Chapter Four #2
She nodded meekly. He was right, of course. There was no point in continuing their journey whilst at loggerheads. If she were to reveal a little about herself, perhaps he would then be prepared to divulge his purpose in traveling to Suffolk.
“What did you want to talk about?”
“I confess, you are what fascinates me most. Shall we begin with your correct name?”
“My name is Miss Felicity Ashby, Lissy to my friends. But that doesn’t mean you’re allowed to take liberties, just because I’ve already told you I’m Lissy. But when the other passengers arrive, please don’t use either of those names—call me Miss Enderby.”
She had expected him to say, “I wouldn’t dream of calling you Lissy,” but instead, he regarded her with a furrowed brow.
“Miss Felicity Ashby? Good lord!”
“If you are familiar with Suffolk, you may have heard of my mother, Lady Beatrice Ashby, of Mundlingham Castle. As you may have already surmised, I was in London without her permission.”
“Lady Beatrice Ashby?” he repeated. His frown had deepened.
“Why? What’s wrong with that name? What have you heard? Has word got out already that Treadwell and I eloped?”
“Treadwell? I’ve never heard that name.”
“One day, perhaps, you will. He’s an excellent watercolor artist.”
The scowl vanished, and Roland steepled his fingers. “Eloped with an artist? How very romantic. And where is this Mr. Trodbadly now?”
“Treadwell. This may be amusing for you, Mr. Chetwynd, but it has not been so for me.”
“Forgive me—I’m terrible at names. Do go on. If we are to be traveling companions, I see no harm in getting to know a little about one another. You may not believe it now, but I can assure you that I’m a paragon of discretion.”
“It’s all very simple.” Lissy ignored the pain squeezing her heart. “We came to London with nothing to live on and decided to make our way as artists. Then—almost certainly because of my mother’s interference—Oscar wrote me a note and disappeared.”
Chetwynd whistled. “My goodness—your mama is evidently not a woman to be trifled with. She sounds almost as devious as Mrs. Dove-Lyon.”
“Probably. I’d very much like to find Oscar again and discover by what means Mama separated us. She cares not one whit for the happiness of her children.”
“If he was prepared to be parted from you, whatever the circumstances, he was not the man for you, Miss Ashby. I mean, Enderby. True love, once given, can never be taken away. I suspect he did not love you nearly so well as you deserved. I hope this ‘Tragedy of Treadwell’ will result in some manner of punishment for him. Just being an artist is no excuse to treat a young lady so abominably.”
Lissy blinked at him. She hadn’t expected to be understood, nor had she expected any sympathy from this man. A most unusual fellow!
“Was he handsome, this Mr. Stepgood?”
“Treadwell. I thought so, yes. But I would not allow such considerations to move me. His mind, his skills, his devotion to me—”
“A pity, because good looks are apparently all I have to recommend me.”
He was mocking her, but she didn’t mind. Perhaps Oscar deserved to be thought of less seriously, the wretch!
“If I were your Oscar, I would never have abandoned you in the great Metropolis with little money or prospects. If I should happen across him, shall I chastise him for you?”
“You are most infuriating, sir. Sometimes, I think you are serious, and sometimes I know you are not at all.”
“Excellent. Because I have every intention of seeming mysterious, and you have confirmed that I’m doing a good job. Anyway, would you like me to be your champion and punish Mr. Misstep for you?”
“Mr. Treadwell,” she corrected again, struggling not to smile. “You’re impossible.”
“So I’m told.”
Suddenly, for the first time in many days, she laughed—a real, helpless laugh that diffused the tightness in her chest. “I find you absurd, Mr. Chetwynd.”
“Not insulted at all. Absurdity is preferable to melancholy. I have another solution for your broken heart.”
“What’s that?” Her heart picked up a beat.
“Eating.” He glanced through the window, then checked his pocket watch. “It will be another half hour before we reach our first halt. Allow me to share my luncheon with you.”
Sharing a repast with an unfamiliar gentleman in a public carriage was exactly the sort of thing which Mama would frown upon, so Lissy eagerly agreed to assist Chetwynd in the consumption of tongue and mustard sandwiches, chicken legs, bread and cheese, and a sliver of game pie.
By the time this feast was completed, she was feeling very much better, had pushed her shoulders back, and tucked her ridiculous glasses into her reticule.
Mr. Chetwynd was correct—he had behaved like a boor when they last met, but that was evidently not his usual mien; he could be an entertaining and thoughtful companion.
She was beginning to wonder if she should take him up on his offer of seeking out Oscar and giving the fellow a piece of his mind—and possibly a bit of a shaking up to boot.
But if she allowed that, it meant she had accepted that there could never be any future for herself and Oscar.
Was that what she wanted? Did she not nurse a tiny spark of hope that she would be able to discover him—or he would discover her—and everything between them would be resolved?
He’d been a fool, certainly, but she didn’t know what pressure her mother had brought to bear upon the poor man.
Until she knew that, she should not condemn him.
He was still worthy of her love, but they were star-crossed lovers with the Fates set against them.
One of them must be strong and resolute; if they were to have a future, it looked as if that one was going to be her.
“You are very quiet, Miss Ashby-Enderby. Not ruminating upon the undeserving Mr. Treadwell, I hope? I begin to wish that I had met him, so that I might judge for myself what manner of man would be so churlish as to desert you.”
She felt in her reticule for her small drawing book, opened it on one of the pages bearing a portrait of Oscar, and handed it to Chetwynd.
“I’m not the best at portraits, but I’ve improved with practice.” Or so Oscar had told her.