Page 39 of Memories Made At Midnight
Thirteen
On the track between Brighton
and Cumberland, England
Near The Frolicking Fox Inn
A DAY LATER ~ A FEW MINUTES PAST NINE IN THE EVENING
Stroking Teddy’s soft fur, Beatrice gazed at the passing landscape. Dusk had settled on the countryside, a comforting blue-gray mantle deepening the forest shadows. Nala lay curled on the floor, snoring softly. As the miles passed and Brighton grew more distant, Beatrice hadn’t dared relax, but the tension knotting her stomach and shoulders had eased somewhat.
Though she hadn’t breathed a word to Cassius, he realized she’d caught Millborn’s cold. So far, Beatrice’s symptoms proved more of an annoyance than a worry. A sore throat, sneezing, and a stuffy nose plagued her, but not the bone-rattling cough, weakness, and fever her companion suffered.
Last night, Beatrice and Cassius hadn’t stopped to sleep—only to eat, change horses several times, and procure her the too-big and unremarkable dark blue gown, black cloak, and black bonnet with a veil that she wore to hide her identity. He had also purchased several squares for her to blow her leaking nose into.
She’d braided her hair and wound it into a knot at the back of her head, but she didn’t have any pins to secure it in place, so strands kept slipping loose. The color was unique enough that she needed to keep it hidden beneath the hideous bonnet.
Cassius hadn’t thought to acquire hairpins for her, but after she removed her bonnet for at least the sixth time and re-braided her hair, he’d used a knife to cut away a long strip of lace trailing down the back of the bonnet.
Beatrice had wound the lace around her head in a makeshift turban and tied it at the top before replacing the ugly hat once more.
They traveled as a bereaved brother and sister.
If anyone caught a glimpse of her, they might attribute her sniffles to tears, instead of a cold, reinforcing their ruse.
That charade had been Cassius’s idea. One he said he borrowed from a brother, though he didn’t expound on which sibling or what story lay behind the ruse. Perhaps she would find out when they reached Hefferwickshire House.
She eyed him covertly.
Perhaps not.
Though courteous and kind, Cassius seemed to have withdrawn into himself on the journey. He barely spoke and seemed distracted. She supposed the stress and tension of fleeing Brighton and the worry that Uncle Cedric might overtake them could have caused the change in Cassius. Probably concerns about his career plagued him too.
Though there’d always been an aura of seriousness about him, Beatrice missed the easy-to-talk-to man.
She’d had no right to overstep and impose upon him the way she had, and guilt nagged her conscience for embroiling him in her mess.
While other men might have denied her appeal without a second thought, Cassius Westbrook was a true gentleman. He held himself to a higher standard and would not dismiss her outlandish request.
Mayhap he had regrets.
She couldn’t blame him.
He’d ordered the horses changed every ten miles instead of fifteen to keep them fresh and able to travel at a faster pace. At great expense too. The coach made for an uncomfortable bed, though exhaustion had eventually claimed her in the wee morning hours.
A cramp in her neck had awoken her. All day, her muscles had protested the confined quarters and lack of movement.
How much worse must it be for a tall man such as Cassius?
Fatigue etched his handsome face and pinched the corners of his brilliant eyes, midnight blue, in the coach’s dim interior.
Unlike her fitful dozing, he’d remained awake to direct the coachmen along lesser-known roads. He also explained they were less likely to be set upon by highwaymen since knights of the road preyed upon vehicles traveling the more popular routes.
More than once, Beatrice had asked herself why he would go to such an extent to help someone he barely knew or, for that matter, why she’d felt she could ask him to aide her.
No answer presented itself for the former, but the latter was obvious.
Because she did trust him.
