“Are we almost there, Miss Morton? Are we in Yorkshire?” In that odd way she had, the child passed from sleep to restless energy in an instant, awakened as the momentum of the coach changed. The rough lurch of open road gave way to the staccato rumble of cobbled streets that meant a town. The ten-year-old clambered up from her seat to lean at the window. She turned from it for a moment to ask, “Combien de temps jusqu ’a l’arrivée?”
“Speak English, please, Marguerite. Yes, we are indeed in Yorkshire and will stop very soon.” Caroline Morton ignored the disapproval radiating from the woman seated across from them. “We are coming into Thirsk now.”
The child flashed her a grin and spun back to the window.
As much as Caroline envied Marguerite’s ability to sleep in the uncomfortable carriage, she envied her energy more. They had been traveling for weeks, months if you counted from the day they had abandoned Marguerite’s home and had begun their journey to Calais. From Calais to Dover by boat, then coach for another two hundred miles.
Caroline thought she had been tired when they left Amiens. It was as nothing compared to the weariness that held her now. Her body was stiff with it. Her breath came in deep drawn sighs as if summoning strength from a miserly storehouse in a secret part of her body. Perhaps if they were able to find a decent supper, her energy would be renewed. A decent supper and a few hours rest.
“Sit down, my dear. We will be stopping soon enough.”
Caroline reached over and pulled the little girl away from the window and settled her next to her on the seat.
But Marguerite could not contain her excitement. “We have done it, Miss Morton. We have done it!”
She knelt and threw her arms around Caroline’s neck and Caroline pulled the tiny fairy of a child into her arms. They hugged each other, a long rocking embrace. It was the only show of emotion that Caroline would allow herself. Their years in war-torn France had taught her to guard her expression, her sensibilities, her fear. They had both learned to communicate their deepest feelings with no more than a touch. But they were almost home now. Soon they could cry their happiness, their relief, from the rooftops. Soon, but not quite yet.
The three other passengers looked on with varying degrees of approval and Caroline smiled at them over the head of her armful.
Marguerite’s enthusiasm was contagious. It was as fine a tonic for her fatigue as anything a physician could prescribe. The aching exhaustion faded to a tolerable weariness.
The weariness gave way to a thrill of pleasure as Caroline recognized the stretch of buildings that marked the main street of Thirsk. The spire of the church came into view even as the bell began to toll the hour with the same reassuring resonance she had grown up hearing.
How she longed for the scent of May blossoms, a dinner of steak and kidney pie and some cream cakes. There were distressing memories here, too, but right now they could not compete with the welcome of home.
As the coach entered the inn yard, Marguerite pulled away from her, climbed on the seat yet again, and looked from the coach door. Her face was expectant, filled with the high hopes she brought to every new experience. Marguerite looked back at her governess and announced for everyone to hear, “Our troubles are over.”
Ah, but she spoke too soon.
The very moment that Caroline leaned forward to pull her back, the coachman opened the door from the other side and Marguerite lost her balance. It happened slowly, so slowly that Caroline was able to grab the sash around the girl’s waist. With a surge of triumph, she knew that if she had strength enough she would be able to arrest her fall and save her from injury.
Before Caroline could test her strength, the material gave way with a slow certain ripping sound and Marguerite tumbled into the mud. That was upset enough, but the look of surprised pain on the child’s face was more cause for concern.
“Oh, my dear, what have you done? You are hurt?” For two years they had faced danger and discovery in a France driven mad by revolution. They had made their way to England without a scratch. How could this happen now when safety was at hand?
Caroline turned to the ostler, a familiar face though his name escaped her. “Is Mr. Osgood still the surgeon here?”
“Yes, miss, the best there is.”
Relief, anxiety, confusion, and a wave of misery came on the heels of the ostler’s words. Who would have thought such a commonplace answer could induce such emotions, could push concern for Marguerite aside? Caroline denied them all. If Marguerite needed help she would not hesitate to call on Reynaud Osgood even if it was the one meeting she had hoped to avoid indefinitely.
“And he is still in the old part of town near St. James Green?”
The man nodded and Caroline turned to Marguerite.
The child looked up at her, eyes wide, and shook her head. “Oh no, Miss Morton, I have no need of the surgeon. I am not hurt, only surprised.” She made to stand, then smiled a little. Caroline turned to ease the hubbub caused by the small accident.
“It weren’t my fault, miss. It weren’t.”
Caroline gave him a long hard look and he had the grace to look embarrassed. She was not about to waste time on a pointless argument in a public place, not when it would keep them, even for a few moments, from the bed and food they both longed for.
A man stepped out from the doorway of the Golden Fleece into the courtyard, then hurried over to help. This face was unfamiliar. When Caroline asked for a room, he shook his head with casual regret.
“I’m that sorry, miss, but every inn is full, at least until tomorrow night, or even the next day. Besides the market, there be a prizefight as well.”
Marguerite pulled on her hand and Caroline bent down. “We have slept in the stable before, Miss Morton.”
Yes, they had slept in a stable and a miserable experience it had been for both of them. Now that they were home there was no need for that.
Taking Marguerite’s hand, she nodded to the man. “Where is Mr. Pettigrew?”
The man bobbed his head. “He retired two years ago and went to York to be with his children. My name is Roster. I own the Golden Fleece now.”
No help from that quarter, she thought. Even in Thirsk life does go on. “Thank you then, Mr. Roster. We will go elsewhere.”
As she moved toward the main road, Roster spoke one more time. “Shall I send your boxes and trunks along or hold them for you?”
She looked over her shoulder. “We have no baggage.” She turned away, not caring what ideas he and their audience drew from her bald statement. She had more pressing concerns.
All the inns were filled? Where to go? What to do? Her head was all a muddle as she tried to find a solution to this latest problem. She would do what she had for the last two years. Rely on herself. Only a little longer. Only a little farther.
She turned back again and found the ostler, innkeeper, and her fellow travelers at a standstill watching them as they left the courtyard. Had they never seen anyone penniless before?
“Are the Landrys in residence at Landreau?”
The innkeeper shook his head, his face sober. “They’re in London, miss.”
Her heart fell. “Is Miss Landry with them?”
“No, she’s at home.” He emphasized the “she” as though pleased that he could give her some good news.
Relief huge and welcome eased her anxiety. Susan was home! With a nod of thanks, Caroline turned and caught up with a stumbling Marguerite.
They turned from the main street onto one of the wider side roads. “We will walk to Landreau tonight, my dear. I had hoped to have some time to rest and tidy ourselves, to send a message to Miss Landry before we appear on her doorstep. But she has been my friend since childhood. It will not matter that we arrive late and travel-stained.” And without baggage.
Marguerite nodded.
The ownership of the Golden Fleece might have changed, but five years was not long enough for much else to be different.
A string of genteel residences still edged this side of the town, bordering the new grass of the green, but close enough for easy intimacy with the townspeople.
She would wager that she still knew the inhabitants of most. The house they passed now, the Osgoods’, had been like a home to her. It looked the same. Why did she find that a comfort? Because if it was the sight of her heartbreak it had also been home to her happiest memories. She had become engaged here, she had sampled the pleasure of her first kiss in the back garden. She had ended her engagement there as well.
Despite the anguish of that memory, the sight of the house, so solid and substantial, drew a smile.
Caroline hurried by and then paused to wait for the more slowly moving child. Marguerite had rested most of the way from their last stop, but sleep in a bouncing coach was hardly restful. “Are you tired?” Caroline asked.
“Yes.”
Caroline stopped and bent down so that her eyes were level with Marguerite’s. “We only have a little farther to go, darling. We even have a full moon to light our way.”
Marguerite nodded.
Was it a trick of the moonlight that made her face look so pale?
“You do know that we are safe now? We are in England, the revolution is behind us. I know Susan will take us in until I can find work.”
Marguerite gave her a wan smile in answer. “We can count our blessings and not stop at two.”
It was a game they had played for the last two years. “Yes, we have much more now than our health and each other.”
“We have not run out of money.”
“We are almost at the end of our journey.”
“The night is lovely. The rain has stopped.”
“We each had a seat on the coach.”
“The meat pies we had for dinner were lovely.”
Are you hungry, Marguerite?” The child was walking without much energy, but hunger had rarely slowed her down before.
Caroline stopped and watched as the little girl proceeded a few more steps before slowing. Her hair had not seen a plait for days, her dress had once been blue. She had left her homeland and never once complained.
Caroline counted this child her single dearest blessing. This funny, impossible, impetuous enfant was everything to her, even if Caroline was no more than her governess. There was nothing that she would not do to keep her safe. The last two years had indeed been a test of that.
The two of them would continue to be their own cobbled sort of family, until Caroline could find relatives to whom she could entrust Marguerite.
The girl was of noble birth with the blood of kings in her veins. She deserved the life she had been born to even if her parents were gone, lost to the revolution. Caroline was determined to return her to family. Eyen though it would break her heart to send Marguerite away.
As the child turned to question her, Caroline noticed that she was holding one arm close to her chest. “Why, you are hurt. Why do you try to hide it?”
Marguerite tried to straighten her arm, but the pain was such that she wavered as though she would faint. With a small gasp of dismay, Caroline swept the little girl up into her arms.
She would have to see him. She would have to call on Reynaud Osgood. Steeling herself for the unwanted meeting, she turned back toward the familiar house they had only just passed.
“But, Miss Morton, do we have enough money for a doctor?”
“Of course we have enough money.” The absurd question brought tears to Caroline’s eyes. She paused to control the upset that gave an edge to her voice. “That was no reason to try and hide your injury. We are home now and soon we will be as comfortable as a kitten nestled against its mama cat.”
“C’est bon, Miss Morton.”
Caroline did not correct the French, had not even heard it as such, as she stopped before the front door. With a deep breath she summoned courage, energy, composure.
The house had an air of shabby gentility that conveyed reassurance rather than neglect. The shutters needed paint, but there was a new very elegant brass knocker on the front door. Light filtered out between the drawn drapes on the first floor and down the stairs to the fan light over the door. The ground floor was dark. Did it still serve as the surgery?
Caroline nodded when Marguerite raised her good arm to the knocker. The commanding thunk on the door drew a satisfied smile. Marguerite let it fall one more time and then looked up.
“Is anyone home?”
Torn between maternal concern and personal vanity, Caroline did not know which to wish for and then marveled at her selfishness. “I am sure someone will answer the door in a moment.”
When Reynaud Osgood did open the door, he was still shrugging into his coat. The spill of light from the hallway lit him from the back but she could see that his hair was mussed. He must still have that habit of running his hand through it.
As her eyes adjusted to the light, she realized that five years had hardly touched him. His eyes were still fine and brown, his eyebrows more beautifully shaped than a man deserved. His jaw bore the faint stubble of a day’s growth of beard and he was smiling.
The smile was her undoing. One would think that he would be irritated at the interruption of his evening. But his smile spoke otherwise. It reached his eyes and there both invitation and interest lingered.
If she had recognized home before in the familiar streets and buildings, she felt its welcome now.
Caroline forgot the gulf of bitterness that had separated them, forgot the vanity and the guilt that had made her draw her hood closer around her face, and forgot the fact that he might be married.
His smile was so familiar, so endearing that, for the first time in ages, she felt buoyed. She was not alone anymore. Here was someone who would help her, share the burden, ease her heart.
“Reynie?” She breathed his name and leaned a little closer, almost begging for his touch.
His smile of invitation never progressed to recognition. He looked at her as if she were a stranger. Reynaud Osgood had been a friend from childhood, her fiancé for two years, and now did not know who she was.
Useless tears gathered again and this time they fell with a will of their own.
He nodded, still unaware of who she was, and looked away from her embarrassment. The tears seemed to be all the explanation he needed. “The child is hurt.” He made it a statement and held the door open for them. “Come in.”
They stepped into the hallway and he opened the nearest door. His words drifted back to them from the depths of the darkened room. “Let me light the candles so that you can find your way.”
“Miss Morton?”
Marguerite whispered, and Caroline looked down at her. The child’s expression held absolute terror.
“Am I going to die?”
It was the best cure possible for her tears. “No, never, chouchou. The worst that has happened is that you have broken your arm.”
“Bien. That I can bear.” The little girl hesitated. “Then, please, why are you crying?”
“I think I must be very, very tired.”
Marguerite nodded sagely. “It has been a very long journey and not always a comfortable one.”
Before Caroline could agree, Reynaud Osgood came back to the door. He pretended not to notice their déshabille.
It was Marguerite who spoke first. “I fell out of the coach and into the mud.”
Osgood smiled at her. “Yes, I can see that. I will wager you that the mud has saved you from serious injury.” His interest was all for the injured. He barely glanced at Caroline.
“Put her here, if you please.” He watched as Caroline lowered Marguerite to the top of a table in the middle of the room.
Still watching his charge, he nodded absently to a chair near the window. As Caroline moved to the seat she caught a glimpse of herself in a glass and instantly understood Reynie’s lack of recognition. The hood hid most of her face and what he could see was streaked with mud. Her eyes were so deeply shadowed that her skin appeared more gray than white. She pushed the hood off, smoothed her hair and sank into the chair.
“It was wise of you to come right away.” Reynie was speaking to Marguerite. “These injuries rarely improve with time. It will hurt when I move it, but it is the only way for me to determine the extent of the damage.”
Caroline watched Marguerite’s slow nod. She could not see the child’s face, but knew her eyes would be wide and her expression very brave.
Reynie placed a bucket next to her on the table. “Use this if you feel unwell.”
It was a miserable few moments. Caroline’s arm thrummed in sympathetic pain and Marguerite did indeed use the bucket, but there were no moans or tears from either of them.
Reynie’s only comments were a series of “hmmms,” each with a slightly different cadence or lilt. Caroline found the sounds more comforting than annoying, even if the meaning was as foreign to her as Italian would have been.
Reynie straightened and patted his patient’s head. “You were a very brave soldier, little one. I know it hurt.”
“Is it broken?” Marguerite asked the question with an eagerness that made Caroline smile through her worry.
“No. It is not. It is only a strain. It is painful, in some ways more painful than a break but it will heal faster.” He spent the next few minutes preparing a cold water bath and urging her to place her arm in it. “This will ease the pain and then we will bind it close to you. You must pass the night here. Rest is the best restorative. I have a room prepared for such. Your mother can stay with you.”
Marguerite turned and looked at Caroline with a huge grin. “Maman?” It was a word they had used for protection and convenience while still in France but since they had landed in England, Caroline had insisted on Miss Morton.
As though he sensed a joke, Reynie looked from the little girl to Caroline and his own expression changed from tolerant amusement to shock.
“Caroline?” He whispered the name as though he suspected she might be a ghost. Then he took a step toward her. “Caroline Morton?”