by Anne Gracie
Damaris stopped dead and turned to look at him with an intense expression. A feeling of foreboding stole over him.
“As a matter of fact, there is something you could do.” She clasped her gloved hands to her bosom in an unconscious gesture of appeal.
Freddy took a deep breath and grasped the nettle. “What?”
“Take me away from here.”
He blinked. It was the last thing he’d expected. “Take you where?” he asked cautiously.
“To your family home.”
His brows shot up. “To Breckenridge? But that’s where my parents are.”
“You’ll have to introduce me at some stage. Besides, wasn’t that the whole point?”
It was, yes, but . . . “But that would mean we’d be there for”—he calculated the days—“more than two weeks, assuming we stay for my brother’s memorial service.”
“Would that be unbearable for you?” She looked at him and said quietly, “Oh, I see it would. I’m sorry. We’ll stick to the original plan, then.”
She took his arm and they continued their walk. Now Freddy was the one who felt like a worm.
Two more couples came up and congratulated them. Freddy watched as Damaris handled their felicitations with quiet charm. She probably had to put up with this sort of thing all the time. He only had to endure it when he was with her, at the literary society or in the park. The rest of the time it went pretty much as usual.
And when he was at home, Tibbins didn’t beam at him in a sentimental, fatherly fashion. He sniffed. Meaningfully.
Tibbins had said everything that was proper, of course, but it was apparent to Freddy—well, he would’ve had to have been a block of wood to have missed it—that Tibbins was Not Happy about Freddy’s upcoming nuptials. Tibbins did not like Change. In Freddy’s bachelor quarters he ruled supreme. In a properly ordered marital home, he would be one of many, a mere valet—significant, but not supreme.
Three more ladies and a gentleman approached them, beaming, to wish them happy—that made eleven blasted well-wishers in a period of about fifteen minutes!
Damaris was everything that was gracious, but Freddy had had enough. They hadn’t even made a circuit of Berkeley Square yet. And she’d said it was worse for her at home.
“I see what you mean,” he said after the last well-meaning nuisance had wished them joy and taken himself off. “We’ll leave tomorrow morning. I’ll write to my mother to expect us on Wednesday.”
She gave him a glowing look. “Really? Are you sure?”
He nodded gruffly. “It’s only a couple of weeks. It won’t be that bad. We needn’t spend much time with my parents. I’ll take you around the estate, show you a few of the local sights. Can you be ready to leave by nine o’clock tomorrow morning?”
“I can be ready to leave in an hour,” she said so fervently he laughed.
“Nine o’clock it is. I will make the arrangements and you can break it to Jane.”
She tilted her head. “Why Jane in particular?”
“She’ll have to do all the reading for the literary society now.”
Damaris laughed. “She won’t mind. Oh, thank you, Mr. Monkton-Coombes—”
“Freddy, remember?”
“Thank you, Freddy, you can’t imagine what a relief it will be to get away for a little. I really appreciate it. I promise you I’ll do everything I can to make this visit to your parents go smoothly. And to make them like me.”
“Oh, you don’t have to worry whether they like you or not. They’ll like any respectable girl who’s prepared to marry me.”
Her face dimmed, and he added, “Besides, if they like you too much, I’ll never hear the end of it when you come to your senses, break the engagement and send me about my business.”
She still looked troubled, so he patted her hand. “So you can be as rude to them as you like—I won’t mind.”
She bit her lip. “I couldn’t possibly be rude to them, but perhaps I could be a bit cold and standoffish—”
“For heaven’s sake, don’t do that!” he interrupted. “Cold and standoffish? They’d adore you! No, don’t worry about my parents. Just be yourself.”
She nodded, and gave him a determined half smile, but the glow had gone. He hoped it wasn’t anything he’d said.
• • •
It was a still morning and the mist hung low. The stark, bare trees of Berkeley Square seemed to float in a lake of cloudy gray. “Perfect weather for traveling,” Freddy said when he arrived. “Shouldn’t take this fog long to burn off, and once it does it should be clear and dry, all the way.”
He’d come with a postilion, four horses and a smart-looking bright yellow chaise. Carriage lamps burned on either side of the chaise, golden orbs of light in the gray morning.
“Hired a yellow bounder, eh?” Lady Beatrice commented when she saw it. She’d come down the front steps, leaning heavily on her canes, to oversee their departure.
Everyone, it seemed, had gathered in the street to wave Damaris off; the servants spilled along the footpath and peered through the railings from the subground kitchen entrance, Featherby supervised as William stowed her luggage safely in the boot, and another footman assisted Polly, the maid who was accompanying Damaris, into a seat at the back of the carriage.
Jane and Daisy stood on either side of Lady Beatrice, veering dizzily between excitement and misery. They’d each hugged her a dozen times, pelting her with advice, wiping away tears, and generally acting as though she were going away for good instead of visiting Somerset for a few weeks.
Damaris felt a bit teary herself.
Behind the chaise stood Freddy’s curricle, pulled by two beautiful bays, snorting and prancing restlessly, under the control of a diminutive tiger who held their bridles and crooned endearments and muttered curses at his charges. A groom sat in the curricle, holding the reins.
Damaris wondered why Freddy would take two carriages, but since nobody else had commented on the arrangement, she didn’t ask. What did she know about traveling in England anyway?
But he must have noticed her wondering, because he explained. “Need my curricle to show you around the district when we get there. Lord only knows what carriages my parents have, probably some dowdy old-fashioned rigs you wouldn’t want to be seen dead in.”
She hid a smile. She wasn’t the one who cared about being smart.
“I’ll write,” she called to Lady Beatrice and her sisters as Freddy helped her into the chaise, then climbed nimbly in after her.
“Mind you take good care of my gel, young Monkton-Coombes,” Lady Beatrice said almost fiercely.
As Freddy was in the process of tucking a luxurious fur rug around Damaris to protect her from drafts, he gave the old lady a sardonic glance. For a moment Damaris thought he was going to say something rude, but all he said was “I will, m’lady,” and shut the door.
The postilion glanced back, Freddy gave him the signal and the carriage moved off.
“Phew, that’s done,” Freddy said, leaning back as they turned into Mount Street, leaving Berkeley Square behind them. He glanced at her. “Comfortable?”
“Very, thank you.” The fur rug was lovely and soft and warm.
They watched the streets of London slip by, the familiar giving way to the unfamiliar, Freddy pointing out various places of interest as they went. Then, sooner than she’d thought possible, they were moving along the turnpike at a smart clip, with the city fallen behind them and the country all around.
Silence fell between them, talk giving way to the sound of the horses’ hooves on the road, the carriage creaking and groaning as it bounced and swayed along. It was a little unsettling. She gripped the straps hanging above the window to steady her.
Apart from a trip to Max and Abby’s home, where she’d been unwell most of the way, Damaris hadn’t seen much of the Engl
ish countryside. She supposed she must have when she was little, but she had no memory of it. Mama had talked often of England; it was all so beautiful and green, she’d said. It wasn’t really all that green at the moment, with silvery drifts of mist lingering in the dips and hollows and meandering along streambeds, and silver rime coating the open ground where the remnants of frost caught glimmers of weak winter sunlight. But it was beautiful, as Mama had said.
It was nothing like China, or at least the part of China she’d lived in. It was a different kind of beauty.
These English fields were like patchwork on a quilt, in squares or strips or rectangles—all neat and straight and lined with hedges, not following the flow of the land, as they’d done in China.
And the villages . . . some a mere straggle of houses along the road, others a neat, sturdy collection built around a pretty village square. There were tiny cottages and larger farmhouses and from time to time an imposing mansion glimpsed between trees.
They’d left the turnpike now. The chaise swayed and bounced over potholes in the road, throwing them against each other. She gripped her strap more tightly.
“Are you all right?” Freddy asked her. “You’ve gone very quiet, and you look a little pale.”
“No, I’m quite all right, thank you. Just . . . thinking.”
She stared determinedly out the window. She liked the small whitewashed cottages best. Were any of them like the cottage he had bought her? Some had what she could tell would be flower gardens at the front in spring. Mama had told her about English gardens. She’d tried to make one in China once, but it had shriveled in the summer, and Papa said they should grow food, not flowers.
Food . . . The chaise turned a sharp corner. Without warning her stomach lurched and she tasted bile and a bitter echo of her breakfast.
Oh, Lord, not again.
“Are you sure you’re not feeling ill? We can stop if you want.”
“I’m all right, truly,” she managed.
She stared out the window of the carriage, breathing deeply, determined not to give in to the waves of nausea that grew increasingly worse.
Without warning, Freddy opened a window and shouted to the postilion.
“What—?”
“Stubborn wench,” Freddy informed her as the chaise immediately slowed. “You’re now a delicate shade of green.” The chaise came to a sudden stop and swayed gently to and fro. “Out you get.”
“It’s nothing, just that the movement of the carriage is making me a trifle”—he opened the door and lifted her down—“nauseous,” she finished and, clapping her hand over her mouth, made a rush to the ditch on the side of the road.
After a short, humiliating episode beside the ditch, she wiped her mouth, threw away her soiled handkerchief and made her way unsteadily back to the carriage.
“Better?” Freddy said as he helped her back into the carriage.
She nodded, thoroughly mortified. “I’m sure I will be all right soon. I have the same problem on ships, but it passes eventually.” She settled herself back in her corner of the carriage. “I trust I will not inconvenience you again.”
“It’s no inconvenience at all,” he said. “I was often ill as a child. In another few miles we’ll stop to change the horses, and we’ll get you some hot tea with ginger. That often helps.”
• • •
They had to stop twice more before they reached the post inn.
Her stomach was completely empty now, Damaris was sure. There would be no more embarrassing requests to stop, no more standing on the side of the road retching miserably. At least she hoped not.
At the posting inn, she rinsed out her mouth, washed her face and hands and tidied her hair. She glanced at herself in the looking glass. Pasty as an uncooked pie. She pinched her cheeks to bring some color to her face and returned to the travelers’ sitting room.
He made her drink a cup of weak black tea with some grated ginger infused in it.
The thought of it repelled her, but when she drank it she had to admit it did seem to settle her stomach a little. He wanted her to eat some bread too, but she refused.
“Ready to continue the journey?” he asked when she had finished.
She put the empty cup down and said in as bright a manner as she could manage, “Yes. How much farther is it to Breckenridge House?”
“We’ll stop for the night in Basingstoke and if everything goes smoothly we’ll reach my parents’ place by tomorrow evening.”
Two days of travel. The prospect was appalling. It would just have to be endured. Bracing herself for the next stage, she headed outside.
“Not that one.” Freddy took her arm and steered her away from the yellow bounder. She knew now how it got its name. “We’ll use the curricle. The fresh air will do you good.”
Her heart sank. The curricle was light and flimsy; it was probably even bouncier than the chaise. It was quite a climb to reach the seat, and her skirts kept getting in the way. He ended up lifting her bodily so she could place a foot in the stirrup, then held her by the waist as she grabbed the fur rug that someone had dumped on the seat, lifted it out of the way and maneuvered herself awkwardly into position. A more graceless process she could hardly imagine.
The wretched vehicle was designed for men with long legs, wearing boots and buckskins, she thought sourly as he climbed lithely in and wedged himself in beside her. There wasn’t much room. They sat thigh by thigh. She couldn’t give him any more room without tipping herself over the side of the carriage.
He took the fur rug, then put two fingers in his mouth and emitted an earsplitting whistle. A manservant came running from the inn, carrying an oblong wood and metal box with two handles.
“Lift your feet,” Freddy instructed her.
Damaris lifted them.
The man carefully slid the box under her feet and withdrew and she cautiously lowered her feet onto it. It was warm; she could feel the heat right through the soles of her shoes.
“Foot warmer,” Freddy said in answer to her silent surprise. “Hot coals inside it. Should last for an hour or two. We’ll change coals when we change horses.” He tucked the fur rug back around her as he spoke, then picked up the reins. “Ready?”
She was anything but, but she managed a smile and a nod, and they moved off.
The wind was cold on her face, but it was more refreshing than anything, and her feet, resting on that hot coal contraption, were toasty and warm, as was the rest of her, thanks to the rug. And to the feel of his warm body pressed all the way down her right side. She was aware of every inch of him.
He, apparently, was oblivious.
After about fifteen minutes, though, she started to feel queasy again. Freddy gave her a sideways glance. “Feeling better in the fresh air?”
“Much better, thank you,” she lied. There was nothing left in her to vomit, and anyway, this was an open carriage and she’d be able to get down much quicker if she needed to.
“Good, then you can drive.”
“What?” She looked at him in shock, not quite believing her ears. “But I can’t drive. I don’t know how.”
“I’ll teach you.”
“I can’t. I don’t know the first thing about horses.”
“You’ll soon pick it up.” Ignoring her protests that she’d never driven any kind of carriage—ever—and she was not in a fit state to learn anything at the moment, he stopped the curricle, passed her the reins, which he called ribbons, and showed her how to hold them, threading them in a particular way between her gloved fingers.
“Don’t worry, these horses are complete slugs,” he assured her, and she realized they were different from the horses they’d left London with. “My mettlesome lads are back at the posting inn; my tiger will bring them on to Breckenridge at a more leisurely pace. Anyone could drive these two. Now snap the ribbons and say, ‘Walk on.
’”
She didn’t move, just gave him an indignant look. If he thought he was going to force her to—
He leaned over and flicked the reins in her resistless hands and the curricle jerked into movement.
Damaris squeaked and gave him a terrified glance.
He smiled, folded his arms and leaned back, completely relaxed. The swine.
She gripped the reins tighter. The curricle was moving. And she was in sole charge. A curricle was such a light and flimsy thing. She sat bolt upright, fearful of running the curricle off the road or into a ditch or a stone wall. Or flipping it right over.
After a minute or two he said, “Good, now let’s speed things up or we’ll be three days on the road to Breckenridge instead of two.”
“But—”
“The road’s nice and straight, and there’s no traffic. Relax your hands a little.”
She glanced down at her hands and saw she had the reins in a death grip. She forced her fingers to relax—and one of the reins started to slither out of her hold. She grabbed them back and glared at the man beside her, who’d made no effort to help whatsoever.
The horses picked up speed. Scenery flew past in a blur. They were going too fast. She could overturn them any second. She glanced at Freddy and saw he was smiling.
“Is my terror amusing you?” she snapped.
“Vastly.” His grin widened. He leaned back and crossed his long, booted legs.
If she crashed the curricle, it would serve him right.
Oh, God, there was a bridge up ahead. “There’s a bridge,” she gasped. It was ancient, built of stone and so narrow they couldn’t possibly squeeze through.
“So there is,” he said, completely unruffled, almost uninterested.
“How do I make them stop?” She was going to kill him, if they ever survived this.
“Lift your hands just a little toward your chest.”
She did. The horses slowed a little but kept moving toward the bridge at a smart trot.
“Steady as she goes, that’s right,” came the calm, infuriating voice on her right.