Page 10 of Better Off Wed

People loved to talk about themselves if given the slightest opportunity. Lady Sterling relied on it. No doubt bored by the talk of furbelows, one of the young men soon interjected to explain that they were on their way to Tunbridge Wells—“and eventually Hastings,” added his brother—for a living history lesson with their tutor. The tutor, wakened by the lively discussion of hats and history, smiled politely at the milliner, apologized to Laura for his pupils’ interruption and, at Laura’s urging, enthused for a quarter of an hour or more about a new collection of poems by some fellow called Wordsworth.

Their voices eventually woke the squire, who proclaimed himself a Mr. Richardson, of Aylesford, who had been attending the wedding of a cousin in Wembley. “I had to wish him well, you know, though if he should be blessed with a son, I suppose I shan’t inherit that pretty little manor house of his.”

Thus the rain and Lord Thornton and all manner of unpleasant things were forgotten until the coach stopped at Dartford and the milliner and the three young gentlemen descended and went their separate ways.

The rocking coach and gray afternoon soon had Mr. Richardson dozing again, and Laura slid closer to the window, tempted to follow his lead. Last night’s visit to Vauxhall had kept her up quite late, as she never dared either to leave or reenter the house until she was sure Aunt Mildred was sound asleep.

Whether it was the jarring lurch of the carriage or the coachman’s shouted curse that woke her, she was not sure. She only knew that when she opened her eyes, her cheek was still pressed against the cool glass, while Mr. Richardson, who had been on the opposite end of the seat, was once more snug against her left side—because the post-chaise was listing sharply to the right.

He snuffled and grumbled and tried to restore a proper distance between them, scrabbling about in the shadows for something to hold onto, making the body of the coach sway with his movements. Once he’d lifted himself away from her, Laura drew a deep breath and tried to take stock of the situation. Outside, she could hear the voices of the coachman and the postilion arguing. Had they steered the carriage into a ditch? That would certainly explain their present angle on the world.

One of the men outside rapped on the door that pointed almost skyward. “Are ye hurt?”

Mr. Richardson, suspending himself by one of the leather straps above the window, peered toward her.

“I am unharmed,” Laura insisted, ignoring the tenderness in her right arm where it had been jammed against the unforgiving wood.

“All safe and sound,” the squire reported.

“Praise God,” came the voice from outside. “The carriage slid off the road on account of all this mud. A pile of rocks stopped us, but one of ’em broke the wheel an’ that sent us arse over ears an’ almost into the ditch—beggin’ your pardon, ma’am. Once the horses are unhitched, you’ll have to climb out through this door,” he ordered, slapping it with his palm and making the coach tremble.

Working against gravity, the squire and the coachman managed to get the door open. Cold rain began to pelt against Laura’s upturned face. After some debate, the two men decided that if the squire could make his way out first, the carriage might tilt back a few degrees and allow Laura to make a safer descent.

Mr. Richardson managed to hoist himself through the partly open door on his second try and wriggled out, falling onto the wet ground with an oath. The coach, which had creaked and shaken alarmingly with his every motion, rocked back into a more upright position, as everyone had hoped, though it was far from stable.

Two pairs of hands reached to help her down. Perched at the edge of the door, Laura breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of the muddy roadway soon to be beneath her feet. Just one little jump…

Though she was slight of build, the shifting of her weight caused the carriage to tilt—not much, just enough to disrupt her already precarious balance. A manageable leap of perhaps three feet suddenly became a far more precarious one of almost five and in her eagerness to get free of the coach entirely she fell, her hands slipping from the men’s wet grasps. She tumbled onto the ground, taking the coachman with her.

She scrambled away from him and onto her knees, swiping rain from her eyes with the back of one muddy, gloved hand while clutching her reticule to her chest with the other.

“Are you all right, ma’am?” Mr. Richardson asked, bending forward and gripping her elbow to help her rise.

Before she could answer in the affirmative, he had set her on her feet. Pain knifed through her ankle. Startled to discover the injury, she made no attempt to stifle the little cry of pain that rose to her lips.

“Seems like the answer’s no, squire,” said the postilion from where he stood farther off, a pair of horses gripped in each hand.

The coachman leered at her, his face close enough that she could smell the whiskey on his breath. “Can ye walk, happen half a mile or so?”

She gritted her teeth. Shifting her weight, she tested her ankle once more and nearly lost her balance again when it refused to hold her.

Before she could form an answer to the coachman’s question, the squire stooped, slipped a hand behind her knees, and lifted her into his brawny arms, prompting another squeal of surprise from her. She had not recovered from that shock when he gave her another, depositing her unceremoniously her on the broad back of one of the coach horses. Rain drizzled down her neck and dripped from the limp trim of her bonnet.

“Now, which way to a warm fire and a pint, lads?” Mr. Richardson asked, grasping the horse near the bridle and preparing to lead it away from the wreckage.

“My valise?” she asked, trying to blow a damp feather away from her face and spattering herself with rainwater in the process. Grumbling, the coachman rescued her bag and plopped it in front of her. The horse shivered its withers as if trying to cast off the additional burden, forcing Laura to grip the valise’s wooden handle with the same numb fingers that clutched her reticule.

When the horse began to move, she swallowed back yet another shriek, wound the fingers of her free hand in its mane, and said nothing more, not even as the promised half mile stretched far beyond its usual length, the icy rain ran in rivulets down the back of her neck, and the squire’s breath huffed in little clouds. Summer seemed a distant memory.

Never had the glow of candles in a window been more welcome, though they revealed nothing more than a small, low-ceilinged pub, rather than a posting inn. Mr. Richardson helped her to a chair near the fire, at the far end of a long, rough-hewn table, then scraped one of its benches across the floor and sat down beside her. A serving girl, looking harried by the new arrivals, thumped a mug of ale down in front of him and promised to bring her tea. But there was no offer of hot water or towels, and no rooms to be had. The coachman and postilion, busy about the horses, could be accommodated in the stable. Mr. Richardson had already demonstrated his ability to sleep anywhere. Laura knew she must prepare herself to pass a miserable night.

She peeled off her muddy gloves and laid them aside with her bedraggled bonnet.

Miss Godfrey was not expecting her. She had at present no means of sending word of her whereabouts to anyone. And with an injured ankle, she stood very little chance either of reaching her destination or returning home anytime soon. She had charmed her way into and out of any number of scrapes, but what she needed right now was closer to a deus ex machina, an unlooked-for and improbable rescue late in the fifth act…

Before her tired mind could concoct any sort of plan, the door of the pub banged open, and a pair of men strode inside.

The first swept off his hat, revealing fair hair thinning a little at the crown, and made a show of shaking off the rain, though the many capes of his greatcoat were still dry and his boots shone despite the weather. He walked with the familiar strut of a man who expected others to give way before him and who would not hesitate to make things uncomfortable for anyone who did not.