Rachel sat back in her seat, her heart lifting. Stopping meant fresh air. The chance to stretch her legs and get away from her fellow travelers, even for a little while.
Minutes later, the coach came to a halt in a graveled yard in front of a well-kept inn called the Queen’s Standard. It was even larger than she’d thought, two stories in height and Tudor in design with red brick walls, brown wooden panels, and small, diamond-paned windows. Certainly, it appeared the center of the surrounding village. Despite the cold bleakness of the day, young lads were salting paths to reduce slipperiness, others led horses in halters, and in the distance she could see a stable and workshop with several blacksmiths and farriers. Women in thick shawls and sturdy half-boots were gossiping as they carried baskets of produce, others were inspecting the wares of a traveling tinker or buying hot pasties from the pie cart. Rosy-cheeked children were running about, blithely ignoring calls to come inside out of the chill wind. Much like London, a range of accents filled the air, and that particular familiarity was rather reassuring.
Just for a moment, Rachel imagined she was one of those women, wearing clothes and boots that fitted and had been purchased new, not scooped out of the charity box. That she and her husband—definitely not a peer for they were vile wretches who treated women terribly—but a kind, well-to-do clerk or banker, had stopped on their journey home. They would stroll together, and their bright-eyed, mischievous children, at least five for she had always wanted a large family, would tug her hands and say, ‘Come on, Mama! Hurry—
“Hurry up, miss! Good heavens. We are all waiting. Surely you can manage to open a coach door?”
Cheeks hot, Rachel mumbled an apology, shoved open the door, and climbed awkwardly out. The air was frigid but blessedly fresh, and she sucked in a lungful. Soon after, the spinsters, harried mother and child, and sailor pushed past her, eager for the warmth of the inn, but she managed to ask Mr. Jonquil one more question.
“How long do we have for the luncheon stop, sir?”
His wide grin made her a little uneasy, but he patted her arm in a soothing manner. “A full hour, so plenty of time for a bracing walk. I believe those shops are open, one could even be a dressmaker. Look for a new hair ribbon. Even better, a new shawl. Shabby-genteel is not at all the thing anymore, pet.”
To avoid trouble for herself, Rachel bobbed a shallow curtsy rather than crushing his instep. “Perhaps I might. Thank you.”
“Off you go,” the buck said quickly, before dashing away into the inn.
An hour! A short walk to stretch her legs followed by hot tea and a pasty or some buttered bread in the dining room would revive her spirits nicely.
Decision made, Rachel pulled her old woolen shawl tighter and walked toward the shops. After a blissful half hour of behaving as though she actually had coin to spend on luxuries like hair ribbons, leather gloves, or a deliciously warm cloak, she returned to the inn’s empty yard.
Empty!
Rachel froze in horror.
Seeing a neatly-dressed, dark-skinned man with a notebook, and a clinking leather bag, she stumbled up to him. “Beg pardon, sir. You are the ticket collector?”
“That I am,” he replied with a friendly nod.
“Where is the stagecoach?” she asked breathlessly, as panic roiled her stomach.
“Gone, miss. They have a schedule to keep. Twenty minutes for food and changing the horses, then off they trot.”
Oh God.
“I was told…” Rachel swallowed hard, the fop’s betrayal cutting deep. But then only a bloody fool trusted the word of a smiling aristocrat. “I was told an hour for the stop.”
He chuckled. “Heavens, no. Not in all my years.”
“And when…when is the next one?”
“Well, it’s Christmas. Might be one tomorrow, might not be. Come back then and see.”
Numb with shock, Rachel huddled in the entrance of the inn. Thankfully she had her satchel, but the coins Lady Farringdon had given her for an emergency probably wouldn’t cover the cost of a room at an inn this fancy. If they would even let her stay. Young women on their own were considered nothing but trouble.
Oh GOD.
What on earth was she to do?
“I just talked to the smithy, my lord. The carriage axle needs a whole new bolt. I am sorry—”
Arran Elliott, the new Marquess of Kyle, sighed and clapped his coachman Simms on the shoulder. “Not your fault some English roads are a disgrace. At least we made it to an inn, and a decent-looking one at that.”
Indeed, perhaps the one bright spot of the year. Losing his parents in a carriage accident had been a terrible blow. Losing his older brother to a fever even worse. While some would be toasting the unexpected inheritance of a marquessate with champagne, all it had brought him was crushing sorrow. For a man who relished rational thought and control, the avalanche of emotion, the frustration and helplessness at both his loss, and not knowing what the hell he was doing, had proved almost impossible to bear.
But an Elliott always did his duty, and for Arran that duty comprised first leaving his beloved Lincolnshire farmland and fresh air for the hustle and bustle of London, being invested with his title, and taking his seat in the House of Lords. Second, abandoning the notion of marrying a woman he both liked and desired, and instead, obeying his parents’ final wishes and honoring a betrothal contract they had secretly arranged many years ago. He’d not actually met Lady Sarah in person yet; all he had was a small bundle of polite and proper letters. But a gentleman didn’t renege on a contract. So his future wife, much like his future life, had been decided for him.
“Aye, I’m sure you’re most displeased at the delay in getting to the capital,” said Simms with a sly wink.
Damn his perceptiveness.
