must have been mistaken — this man appeared to be in his fifties. It must have been a trick of the light, back there in the dining hall.
“Reeves,” she said firmly, “I hope you can assure me that you will continue in your position with my aunt until we arrive in Vienna?”
He nodded. “I giv my word back yonder in Calais,” he said, “and the word of a Reeves is aye as good as the word of a —” He wavered. She was sure he was about to deliver himself of an indiscretion. The light in her eyes warned him, and he finished lamely, “The word of any gentleman.”
“Very well, Reeves. Then since you know my reason for going to Vienna — my only reason,” she repeated carefully, “to be reunited with my betrothed, then you will understand it is of importance to me to be on our way. Lady Sanford will be ready to leave in the morning. Early.”
“Not meaning no disrespect, miss, be ye sure?”
Fully aware that he was recalling departures from Calais and other inns, she said briskly, “Yes, Reeves. Leave it to me.” Then, completely on a tangent, she asked, “What part of England do you come from, Reeves?”
He was not prepared for that question, and for a fleeting moment there was an expression of something very like dismay in his eyes. His eyes, she thought inconsequentially, were a remarkable color, like water over brownish-red stones in the bottom of a running brook.
“My grandsire came from — Derby,” he told her, and somehow she was convinced he did not tell the truth.
“It’s no matter,” she said earnestly, “except that I find it hard to place your speech.”
“Sorry, miss,” he said with a return to the sullen remoteness he had exhibited for the most part since their first meeting. “I’ll be ready in the morning. Early.”
He saluted, rough forefinger to what he must think was his forelock, and left her. She was vaguely disappointed. She could not think why.
*
Lady Sanford’s party trundled away from the embassy in good time that morning. When Lady Sanford made up her mind that Paris was not the glittering, glamorous round of gaiety that she had expected, she was quite willing to see that her duty lay with the delivery of the mysterious parcel.
To give her credit, she would likely have understood the importance of the parcel, even if Paris streets had rung with music and song, but she would have left the city much more reluctantly.
“I cannot fathom the cause of such gross dullness!” she exclaimed before they were out of sight of the embassy.
“Perhaps the Princess still feels the loss of her parents,” suggested Nell. “It cannot be easily forgotten when one’s entire family has been executed in such a spectacular way.”
“I do not mean the Princess,” corrected Lady Sanford. “With that very dull husband of hers — Angouleme, a sniveling weakling, from what Lord Westford says — how could she help but be wretched? I doubt I could summon up sufficient presence even to be civil in such an instance.”
Nell smiled. “I cannot imagine you marrying him in the first place.”
“I mean the ambassador’s wife. One might certainly expect to find some grace in the wife of an ambassador to France, after all. I wonder that Lord Chawton isn’t given the post.”
“Is that possible?”
“Of course. I should think that Penelope would make her father an excellent hostess.”
Conversation languished. Nell was cast down by the reminder that Penelope Freeland was in a good position to influence Rowland. She wished he had not been quite so correct in his offer — or rather his failure to offer. While he had made sufficient promises to hold Nell in thrall, yet the fact was that the betrothal was not yet official.
But it would not do for Nell to be dreary all the days ahead over Rowland. She smiled now at her aunt. “By the way, that is a very fetching outfit you are wearing. Have I seen it before?”
“Of course. Henriette made it for me. I shall be glad when this mad infatuation for green fades away. One could have a wardrobe entirely of Pomona-green, almond-green, dark green, water-green, sage-green. One looks like a cucumber when one is à la mode.”
“You look well in green, Aunt.”
“At least better than the Duchess of Netwick! That woman!” Lady Sanford gave a refined snort of contempt. “I vow she sees the world through green — the green of that vulgar emerald.”
“Shall we see her in Vienna, do you think?”
“I had heard that she intends to spend the winter there. I wonder if Providence could find a way to immure her in a snowbound pass in the Alps?”
“No matter,” said Nell, “for you know no one will even look her way if you are there.”
“Nell, you are a dear child.”
“Besides, we’ve made good progress since we left Paris. We may easily arrive in Vienna before the duchess.”
“I have the oddest feeling, Nell, that I have lost my grasp-on this expedition. My coachman is back in that dreadful town on the coast with one of my footmen to keep him company. My new coachman is a man I do not entirely trust, and I do not have a clear view of the way we are to go on.”
Flushing slightly, Nell protested. “But you have given your consent to all that has been done!”
“Yes, but I should like to interview my coachman.” She gave a light laugh. “An entirely futile undertaking, for of course I could not dismiss him in the middle of a field in a foreign country. Best let it go. Then perhaps you can inform me? Are we going to travel through the mountains?”
“Reeves says not.”
“Then let us pray for a heavy snow just ahead of the duchess.” There had been an odd note in Nell’s voice when she spoke the coachman’s name that caused her aunt to glance sharply at her. “Reeves, then, is guiding us as well as driving?”
“He says,” Nell told her reluctantly, “that he knows the way to avoid the mountains. He says this is the road the Crusaders took, centuries ago. On their way to Jerusalem, you know.”
“I am not entirely ignorant,” Phrynie pointed out. “I have heard of the Crusade
rs. What I do not understand, quite, is how an untutored coachman is so well informed, both on the roads and in obscure historical events.”
Nell felt her cheeks warm. “He does seem to be somewhat unusual.”
Phrynie all but commented, “And you seem to have spent an unusual amount of time with him since we left Calais.” But she kept silent.
Phrynie was reasonably content with her lot at this time. She adored traveling and was always eager to gain what amusement she could from wherever she was placed. She was slightly disturbed over the nonappearance of her nephew, but she accepted the fact that the parcel, whatever it was, must get to Vienna, since Nell had undertaken the task. An obligation once incurred must be carried out. She hoped that her own credit — coupled with a few judicious alterations of plain truth, and a bold facing down of the malicious Duchess of Netwick — would serve to make their arrival in Vienna tout à fait convenable.
Phrynie had been prepared to give up her intense longing to be at the scene of the congress in Vienna, for there was bound to be a plethora of parties, balls, and enormous fun in London. Now, thanks to a discreet lack of curiosity in London as to Nell’s motives, she was well on her way.
“I must confess,” said Phrynie after a long silence, “that I am delighted to leave Paris behind. Even the unknown trials ahead will be more amusing than the embassy.”
Idly Nell inquired, “Did you ask whether your friend Bolesley was in town?”
“Yes,” said Phrynie stiffly, “he was, and his wife as well. But that, no matter what you think, is not the reason I was happy to leave. It was that vinegar-faced Westford woman!”
Nell did not suspect the real moving force behind her aunt’s compliance with her urgent need to travel on. Phrynie was a woman who knew her duty, and at present the safe delivery of the parcel was uppermost in her thoughts. However, Phrynie, while comfort loving as a rule, welcomed the unexpected as much as her niece did. Phrynie was gratified now to feel that youth and adventure had not passed beyond her reach.
Now she glanced at Nell. When she caught her niece’s eye, she grinned mischievously. There was no need for words to pass between them. They understood each other.
*
By this time, the equipage had trundled out of Paris and was, so Nell told her, on the road toward Champagne.
“Champagne,” Phrynie mused. “What do you remember about this region? A town called Epernay, of course, but also — Haut something.”
Nell said, “We’ll ask Reeves when we halt to rest the horses.”
“I am sure,” said Phrynie drily, “he will know. He seems, does he not, to be omniscient?”
“Not at all,” said Nell stiffly. “I did not say he would know, Aunt. I simply said we will ask him.”
Phrynie looked at her thoughtfully, but said nothing. She did promise herself, however, to keep a watchful eye on her niece. She laid her head back against the small satin pillows that Mullins had placed for her comfort and closed her eyes. No need to worry, she told herself before she slipped into a doze. Nell is head over heels in love with Foxhall.
*
Nell had not shared with her aunt certain unsettling remarks that Reeves had made. She had spoken to him before their departure to make sure that he knew the route they were to take. She had found him in the paved courtyard of the embassy, making sure that the four horses were properly harnessed.
The conversation was now as clear in her mind as at the moment it took place.
“Reeves?”
“Yes, miss.”
“Is all in readiness for departure?”
“Yes, miss.”
She looked at the baggage-laden coach, frowning. It seemed a frail vehicle to carry them all such a long way. She had no clear understanding of the magnitude of the journey ahead, but she was beginning to suspect that it would prove longer and more trying than she knew. Her doubts must have been reflected in her expression.
Reeves, in a voice different from his usual mixture of gruffness and upper-servant remoteness, said, “Best take it a day at a time. We’ll get through, don’t fret.”
She managed a brave smile. “Thank you, Reeves.” With a rush, she said, “I truly do not know how we would have gone on without you.”
“Coachman’s accident,” he said, “was my good fortune.”
He held her eyes with his steady gaze. She felt his confidence flowing to her, and she was suddenly short of breath. She turned away first. “Do you know the road we should take?”
“Yes, miss.”
Curiosity inspired her to ask, “How do you know, Reeves? Surely you have not traveled in France at all? You are English, are you not?”
“Yes, miss.”
She needed to break down that barrier that he erected between them, quite properly. But she was never one to deny her own impulses. “Then I should like to make sure,” she said coolly, “that we may safely entrust ourselves to your guidance.”
He looked straight at her, and the spark in his hazel eyes was far from formal. The light was gone in an instant, and she believed she must have imagined it. When he spoke, he was once again the perfect servant. “I have made inquiries, miss. I am informed that it is unsafe to travel through the mountains at this time of year, particularly with such a small party.”
“Unsafe? Then, how —”
“We shall travel by the road that the old armies took to the Holy Land. Mebbe take longer, but we’ll get there.” After a moment, he added as an afterthought, “With your permission, miss.”
There was nothing for her to do but to give it. He had taken thought on their best route, and she had not. “Do as you think best, Reeves,” she told him.
Her cheeks burned even yet as she remembered that curious moment when their eyes locked, a moment of what might be called, for want of a better word, friendliness.
She had intended at that time to consult her aunt, for after all the entire equipage and staff belonged to Lady Sanford. But the ambassador was bidding her farewell, and there was no time for consultation. Lord Westford was, in his pontifical way, sending them out into the perils of the road.
“For you must know there is still much anti-English sentiment in the countryside,” he told them. “That pipsqueak Emperor has stirred them all up for years to come.”
“But surely nobody will harm us,” said Lady Sanford airily. “After all, we can pay our way, and the landlady at the Blue Dolphin was most kind.”
“Besides,” added Nell, pointing out an obvious fact, “the Emperor has been exiled.”
“But all his friends,” said the ambassador, “have not.”
Nell remembered her fears, the first night in the embassy, that someone had stolen the parcel. She was prepared to take on the possible dangers attendant upon the possession of the parcel. But how futile it would.be to come to a particularly nasty end simply because she was English.
But Reeves had said they would get through, and his confidence wrapped her like a warm blanket.
*
These thoughts occupied Nell for some time. At length, the coach slowed and came to a stop at the side of the road. Full of the fears that the ambassador had instilled in her, she leaned out of the window and called to the coachman. “What is the trouble?’
“No trouble, miss,” said Potter, dropping off the box to speak to the ladies. “Coachman says time to rest the horses. Not traveling post, you know.” Suddenly aware of his presumption, he added quickly, with a jerk of his head toward the front of the coach, “ He says, miss.”
“I see.” Visited by a wish to uncramp her legs, she opened the door and stepped down to the road. She shivered in the sudden chill after the warmth of the coach interior and drew her furs close. Reeves was at the horses’ heads and she joined him. “Reeves, is all in good order?”
“Yes, miss.”
Was that all the man could say? she thought in sudden pique. She decided she would force him to answer more fully. It was not that she wished to hear his voice, she told herself firm
ly, even though it was unusually deep and musical. “My aunt wishes to know,” she said, “whether a town called Haut something is on this road. I told her I expected that you would know.”
“Yes, miss.”
When he did not continue, she prodded him. “Well, Reeves, do you know?”
“Yes, miss.”
She glanced sharply at him. Could it be that he was laughing at her? She blamed herself for that moment in the yard of the embassy when she had not, as would have been proper, put him in his place. It had been most satisfactory, then, to feel that she had an ally on whom she could lean in a figurative way. But he clearly believed that he had been given leave to further intimacy. She opened her lips to give him a thorough set-down, but instead, to her astonishment, she heard strong amusement in her own voice as she said, “Then, pray tell me, Reeves, if it is not too much trouble?”
He erected the barrier again. “Yes, miss, the town is called Hautvillers, and it is beyond Epernay on the road we are traveling. Is that all, miss?”
“No, Reeves,” she said, allowing an edge to appear in her voice. “How far is the town — Hautvillers? — from here?”
“We may reach it by nightfall, miss.”
“And,” pursued Nell, “is there an inn there?”
“Yes, miss. At least, I am informed there is one nearby.”
Nell’s temper was not improved by her conversation with him, however enlightening. “And, Reeves, pray tell me, is it an inn suitable for my aunt’s patronage?”
“So I am told, miss.”
In spite of his wooden demeanor, she was as convinced of his inner amusement as though he lay on the ground before her, rolling in hilarious guffaws. But there was nothing overt in his manner that she could disapprove. Besides, the fact was clear — they were dependent on Reeves. Where in this bleak November countryside could they find another coachman?