Duel of Hearts

by Farr, Diane

  “S-s-s-s-Stourbridge!” she cried, through chattering teeth. The small valise she was carrying slipped from her frozen grasp and hit the wooden floor with a thump. “Stourbridge!”

  Fred dimly recalled that Stourbridge was the name of the inn’s proprietor. Since the taproom was empty except for Mr. Bates, Stourbridge had understandably vanished to parts unknown once the mail coach departed.

  No one was coming to the girl’s aid, however, and she appeared quite distressed. Well, anyone in her condition would be. She had the unmistakeable appearance of one who had arrived on foot. No one could become as wet and breathless as she was, merely alighting from a carriage and crossing the stableyard.

  Fred, his withers wrung, rose and approached. “I beg your pardon,” he said pleasantly, “but may I be of assistance? This inn seems a bit understaffed. Stourbridge is the only person I’ve seen on the premises, apart from a couple of greasy underlings.” He retrieved the girl’s valise and moved to hand it to her, but thought better of the impulse and set it on the counter for her instead. It went very much against the grain with him to hand such a heavy box to a female, and besides, she was shivering violently. Why the deuce was she carrying it in the first place? “I believe he may have gone to the back of the house. Shall I roust him out?”

  The girl raised wet eyes to his, sniffling. Her nose and cheeks were bright red, and for one startled moment he thought she was weeping. Then he realized she was simply chilled to the marrow. She was also distraught. Her pupils were dilated with anxiety. She neither thanked him nor replied to his offer, but simply blurted, “Has the m-mail b-been through yet?”

  “Come and gone, not three minutes ago. Why, what’s the matter? I say!” exclaimed Fred, catching her as she staggered. The girl moaned, and covered her face with her hands.

  “The devil fly away with George!” she exclaimed passionately. “Oh, I knew it! I knew it! Merciful heavens, what am I to do now?”

  “The first thing to do is to come nearer the fire,” said Fred firmly, briskly knocking the snow from her shoulders and the top of her hood. He then pulled the resistless girl gently into the tap room and seated her on a wooden settle. She mumbled her thanks and slumped onto the bench, gazing dejectedly at the leaping flames.

  Fred cleared his throat delicately. “Shall I go and find Stourbridge for you? I think you should bespeak a bowl of gruel, or a cup of tea, or—or something. Something hot.”

  She gave a listless shrug. “Thank you,” she said. The words came out in a bitter little whisper. It was clear that the absent George had somehow blighted her life, and that a bowl of gruel would do little to mend matters. Still, Fred thought it politic to summon Stourbridge. If the girl perished of cold, it wouldn’t be because Fred Bates had abandoned her to her fate.

  Fred went back to the entrance hall and set up a shout. Stourbridge soon appeared, wiping his hands on his apron and looking much harassed.

  “A young lady has arrived,” Fred told him.

  The gleam in Stourbridge’s eyes, and the eager way he headed toward the outside door, told Fred that he had given the man a mistaken impression. “There’s no carriage to be seen to,” he informed the innkeeper hastily. “She’s come on foot.”

  The host stopped in his tracks. His gaze traveled in surprise and suspicion to the valise Fred had placed on the counter. It was secured with two leather straps, rather worn, and its top bore a light dusting of snow. It looked soggy, battered and disreputable. Stourbridge’s cheeks puffed with disapproval.

  “What’s this? What’s this?” he exclaimed, bustling into the tap room.

  When he saw the bedraggled figure dripping melted snow onto his hearth, some of the air went out of the innkeeper’s sails. He set his arms akimbo. “Miss Ripley,” he said grimly. To Fred’s surprise, the gaze he bent on the shivering girl mixed sternness with affection in a manner that was almost parental. “I might ha’ known it would be you.”

  Miss Ripley sneezed. “Yes, you certainly might,” she uttered, when she had recovered. “For I booked a space on the mail from you only two days ago! How could you let it leave without me?”

  “Come now, miss, you know better than that! There’s no stopping the mail.”

  “Yes, but I was on time! I know I was.”

  “You was late,” retorted Stourbridge. “And there’s never any knowing what maggot you might have in your brain! I thought mayhap you had come to your senses. For you hadn’t ought to be traveling alone, as you know well! Where’s Master George?”

  “At home,” sniffed the girl, struggling to pull off her wet gloves. “He wouldn’t bring me.”

  “Ha! Never thought I’d see the day I’d be grateful to that rapscallion. I’m glad someone down at the Hall was having a care to your reputation.”

  The girl’s chin began to jut alarmingly. “If you are suggesting that any harm could have come to me on the Royal Mail—”

  “No, now, I’m not suggesting nothing, one way or t’other!” interposed Stourbridge hastily. “I’m only telling you what anyone would tell you, and that’s that young ladies don’t jaunt about the countryside unprotected. But there was never any use in telling you a blessed thing, no way, nohow! You’ve gone your own way since you was born.”

  The girl must have seen the amazement and disapproval on Mr. Bates’s face, for a deep chuckle escaped her. “Stourbridge was in service with my family,” she explained. “His wife was my nurse.” She shot the man a darkling glance. “And now that she’s gone to her reward, Stourbridge thinks he’s my nurse!”

  “Well, if ever a young lady wanted looking after, it’s you!” retorted Stourbridge. “If my good wife was here this minute, she’d bring you a posset.” He looked the girl over critically. “And a dry blanket, I dessay.”

  Miss Ripley would have replied indignantly, but another sneeze prevented her. Stourbridge bustled off, frowning and blessing himself.

  “Well, if he’s gone to brew you a posset, you have my sympathy,” remarked Fred. “He served me the most shocking dinner an hour or so ago. I say, he’s right about the dry blanket, though. May I help you to remove that cloak? It can’t be doing you any good.”

  Miss Ripley’s face was slowly returning to its natural hue, but she still bore a strong resemblance to a half-drowned kitten. Her hair, escaping from her ruined bonnet, clung to her forehead and dripped down her cheeks. She reached up now and tugged fruitlessly at the knot of strings beneath her chin. Her fingers were stiff with cold.

  “Allow me,” said Fred politely. She looked a little doubtful, but stood and permitted him to struggle for a moment with the tangle. She had tied the hood of her cloak on top of a close bonnet, and the strings of the hood and the bonnet had worked themselves together into a hopeless snarl. The fact that the strings were also soaking wet made untying the mess even more challenging.

  Miss Ripley was a lady of medium height, but had to tilt her chin very high to permit tall Mr. Bates a view of the knots. He thought he spied a speculative gleam in her eyes as she regarded him from under her lashes. This, coupled with her rather unnerving proximity, caused Fred to feel the color come into his face. He had been living a decidedly Spartan existence for the past twelvemonth, and Miss Ripley was the first female he had touched since—

  “Sorry!” he said hastily, stepping back. “I’m afraid we’ll have to take a knife to it.”

  We hope you have enjoyed this excerpt of DASHING THROUGH THE SNOW by Diane Farr. To view this or other books by this author, please visit DianeFarrBooks.com.

 

 

 
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