The Road through Rushbury (Seasons of Change Book 1)

by Martha Keyes

  But it appeared that she had not yet finished her tirade.

  “I don’t know what type of equipages you manage to build here in Rushbury—” her voice dripped with sarcasm “—but the post-chaise I hired in Rotherham was clearly not of the required caliber, as its wheels failed to withstand the crater-sized holes in the road.”

  Samuel’s desire to laugh began to dissipate. It was clear that the woman was laboring under a great sense of abuse, but he hardly cared to hear Rushbury and its surroundings disparaged by yet another Londoner. The woman had no idea what she was talking about, no idea how difficult it was to maintain roads with the variable weather they received in their corner of Yorkshire—and deprived of a surveyor to take on the enormous task of their upkeep in hand.

  “I am sorry you were put to such trouble, miss,” he said, noting the way her eyes sparkled in anger and looking away. She was one of those uncommon people who managed to look even more captivating when animated by such strong emotion. “I imagine that you will accustom yourself to it after a short time here.”

  She scoffed, brushing harshly at some dirt on her sleeve. “And, pray, just how many carriages shall I be required to keep on hand to ensure I always have a working one? I imagine your wheelwright must live very high indeed for all the business he has. I had heard that Rushbury was very rural—provincial, even—but one can hardly wonder at this, I think, for what people can be expected to frequent the place when the roads are in such a state?”

  Samuel’s smile, already devoid of humor, disappeared entirely. Who in the world did she think she was to say such things? “Perhaps you might simply consider going at a slower pace? Whatever pressing need you felt to make a timely and grand entrance to each ball in London, I assure you that no one here will be put out if you arrive belatedly—or not at all.”

  He clenched his jaw, busying himself with stepping down the stairs to take the valises in hand, torn between horror at what he had just said and satisfaction that he had momentarily bereft the woman of speech. She was obviously not the type that could be expected to adapt to Rushbury’s ways—she was making it very clear that she expected Rushbury to conform to her standards.

  But Samuel would not let her do so without a fight. In his experience, people like the woman before him were all-too-ready to air their grievances but hardly ever willing to take any real action to address them.

  “Well,” she finally said, “I shall certainly bear that in mind the next time I consider risking my life by going out.”

  “It is apparent that your feelings on the matter are strong indeed. If you wish to channel your indignation at our provincial ways”— he tried to match her sarcastic tone —“into a more practical avenue, you could attend the vestry meeting on Thursday where we will be discussing such matters. Or perhaps you prefer to simply air your grievances at every opportunity—and to every stranger you meet.”

  She blinked as though he had thrown something in her face, and he knew a moment’s guilt.

  But she raised her chin defiantly. “No, indeed. Perhaps I shall attend.”

  “Very good,” said Samuel, confident that she would do no such thing. They held one another’s eyes for a long moment, neither willing to be the first to break the challenge implicit in the action, until the footman cleared his throat.

  “Shall I convey these to your bedchamber?”

  Samuel thought he saw her mouth twitch as if suppressing a smile, but he must have imagined it, as her face remained as stony as ever, softening only the slightest bit as she nodded to Andrew—who hung back from them uncomfortably—and thanked Samuel in an icy voice.

  Andrew continued up the stairs, and Samuel couldn’t blame the young man for being anxious to beat a hasty retreat.

  Miss Paige reached for the valises in Samuel’s hands, and he instinctively pulled away from her.

  Her brows shot up, and she stared at him in disbelief.

  Realizing that it appeared strange indeed for him to keep Miss Paige from her own valises, he cleared his throat. “I am more than happy to follow Andrew and leave them in your bedchamber.”

  She put out an expectant hand for one of the valises. “Thank you, but no. You will forgive me, I hope, but I find it difficult to trust anyone with my belongings after today’s experiences.”

  He chuckled dryly. “You cannot trust me to carry your belongings because your carriage met with an accident? I assure you, I shall take every care not to throw them about between here and your bedchamber. Our ways may be provincial here, but we are not barbarians.”

  “The carriage accident is hardly the reason for my distrust.”

  “Then what is the reason for it?”

  “It needn’t concern you,” she said. “I assure you I shan’t air my grievances to you anymore—nor trouble you to take my belongings.” She reached for the valises again.

  My, but she was stubborn. He could hardly do anything but relent, given the circumstances, and he returned her things to her wordlessly.

  She winced as one of the valises bumped against her leg. Setting it down for a moment, she reached into the pocket of her traveling dress, pulling out a pistol.

  Samuel drew back. “Good heavens!”

  She narrowed her eyes, checking the pistol to ensure it wasn’t cocked, then glancing up at him. “What? I shan’t shoot you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  He gave a wry chuckle. “I thank you.” It was all he could do not to inquire about the thing, but he had the feeling that it would only provoke her ire further—indeed, everything seemed to do so.

  She bent down, opening up the valise and setting the pistol within. Rising to her feet, she dipped her head. “I thank you, Mr…?”

  “Derrick,” he said with a bow. “Samuel Derrick. I hope you will give Rushbury a chance to alter your opinion of us.”

  “I fear that would be quite a feat at this point.”

  She was captivating, even in her derision, confound her.

  He smiled tightly. “We shall try, nevertheless. I think you will find that there isn’t a better place nor a better set of people in the world—if you have eyes to recognize it.” He bowed and turned to go, looking over his shoulder to say, “I shall see you in the vestry on Thursday, Miss Paige. Four o’clock.”

  He wasn’t sure whether he hoped that she would prove him wrong by attending or prove him right by missing it.

  Chapter 5

  Georgiana shut the door to her bedchamber, pausing for a moment to take a breath. She shut her eyes in consternation.

  Certainly the last fifteen minutes had not been her finest—and not exactly the first impression she had hoped for with the people of Rushbury village. She had fully intended to seek out her room once she arrived at Granchurch House, a private space where she could exhaust her anger by yelling into a pillow or scribbling an irate letter to whatever imaginary soul she could blame for both of the unfortunate events she had met with in the last miles of her journey. She had even given orders for Jane to rest before coming to help with the unpacking of Georgiana’s things.

  Instead, she had been met with the very last thing she wished to see: a man of marriageable age. And a strikingly handsome one, at that, with his defined, dramatic brow line and the uncommon stubble that lined his jaw. And that hint of a Yorkshire accent? She found that she rather liked it. But no sooner had the sight of him fanned the flames of her irritation and suppressed anger than she realized that he was very likely already married.

  For whatever reason, this thought had not improved her mood. Such a perfect storm had resulted in Georgiana losing her hold on her temper, finding Mr. Derrick its object.

  She let out a little groan as she remembered some of the things she had said and how disagreeable she had been.

  In London, she might simply hope that she and Mr. Derrick would never cross paths again, but she’d had a glimpse of the village as they passed by its crossroad on the way to Granchurch House, and she was far too realistic to believe that avoidin
g anyone would be a possibility in such a small place. Much smaller than she had anticipated, in fact.

  When Archie and others had referred to the rural quality of Rushbury, she had been imagining a place more like Rotherham: a fraction of the size of London, certainly, but with a selection of shops and a number of inns. Rushbury was not even near that, though. She had noted only one road running through it. She hoped that, when she had a chance to walk its length, she would perhaps find a few streets branching off from the main road, perhaps with a haberdasher or a linen draper.

  Granchurch House at least was a very respectable estate, with its four small, crenulated turrets and dirt-darkened cream façade. Aunt Sara was well enough off that she could afford a decent-sized estate, as Granchurch looked to be.

  Even if she had been able to avoid Mr. Derrick, she was conscious of a sense of relief that such a course was not open to her. She did hope to see him again, and she decided to ascribe this strange feeling to a very natural desire to ensure that she was not thought badly of. Well, if she attended this vestry meeting—whatever that was—she would have the chance to redeem herself, perhaps. Now it only remained to discover what a vestry meeting was. She had heard the term before, but she hadn’t the faintest idea what occurred at such a meeting or what she might accomplish by attending.

  Georgiana turned to the small mirror on the wall and stifled a yelp. Her hands rushed to calm the mess—her hair was matted down in places from her bonnet while in others, clumps jutted out at strange angles.

  She shut her eyes. No, she had certainly not presented her best side to Mr. Derrick. All the anger and frustration she had been storing inside, unable to unleash it upon Jane or the postilion, had erupted upon hearing him refer to her as ma’am.

  She knew it was silly to take offense at such a thing—had she not teased Daphne about her own status as a spinster just a week ago?—but once her temper had flared up, she had found the words spewing forth. She might have been able to shift course after the initial eruption but for Mr. Derrick’s unhelpful responses, teasing her about the war zone she had compared Yorkshire to and then provoking her into agreeing to attend the vestry meeting of all things.

  This was not a promising beginning to her new life.

  Finishing repairs to her hair and attire as best she could, she let out a determined breath and went to seek out her aunt, wondering with a grumbling stomach when she might find dinner—and horrified at the sudden thought that she might have missed it. How early did people dine in Yorkshire?

  She found her aunt lying abed, dressed in a vibrant dressing gown of puce with turquoise flowers and a lace cap atop her head.

  “My dear Georgiana!” she said, putting her arms out in invitation for an embrace.

  Georgiana leaned over the bed to submit to it, and found that her aunt smelled strongly of lavender.

  “You have come!” Aunt Sara said, patting the bed beside her.

  Georgiana sat down.

  “I am sorry to welcome you in my bed of all places,” Aunt Sara said. “I have come down with a small cold. I trust you had an agreeable journey?”

  Georgiana hesitated a moment, and then nodded her head with the brightest smile she could muster, shooing away the image of the cracked wheel and the dark cloth pulled over the highwayman’s face. She needn’t trouble her aunt with such things. Her father had presented a picture of Aunt Sara that was very fragile. “I am very glad indeed to be here at Granchurch House with you rather than on the road, though.” That at least was true. “How are you, Aunt Sara? I was so very sorry to hear of Miss Baxter’s death.”

  Aunt Sara’s chin trembled, and she attempted a smile. “It was a great blow, and I find it has affected me in no small way. But I am very glad for your company, my dear. I hope you will feel at home at Granchurch and in Rushbury.”

  Georgiana smiled, wondering how likely such a thing was. The contrast of London to Rushbury could hardly have been more stark, and she found the relative silence of Granchurch strange. No muffled sound of rumbling carriage wheels or raised voices of coachmen and street traders came through the walls of Granchurch. Georgiana had certainly spent time in the Paige’s country estate, but as it was only twelve miles outside of London and but half a mile from a good-sized town, it couldn’t really be compared.

  Besides, the great majority of her time had been spent between London, Bath, and Brighton—it would certainly be a new experience to stay for an extended period in a place like Rushbury.

  “We shall be quite cozy here when Rachel arrives,” Aunt Sara said, smoothing her bed linens with a content smile.

  “Rachel?” She knew a moment of misgiving. Had Aunt Sara gone to the trouble of hiring a maid for Georgiana already?

  “Rachel,” Aunt Sara said, as if that might clarify things for Georgiana. “She is the widow of my cousin John—he died just a few days after Matilda.” She sighed but then brightened. “In any case, she has agreed to come live at Granchurch. I wrote to her when I heard the news of John’s death. But I thought you knew this!”

  Georgiana shook her head slowly

  Aunt Sara waved a hand. “Ah, well, the mail is quite slow from here—I imagine your father didn’t receive it before you set out. But it is no matter, after all. I am very content to have both of you here.” She grasped Georgiana’s hand and squeezed it.

  Georgiana suddenly felt sheepish. There had been a comfort in knowing that she was going where she would be needed. But not only was Aunt Sara clearly not the needy woman Georgiana’s father had made her sound, she already had a replacement for Miss Baxter.

  She cleared her throat. “When shall she arrive?”

  “Oh, not for another month or so. She has to attend to all of John’s affairs first.”

  Georgiana nodded, unsure what to make of the news. At least Aunt Sara hadn’t seemed surprised or dismayed to see her. Surely that was something.

  “Aunt,” she said, suddenly frowning. “Can you tell me something?”

  Aunt Sara smiled and waited expectantly.

  “Do you know what a vestry meeting is?”

  Samuel walked the quarter mile to the vicarage with a deep frown, reviewing again and again his encounter with Miss Paige. He felt the unmistakable pricking of his conscience as he did so—it had been some time since he had lost control of his temper. But the woman had been insufferable. And beneath his anger, he felt fear and worry. How many antagonistic outsiders could they manage in Rushbury?

  Whether Miss Paige’s sharp tongue was a pillar of her character or merely the result of having passed a bad day of travel, he couldn’t be certain. He was determined, though, that either way, she would quickly learn that Rushbury would not change to suit her ideas of what was acceptable. She could adapt to their ways or else take herself off, just as every woman of her sort had in the past.

  His jaw tightened as Miss McIntyre’s face flitted through his mind. It had been four years—no, almost five—since she had left without a word, and though Samuel hadn’t allowed himself to become attached to any of the families that had since moved to Amblethorne, he had watched them each depart with predictable rapidity, inevitably reminding him of her.

  Miss Georgiana Paige too would likely leave as quickly as she had come, and so much the better. With any luck, she would remain a stranger.

  “I was a stranger, and ye took me in.”

  Samuel’s head whipped around, but there was no one near as he approached the parsonage.

  He turned back around and closed his eyes, chuckling softly at himself. It wouldn’t be the first time Burke’s voice had sounded so loudly in his head that he had thought it real.

  The man delighted in hurling scripture at him, and he would certainly push back against Samuel’s reluctance to welcome a stranger—and a Londoner—like Miss Paige. Who needed a conscience when they had Michael Burke to keep them in line?

  He sighed, pulling the creaky wooden gate toward him and walking up the stone path to the parsonage.

  Samuel
tugged at a new weed attempting to hide amongst the plants in the garden. It resisted, and he stumbled a bit as the leaves suddenly yielded to his grip.

  He scoffed, eying the remaining root with annoyance and pitching the bit he held in his hand over the glebe fence. If only his own plants were as quick to grow and as stubbornly resilient as the weeds. He spotted a few more of them and made a mental note to attend to them later. It was time to head to the vestry meeting, and he didn’t want to dirty himself. He just wanted to check on the garden’s progress.

  He removed his gloves and tossed them beside the glebe gate as footsteps approached.

  “Thought I’d come fetch you for the meeting.”

  Samuel laughed. “Afraid I’d forget?”

  Burke only smiled. He made it a habit of walking by the parsonage once a day to talk with Samuel, but he always offered some flimsy excuse—as if Samuel wasn’t just as desirous for a bit of friendly companionship.

  Burke slipped into the garden, running his eyes along the rows of small sprouts. “I heard Andrew Smith telling his father that Miss Paige’s niece has arrived—a Miss Georgiana Paige.”

  Samuel let out a puff of air from his nose. “Yes, I had the doubtful pleasure of making her acquaintance yesterday.” He narrowed his eyes at Burke. “You knew she was a young woman, didn’t you?”

  Burke grinned and nodded. “Miss Paige told me herself a few days ago.”

  “You could have told me as much.”

  Burke gripped his shoulder. “Ah, but that would have sapped all the fun out of it!”

  Samuel raised his brows significantly. “Fun? There was nothing fun about our encounter. A veritable firebrand she is. And I can tell you that we provincial Yorkshire folk have not found favor with her.”

  “Oh dear,” Mr. Burke said, a slight chuckle making his shoulders shake. “How have we managed to provoke her ire so soon?”