Tangled Reins. Stephanie Laurens

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      A low moan brought Dorothea’s head around sharply to peer through the dim light at her sister, curled in the opposite corner of the carriage. Cecily’s eyes were shut but the line between her fair brows showed clearly that she was far from sleep. She moved her head restlessly on the squabs. The coach lurched into a rut as the horses’ hoofs skidded on the icy road. Dorothea caught the swinging strap to stop herself from being thrown. As the coach ponderously righted itself and resumed its steady progress she saw that Cecily had drawn herself up into a tight ball and wedged herself firmly into the corner, her face turned away.

      Dorothea returned her attention to the dreary landscape, glimpsed fitfully through the bare branches of the trees and hedges lining the road. The grey February afternoon was closing in. The patter of drizzle on the coach windows punctuated the stillness within. Then, rising like a castle through the gathering gloom, standing on a crest surrounded by the dark shadows of its windbreaks, loomed the Three Feathers Inn. As it was just over halfway to London from the Grange, situated on the Bath Road, she had chosen it as their overnight stop. If it had been only herself travelling to London she would have made the journey in a single day. But Cecily was a poor traveller. With luck, their slow pace broken by a night’s rest would allow her to arrive in Cavendish Square in a fit state to greet their grandmother.

      The only other occupant of the carriage was their middle-aged maid, Betsy, who had tended them from the cradle. She dozed lightly, enveloped in woollen shawls on the seat facing Dorothea. After much consideration, Aunt Agnes had been left behind. There had been nothing specific in Lady Merion’s letter summoning them to London, but the discussions at Darent Hall had clearly been on the unspoken understanding that Aunt Agnes would continue to do her duty and escort her charges to Cavendish Square. However, Aunt Agnes’s rheumatism was legendary, and Dorothea had no wish to saddle herself with the querulous, though much loved old lady, either on the road to London or once they were arrived, supposedly to enjoy themselves. Furthermore, Aunt Agnes’s opinions on men, of whatever station, were dampening in the extreme. Dorothea thought it unlikely that her presence would aid in the push to find Cecily a husband. Nevertheless, her polite note to Lady Merion, informing her of their expected date of arrival, had made no reference whatever to Aunt Agnes.

      The coach lumbered on through the steadily thickening mists. It had been overcast all day, but for the most part the rain had held off, much to the relief of their coachman, Lang. The journey to London with the roads only just cleared was always a risky business. Wrapped in his thick frieze coat, he was deeply relieved to turn his team in under the arch of the inn. It was a large establishment, one of the busiest posting houses in the district. The main yard was devoted primarily to travellers changing horses or temporarily halting. The large travelling carriage rumbled through and on under another archway into the coachyard. Ostlers ran to free the steaming horses, and the landlord came forward to assist the sisters into the inn.

      Here, however, a problem lay waiting.

      While they warmed themselves before the roaring fire in a snug, low-ceilinged parlour Mr Simms apologised profusely. ‘There’s a prize-fight on in the village, miss. We’re booked out. I’ve kept a bedchamber for you, but I’m afraid there’s no hope of a private parlour.’ The rubicund landlord, middle-aged, with daughters of his own, eyed the young ladies anxiously.

      Dorothea drew a deep breath. After travelling at a snail’s pace all day she did not really care what was going forward in the neighbourhood, as long as she and Cecily were adequately housed for the night. She automatically appraised the neat and spotlessly clean room. At least there would be no danger of damp sheets or poorly cooked food in this house. There was no point in being overly distressed by the lack of a parlour. Drawing herself to her full height, she nodded to the clearly worried Simms. ‘Very well. I see it can’t be helped. Will you please show us to our bedchamber?’

      Mr Simms had correctly guessed the Darent sisters’ station from Dorothea’s letter requesting bedchambers and parlour. While he rarely criticised the ways of his clients, he thought it a crying shame that two such pretty young ladies were travelling escorted only by servants. He led them up to the bedchamber he had had prepared for them. Experience of the goings-on likely to occur within his house before the night was through had led him to house them in the large bedchamber on the north side of the inn. This was the oldest part of the rambling building, isolated from the СКАЧАТЬ