a shelf above the bed with a lamp perched on it, and three pegs behind the door for the hanging of clothes.
“Nice, aye? It’s had fresh paint no more than a year ago.” Toby cheerfully slapped the backside of the door.
Beau was touched. That so little could so well please, was something foreign to him. Struck by how fortunate he was to have been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, he scrutinized his narrow domain. The linens might have been fresh at about the same time as the paint. He tested the bed. The ticking was sadly flat. Odd how one never really appreciated what one had until it was no longer available. Beau had never appreciated his father so much, as in the months following his death. What would the old man say about this cork-brained escapade? If history ran true, his father had kicked his own heels fairly high in the days of his youth.
Beauford crossed to the window. The dusty, fly-blown pane looked out over the back garden. Miss Quinby had stopped to pick some flowers there. The sight of her made his pulse quicken. She looked like a watercolor come to life, distorted as she was by the wavery unwashed glass, elusive and unattainable, like his willfully lowered station it separated them. He could see,but not touch. He shook such thoughts aside.
“This suits my purposes perfectly,” he said.
Beau returned to the promise of his window that evening, as the sun set. The day had ended in disappointment. Unable to exchange a single word with Miss Quinby since morning, the ladies had been taken on the fan-fetching expedition, but Ursula Dunn made it quite clear that her coachman was expected to sit his box and hold his tongue. She could not abide servants who chattered. Frustrated, Beau had returned to an afternoon of hot, sweaty stable work. He knew he would see Nell when he took the ladies to the Assembly that evening at the Old Ship, but the limitations of his position as coachman were beginning to sink in. How did one woo a woman when one could not so much as exchange a word with her? And how did one go about it, smelling of horses and hay?
As he stood, sleeves rolled back for a quick sponge bath at the washstand by his dirt-clouded window, Beau noticed the view he was allowed of the upstairs chambers in the main house. The night lamps were lit. He could see dimly, despite dirt on the one set of windows, and lace curtaining on the other, directly into the room where Miss Quinby readied herself for the evening’s festivities. Such a sight gave him pause, and he stood, mouth agape, sponge dripping in his hands, trying to make out what little he could through a layer of grime. He used his sponge to clear a spot in the dirt, only to discover that most of the obstruction was accumulated on the outside surface of the pane.
Eager to avail himself of the best possible view, and frustrated thus far in accomplishing that goal, he undid the latch on the window frame with wet hands, only to find that the window did not budge, for when it had been painted fresh the previous year, it had been painted shut.
With a sigh that fogged the pane to an even dimmer state, he peered at the muzzy silhouette that moved about in the room across from his, content enough to know that it was she, and that she was near, and that he had the privilege of perhaps exchanging a word or two with her again this evening.
It was only as her light was extinguished, that he remembered that he was now her coachman. As such, he must not keep her waiting, for the ladies had been most specific about the time the carriage was to be brought around to the door.
He made himself presentable with a speed that would have left his valet gasping, for Lord Beauford had always been meticulously careful in the rendering of his toilet. Not so this evening. The duke threw himself together with more dash than splash, set his weather-worn coachman’s hat upon his head and flew down the steps to find that Toby held the horses ready.
Beau regretted his
“Nice, aye? It’s had fresh paint no more than a year ago.” Toby cheerfully slapped the backside of the door.
Beau was touched. That so little could so well please, was something foreign to him. Struck by how fortunate he was to have been born with a silver spoon in his mouth, he scrutinized his narrow domain. The linens might have been fresh at about the same time as the paint. He tested the bed. The ticking was sadly flat. Odd how one never really appreciated what one had until it was no longer available. Beau had never appreciated his father so much, as in the months following his death. What would the old man say about this cork-brained escapade? If history ran true, his father had kicked his own heels fairly high in the days of his youth.
Beauford crossed to the window. The dusty, fly-blown pane looked out over the back garden. Miss Quinby had stopped to pick some flowers there. The sight of her made his pulse quicken. She looked like a watercolor come to life, distorted as she was by the wavery unwashed glass, elusive and unattainable, like his willfully lowered station it separated them. He could see,but not touch. He shook such thoughts aside.
“This suits my purposes perfectly,” he said.
Beau returned to the promise of his window that evening, as the sun set. The day had ended in disappointment. Unable to exchange a single word with Miss Quinby since morning, the ladies had been taken on the fan-fetching expedition, but Ursula Dunn made it quite clear that her coachman was expected to sit his box and hold his tongue. She could not abide servants who chattered. Frustrated, Beau had returned to an afternoon of hot, sweaty stable work. He knew he would see Nell when he took the ladies to the Assembly that evening at the Old Ship, but the limitations of his position as coachman were beginning to sink in. How did one woo a woman when one could not so much as exchange a word with her? And how did one go about it, smelling of horses and hay?
As he stood, sleeves rolled back for a quick sponge bath at the washstand by his dirt-clouded window, Beau noticed the view he was allowed of the upstairs chambers in the main house. The night lamps were lit. He could see dimly, despite dirt on the one set of windows, and lace curtaining on the other, directly into the room where Miss Quinby readied herself for the evening’s festivities. Such a sight gave him pause, and he stood, mouth agape, sponge dripping in his hands, trying to make out what little he could through a layer of grime. He used his sponge to clear a spot in the dirt, only to discover that most of the obstruction was accumulated on the outside surface of the pane.
Eager to avail himself of the best possible view, and frustrated thus far in accomplishing that goal, he undid the latch on the window frame with wet hands, only to find that the window did not budge, for when it had been painted fresh the previous year, it had been painted shut.
With a sigh that fogged the pane to an even dimmer state, he peered at the muzzy silhouette that moved about in the room across from his, content enough to know that it was she, and that she was near, and that he had the privilege of perhaps exchanging a word or two with her again this evening.
It was only as her light was extinguished, that he remembered that he was now her coachman. As such, he must not keep her waiting, for the ladies had been most specific about the time the carriage was to be brought around to the door.
He made himself presentable with a speed that would have left his valet gasping, for Lord Beauford had always been meticulously careful in the rendering of his toilet. Not so this evening. The duke threw himself together with more dash than splash, set his weather-worn coachman’s hat upon his head and flew down the steps to find that Toby held the horses ready.
Beau regretted his
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