you don’t mind my saying, Mrs. Ransom. Joseph Peabody, at your service, of Peabody & Son’s Buttons. You won’t find a finer button in the kingdom.” He also nodded at Caro, who answered his obvious invitation to introduce herself, as did the fourth occupant of the coach, a white-haired gent in clerical garb, Mr. Foster.
“One of the Lancashire Townsends, perhaps, ma’am?” he asked Caro. “I am kin to that family.”
“My late husband was a Somerset man,” Caro said.
“I’m a little surprised to find a lady such as yourself traveling at night.” The curious looks on three faces told her everyone wondered the same thing.
“I’m in a hurry,” she replied, “and post charges are so high.” A chorus of assenting murmurs greeted this statement, followed by a spirited discussion of the shocking cost of just about everything.
She’d never see any of these people again, but for a few hours, huddled together in the enforced intimacy of the coach, Caro had found friends. Company to make her forget her troubles.
By the time the coach pulled up at Clampton, the four of them were on splendid terms.
“Pity there’s no time for refreshments while the horses are changed,” Caro said. “I would love a hot drink.”
Mr. Peabody winked at her and ran through the drizzle into the inn.
“Here you are, ma’am,” he said, returning just in time and producing a firkin from under his coat. “A little ale warms the blood on a damp night. I hope you’ll all share a drop with me to make the time pass quicker.”
An hour later, the coach contained four merry souls, including the parson. Some of Robert’s less risqué jokes found an appreciative audience, and Mr. Foster was revealed as having a nice line in animal imitations. They were all sorry to see the affable man of the cloth leave them at Sawbridgeworth. He said a particularly fond farewell to Caro. “Thank you for the entertaining company. I shall think of you with pleasure and imagine we are related through the Townsends.” But Peabody, Mrs. Ransom, and Caro soon cheered up and started singing, to the shock and chagrin of a new passenger who boarded a stop later. Since it was by now almost midnight, they all settled down to get as much sleep as was possible in the rapidly moving coach.
Around three in the morning, Caro murmured a quiet good-bye to her new friends and alit at Newmarket. The efficient staff at the Greyhound Inn saw her straight to a bedroom, where she slept late into the morning. Before she retired, she wrote a note to Max Quinton, asking for it to be delivered, first thing, to his house a mile or two from town.
The chambermaid brought her tea and bad news at about noon. The Quintons had been called away suddenly a few days before. They weren’t at home, and their servants didn’t know when they’d return.
T homas planned to invite Miss Brotherton for a stroll or a drive in the park, to see if they could find common ground that didn’t involve anything antique. He’d ended up having to hear the talk about barrows and shuddered to contemplate a lifetime of such entertainment. Until he thought of Maria and Sarah and their future and the thirty or forty thousand pounds he needed to find to dower them respectably. For the sake of his sisters, he could put up with ancient tombs at meals, especially if the conversation was occasionally varied with more congenial topics.
He could do this. There was nothing wrong with Miss Anne Brotherton, nothing at all. And everything right about her fortune.
It rained all day, but the next dawned bright and sunny. In London, one couldn’t call on ladies at a sensible hour, so he left his hotel and headed east for a walk around Leicester Square. All London seemed to appreciate the change in the weather. There was a cheerful liveliness in the air and on the faces of people in the streets: shoppers, delivery boys, and street sellers. A pretty young girl, little more than a child, tried to sell him some
“One of the Lancashire Townsends, perhaps, ma’am?” he asked Caro. “I am kin to that family.”
“My late husband was a Somerset man,” Caro said.
“I’m a little surprised to find a lady such as yourself traveling at night.” The curious looks on three faces told her everyone wondered the same thing.
“I’m in a hurry,” she replied, “and post charges are so high.” A chorus of assenting murmurs greeted this statement, followed by a spirited discussion of the shocking cost of just about everything.
She’d never see any of these people again, but for a few hours, huddled together in the enforced intimacy of the coach, Caro had found friends. Company to make her forget her troubles.
By the time the coach pulled up at Clampton, the four of them were on splendid terms.
“Pity there’s no time for refreshments while the horses are changed,” Caro said. “I would love a hot drink.”
Mr. Peabody winked at her and ran through the drizzle into the inn.
“Here you are, ma’am,” he said, returning just in time and producing a firkin from under his coat. “A little ale warms the blood on a damp night. I hope you’ll all share a drop with me to make the time pass quicker.”
An hour later, the coach contained four merry souls, including the parson. Some of Robert’s less risqué jokes found an appreciative audience, and Mr. Foster was revealed as having a nice line in animal imitations. They were all sorry to see the affable man of the cloth leave them at Sawbridgeworth. He said a particularly fond farewell to Caro. “Thank you for the entertaining company. I shall think of you with pleasure and imagine we are related through the Townsends.” But Peabody, Mrs. Ransom, and Caro soon cheered up and started singing, to the shock and chagrin of a new passenger who boarded a stop later. Since it was by now almost midnight, they all settled down to get as much sleep as was possible in the rapidly moving coach.
Around three in the morning, Caro murmured a quiet good-bye to her new friends and alit at Newmarket. The efficient staff at the Greyhound Inn saw her straight to a bedroom, where she slept late into the morning. Before she retired, she wrote a note to Max Quinton, asking for it to be delivered, first thing, to his house a mile or two from town.
The chambermaid brought her tea and bad news at about noon. The Quintons had been called away suddenly a few days before. They weren’t at home, and their servants didn’t know when they’d return.
T homas planned to invite Miss Brotherton for a stroll or a drive in the park, to see if they could find common ground that didn’t involve anything antique. He’d ended up having to hear the talk about barrows and shuddered to contemplate a lifetime of such entertainment. Until he thought of Maria and Sarah and their future and the thirty or forty thousand pounds he needed to find to dower them respectably. For the sake of his sisters, he could put up with ancient tombs at meals, especially if the conversation was occasionally varied with more congenial topics.
He could do this. There was nothing wrong with Miss Anne Brotherton, nothing at all. And everything right about her fortune.
It rained all day, but the next dawned bright and sunny. In London, one couldn’t call on ladies at a sensible hour, so he left his hotel and headed east for a walk around Leicester Square. All London seemed to appreciate the change in the weather. There was a cheerful liveliness in the air and on the faces of people in the streets: shoppers, delivery boys, and street sellers. A pretty young girl, little more than a child, tried to sell him some
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