When the door had closed behind the earl’s broad back, Deanna ran on stockinged feet to the fire to take advantage of the blessed warmth while she disrobed. With little hope for any noticeable results, she spread her sodden skirt over the back of a chair and pushed it closer to the leaping flames—it would never get dry in time for dinner.
She eased herself into the copper tub, enduring with fortitude the prickling pain as heat touched her ice-cold limbs. It would be worth the discomfort if only she could feel warm again. Gradually her stiff, sore muscles relaxed. Leaning her head against the high, shell-shaped back of the tub, she allowed her heavy lids to droop. No maids at Thistledown Cottage, she thought drowsily. That meant she must go down for dinner if she wanted to eat. It would be too much to expect Mrs. Morton to carry up trays for her and Sybil.
Sybil! Deanna sat up with a jerk. Of course she must go down. Sybil would not let an occasion slip by when she could dine with two handsome gentlemen. And Deanna had promised Mrs. Walton to keep an eye on her daughter.
A knock on the door and the rattle of the handle startled Deanna. Hastily she submerged to her chin.
“It’s only me, deary.” Mrs. Morton, a small tray with teapot and cup and saucer balanced in one hand and a scratched, beat-up leather bag in the other, pushed the door open with a well-padded hip and sidled into the room.
“My overnight case!” Deanna cried joyfully.
Mrs. Morton nodded. “His lordship’s valet just brung in your and Miss Walton’s bags. Your coachman, he said, insisted on taking them from the carriage. And a good thing, too, I say. You certainly can’t wear that.” She pointed a pugnacious chin at Deanna’s dripping gown, deposited the tray on the marble-topped table, then marched to the fireplace and set down the cloakbag.
“Come on out now, miss,” she said briskly, and held out the large, fluffy towel which had been warming over a painted Chinese screen.
When Deanna was dressed in a long-sleeved gown of soft, brown merino and had drunk several cups of strong, sweet tea before the fire, Mrs. Morton collected the wet towel and Deanna’s damp clothes.
“I’d best be going now,” she muttered. “Must see what that Étienne’s been up to in the meantime. Swore there’d be no dinner tonight, he did—everything burned to cinders!” Despite the hampering load of the various wet garments in her arms, she threw up her hands in imitation of his lordship’s Gallic chef, and the damp towel promptly knocked her starched mobcap askew.
Mrs. Morton was undismayed. “If I know that Moosyoo Étienne,” she said, “he’ll have the kitchen topsy-turvy and the two boys who’s supposed to help him all but standing on their empty heads. But he will have a ragout of something and a fricassée of another on the table as soon as his lordship is ready to dine.”
“And after dinner I’ll take the child off your hands,” Deanna promised. “I appreciate your looking after him, Mrs. Morton. Unfortunately, Sybil’s sensibilities do not lend themselves to coping with a baby.”
The housekeeper snorted and started toward the door. “Tonight I’ll keep him with me, miss. Try and get all the rest ye can, and tomorrow ye may take care of the little angel with me blessings. I daresay you’ve had a handful of younger siblings and know what to do with a tyke like him?”
“Indeed I know.” Deanna chuckled. “But they were Miss Walton’s siblings. I am an only child.”
Shaking her head, Mrs. Morton ambled out, shutting the door behind her. When her heavy tread on the stairs had ceased, Deanna took up her hairbrush and set to work on her tangled curls. She gathered the long coppery strands at the nape of her neck and tied them securely with a brown velvet ribbon, then snatched up a paisley shawl and flung it around her shoulders before stepping out into the drafty gallery. Softly Deanna scratched on the door of the adjoining chamber and slipped inside.
She was not surprised to find Sybil primping before the cheval glass. It had ever been one of the young girl’s favorite pastimes, one that had been indulged to a foolish degree by Mrs. Walton since some visiting London fop had told her on the occasion of Sybil’s eighteenth birthday in June that her daughter’s face had some of the same captivating qualities as that of the beauteous Caroline Lamb. Sybil and Mrs. Walton had been in alt, and not even the news a month later that Lady Caroline had once again made a cake of herself over Lord Byron and was ostracized by all of polite society had succeeded in damping their high spirits.
At Deanna’s entrance Sybil pirouetted, the folds of her soft lilac cambric gown billowing about her slim hips. “Deanna! How can you go down to dinner looking like a frump?” she wailed. “Why scrape your hair back and tie it like a schoolroom miss? I know you’re four years older than I, so please make yourself look older. And you’re wearing that old brown merino again.”
“It’s the only gown I had in my overnight case, and mightily glad I am to be wearing it. My traveling dress was sodden up to my waist. But hurry, Sybil! We don’t wish to appear rude and be late for dinner. Our unexpected arrival and the delay we caused must have been a sore trial to the household.”
Sybil paid no heed but turned back to the mirror and teased one short brown curl to nestle just so above her left ear. She sighed dreamily and asked as though Deanna had not spoken, “Isn’t it the most romantic coincidence that we should be stranded with two of the most eligible bachelors? The Earl of Fenchmore and Viscount Stratten! And both so handsome! Of course, Lord Fenchmore is the more striking with his dark hair and bronzed skin, but truth to tell, I find him intimidating. He was very annoyed, was he not, when he first learned that our coach was stuck?”
She whirled around again. “Do you like my hair, Deanna?” And without waiting for a reply, she continued with her artless prattle. “I prefer Lord Stratten. His eyes crinkle when he smiles. Did you see his rings and the silver buttons on his coat? And his embroidered waistcoat? Now he looks like a fashionable beau, but Lord Fenchmore … why, he’s dressed just like Squire Goodwyn back home, and—”
“Pray remember, dear, that gentlemen don’t like to be kept waiting,” interrupted Deanna, knowing from long experience that Sybil might well go on for hours if not checked.
“You sound just like Mama,” Sybil complained. “You need not take your promise to keep me in line quite so literally.”
Deanna laughed. “But if I let you run on and on, you’d miss dinner altogether, and I would have to sit with the gentlemen all by myself.”
The pout disappeared, and an excited gleam lit up Sybil’s hazel eyes as a new thought struck her. A slight blush rose in her dimpled cheeks, and her little pink tongue darted out to moisten her lips.
“Deanna! Do you think they’ll have to marry us? We might be stuck here for days and days. Compromised!” She looked as eager as a puppy with a juicy bone dangling before its nose.
“Don’t be a ninny!” Deanna reached for the door handle. “There is a very respectable housekeeper present to chaperon us. The sooner you forget your featherbrained notion, the better off you’ll be—and the less likely to embarrass yourself!” she said sharply, and quit the chamber.
She wished she could forget about their compromising situation herself. Not that she believed for one moment the gentlemen in question would consider marriage—she rather thought she had understood Lord Fenchmore’s allusion to a “dastardly trick” better than Sybil, who was not up to snuff.
Deanna had serious doubts, however, that even the most respectable housekeeper would be sufficient protection to keep their reputations unsullied if word of their stay at Thistledown Cottage leaked out. Why couldn’t she have discovered some farmhouse with a motherly farmer’s wife instead of stumbling straight into a bachelor’s country cottage? If they were ruined before they even arrived in London …! Visions of her mama’s horrified face and Mrs. Walton’s excessive tears and vapors rose before her eyes.
Deanna took a deep breath and walked slowly down the stairs. She felt rather like Daniel must have felt entering the lion’s den.
Felix slammed the bureau drawer shut and stabbed a ruby pin into his cravat. “Damn!” He examined his finger where the sharp point of the pin had left a long scratch. Feeling like a clumsy fool after having first made a mull of tying his cravat with stiff fingers and now cutting himself on the blasted pin, Felix picked up his crested and monogrammed hairbrush and attacked some stray tendrils of wet hair falling across his forehead.
One would suppose that in a well-run household I should have been able to take a hot bath, he mused, hot enough to thaw out my frozen limbs after the battle with the icy elements.
But Peters, carrying up a few buckets of tepid water, had informed him woodenly that the ladies had used most of the hot water. And, Peters had added with relish, Étienne was throwing knives and meat cleavers like a performer at Astley’s Amphitheatre, threatening to return to France and cook for the emperor if his English patron would just once more ruin his culinary efforts by dashing out into the night moments before the dishes were due to be served. Heaven only knew when a meal would be forthcoming from the chaotic kitchens.
And to top it all—knowing full well that Felix liked to dispense with formality while in the country—Peters had had the effrontery to lay out his evening dress and had cowardly departed with the wet top boots. Felix had been too disgusted and, he admitted, too exhausted, to search out a different set of clothes and had therefore donned oyster-colored pantaloons, a silver-gray vest and dark coat, and had cursed the impudence of snobbish London valets and the tiresomeness of females.
The chit had been laughing at him when he had offered to remove her boots! Typical. He had never trusted or liked women with even just a hint of red in their hair—let alone the flamboyant, reddish-brown curls Miss St. Cloud flaunted before the world. His mother had been a redhead….
Savagely, Felix hoped the kitchen boy’s too tight footgear had left Miss St. Cloud with a pair of healthy blisters, but almost immediately he leavened his bitter thoughts with a mental apology. After all, it wasn’t Miss St. Cloud’s fault altogether that he was so out of reason cross. He was angry with himself for having uttered those disastrous words about females’ dastardly tricks within her hearing. Even had she been out of earshot, his behavior would have been inexcusable. For that he had only himself to blame, and the amount of cognac he had consumed … and, perhaps, the very silly conversation he and George had indulged in prior to the ladies arrival.
Where the deuce was George anyway? He hadn’t even had the decency to inquire if the search for the ladies’ groom and coachman had been successful. Surely George must be aware that they had returned if Mrs. Morton had heard the crash of the front door as far away as her basement apartment.
Felix replaced the brush on the silver tray atop his dresser, gave his cravat a final twitch, then stalked out the door, just in time to see a bit of brown skirt disappear inside the Yellow Room in the opposite wing of the gallery. Apparently the ladies were still upstairs. Considerably relieved, he went downstairs to enjoy a few moments free from female chatter and to warm himself before the fire in the drawing room. And George better have a good excuse for his callousness!
But the drawing room was empty. Felix had half drained his second glass of cognac when George, carrying his empty one, finally sauntered into the room.
“Well,” Felix drawled. “I should’ve known you wouldn’t stray too far from the decanter. And here I worried when I didn’t see you on my return that you’d come out after us and got yourself lost in the snow.”
Carefully George placed the delicate crystal goblet on the table. Casting a sapient eye over his friend, he advised kindly, “Best stay away from the cognac until you’ve eaten, Felix. The stuff’s deadly on an empty stomach, and you’re dashed close to being maudlin.”
A muscle twitched in Felix’s lean cheek as he clenched his teeth to bite down on a savage reply. But looking into George’s clear, uncritical eyes, he encountered an expression of such goodwill that his anger dissipated.
Felix laughed shakily. “You’re correct, old boy. I’m beginning to feel a trifle above par.” He set his glass on the mantel ledge and held out his hand. “Forgive me?”
George accepted the proffered hand in a firm grip. “Nothing to forgive,” he muttered, turning to the hearth. He picked up the poker and prodded the logs into flickering, crackling action, then added more of the aromatic pine wood.
“It’s that redhead,” he said. “I know. Saw the instant she stepped into the room that she would cut up your peace. Remember though, Felix. This redhead ain’t your mother.”
“Sometimes I wish I had not told you that sordid little tale.”
“Best thing you ever did,” contradicted George. “Would have planted you a facer many a time otherwise, for we seem to meet a foxy-haired chit just about everywhere we go.”
Felix chuckled. “Had you threatened to meet me with swords or pistols, no doubt I would be shaking in my boots now, but the day you’ll best me with your fists has yet to dawn, my friend.”
“I would have tried though. Might have taken you by surprise, you know.”
“You might at that,” Felix acknowledged. “But tell me, where’ve you been hiding yourself all this while?”
“Not hiding, Felix.” George sounded reproachful. “Mrs. Morton asked me to sit with the boy while she was heating bath water and assisting first Miss Walton and then Miss St. Cloud.”
Felix’s brows shot up. “You were playing nursemaid?”
“’Twasn’t so bad. He’s quite a taking little feller, actually. Just a mite thin if you ask me.”
“I can well believe that. I saw the mother, you know. It’s just as likely she died of starvation as from exposure—but hush! I hear one of the ladies coming down the stairs.”
They both turned toward the door and bowed punctiliously as Deanna entered.
George stepped forward and guided her to one of the chairs by the fire. “Delighted to see you none the worse for your second venture into the treacherous elements, Miss St. Cloud,” he murmured.
Felix followed them with his eyes. The top of her head barely reached George’s shoulders, and she was so slender it seemed a wonder that she hadn’t been blown away outside. He himself felt an unfamiliar aching in his muscles from his exertions in the blizzard, yet here was this slip of a girl, apparently unaffected by the ordeal she had gone through.
When Felix pulled up another chair and joined Miss St. Cloud and George by the hearth, however, he could not help but notice the pallor of her clear skin and the dark smudges of fatigue under her overbright eyes. She ought to be in bed!
“Would you prefer a tray in your room, Miss St. Cloud?” Felix asked.
She smiled gratefully. But as she was about to speak, Miss Walton tripped into the room, a white crochet shawl trailing from her elbows and the flounces of her lilac dress bouncing merrily. The pleasure on Deanna’s face faded into resignation.
“I appreciate your thoughtful offer, Lord Fenchmore, but it won’t be necessary to put your staff to so much trouble,” Deanna said quietly. “However, if you will not think us terribly impolite, Sybil and I should like to retire immediately after dinner.”
Sybil’s pout told clearly that she would like to do no such thing, but before she could utter a word, George had risen and guided her to his chair, murmuring compliments until her sulky looks had been replaced by sunny smiles.
After a quick glance at his scowling friend and the silent Deanna, George leaned against the red brick of the fireplace and addressed himself once again to Sybil. “I must admit to some curiosity about your adventurous journey, Miss Walton,” he said with his kind smile. “Do you feel up to telling us about it?”
“Perhaps during dinner,” Felix intervened hastily. “I see Morton standing in the door—to announce, it is hoped, that some food has been prepared for us.”
Morton permitted himself a thin smile. “Dinner is served, milord.”
It was a half hour past nine as the marquetry clock and his own stomach reminded Felix rather painfully when they sat down in the formal dining room with its dark wainscoating and somber paintings depicting various hunting scenes. Étienne had once more proven himself a master of the culinary arts. There was a vichyssoise, a ragout of veal—originally planned as a delectable fricandeau of veal—and some lamb cutlets which had escaped their burned fate because Étienne had not yet put them on the fire when Felix had rushed off on his rescue mission. The meats were accompanied by creamed peas, haricot beans, and duchesse potatoes, to be followed by a raised pie and several compotes.
No one spoke until the first pangs of hunger had been assuaged by the soup. But when Morton had removed the soup plates and had served the various other dishes, George repeated his question to Sybil.
She was only too happy to tell of their harrowing journey. Sitting up a little straighter, she prattled in her breathless, high voice. “When we started out this morning, we had no suspicion that it would come to snow again. The sky was clear, wasn’t it, Deanna? And the sun shone brightly, making the fields sparkle just as though someone had scattered diamonds on white velvet. And then, by noon, everything was dark and gloomy.”
Sybil frowned, directing her big, hazel eyes first at Lord Fenchmore, then at Viscount Stratten, to make quite certain she had their full attention. “Everything was spoilt then,” she continued, “for Miss Goodwyn declared she would travel no farther than the Pelican where we’d planned to change the horses.”
“Miss Goodwyn?” asked Felix, raising his formidable brows.
Sybil nodded. “She’s Squire Goodwyn’s sister and was supposed to accompany us to London.”
“Seems to me, Miss Goodwyn was in the right of it. You would have been better off had you remained at the Pelican as well,” Felix said dryly.
“But it was such a drafty old place,” Sybil protested, “and so very crowded! Why, Miss Goodwyn, Deanna, and I were all supposed to share one room!” Sybil pouted prettily. “Besides, I said we must go on because I did not wish to worry my great-aunt Lady Saltash. She’s expecting us, you see. But then”—she chewed a mouthful of peas and shot a quick glance at Deanna—“just when I agreed to stay at the inn after all, Deanna insisted we travel on.”
Deanna did not raise her eyes off her plate but concentrated on cutting another sliver of meat off a lamb cutlet. Carefully she added it to the pile of food pushed to one side of her plate. She was not really eating, Felix noted, just making a very good pretense of it. He studied her pale face. Why the deuce hadn’t she agreed to a tray in her room? She looked exhausted. The silly chit could be asleep now, and Miss Sybil would have had to be content to bore only George and him.
Hmm. Perhaps that was the rub. Miss St. Cloud did not want to leave her friend alone—but why on earth had she insisted on traveling if it had meant losing their chaperon? The Pelican was a snug little inn, a favorite with the gentlemen during the hunting season—but unequipped with private parlors and such amenities as would give privacy to the ladies, which might have had some bearing on Miss St. Cloud’s decision. Felix picked up his glass and drank of the red wine, directing his attention back to Miss Walton, who had, to judge by the excitement throbbing in her voice, arrived at the climax of her tale.
“… then turned into a howling blizzard,” Sybil was exclaiming. “Sam couldn’t see the road, so Deanna and Jemmy took the lanterns and walked the leaders. Then Deanna stumbled and fell, and Sam stopped the coach. And then we found that woman and her child, didn’t we, Deanna?”
Deanna’s hands shook. With great care she laid down her knife and fork and hid her hands in her lap. “Yes,” she said. “We found them buried under the snow. I tripped over them.”
“The woman was unconscious,” Sybil continued. “But the child was awake and crying. Only Deanna hadn’t heard the crying because he—well, at the time we didn’t know it was a he—but in any case, he was hidden under the woman’s cloak, and the wind was howling like a banshee, and that was the only thing anyone could hear.”
“So the poor lady was alive when you found her,” George muttered.
“Yes. And she frightened me no end with her moaning and crying. That was when we had started off again, and she was in the coach with me. And I had to hold that screaming baby, too. I was never more terrified!” Sybil’s rosebud mouth trembled pitifully, and a large tear clung to her long lashes.
George said comfortingly, “It must have been horrid, but it’s all over now, Miss Walton.”
… it’s all over now! The words echoed dully in Deanna’s mind. How appropriate they were; a fitting epitaph for the poor young woman. But for the child the struggle had only just begun.
Suddenly the smell of the rich food nauseated Deanna. I must go and lie down. Should never have attempted to sit through the meal. She was so bone-tired. The legs of her chair screeched protestingly over the parquet flooring as she rose hurriedly. “Pray excuse me,” she whispered. “Sybil, would you please—”
To her mortification she could not go on. Her head was spinning crazily, and a wall of Stygian darkness was closing in on her. Deanna felt herself scooped up in strong arms, and a deep voice boomed above her.
“Morton! Send your wife to Miss St. Cloud’s room instantly. See that she brings hot bricks!”
I must be floating, thought Deanna. She was on the stairs, moving up … up … and up; yet she could no longer feel the arms that carried her.
“But I don’t understand”—Sybil’s plaintive voice sounded subdued and far away in Deanna’s ears—“Deanna never faints! She didn’t even swoon when she broke her leg after a toss from her horse and the bone had to be set.”
Little goose, Deanna wanted to reassure her friend. I’ve not fainted. But not a word issued from her mouth.
“Quiet!” the deep voice ordered. “I believe she is trying to speak.”
But Deanna was too exhausted to try again. Then something soft touched her body, enveloping her gently in its warmth. A familiar female voice said briskly, “Tuck them sheets in tightly, miss!” And then, more respectfully, “Best leave her be now, milord. Sleep is the best cure for exhaustion.”
Kind, competent Mrs. Morton, Deanna thought fuzzily.
Deanna jerked abruptly awake, her breath tearing fast and rasping through her chest She was drenched in cold sweat, and the clammy, woolen fabric of her gown scratched her skin.
Brushing damp strands of hair from her face, she stared in bewilderment at the dim glow of a small lamp nearby. For a moment she feared the nightmare that had troubled her sleep was still with her—a nightmare when she had stumbled through a raging storm and snowdrifts ten feet high which threatened to bury her, while a light promising shelter some distance ahead retreated farther and farther, yet remained tantalizingly in view.
But the small light that she now saw burned steadily, and soon she recognized the partially drawn green velvet hangings of the four-poster in which she was lying and the vague outline of the armoire against the opposite wall. Deanna breathed easier. They were quite safe at Thistledown Cottage—Sybil in the adjoining chamber, and the babe in the housekeeper’s room.
Deanna shivered as a thin face framed by long, blond hair intruded upon her comforting thoughts. She slid off the bed to add more wood to the glowing embers in the grate, but flung herself back onto the mattress, gasping. Something cold and soft had touched her stockinged feet!
Pressing a hand to her racing heart, Deanna drew several deep breaths before easing her legs over the edge of the bed. She’d be starting at shadows next, and that wouldn’t do at all. There! she scolded herself as her eyes focused on the pale lump on the floor. It was only the eiderdown cover, which had fallen off her bed, undoubtedly helped along by her tossing and turning when the nightmare had held her in its grip.
After restoring the thick cover to its proper place, Deanna padded to the fireplace where someone—Mrs. Morton, no doubt—had hung her nightgown over the Chinese screen. In the meager pool of warmth dispensed by the last glimmering log, Deanna disrobed and scrambled into the flannel gown, then hurried back to bed. The sheets had cooled and felt clammy. Shaking with cold, she pulled the fluffy eiderdown up to her chin, wishing she had thought to reheat the two bricks sitting uselessly at the foot end of her bed.
Not for the first time Deanna experienced a pang of exasperation with her volatile mother, who could be swayed so easily by an enthusiastic persuader, for Mama had allowed herself to be talked into this foolish London scheme by Sybil’s mother. If nothing else, Mrs. Walton was very persuasive, and once the two ladies had hatched their plot, nothing Deanna could say would have changed their plans.
Her mother had been waiting in their cozy sitting room when Deanna had returned from a romp in the snow with her two setters. She had barely had time to remove her boots and cloak before her mother had summoned her impatiently.
“Deanna!” Mrs. St. Cloud called again, and met her daughter in the doorway. “Oh, there you are, child. You’ll not credit the amazing news I have for you, my dear!”
Deanna laughed. “Try me, Mama. Did I not see Mrs. Walton and Sybil leave?”
“Yes, my dear. Too bad you missed them. We had such a lovely visit, planning the most delightful treat for you and Sybil.”
Her mother found it hard to meet Deanna’s eyes and exhibited other small signs of a guilty conscience, which led Deanna to believe that no effort had been made to locate her. The three conspirators must have feared she would cast a damper on their schemes.
“How nice,” Deanna said dryly.
“La, dear! What enthusiasm,” Mrs. St. Cloud exclaimed. “It fair bowls me over.”
Deanna chuckled and gave her mother an affectionate hug. “Can’t blame me, Mama. Once burned, twice shy,” she said, and led Mrs. St. Cloud to her favorite, satin-covered chair. “But out with it now. What shocking extravaganza have you and Mrs. Walton planned this time?”
Carefully arranging the folds of her gray kerseymere gown, Mrs. St. Cloud said gaily, “I vow, it’s the most delicious scheme! You and Sybil are to go to London and stay with Lady Saltash. It’ll be the most marvelous fun for you.”
“Mother!” The sheer madness of the proposal had taken Deanna’s breath away. “There are three feet of snow on the ground. Mrs. Walton cannot possibly have suggested the journey. Why, she hates traveling even in the mildest weather. Besides, if we are to go to London, we might as well go in late March or April and spend the season so Sybil may find a husband and settle down.”
“And don’t forget a husband for yourself, dear. You are two-and-twenty, and I have plans—” Mrs. St. Cloud broke off, determined for once to stick to the main point of their discussion. “But we cannot wait for the season, Deanna. Squire Goodwyn has been to see Mrs. Walton.”
“Now I understand. Sybil is in another scrape. Wretched girl!” Deanna succeeded in keeping a straight face, but her eyes danced with laughter. “Let me guess. Sybil has forgotten all about her tender feelings for the unfortunate curate and has tumbled headlong in love with Squire Goodwyn’s precious Humphrey.”
Mrs. St. Cloud nodded vigorously. “And the worst of it is, Humphrey has tried to talk Sybil into eloping with him!”
“Nonsense. Sybil would not do anything so reprehensible.”
“Be that as it may. Mrs. Walton is not going to wait to find out. By the greatest good fortune—for the mail was only one day late despite the snow—she received a letter from Lady Saltash. It appears the Thames is freezing over and all the ton is flocking back to town in anticipation of a frost fair with booths and stalls to be set up on the ice and all variety of fun and frolic to be had. Lady Saltash writes that this would be a perfect opportunity for Sybil to meet all the young people—if only she can get there in time.”
“And on the basis of such speculation we are to set out in the dead of winter and travel hundreds of miles to London?”
“Surely it cannot be that far, dearest,” Mrs. St. Cloud protested.
“And by ourselves?” Deanna continued ruthlessly. “I cannot imagine you or Mrs. Walton undertaking such a journey. Pray be reasonable, Mama!” She slid to the very edge of her chair and laid her hand pleadingly on her mother’s arm. “Most likely a thaw has set in by now and dashed everyone’s hopes of a frost fair.”
But Mrs. St. Cloud wore her most mulish look. “If your dear papa had not been killed at Trafalgar”—a preamble she always used when she was determined to have her way—“we would be living in London for eight months of the year,” she informed her daughter. “We’d not be forced to rusticate permanently in the wilds of Yorkshire. I mean for you to go, Deanna! Mrs. Walton particularly requested your companionship for Sybil. You know that you’re the only one who can make the girl mind.”
She groped for her spectacles among the colorful strands of embroidery silk in her sewing basket and, when they were perched on the tip of her elegant nose, picked up a sheet of paper from the table beside her. She had jotted down certain helpful pointers to show her stubborn daughter that there could be no fault found with her scheme.
“Traveling chaise painted and in good repair,” she read. “Mrs. Walton will see to that, I shall send Sam and Jemmy along with you so you won’t need to rely on strange coachmen or postboys. You’ll have to hire horses, of course, but Sam will know how to go about it. And”—Mrs. St. Cloud lifted a slim hand and raised her voice to forestall the arguments she could sense coming—“Squire’s sister, Miss Agatha Goodwyn, has decided to return to Kensington. She finds that our northern climate does not agree with her delicate constitution any longer, and she has agreed to chaperon you gals for the duration of the journey. Miss Goodwyn came up by post chaise. I daresay she’ll be glad to save the expense.”
Deanna had swallowed any further arguments, knowing them to be futile. She had not wished to be treated to daily sermons about what would be due her station had her dear papa been alive. Strangely, this was the very same papa who was generally held up to her as the unconscionable spendthrift who had left his widow penniless! And neither had Deanna wished to be the cause of palpitations, vapors, and similar distressing symptoms Mrs. Walton could summon at will. Prudently Deanna had held her peace.