by Martha Keyes
Elias held her gaze, but she thought she saw a tremor at the side of his mouth, as though he wanted to say something but decided against it. “I concur. What will our names be, then, madam wife?”
Her lips compressed into a thin line at the epithet.
He raised his brows. “I sincerely hope you will manage to respond to your husband in a more seemly manner by the time we arrive. Or are we assuming the role of dashing husband and shrewish wife?”
She suppressed a smile, but he knew her too well to miss it, and a satisfied glint appeared in his eyes.
“Mr. and Mrs. Cherriman,” she said. “On our way to visit family in Somerset.”
He gave an exaggerated nod. “So be it.”
The muted sound of hoofbeats on dirt shifted to a loud clopping as the chaise rumbled over a stone bridge. They were only a few minutes from The Old Dog. The journey had passed much more quickly than Edith had anticipated, but as the carriage moved back to the dirt road, a new sound assailed their ears: the pattering of rain on the roof of the chaise.
Her gaze met Elias’s. She pulled up the shade to peer outside and knew a moment’s misgiving at the view before her. Dark, roiling thunderheads seemed to be coming nearer, flying in the face of her confident comment about the worst weather keeping to the coast.
Elias’s eyes were on her, and he seemed to sense her misgiving, as he scooted over toward the window. “May I?” His leg came up against hers, much like it had in the library.
She hesitated, then shrugged, moving to allow him space.
“Gad!” he said, pulling back and looking at Edith with alarm. “We are in for no small storm. So much for your forecast, Mrs. Cherriman.”
The thought of turning back crossed Edith’s mind. It was undoubtedly the safer option. But to turn back would be to forgo the best part of their charade—the finale. It would sap their victory of its potency, and Edith intended to have her full revenge upon Matthew and the others—now more than ever. For it was their ruse that had landed her in the humiliating situation in which she found herself—having forcibly kissed Elias Abram. And having enjoyed it immensely.
She had never kissed anyone before, and she now found herself in the mortifying position of wondering whether she had entirely botched it. Had it been enjoyable for Elias too? Did all kisses feel as that one in the library had?
Shaking herself mentally, she refocused on the matter at hand. The rain was still pattering, perhaps a bit stronger than it had been even a minute ago, but certainly nothing to alarm anyone. Besides, she had known plenty of ominously dark clouds to taunt and threaten, only to pass over after scattering a handful of raindrops on the area.
“I wish to go on,” she said decidedly. “But if your courage is failing you….”
He shook his head. “I quite enjoy a good downpour myself.”
The chaise rumbled into the wet yard of The Old Dog, and Elias began taking off his coat as the chaise stopped.
“What are you doing?” she asked, frowning.
The door opened, the stairs were let down, and Elias hopped to the ground, coat draped over his arm. His eyes squinted as rain and wind pelted him, flattening his hair in a matter of seconds. He put out a hand to Edith, and she took it hesitantly, still bemused by his decision to remove his coat at the time when it was most useful.
She gave a sharp intake of breath as she stepped out, drops of cold rain slapping against her cheeks. And then stopping unaccountably.
Elias was holding his coat over her head, his eyes still squinting to keep out the pelting rain. “Come, Mrs. Cherriman!”
Secretly touched by his thoughtfulness, Edith rushed alongside him to the inn door, which stood open, the innkeeper beckoning them in. Edith’s maid followed them, assisted by the driver of the chaise, who held his tricorn hat over her head.
The innkeeper—a Mr. Drew by name—accepted their explanation without batting an eye. And indeed, why shouldn’t he? He was more concerned with instructing a servant to add a log to the fire in the coffee room, and for a cup of coffee and a bowl of warm stew to be served to the Cherrimans without delay. Based on the intensity of Mr. Drew, Edith doubted it was very often that he had guests at The Old Dog who were as obviously genteel as the Cherrimans.
The stew was surprisingly palatable, and it warmed Edith’s throat and stomach with each bite, a welcome little mercy in contrast with the bleak prospect the windows afforded.
The storm was already unleashing its full fury on the area, smacking the window panes with such a din that it wasn’t until Edith heard the sound of voices that she realized they were no longer the newest guests. They had been there but a matter of ten minutes, but a quick trip to the rain-blurred window led Elias to raise his brows.
“What is it?” Edith asked, setting down her cup of coffee.
“Two carriages.”
“What?” She stood, crossing over to join Elias at the window. He shifted his shoulder to allow her space, putting a hand on her back to guide her forward in a way that caused Edith to glance up at him.
But he was still staring outside. Sure enough, the bleary outline of two equipages met her gaze. “Matthew already?” She squinted as if that might help bring the details into focus, but it was no use. The sheet of rain covering the window was too thick.
“I don’t think so. It’s too soon, isn’t it?”
She twisted her mouth to the side. “Yes. The rain must be forcing people on the road to stop shy of The George.” She looked at him with a hint of worry. “Perhaps we should request a private parlor?”
He nodded. “I shall do so right now. Mrs. Cherriman.” He glanced down at his hand on her back, and it dropped before he left her side.
Chapter Thirteen
It was two or three minutes before Elias had the attention of Mr. Drew, taken up as the man was by assisting the new arrivals to the inn.
One of those new arrivals was vaguely familiar to Elias and certainly a member of the gentry. He was middle-aged, with traces of sandy hair visible under his sleek top hat, and a strong but straight nose.
“The Cedar Room will do.” The man’s voice was low and strong, his words quick and dismissive, as though he took for granted that his orders would be obeyed. He brushed at the shoulders of his coat, and a few droplets of water flicked onto Elias’s face.
Mr. Drew, whose face was beet red, with beads of sweat gathering on his brow, turned to Elias.
“Mrs. Cherriman has requested a private parlor, if you please. Straightaway.”
Mr. Drew clenched his teeth together. “Very good, sir, except that I’m afraid The Old Dog and Pheasant is only equipped with two private parlors—we are but a small establishment, you see—and the second has just been claimed.” He grimaced apologetically and glanced at the man in the top hat, who seemed to have overheard.
He turned to Elias, surveying him with a critical eye, and seemed to be satisfied with what he saw.
The door of the inn opened again, and a young woman, attired entirely in black, stepped in, followed by a maid. Mr. Drew sucked in nervous breath and excused himself to attend to her.
“Did I hear correctly that you are in need of a private parlor?” The older gentleman addressed himself to Elias.
Elias dipped his head. “My wife” —he cleared his throat, trying to accustom himself to the word and hoping he sounded natural— “desires more privacy than is offered by the coffee room, sir. We hadn’t expected to stay longer than would allow for a quick cup of coffee but”—he nodded toward the window with a smile—”it looks as though we will be here for a while at least.”
The man didn’t smile, but he looked to be thinking. “You may take refuge in the Cedar Room for a time if you and your wife aren’t opposed to sharing it with me.”
“It is very kind of you, sir. And who shall we thank for the kind gesture?”
“Stratton. John Stratton.”
Another carriage rumbled into the courtyard.
“Pleased to make your acquaintance,
sir.” Elias hesitated a moment. “The name is Cherriman.” He didn’t wish to provide a false given name in the event that Edith accidentally addressed him by the real one.
“Charmed.” The man bowed, looking anything but charmed, then strode toward a door that had a small sign above, with the words Cedar Room carved into the wood.
Mr. Stratton likely wouldn’t be the most amiable man to share a parlor with, but Elias wasn’t going to look this gift horse in the mouth. The man had no obligation whatsoever to share the space with them—he had requested it first, fair and square—and yet he had offered it all the same.
The door to the inn opened, and Elias’s eyes widened. A man, tall and muscular, with a many-caped greatcoat draped over his shoulders, entered the inn.
“Oxley?” Elias croaked out.
The man glanced at Elias as he removed his hat, a smile growing on his face. “Abram.” He strode over and wrapped Elias in a crushing embrace. “Fancy meeting you here!”
This was a fix indeed. Elias trusted Oxley—they were friends of old, after all—but it was the deuce of a situation to explain.
“Indeed. Are you on your way to Oxley Court, then?”
Lord Oxley shook his head, tipping his hat from side to side and watching a few rivulets stream down and onto the floor. “No, in fact. Taking a short journey to Weymouth on a matter of business. I didn’t think I should nearly die on the way, of course.”
Elias chuckled. “This storm isn’t as bad as that.”
Oxley raised his brows. “My carriage barely made it over the bridge before a gush of water flooded it. Seconds later, and I might not have been here to tell the tale.”
“Gad,” Elias said in hushed surprise.
“Flooded?” a distraught voice asked.
Elias’s head whipped around. The young woman in black was wringing her hands, staring at Oxley, who nodded. “I’m afraid so.”
Alarm grew in her eyes. She couldn’t be more than seventeen, and aside from a maid, she seemed to have no company. Perhaps she was journeying back to a seminary or some such thing.
She looked to Mr. Drew. “Does this happen often? How long do you expect it will take for the waters to recede?”
“I couldn’t say, miss. It happens once a year, perhaps, but it all depends on the weather, of course. It could be a matter of an hour, or it could be a matter of days.”
Elias tried to hide his own dismay as the young woman sucked in a breath, clearly destabilized by the answer. “Days?” she said in a weak voice.
“Come,” Mr. Drew coaxed. “Have a cup of coffee, miss. At the inn’s expense.” He shot a look at Elias and Lord Oxley that quite clearly spoke his opinion of the fragility of women.
Elias couldn’t stifle a smile. Mr. Drew’s opinion might well change if he became better acquainted with Edith. She was as fragile as a block of marble.
The young woman’s maid put an arm around her, and she allowed herself to be led into the coffee room.
The door to the Cedar Room opened, and Mr. Stratton reappeared, glancing quickly at Elias and Lord Oxley. He looked a second time at Oxley, and he seemed to straighten, his mouth pulling into the first smile Elias had seen. It had a forced quality to it.
“Lord Oxley,” Mr. Stratton said, coming over to them and stretching out a hand.
Oxley took it, inclining his head briefly. “Stratton.”
Stratton’s eyes moved to Elias again, then back to Oxley. “I see you have met Mr. Cherriman.”
Oxley’s brows came together, and Elias rushed in, putting a friendly arm around Oxley’s shoulders. “Oh, yes. Ox and I go back years. Ask anyone at Oxford, and they’ll have heard of that deadly duet: Oxley and Cherriman.”
Oxley let out a forced laugh. “Indeed.”
“Well,” Stratton said, “if you are in need of a private parlor, you are welcome to join Mr. and Mrs. Cherriman and me in the Cedar Room.” He turned to indicate it, and Oxley shot Elias a glance of puzzlement and suspicion.
“Thank you,” Oxley said, “but I intend to stay the course after giving the rain a few minutes to subside. The skies are much clearer in the direction I am headed than they are where I’ve come from.”
Mr. Stratton bowed and excused himself to go upstairs.
They watched him disappear around the corner before Oxley turned toward Elias, who looked up at him with a smile full of clenched teeth.
“Mr. and Mrs. Cherriman?” Oxley said, with the hint of a baffled smile.
Elias nodded. “For the day, yes.”
Oxley raised a single brow. “Do I even want to know?”
Elias shook his head, and Oxley nodded with an amused grimace that said he washed his hands of his friend. He strode over to the window and peered out. “It’s not letting up, but the longer I wait, the muddier the roads shall become. I am tempted to ride and have the carriage follow behind once the roads are more passable.”
Elias was looking thoughtfully at the stairway Mr. Stratton had gone up. He strode over to join Oxley at the window. “What do you make of that man—Stratton? He seemed a surly fellow when I first met him, but he was quite smiling to you. Shall I forever regret accepting his invitation to share a private parlor?”
Oxley chuckled. “He fears me. But no. He isn’t someone I should choose as part of my inner circle—or my outer circle, truthfully—but he’s harmless enough for an afternoon.” He let out a large sigh. “Well, Abra” —he caught himself— “Cherriman. It was a nice surprise running into you, but I must be off. This business won’t wait. Stop by Oxley Court if you’re still in the area in two days.”
Elias nodded, giving Oxley a friendly slap on the back. Oxley set his hat squarely onto his head and strode purposefully out into the storm. Elias’s jaw shifted thoughtfully from side to side. He hadn’t any idea what to do with the information about the bridge.
He made his way into the coffee room. Edith was still sipping her coffee, her gaze trained on the young woman in black. She directed a raised brow at Elias upon his entrance. He took the chair beside Edith, and her eyes remained fixed on the young woman.
Elias shook his head. “I think we shan’t be seeing Matthew—or anyone from Shipton—for some time. Apparently, the bridge we crossed over shortly before arriving is flooded.”
Edith’s eyes shot to his, widening and then shutting in exasperation. “A flood?” she asked in dismay.
He nodded. “Just heard as much from my friend. He stopped here for a few minutes on his way to Weymouth. Seems his was the last carriage to manage a crossing—and that only just barely—before the flooding.”
Edith rubbed her forehead with her bare hand; her gloves laying neatly in her lap. “And what did you tell this friend of yours?”
“Oxley? He didn’t ask any questions. He knows me well enough.”
She raised a brow. “Naturally he is accustomed to meeting you in such a way.” She looked to the windows with a sigh. “The rain gives no sign of abating.”
Elias’s mouth twitched slightly. “One can only wonder what kind of storm the coast is being assaulted with.”
She glowered at him, unamused. “Have you acquired a private parlor?”
He tilted his head from side to side. “Yes and no. There are evidently only two, and both have been spoken for. But a gentleman was kind enough to invite us to share one with him. I suspect he frequents the inn, based on the deferential treatment Mr. Drew afforded him. He seems a surly fellow, but it will have to do, I’m afraid, unless we wish to inquire about two rooms where we could both retire for the time being. Besides, he seems not to be using the parlor for now.”
“It is quite all right. Where is it?”
“The Cedar Room—second door in the corridor next to the stairs.”
He glanced at the young woman in black. She was sipping at her cup of coffee with a worried brow, her uneven color betraying the fact that she had been crying recently, her eyes unfocused as they stared into the fire. “I think I shall see if I might be of any assista
nce to the young woman before we go in. She looks to be alone, save for her maid, and too young to be without better escort.”
Edith assented to this, and he took a swift gulp of coffee before rising from the table.
Mr. Drew might be right—the young woman might simply be easily overset—but somehow Elias doubted it. Given her mourning attire, he thought it more likely that she was leaving from a funeral, her grief still fresh as she made her way back to the seminary. Elias remembered how even the smallest bout of ill luck made him feel as though the world had turned against him after his father’s death. Certainly a flooded bridge would be enough to upset even someone not laboring under heavy emotion already. In any case, she wasn’t likely to receive much sympathy from Mr. Drew beyond the steaming cup she held in her fidgeting fingers.
He hoped he wasn’t overstepping his bounds, but he had to do something. He knew well what it meant to be alone with grief.
Chapter Fourteen
Edith wrapped a hand around her mug of coffee. It was barely warm now, and she had drunk all but a few sips as she observed Elias speaking to the young woman. His desire to see to the girl had come as a surprise. She had assumed he would have little patience for weeping women.
Well, obviously she had been wrong. He was showing a great deal of sympathy—his brow furrowed as, by turns, he listened and then spoke softly. The girl’s maid—if that’s what she was—seemed to approve of him, as she had relaxed her protective posture and was looking on the two of them with a sort of maternal permissiveness.
Perhaps Elias did need a soft-spoken woman like the one before him. An image flashed across her mind of him closing the distance between him and the girl, taking her in his arms, and kissing her the way he had kissed Edith.
Her cheeks warmed even as her stomach tied in knots, and she looked away, letting her eyes rove toward the window. The rain hadn’t let up in the slightest from what she could tell. Anxious for something to do besides scrutinizing the interaction between Elias and the girl, she rose and walked to the window, leaving her own maid Susan at the table.