Chapter 4 #2
Richard gave no reply. His gaze remained fixed on the rain-drenched countryside flashing by the window. He remembered that night vividly—the frantic ride home, the sound of his mother’s sobs, the stillness in his father’s bedchamber. He hadn’t been ready. He still wasn’t ready.
Thankfully, Miss Theodosia said nothing more, and the silence that followed was different. It was gentler, less uncomfortable. They sat together as the coach rumbled through the rain, two people mourning in their own quiet ways.
Theodosia jolted forward as the coach lurched to a halt, the sudden motion pulling her from the fog of her thoughts.
She peered out the window and took in the sight of a weary-looking coaching inn, its once-white walls streaked with soot and age.
It was far from inviting, but after being confined in the coach for hours, her legs ached to stretch, and she longed for fresh air.
Outside, she spotted Lord Wilton dismounting his horse with practiced ease.
He had ridden beside her inside the coach only until the rain ceased, then returned to his saddle, claiming he preferred the view from there.
In truth, their earlier conversation had been…
pleasant. Surprisingly so. Until she had foolishly allowed her emotions to stir, making the air between them taut and awkward.
She would not make that mistake again. Better to remain composed.
Detached. She would not allow herself to be mistaken for a simpering miss.
The door to the coach swung open with a groan, and Lord Wilton stood just beyond, offering his hand.
“We’ve arrived for the evening,” he said, his voice low and even, with only a hint of fatigue.
She hesitated only a moment before placing her gloved hand in his. The instant her boot touched the ground, it slid out from beneath her. The muddy cobblestones were slick from the earlier storm, and she gave a small yelp as she stumbled forward.
His grip tightened reflexively, steadying her with ease. “Careful,” he said. “The stones can be rather treacherous when wet.”
She bit back a pointed retort—yes, thank you, she’d noticed—and instead murmured a stiff “thank you” as she withdrew her hand from his.
He gestured towards the inn’s crooked entrance. “Shall we? One of the footmen went ahead to secure lodging.”
“Wonderful,” she replied, wrapping her shawl more tightly around her shoulders as a sharp breeze teased her skirts.
As they neared the door, it flew open with a bang. A burly man barreled through without so much as a glance and shouldered into her with enough force to jostle her back a step.
“Watch where ye’re going!” he barked, not bothering to pause as he stomped off into the dusk.
Theodosia turned, stunned. She stared after the man, appalled. What sort of establishment was this? She had heard rumors of lawlessness at rural coaching inns—rowdy drinkers, vulgar company—but she had assumed such tales were exaggerated. Now, she wasn’t so certain. Was she even safe here?
Lord Wilton, appearing unbothered by such a scene, opened the door for her and waited. She stepped inside, and at once, warmth enveloped her. The scent of roasted meat and damp wool filled the air. For a moment, she allowed herself to believe it might not be so terrible, after all.
Until they rounded the corner.
The main hall was thick with noise and pipe smoke. Men lounged at mismatched tables, tankards in hand, laughter rising in raucous waves. Their gazes turned towards her—some curious, others appraising, far too many crude.
She instinctively moved closer to Lord Wilton, standing near enough that their arms nearly brushed. Not because she wanted to. Certainly not. But because being near him felt marginally safer than enduring those stares alone.
He must have sensed her discomfort, for he leaned towards her slightly. “You’re safe with me,” he assured her.
She nodded, uncertain whether she believed it, but grateful for the reassurance, nonetheless. She didn’t fully trust him, but compared to the others, he seemed almost noble.
A footman approached, holding two keys on a brass ring. “I’ve secured two rooms and a private dining space, as requested, my lord.”
“Excellent,” Lord Wilton replied. He accepted the keys and turned to her. “Are you hungry?”
“I could eat,” she said, her tone deliberately mild.
“Then let’s remedy that.” His voice dipped low with warning. “Stay close to me. And don’t make eye contact with the men. Some will take it as an invitation.”
She stiffened but gave a small nod. Clinging to her composure, she followed him through the hall, keeping her gaze low and her expression neutral.
They reached a modest room tucked at the rear of the inn. A fire roared in the hearth, and she moved straight to it, holding her hands out to soak in the warmth.
Lord Wilton shut the door behind them, blocking out the noise of the main hall. He joined her at the fire. “How was the remainder of your journey?”
“Quiet,” she said without looking at him.
He let out a dry chuckle. “I imagine that was to your preference.”
“It was. I managed a nap.” She allowed the barest hint of a smile.
A knock at the door interrupted them. It creaked open, revealing a portly woman with silver hair pulled tightly into a bun. She bore a tray laden with food and smiled warmly.
“Good evening,” she greeted. “I do hope you’re hungry.”
“Famished, actually,” Lord Wilton said.
She set the tray on the table and adjusted her apron. “I’m Mrs. Hodgkins, the innkeeper’s wife. If you need anything, all you need to do is ask.”
With a polite nod, she departed, leaving the scent of fresh bread in her wake.
Theodosia eyed the tray—thick slices of brown bread, ribbons of ham, wedges of cheese. Her stomach growled, but she held back. It wouldn’t do to appear ravenous.
Lord Wilton gave her a pointed look. “Not hungry, after all?”
“I am,” she admitted. “But you should eat first.”
He arched a brow. “What sort of gentleman would I be if I allowed that?”
“Not a very good one, I suppose.”
“Indeed. Go on.”
With his encouragement, she moved to the table, pulled out a chair, and began assembling a modest plate. A slice of bread. A thin portion of ham. A sliver of cheese.
He took the seat across from her and studied her choices. “Is that truly all you intend to eat?”
“I only wanted to ensure there was enough for you.”
A crooked smile tugged at his mouth. “There’s enough here to feed a small regiment. You won’t deprive me.”
“Well, in that case…” She reached for another helping of meat and added it to her plate. “Thank you.”
He began serving himself, then asked, “Is this your first visit to a coaching inn?”
She winced. “Was it that obvious?”
“Only a little. You looked… uncertain in the main hall. Most of the men mean no harm.”
She caught his phrasing. “Most?”
He didn’t flinch. “Just stay near me. And lock your door tonight.”
A chill passed through her. “I’ve never traveled far beyond my village before this.”
“A pity,” he said as he bit into a piece of cheese. “There’s something thrilling about travel. New places. New experiences.”
“Perhaps. I never saw the need.”
“Now you have one,” he said easily. “And I think you’ll enjoy London.”
She tilted her head, intrigued despite herself. “What do you think I’ll like best?”
He considered her for a moment before saying, “Hard to say. My sister swears by the circulating libraries. And shopping, of course.”
“I would imagine that shopping in London will be quite a different experience than shopping in my small village,” Theodosia remarked as she tore off another piece of bread, the crust crisp beneath her fingers.
“I do believe so,” he agreed.
A comfortable silence settled between them, broken only by the soft clink of cutlery and the occasional pop from the fire.
She was not one to feel burdened by silence.
In fact, she welcomed it. Not every conversation needed to be filled with polite discussion.
Sometimes, a quiet meal shared between two people was more telling than a dozen exchanged pleasantries.
Still, she felt the weight of his gaze as he leaned forward, his elbows resting lightly on the table’s edge. “Will your sister be worried when she returns home and finds you gone?” he asked.
The question caught her off guard, and her jaw tightened slightly.
“If she returns home,” she replied as a thread of bitterness wove through the words.
“I never quite know what Lucinda will do next. One moment she’s preparing for a dinner party, the next she’s off to Brighton without so much as a note. ”
“I’m sorry,” he said after a pause, his voice sincere. “I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No, it’s quite all right,” she replied, waving a hand dismissively. “I suppose I shouldn’t resent her for her desire to see the world. I just—well, it’s difficult to plan for anything when I don’t know whether she’ll be gone a week or a month.”
Lord Wilton gave her a pointed look. “She did leave you to manage the estate on your own.”
“And I much prefer it that way,” she replied.
Before he could respond, the door creaked open, and Mrs. Hodgkins bustled in once more, a smile on her lined face and a tankard in each hand.
“I brought you both something to drink,” she announced cheerfully as she placed the mugs on the table. “The kitchen fire’s still warming cider, but I thought this would settle your bellies in the meantime.”
Theodosia murmured her thanks as the innkeeper’s wife bobbed a curtsy and departed, the door shutting behind her with a soft click.
She stared down at the tankard, her brows pulling together. “What is that?”
Lord Wilton reached for his and lifted it slightly, eyeing the murky liquid inside. “Watered-down ale, I imagine. It’s the common fare at places like this.”
Her nose wrinkled. “I can’t possibly drink that.”
A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “I’m afraid your options are rather limited. Welcome to the rustic joys of coaching inns.”
With great reluctance, Theodosia wrapped her fingers around the handle and lifted it to her lips. The scent was earthy and bitter, like something that had been left too long in the sun. She took the smallest possible sip.
The taste was somehow worse than the smell. The ale burned down her throat like sharp vinegar, catching her by surprise and triggering an abrupt cough. She set the tankard down with a loud thud and reached for her napkin.
“That is purely awful,” she gasped, dabbing at her lips. “Is this what people choose to drink?”
Lord Wilton chuckled. “It’s an acquired taste.”
“I cannot imagine acquiring it.”
“You’ve been far too sheltered,” he said, still grinning. “Though I suppose that’s not entirely your fault.”
She narrowed her eyes, though her tone was more curious than offended. “Would you let your sister drink this?”
“From a coaching inn? Absolutely. It’s safer than the water, which likely comes from a questionable well—or worse, a river.”
She made a small, indelicate noise of disgust and pushed the tankard farther away. “Perhaps I’ll just wait for the cider.”
Lord Wilton lifted his own drink and took a long, unperturbed sip. “Suit yourself. But I daresay if you’re to survive London, you’ll need to develop a stronger constitution.”
“Do ladies in London drink ale?”
A wry smile tugged at his lips. “No, not typically. They are far more likely to indulge in wine or champagne.”
“I have never tasted champagne before.”
“Then I do hope I’ll be present to witness the occasion,” he said with mirth in his eyes.
She let out a faint scoff. “I thought you were meant to be a gentleman.”
Setting down his tankard with exaggerated care, he gave a mock-solemn nod. “It depends greatly on the day. Today, I appear to be failing miserably.”
She didn’t quite smile, but the corner of her mouth curved with reluctant amusement. Her gaze drifted towards the window, now completely black with night. Rain tapped softly against the glass in a steady rhythm.
“When do you think we’ll arrive in London?” she asked.
“If all goes as planned, we should be there by tomorrow afternoon,” he said. “Plenty of time for you to rest up before supper.”
She folded her hands in her lap. “And your sister doesn’t know I’m accompanying you?”
His lips twitched. “No. I thought it might be best to surprise her.”
Theodosia gave him a long look, unsure if she should admire or admonish such a choice. “Do you think that’s wise?”
“I do,” he replied without hesitation. “My sister is quite fond of surprises.”
“And what if she is not fond of me?”
“Then you shall return home, two thousand pounds richer,” Lord Wilton replied, his tone light and his expression maddeningly unconcerned—as if her entire future were nothing more than a minor detail, easily dismissed.
Theodosia picked up her fork and resumed eating, though her appetite had dimmed. She chewed slowly, thoughtfully, the flavors on her plate fading beneath the weight of her thoughts.
She hated not knowing what the next day would bring, what role she was meant to play, or whether she even wanted the opportunities being laid before her. Her fingers tightened around her fork.
For a woman who had always prided herself on being practical and prepared, the uncertainty gnawed at her more than she dared admit.