Chapter 1 #2
"Children, please!" The voice that rang out belonged to an elderly woman Catherine hadn't noticed before, seated in a chair by the fire.
She was dressed in the height of fashion from approximately thirty years ago, complete with an impressive purple turban that had somehow remained pristine despite the weather.
"You're giving me a frightful megrim with all this shouting.
Mr. Hartwell, you're a scoundrel and a profiteer, and we all know it.
These two young persons are clearly both gentle-born, whatever games they're playing at with their names and lack of proper introductions. "
Catherine felt heat rise in her cheeks. The stranger, she noticed with interest, had developed a sudden fascination with the ceiling beams.
"The solution is obvious," the woman continued, producing a quizzing glass from somewhere about her person and fixing them both with a magnified eye.
"Share the chambers. The young lady and her maid in one bedchamber, the gentleman in the other, and the sitting room between them as neutral territory. Like the Low Countries."
"But..." Catherine began.
"Unless," the woman's voice took on a sly note, "either of you would prefer to share with myself? I confess I snore something dreadful, and my dog, Mr. Bellingham, has the most distressing digestive complaints during thunderstorms."
As if to punctuate this statement, a small, wheezing creature that Catherine had taken for a footstool raised its head and produced a sound that suggested the old woman's description had been, if anything, understated.
The gentleman looked at Catherine. Catherine looked at the gentleman. Thunder crashed overhead, shaking the very timbers of the inn, and somewhere in the inn, someone's drink fell off a table with a crash.
"The sitting room door locks from both sides?" Catherine asked Mr. Hartwell, not breaking eye contact with the stranger.
"Oh aye, miss. Solid oak, iron bolts. You could hold off an invading army from either direction."
"Then I suppose, given the exceptional circumstances..." She let the sentence trail off, raising an eyebrow at the gentleman.
He sighed—a long, put-upon sound that suggested he was making a great sacrifice. "I suppose I have no objection. Provided, of course, that we establish some rules of engagement."
"Rules of engagement?" Catherine couldn't help but laugh. "How military of you. Are we at war then, Mr...?"
"Wrentham," he supplied, after a pause just long enough to be noticeable. "James Wrentham. And you are?"
"Miss Mayfer," Catherine replied, matching his pause with one of her own. "Catherine Mayfer. And yes, Mr. Wrentham, I believe some boundaries would be prudent. For instance, the sitting room should be considered occupied if one party is already present."
"Agreed. And no disturbances after ten o'clock."
"Nine o'clock," Catherine countered.
"Nine-thirty."
"Done."
They shook hands with all the solemnity of nations signing a treaty, ignoring the delighted titters from their audience.
His hand, Catherine noticed, was surprisingly callused for a gentleman—though everything about him suggested he was indeed that, from the excellent cut of his coat (visible now that he'd shed his greatcoat) to the unconscious authority in his bearing.
Yet there was something else, something in the way he moved, the way his eyes constantly tracked movement in the room. ..
"Well then," Mr. Hartwell clapped his hands together with obvious glee. "That's settled! Tom will see to your luggage, so it can be salvaged from the storm. This way, if you please. Mind the leak in the corridor and watch the third step, it's coming loose..."
As they followed the innkeeper up the narrow staircase, Catherine couldn't shake the feeling that she'd just made either a very sensible decision or a catastrophic error.
The stranger, Mr. Wrentham, walked behind her, and she was acutely aware of his presence, the way he automatically steadied her when she stumbled on the infamous third step, his hand at her elbow for just a moment before retreating.
"Thank you," she murmured.
"Can't have you breaking your neck before we've established all the rules," he replied, and she could hear that hint of amusement again. "For instance, we haven't discussed breakfast."
"What about breakfast?"
"Who gets the sitting room? Surely you don't expect me to take my morning coffee in my bedchamber like an ill person?"
"Perhaps you should have considered that before engaging in a bidding war you were destined to lose."
"I wasn't aware I had lost."
"Well, you're sharing accommodations with a complete stranger and her maid, aren't you? I'd hardly call that a victory."
"That depends entirely on the stranger."
Catherine turned to look at him, raising an eyebrow. "Was that supposed to be flattery, Mr. Wrentham? Because if so, it needs considerable work."
"Merely an observation, Miss Mayfer. Though if I were attempting flattery, I might observe that you look rather charming with your bonnet in its current state of collapse. Very... extraordinary in taste."
Despite herself, Catherine laughed. "It's the latest fashion from Paris. 'Désolation après le déluge,' I believe they're calling it."
"Ah, French. How sophisticated. My valet would be impressed. If I had brought him. Which I didn't."
"No valet? How remarkably... independent of you."
They'd reached the corner room, and Mr. Hartwell fumbled with an impressive ring of keys, each seemingly more ancient than the last. "Here we are, then.
The Blue Chambers, we call it, on account of the hangings.
Though they're more of a greenish color in certain lights.
My late wife, always insisted they were turquoise, but between you and me, I think she just liked the sound of the word. "
The door swung open to reveal a sitting room that was, Catherine had to admit, quite pleasant despite the slightly dubious color of the aforementioned hangings.
A fire already crackled in the grate, casting dancing shadows across furniture that, while clearly past its prime, had once been quite fine.
Two doors led off from opposite sides of the room.
"The ladies' chamber to the left," Mr. Hartwell announced, "the gentleman's to the right. Each with its own fireplace, of course. I'll have hot water sent up directly, and supper can be taken here or in the public room, as you prefer."
"Here," Catherine and Mr. Wrentham said in unison, then looked at each other with matching expressions of annoyance.
"Separately," Catherine added quickly.
"Obviously," Mr. Wrentham agreed.
Mr. Hartwell's grin suggested he was enjoying this far too much. "I'll have trays sent up then."
With that unsettling observation, he departed, leaving Catherine and Mr. Wrentham standing awkwardly in the sitting room while Martha attempted to disappear into the wallpaper.
"Well," Catherine said after a moment. "This is..."
"Awkward? Improper? Potentially scandalous?"
"I was going to say cozy."
"Ah yes, cozy."
Catherine moved to the window, looking out at the storm. The rain lashed against the glass with renewed fury. "We're both adults, Mr. Wrentham. Surely we can manage to share a sitting room for one night without causing a scandal."
"In my experience, Miss Mayfer, scandals rarely announce themselves in advance. They tend to sneak up on one, rather like..."
"Like strange gentlemen at coaching inns?"
"I was going to say 'like puddles in dark corridors,' but your version has more dramatic flair."
Despite her exhaustion and the impropriety of the entire situation, Catherine found herself smiling. "You're not at all what I expected to encounter on the Great North Road."
"No? What did you expect? Highwaymen? Desperate outlaws? Shocking libertines?"
"Boring merchants. Tedious cavalry officers. Perhaps a gouty squire or two."
"How disappointing I must be then. Not a merchant, only somewhat tedious, and my gout hasn't manifested yet, though I'm told it's hereditary, so there's hope."
"Are you a cavalry officer then?" Catherine asked, turning to study him. There was something military about his bearing, now that she looked properly.
"Once upon a time," he said, his expression shuttering slightly. "And you, Miss Mayfer? What brings a lady of obvious quality to be traveling the Great North Road in such weather, with only a maid for company?"
Catherine felt her own walls go up. "Personal business."
"Ah. The mysterious kind."
"The private kind."
They stood there, facing each other across the faded carpet, two people clearly harboring secrets while pretending to be merely ordinary travelers caught in a storm. The fire popped, sending sparks up the chimney, and Martha cleared her throat delicately.
"Shall I unpack your things, miss?" the maid asked, reminding them both of her presence.
"Yes, thank you, Martha. Though I suspect half of it is ruined.
" Catherine sighed, thinking of her carefully selected wardrobe, chosen specifically to make the right impression when she arrived in London.
If she arrived in London. At this rate, she'd be lucky to arrive anywhere without developing lung fever or drowning in mud.
"I'll see what can be salvaged, miss. And perhaps..." Martha glanced meaningfully at Mr. Wrentham, "I should remain in the sitting room? For propriety?"
"Nonsense, Martha. Mr. Wrentham is clearly a gentleman, despite his earlier attempt at highway robbery over the room situation. I'm sure we can trust him to maintain appropriate boundaries."
"Highway robbery?" Mr. Wrentham protested. "I was merely engaging in free commerce."
"You were attempting to purchase what wasn't rightfully for sale."
"Everything is for sale, Miss Mayfer. It's merely a question of price."
"How wonderfully cynical of you."
"I prefer 'practical.'"
Martha looked between them with the expression of someone watching a particularly engaging theatrical performance. "I shall just... go unpack then," she said, edging toward the left-hand door.
"An excellent idea," Catherine agreed. "And Mr. Wrentham was just about to retire to his own chamber, weren't you, Mr. Wrentham?"
"Was I? How prescient of you to know my mind better than I do myself."
"Someone has to, since you seem incapable of recognizing the impropriety of remaining alone with me in this sitting room."
"We're hardly alone. Your maid is just there, the door is open, and I suspect half the inn has their ears pressed to the floorboards hoping for scandal."
As if to prove his point, there was a muffled thump from somewhere above them, followed by hushed voices and what sounded suspiciously like giggling.
"You see?" he continued. "We're as well-chaperoned as if we were in Almack's."
"Have you been to Almack's?" Catherine asked, curious despite herself.
"Once. Under duress. I'm told I committed at least seventeen social solecisms in the space of an hour, though I maintain that refusing to dance with Lady Witherspoon's daughter at the upcoming ball, was an act of self-preservation rather than rudeness. Have you seen Lady Witherspoon's daughter?"
"That's unkind."
"But accurate. The young lady has an unfortunate tendency to lead during waltzes and an even more unfortunate tendency to tread on one's feet with enthusiasm usually reserved for grape-crushing."
Catherine bit back a laugh. "You're terrible."
"I'm honest. It's a failing of mine."
"Is it? How refreshing. Most gentlemen of my acquaintance consider honesty something to be avoided at all costs, like debtor's prison or marriage."
"You have a dim view of my sex, Miss Mayfer."
"Based on extensive evidence, Mr. Wrentham."
There was something in his eyes then—a flash of genuine interest that went beyond their verbal sparring. "Someone disappointed you."
It wasn't a question. Catherine felt exposed suddenly, as if he'd seen through all her careful defenses to the hurt beneath. "We all have our disappointments, Mr. Wrentham. I'm sure even you have a tragic tale or two hidden beneath that sardonic exterior."
"Sardonic? I prefer 'mysteriously brooding.'"
"There's nothing mysterious about you. You're clearly a gentleman of means, traveling without a valet because you're either running from something or toward something, and you're so used to getting your way that sharing these rooms genuinely irritates you, but you're too well-bred to show it properly. "
His eyebrows rose. "Fascinating. Do go on with your wildly inaccurate assessment."
"Inaccurate, is it? Then enlighten me. What brings Mr. James Wrentham to the Black Swan Inn on such a miserable night?"
"Business."
"What kind of business?"
"The kind that doesn't concern charming young ladies with collapsed bonnets and sharp tongues."
"So I'm charming now? I thought I was merely 'not boring.'"
"You're many things, Miss Mayfer. Boring isn't among them."
There was a weight to his words that made Catherine's breath catch slightly.
The air between them seemed to thicken, charged with something that had nothing to do with the storm outside.
She became acutely aware of how she must look; bedraggled, her dress clinging to her in ways that were definitely not proper, her hair escaping from what remained of its pins.
"I should change," she said abruptly, breaking whatever spell had been weaving itself between them. "These wet clothes..."
"Of course." He stepped back, though she hadn't realized he'd already moved closer. "I'll do the same. Perhaps we might reconvene for supper? In the interest of establishing our treaty, of course."
"Of course. Though I should warn you, Mr. Wrentham, I take my treaties very seriously. Any violation of our agreed-upon terms..."
"Will result in dire consequences, I'm sure. You seem the type to keep a pistol in your reticule."
"Two, actually. One can never be too careful."
"You're jesting."
Catherine smiled enigmatically and swept toward her chamber, calling over her shoulder, "Am I?"