The most serious error, obviously, had been leaving her journal at the inn where they had stopped for dinner. She was often forgetful. Careless, other people called it. But in truth she cared a great deal. Losing her journal would have meant losing months of work, losing the record of every botanical observation she had made since coming to England.
It would have meant losing a piece of herself.
To be fair, though, she would never have left her journal at a posting inn if she hadn’t been traveling. So hadn’t the real error in judgment been agreeing to accompany her sister on her wedding trip to begin with? Ladies often took a female companion on such a trip, a custom grounded in the assumption that the activities and interests of ladies and gentlemen, even newly married ones, were entirely separate. But Cami’s insistence on Erica’s joining her had had very little to do with convention. And as far as Erica could see, her brother-in-law, Lord Ashborough, had only one interest: his new bride. The only activities in which he wanted to indulge were… Well.
With a wary eye toward the sky, Erica hopped from the coach and hurried back across the filthy inn yard, blaming the sudden wave of heat that washed over her on the exertion. She had been promised the chance to explore the plants and flowers of the Lake District, and she was determined not be put off by the occasional moment of embarrassment, or by the knowledge that her presence was entirely extraneous. Her only concession had been to ride in the baggage coach on occasion, with Mr. Remington, Lord Ashborough’s manservant, and Adele. Try as she might, Erica could not bring herself to think of the French girl as “Lady Ashborough’s maid.” It would have required her to concede that Cami was now a lady, and not simply her overbearing elder sister.
On the threshold of the inn’s dining parlor, she was forced to reevaluate her assessment once more. A group of rowdy young men now filled the table at which she and her party had been seated only a few moments ago. Avoiding as best she could the men’s eyes, hands, and voices, Erica pressed forward to retrieve what was hers. Perhaps the most serious error had been leaving Lord Ashborough’s mastiff, Elf, in Shropshire with the new vicar and his wife. Elf was neither fierce nor especially brave, but even half-grown, she was enormous, and Erica had no doubt that her mere presence would have sufficed to forge a path through the room.
On the bench closest to the window sat a man with greasy dark hair. If the sight of him thumbing idly through the pages of her journal had not blanketed her vision in a red haze of anger, she might have noticed his red coat. His militia uniform.
“Kindly unhand my journal.” Though she spoke quietly, she thrust out her hand, palm upward, so forcefully that the muscles of her arm quivered.
He did not rise, and a lazy smile revealed rather mossy teeth. “What have we here? An Irish rebel—?”
The words sharpened her senses, brought the moment into vivid relief. The coat of his uniform was grimy from travel and frayed around the collar and cuffs. On one shoulder a darker stripe of fabric curved downward into a frown. Something had once been sewn there and had either fallen off or been removed. Perhaps he had recently been stripped of his rank.
As if observing her own actions from a great distance, she watched her hand sweep the journal from his grasp and then swing back. The sturdy leather binding—no delicate lady’s commonplace book, this—struck along his jaw, effectively wiping the grin from his face. One of his fellow soldiers guffawed, and suddenly the noises and odors of the room rushed back to full force, threatening to overwhelm her. Her narrow pinpoint of focus expanded into a swath of chaos. Clutching her journal in one hand and her skirts in the other, she ran from the room.
Hitting him had been yet another mistake. She could not even say what had prompted her to do it. Her distrust of soldiers? His disdain for Ireland? Perhaps a bit of both. Oh, why could she never seem to control her temper, her impulses? Was he following?
Outside once more, she paused only to scan the inn yard for Lord Ashborough’s coaches. But the yard was empty. Perhaps around the corner? No? Well, surely that was his carriage, standing by the church….
Oh, no. Now she understood her most serious error. When she’d discovered her journal missing, she’d hopped from the baggage coach without telling Mr. Remington to wait. He must have assumed she was riding the rest of the way with her sister. Erica’s absence would likely not be noticed for hours.
She was stranded.
She could almost hear Cami’s voice telling her to wait right where she was. But Erica’s hasty reaction to the soldier’s sneer had rendered this village’s only lodging less than hospitable.
Regrettably, she had a great deal of experience with crises. Most, like this, of her own making. And sitting still had never been her preferred method of coping with any of them.
She furrowed her brow, trying to recall the map in the guidebook. People came from all over Britain to visit the Lake District. There would be signposts to Windermere. Surely even she, with her notoriously poor sense of direction, could find it. With another glance at the threatening sky, she began to walk.
What was a little rain?
For the first mile or so, she watched the clouds tumble toward her, listened to the peals of thunder as they swelled and grew, seemingly born of the earth as much as the air. Mud from an earlier rain dragged at her hems and sucked at the soles of her walking boots. At the second mile, she gave up the roadway in favor of the grassy verge. Cold, thick drops
