Chapter Eleven
The rain had progressed from unpleasant to biblical in the hour since they'd left London.
Alexander stared out the carriage window at the drowning countryside and wondered if perhaps the universe was trying to tell him something.
First, a bride who vomited on him at the altar.
Now, what appeared to be a great flood. What next?
"Bad luck Coleridge charm," he muttered under his breath, quiet enough that Ophelia, sitting across from him, wouldn't hear. Though given the drumming of rain on the carriage roof, he probably could have shouted it.
She was pretending to read a small book she'd pulled from her reticule, though he'd noticed she hadn't turned a page in ten minutes.
Her face was still pale from the morning's disasters, and every time the carriage hit a rut, which was frequently, given the state of the roads, she pressed her lips together in a way that suggested her stomach hadn't quite forgiven her for earlier.
He should probably feel sympathy. Instead, he felt a sort of grim vindication that she was suffering too. Petty, perhaps, but he was sitting here in his second-best traveling clothes because his wedding outfit was being burned, so he felt entitled to a little pettiness.
The carriage lurched suddenly, more violently than before, throwing Ophelia against the window and Alexander half out of his seat. There was an ominous crack, followed by a grinding sound that definitely didn't belong to any properly functioning vehicle.
"What on earth..." Alexander began, just as the carriage tilted at an alarming angle and stuck fast.
Through the window, he could see the coachman jumping down into what looked like a small lake that had apparently replaced the road. The man's expression as he surveyed whatever damage they'd sustained did not inspire confidence.
"Your Grace," the coachman appeared at the window, water streaming from his hat. "We've hit a rut. A deep one. The wheel's caught, and..." He hesitated.
"And?"
"It's cracked, Your Grace. We're not going anywhere in this carriage."
Alexander closed his eyes and tried to remain calm. Of course the wheel was cracked. Of course they were stranded. He'd married a Coleridge that morning, and clearly their legendary merchant's luck, the bad kind, had transferred to him like some sort of matrimonial plague.
"How far to the nearest inn?" he asked with forced calm.
"There's one about a mile up the road, Your Grace. It's not... that is, it's not the sort of establishment you'd usually..."
"I don't care if it is or not. Can we walk there?"
The coachman looked doubtful, glancing at Ophelia in her silk dress and delicate shoes. "In this weather, Your Grace?"
Alexander was about to say something cutting when another crack interrupted him—this one from above.
He looked up just in time to see the luggage, which had been strapped to the roof, break free from its restraints.
His valise and Ophelia's trunk crashed down into the mud with a splash that sent brown water flying in all directions.
"Oh no," Ophelia breathed, and for the first time since they'd left, she showed real distress. "My things..."
She was already moving to open the door, but Alexander caught her arm. "You can't go out in this."
"But my trunk...all my clothes..."
"Are already soaked. Getting yourself soaked won't help them."
She looked at him with those brown eyes that were far too expressive for his comfort, and he saw something that looked dangerously close to tears. Not about the morning's humiliation, not about their forced marriage, but about her ruined belongings.
Women and their clothing. Though he supposed for her, those clothes represented her new life, her attempt to fit into his world. And now they were drowning in mud.
"Jeffords," he called to the coachman, "retrieve the luggage. We'll take what we can carry."
"Your Grace, in this rain, walking a mile..."
"Would you prefer we sit here until we grow roots?" Alexander snapped, then immediately regretted it. The man was only trying to help. "We haven't much choice. Retrieve what you can, and we shall walk."
He looked at Ophelia, who was staring at her trunk being pulled from the mud. Even from here, he could see water pouring out of it. "Do you have anything practical to wear?"
She gave him a look that suggested he'd asked if she could fly. "I'm wearing my most practical traveling dress."
He examined the silk creation with its multiple flounces and delicate embroidery. Practical for a duchess, perhaps. For trudging through a storm? They'd be lucky if she made it ten yards.
"Right," he said, more to himself than anyone. "Jeffords, is there an umbrella?"
"Just one, Your Grace."
One umbrella for two people in a deluge. The Coleridge curse was really outdoing itself.
Alexander shrugged out of his greatcoat. "You'll wear this," he told Ophelia.
"But you'll be soaked..."
"I'm going to be soaked regardless. At least one of us might stay marginally dry." He didn't add that he'd rather be wet than listen to her teeth chattering for a mile. That seemed unnecessarily cruel, even for their circumstances.
She took the coat with obvious reluctance. It swallowed her when she put it on, the hem dragging despite her height. She looked like a child playing dress-up, and something about the sight made his chest feel odd but he ignored it.
"Can you walk in those shoes?" He gestured to the delicate slippers peeking from beneath her hem.
"I'll have to, won't I?"
Practical. He hadn't expected practical from a Coleridge. Of course, he also hadn't expected to be standing in a broken carriage in a storm on his wedding day, so clearly his expectations were worth nothing.
They climbed out into the rain, which was somehow worse than it looked. The wind drove the water horizontally, rendering the umbrella almost useless. Alexander held it over Ophelia anyway, though within seconds he was drenched.
"This is insane," he muttered, then louder: "Jeffords, bring what you can of the luggage. We're going."
The road was more river than path. Ophelia took two steps and immediately slipped, only his quick grab of her elbow keeping her from falling face-first into the mud.
"Thank you," she said, having to raise her voice over the rain.
"Try to step where I step," he instructed, though he wasn't sure his boots were faring much better than her slippers.
They made it perhaps fifty yards before she slipped again, this time her shoe staying behind in the mud while she stumbled forward.
"Oh, Heavens" Alexander caught her before she fell, pulling her against him to steady her. She was trembling, from cold or exhaustion or both.
"I'm sorry," she said, attempting to retrieve her shoe. "I'm slowing you down."
"Yes, you are," he agreed, because lying seemed pointless. "But leaving you here would probably violate some clause in the marriage vows."
She made a sound that might have been a laugh. "I don't recall 'rescue from mud' being mentioned."
"It was probably in the Latin. Everything inconvenient usually is."
She got her shoe back on, though it was now more mud than slipper, and they continued. Alexander kept his hand on her elbow, steadying her with every step. It was awkward and slow and thoroughly miserable for both of them.
"There," Ophelia suddenly said, pointing through the rain. "Lights."
The inn was exactly what Alexander feared—an awful property, timber-framed building that looked like it had been drunk when it was built and had been slowly sobering up ever since, listing slightly to one side.
Smoke poured from multiple chimneys, and even through the rain, he could hear the sound of voices and laughter from within.
Common voices. Common laughter. The sort of establishment he'd never set foot in if he had any choice whatsoever.
"Your ancestors are probably furious," Ophelia said quietly.
"Yours are probably celebrating," he shot back.
"Probably. They always did enjoy watching the mighty fall."
"I haven't fallen. I've been temporarily... inconvenienced."
"You're standing outside a coaching inn, soaked to the skin, covered in mud, with a Coleridge wife. If that's not falling, what is?"
He looked down at her; she'd lost her bonnet somewhere, and her hair was plastered to her head.
"It's Thursday," he said.
They pushed through the door into warmth and noise and the smell of wet wool, tobacco, and what might charitably be called cooking.
The common room was packed with travelers, all apparently stranded by the storm.
Conversation stopped as they entered, every eye turning to stare at the bedraggled newcomers.
Alexander straightened, summoning every ounce of ducal authority despite his appearance. "Innkeeper," he commanded in a voice that had made Parliament quake.
A round man with impressive whiskers appeared, took one look at them, and clearly decided they were drowned gentlefolk at best. "Help you, sir?"
Sir. Not 'Your Grace' or even 'my lord.' Just 'sir.'
"My wife and I require a room," Alexander said, ignoring the demotion. "Our carriage has broken down."
The innkeeper looked skeptical, as if broken carriages were a likely story from people who looked like they'd been swimming in mud. "It's a busy night, sir. Storm's brought everyone in."
"Surely you have something."
"Well..." The man scratched his whiskers. "There's one room left. Not much, mind you. And it'll be two shillings."
Two shillings. Alexander probably had that much in his pocket, though he rarely carried money. What was the point when everything was simply sent to his man of business?
Ophelia stepped forward, and to his amazement, she smiled at the innkeeper.
Not her polite society smile, but something warmer, more genuine.
"Please, we're terribly sorry to impose, but we're quite desperate.
Our luggage was ruined in the mud when the carriage broke, and we're both soaked through.
Whatever room you have would be wonderful. "