The Second Lady Southvale by Sandra Heath Page A

enjoy the journey, for there was so much to see. England was very different from America, and seemed very small and intimate after the wide open spaces she’d always known. The towns and villages were very old, with idyllic thatched cottages, fine medieval churches, rambling inns, and ancient market squares, some of which had been in use since before the Norman Conquest. Centuries-old farms nestled on hilltops, and watermills straddled racing streams. Windmills caught the breeze, orchards were heavy with fruit, and fine mansions presided over noble parks; there was prosperity all around, and little evidence at all of the war against France that had been in progress for so long now.
    By the morning of the last day of the journey, Rosalind was beginning to wilt under the endless sound of the signora ’s voice, but took comfort in the knowledge that it would all be over in a matter of hours now. They’d stayed overnight at an inn in Newbury, and she chose her clothes very carefully for the final part of the journey, because at the end of it, she’d see Philip again and she wanted to look her very best.
    She put on a primrose sprigged muslin and matching pelisse, and a wide-brimmed primrose muslin hat tied on with green satin ribbons the same color as her eyes. She struggled again with her hair, combing and pinning laboriously until she’d achieved the style she wanted, a loose knot at the back of her head, with a single heavy ringlet tumbling from it.
    The chaise set off for the last time, and it wasn’t long before the close proximity of the capital became evident. By midday there was much more traffic on the road, fewer country wagons and carts, but many more private carriages drawn by blood horses. Stagecoaches drove swiftly to and from the capital, outpaced by the occasional mail coach, and both were easily outstripped by the light phaetons, curricles, and gigs driven by dashing young gentlemen dressed in the very tippy of high fashion .
    The towns were closer together now, and more prosperous than ever. Fine villas lined the highway, and gentlemen’s residences were set in neat grounds, agreeable without being too grand. There were still elegant mansions and great parks, and Rosalind was reminded that Philip’s country seat, Greys, was only five miles outside the capital.
    Shadows were lengthening as the chaise drove across Hounslow Heath, once the haunt of highwaymen, and then they were on the last turnpike into the city. Spires and domes appeared on the eastern horizon ahead as the short autumn afternoon drew to a close, and the final slanting rays of the sun fell across St Paul’s itself, making it gleam like a beacon.
    There was little left of the sun, except a blaze of crimson in the west, as the postboys urged their tired horses past the royal palace of Kensington, turning briefly off the main highway to leave the signora and her maid at an address in Knightsbridge. Her luggage was unloaded, and then Rosalind waved good-bye to her as the now quiet chaise drove on toward St James’s.
    Hyde Park loomed on the left, leafy, spacious acres that in daytime saw the parade of fashionable society along RottenRow. St George’s Hospital, its windows dimly lit, swept by on the right, and then she saw the grand façade of Apsley House, standing on the corner of Park Lane and Piccadilly. Daylight had gone completely now, and the chaise lamps were lit, as were the lamps of all other vehicles on the crowded city roads. Shop windows were illuminated, and streetlamps kindled, so that all was light and bright in Piccadilly, the thoroughfare that took the chaise eastward toward exclusive St James’s.
    Piccadilly was one of the noisiest and most exciting streets that Rosalind had ever seen. The southern boundary was taken up with the wall and trees of Green Park, but the northern side was a long line of shops, inns, stagecoach ticket offices, clubs, lodging houses, and impressive private residences. Wonderful displays of goods