She slept fitfully that night, terrified she might not wake in time, but Bess, as promised, lit her lamp at five in the morning. Hastily, but carefully dressed, Rose supervised the footman’s placing of her trunk at the front of the house. The carriage pulled up early and her trunk was loaded while she stepped outside in the dark. A flare had been lit in the sconces beside the front door. In the white light of the waning moon, with the aid of Sir Ian’s groom, she stepped into the carriage.
“Good morning,” she said in a hushed whisper to Sir Ian who was barely visible in the corner. His hat sat squarely on his head, and his kidskin gloves gleamed in the dark. “Fortunately, I was ready early or this would have been a mad rush.”
“Fortunate indeed,” he answered in a disgruntled tone. “It won’t be light for another couple of hours. I hope you don’t mind if I sleep until then.”
“Not at all. I think it would be very efficient. As long as you don’t snore. If you do, I will have to tickle your nose with a feather. That’s what Mama does when Papa snores in the carriage.”
“In that case, I shall do my utmost not to snore.”
Satisfied, for she thought snoring would be most unromantic, she snuggled into her fur-lined cloak, quietly occupying her corner. He settled back and didn’t quite snore, but he breathed like a person who slept. With nothing to engage her mind, she closed her eyes. The next time she opened them, the grey morning light streamed in through the windows.
She angled her gaze to Sir Ian who was slouched hatless in his seat, his dark hair gleaming against the backdrop of the rising sun, his arms crossed, his legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle. His slumberous gaze met hers. She offered a smile. He returned a faint facsimile. Drawing her capacious bag toward her, she tried ignoring him, but heavens! She had never been alone with him in such a confined space, which his masculine presence managed to fill. Her breath shortened as she groped for her tiny book of seventeenth century poems. She honestly did read a few, but at all times, she was aware of sitting close enough to touch a large, handsome man. “‘Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind that from the nunnery of thy chaste breast and quiet mind, to war and arms I fly.’ That’s so sad.”
“What’s sad about it? The poor man wants to leave a dead bore and join the army.”
“Which particular dead bore did you want to leave?” she asked sweetly. “‘True, a new mistress now I chase ...’”
“‘A sword, a horse, and a shield,’ is what that particular man was determined to pursue.”
“Poetry is awfully annoying. You find a good quote about mistresses and it gets messed up by the next line.”
“‘I could not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not honor more,’” he quoted in a thoughtful voice. He glanced away. “I hope we are not planning on discussing mistresses because I doubt your parents would approve.”
“Possibly not.” The trotting horses had slowed. She glanced out the window at the dark tree trunks outside, few with green canopies. Snow covered the few leaves. A handful of fat snowflakes drifted by the window. The sky had lowered into a billowing white canvas with a distant shadowing of gray, the winter blue now only a hushed memory. The flakes melted as they hit the ground.
Perhaps the air had chilled, but at least her cape kept her snug and warm. “This is good travelling weather.”
“It’s good for us, because we live in luxury, but many others are not so fortunate. For a start, my coachman and groom.” Sir Ian reached across to the forward seat, grabbed a small lap desk, and sat with the polished box on his knee.
Her cheeks warmed. “Well, I’m sure you don’t intend to torture them.”
“Do you suggest we stop?”
Her common sense warred with her need to think of others. “Not unless the weather worsens and we can find shelter. I’m not sure where we are, as it is. When did the snow start falling?”
“Not long ago.”
“We shouldn’t need to stop unless we can see snow settling on the road. It’s too early in the year for snow, let alone heavy snow.” As she spoke, the flakes began to adhere to the window seal of the carriage.
The coachman sped up the horses into a trot. A few miles passed while snow continued to fall. Rose couldn’t see any landmarks that she might recognize through the white drifts. Sir Ian seemed absorbed in his papers, which every now and again, he marked with a pencil. Clearly he didn’t want conversation, and she sat silent while the hot brick beneath her feet cooled. The horses gait changed to a plod.
Sir Ian leaned his head back against the squab and pulled his fob watch from his coat pocket. The light reflected into the coach emphasized the chiseled perfection of his cheekbones and his jaw, and the determined tilt of his mouth. “Almost midday. I’m sure you would like a hot meal. We will stop at the next coaching inn.”
She nodded, but since he glanced back at his papers and not at her, she decided not to try another conversation. The clouds lowered and outside the silence grew. A person with a fanciful mind would hear echoes in each of the hoof-beats. The snow continued to drift lightly down and a few houses appeared close to the road, signaling that a village would soon be reached. Finally the driver turned off the main road, and pulled the coach into a slushy paved yard. A small inn with a swinging sign loomed close to the window. With a jingling of tack, the carriage creaked to a halt. The horses stamped and made wuffling sounds.
The outside of the inn promised a warm welcome, with smoke rising from three or four chimneys.
“Apparently we are about to try the cuisine in the Pig and Piper.” Sir Ian offered a brief, polite smile, and placed his hat squarely on head. He swung open the door and helped her out.
Chapter 3
Sir Ian escorted Rose into a small vestibule with muddy boot-prints marking the floor to the taproom. He rang the bell set beside the doorway, while she noted the faded leaf pattern in pink and brown on the wallpaper. To her right ran a dimly lit corridor that led to a plain set of wooden stairs, behind which lurked another four or five doorways. Within a minute, the red-cheeked host arrived from the taproom, wiping his hands on a towel that hung from the waistband of his saggy breeches.
“Good morning, Sir,” he said with an anxious smile on his face. A lock of thin gray hair hung over his sweaty forehead. “How may I have the honor of servin’ you?”
“My lady and I require a luncheon in a private room.” Sir Ian used his polite, impartial voice, the one that he so often used on Rose. “My driver and my groom will also want a good hearty meal, as soon as the horses have been watered.”
The man bowed from the waist. Sir Ian’s orders were always obeyed, not because of his charm—though this showed in his smile, but because of his clear ability to take control in every situation. Rose had previously noticed that a single off-hand sentence from Sir Ian had caused one of her younger suitors to be brought to his side, a slave for life. “I can make space in the taproom for your servants, sir. And a private room for your lovely wife?” For a moment the man appeared at a loss. “We have a small parlor, sir, but as to private ...” His gaze deviated for a moment and his shaggy eyebrows drew down. “Who let that filthy cat in here? Susie,” he yelled in a panicked counter tenor.
Rose turned her head and glanced down at a carefully folded, tiny black cat shivering by her skirts. Her sympathy caught in an instant, she reached down to the miserable little bundle. Her wet fur was coated with snow and she weighed about as much as two feathers. A high-pitched hiss came from the animal, which didn’t appear large enough to make such an impressive noise. In the middle of her lip-curling, she stared at Rose, frowned, and stopped.
“Sorry, my lady. I’ll get someone to drown the filthy creature.”
Instead of asking the cat’s name and upbraiding the host for not feeding the wretched little stray, Rose said in the haughty tone she used to her suitors who tried to be too familiar with her, “I beg your pardon. You will certainly not drown my darling cat.”
“That there cat’s been hanging around
for days now,” the man said, his voice indignant. “I can’t have an animal like that in a place where people eat and drink.”
Rose slid an eyebrow-raised smile at the melting puddles of snow and mud on the floor and then back at him. “I think you must be confusing my lovely spoiled cat with another. Puss, you naughty girl. You know you must stay in the carriage.” The cat struggled harder, an expression of outrage on her little face. “I expect she was trying to remind me that she hasn’t had her dish of milk this morning. Bring one for her when you bring our meal, and a few scraps of raw meat. She’s been ill, you know, and has barely eaten in the past few days.”
The host’s jaw dropped. He stared at Sir Ian, who glanced sideways at her, as if contemplating a new snuff. Then, apparently deciding to go along with her, he turned a bland face to the host. “I’m sure the cat won’t inconvenience anyone.”
The man’s shoulders sagged. “Yes, sir, follow me, sir.”
He walked crabwise in front of them and led the way to a room behind them, bowing the whole way while Rose smiled about suddenly becoming Sir Ian’s ‘lovely wife.’
He opened the door onto an area furnished with a rough wooden table, four uncomfortable looking chairs, and two saggy armchairs placed either side of a sparse fire. He clasped his hands together, assessing Rose’s fur-lined cloak, and then pricing her pearl necklace. “We serve plain but fillin’ meals here. Nothing but. I must consult the cook as to what we can present to you, but apart from meat pies, I reckon my mis ... cook will be able to rustle up a stew and a dish of vegetables.”
“We’ll have cheese and bread as well, and make sure my servants have the same, too. We have quite distance to travel today. Oh, and don’t forget the cat, Mr. …” Sir Ian lifted his eyebrows.
“Hobbs, sir, just plain Hobbs. I am the proprietor of this here Pig and Piper.”
Sir Ian dismissed the man with a courteous nod.
After more bowing, the host backed out.
“Do you often hide scruffy pets under your cape?” Sir Ian indicated one of the armchairs to Rose.
“It’s the perfect place for Merry,” she answered in a serious voice. “I can’t go anywhere without her. Do you think she is scruffy? We shall have to do something about that, shan’t we, dear Merry?”
“A less merry cat I have never seen. She looks half wild and certainly starved.”
She smiled up at him. “Thank you, Sir Ian, for ordering a meal for her. Soon, I shall have to look and see if she is a she or a he.”
He almost smiled back. “A stray ‘he’ would be scarred. I would bet she is a she.” He lifted up the cat by the scruff of the neck and checked while the highly offended cat tried to bat him away. “She is a she. Why Merry? I would call her Bedraggled if I had the naming rights.”
“I’m an optimist. If I call her Merry, she will live up to her name. Won’t you, my sweet?” she said, holding the cat to face her. “I wonder what one does about her fleas?”
Sir Ian glanced heavenward as he slung his coat over a wooden chair. He placed his hat on the seat. Rose couldn’t bear to give up her gloves and cape just yet, with the fire barely flickering. The cat, somehow, had saved her from Sir Ian’s disregard. During the journey he had deliberately snubbed her. Now he was tolerating her. Soon he wouldn’t be able to let her go. She swallowed, knowing she was being fanciful but she had always been an optimist.
Their two estates being proximate, Rose had known Sir Ian, but not well until after he had returned from Waterloo. Newly repatriated and still recovering from his injuries, he told her father he had returned a changed man, determined to take his place in parliament where Papa spent the greater part of the year. One night soon after he had taken his seat, he stayed for a meal to continue a discussion that interested both men.
Having recently made her debut, Rose was seated beside the hero for dinner, and her nineteen year-old self had been caught by the magnetism of the pale invalid. He treated her father with respect, he charmed her mother, and he patiently explained that the soldiers who fought in the battle of Waterloo had been heroes, every one of them. He was honored to have been singled out with a knighthood. His voice had thinned, and she hoped no one else would ever put him through the same questioning again. By the end of that night, she was completely besotted with him.
Since he never treated her as anything other than a young female person, she had no recourse but to flaunt her suitors, a very poor tactic, since they also had a tendency to worship at his shrine. He began teasing her about her worshippers rather than joining the ranks. Every time she tried to separate herself from the younger set, Sir Ian stared at her as though she was a child trying to imitate her elders. And every one of her suitors asked him about the battle, and he treated every questioner with the same careful patience as he showed the one before.
During the year, to prove to him that she would be a capable and mature wife, she had demonstrated her household skills, showing how efficiently she organized the indoor servants, how she could manage events, and she made sure the servants catered to every one of his needs. And instead of trying to make him see how many other men wanted her, she attempted to dispose of her suitors. Her mother had begun to despair of her. She was almost at the stage of despairing of herself.
Since she had tried and failed to lure Sir Ian, her best chance was to seduce him. This had proved puzzling in the coach this morning and now she had taken ownership of the cat. Nothing would annoy a gentleman as much as a cat-lady, but she couldn’t leave the poor thing to be thrown out in the cold, and starve.
The cat’s meal arrived first, via a young kitchen maid wearing a clean cap and apron. She put the dish of meat scraps by the fire and settled a plate of milk nearby. “Your meal is almost done, my lady,” she said in a careful voice. “And sir. My name is Susie.” She bobbed a curtsey to Sir Ian. “They wasn’t expecting trade today. The snow took them all by surprise. I was supposed to be making butter but had to come up from the farm to help for the day.” She backed toward the door, smiling at her feet.
“Yes, it does sound a little more noisy out there. Thank you for feeding the cat for us,” Rose said impulsively. “She is so hungry.”
Susie raised her gaze. “I have been feeding that cat for two days.”
Rose lifted her eyes heavenward and drew a deep sigh. “Surely you don’t think this is your cat?” She tried to sound haughty but she couldn’t keep the cat if someone else loved her.
“No, ma’am. She’s a stray.” The maid smiled and scurried out of the room, closing the door behind her.
Now a proud new cat owner, Rose put Merry in front of the dishes. Merry glanced suspiciously back over her shoulder before making a careful selection and choosing the milk first. When she had neatly emptied the dish, she started on the meat, eating so fast that Rose took the dish half-finished and placed it on the mantle. “It’s for your own protection,” she said in her mother’s voice. “You’re being too greedy and I don’t want to have to ask Sir Ian to wipe up the mess if you vomit.”
“Good God,” he said, standing in front of the fading fire to warm the back of his breeches. “Now you think your stray is my responsibility.”
“Your equal responsibility, and you are hogging the heat. I’ll never be able to get warm enough to remove my cape.” With that, she stripped off her gloves and stuffed them into her tapestry bag.
“I suspect that’s a hint for me to find more firewood. Stay in your cloak, and I’ll see what I can do. Since they’re busy out there, they have more than likely forgotten.”
His ‘doing’ consisted of leaving the room and returning with a boy holding an armload of wood. “I’ll stoke the fire,” he said to the lad.
The lad left and the fireplace was filled. Soon the wood started to crackle and the room began to heat. Rose put the struggling cat and the dish back on the floor. Merry only ate another bite and then she frowned at Rose, who picked her up again. “I can see you are going to be a demanding little puss, expecting me to
cuddle you forever. Well, I will until you ask me to stop, because you keep me warm, too. There, I can take off my cape, now.” She glanced at Sir Ian, who silently took the cape from her shoulders and put the fur with his coat on the chair.
She settled back into the armchair with the cat. Sir Ian took up his position by the fireplace, his elbow on the mantle. She could feel his gaze on her, but somehow she couldn’t glance up at him. Instead she kept stroking the cat, whose tiny bones began to quiver under Rose’s fingers. “We’re expecting the snow to stop, aren’t we?”
“Yes.”
Even as Sir Ian spoke, the sky outside the small window began to darken. Had not the male voices echoed from the taproom, the whole world would have been lost in a thick silence. “What if it doesn’t?”
“I think you know the answer to that.” He looked serious.
She dropped her gaze. “I suspect most of those noisy men are locals. I haven’t seen a carriage arrive since yours. I think we ought to book rooms for the night before the place fills to the eaves.”
He heaved a sigh. “Do you have any more orders for me to relay?”
“None I can think of at the moment.” She tried to soothe the fur on Merry’s twitching pelt.
Fortunately, the food began to arrive, bread and butter first, with a jug of ale and two mugs. Sir Ian poured himself a drink and glanced at her. “Would you like a mug of this?”
Having never tried ale, she said, “Of course I would. Sit here, by the fire, Merry, and keep my chair warm. I am about to be seated at the table for a feast.”
Sir Ian pulled out a rickety chair for her. As she settled, an enormous plate of sliced meats arrived. Unused to eating large meals this early in the day, she glanced at the dish in horror, but the divine smell of roast beef was too much for her. Next came a dish of assorted vegetables, carrots, parsnips, artichokes, and peas. Sir Ian filled a plate for her and another for himself. She quaffed her ale and her cheeks warmed. “It’s horrible,” she said, “quite bitter, but not too hard to become accustomed to.”
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