Chapter Nine #2
She opened the door to a dark room used for storing tack. The overpowering smell of moldering leather and a variety of liniments made Lyssa take a step back to allow her nose to adjust.
Mrs. Anderson walked inside. The only light was from the door. Lyssa had no choice but to follow.
“This isn’t much,” her hostess said, pointing out a canvas-covered cot on a less-than-sturdy wood frame. “But you should be fine for one night.”
Lyssa nodded, not ready to draw a full breath.
“Your brother can sleep in one of the stalls. There is hay in some of them and he should be comfortable. On the other hand, you will appreciate a door.” She placed her palm on the worn wood.
“There’s a hook to lock it closed.” Her fingers lightly brushed the metal, before she added thoughtfully, “Angus has a habit of, um, moving around at night. You will want to lock the door.”
“I will,” Lyssa assured her.
“Good,” Mrs. Anderson said, and gave Lyssa a smile that said clearer than words that she was glad they understood each other. Lyssa’s heart went out to her.
“By the by, I’m Maggie.”
“And I’m Lyssa.” How would it be, to have a husband you couldn’t trust? Then again, would she have trusted Robert?
No.
“I’m sorry we can’t offer you better. But we will have a good time this night.”
“I’ve never been to a wake that was fun,” Lyssa said.
Maggie laughed. “Whenever there is whiskey and friends there will be a good time, no matter what the occasion. We’ll be ready to leave in the hour. Meet us outside the barn.”
“Yes, thank you.”
“And don’t forget to lock the door,” Maggie whispered before leaving Lyssa alone.
Lyssa stood in the middle of the messy tack room and pulled her plaid close around her shoulders.
Even the lowest servant in her father’s employ had a better bed to sleep on than the mildewed canvas cot.
Maggie had not even given her a blanket.
Perhaps she thought Lyssa’s plaid would be enough…
still, Lyssa could feel her spirits dip.
What was she doing here?
The romance of her great adventure was quickly disappearing in the face of being without money and means. What had Mr. Campion said? They must live by their wits?
As if she had conjured him, Mr. Campion appeared at the door and gave a low whistle. “Our friend Anderson doesn’t take care of his tack, does he?”
Relieved to have her dejected thoughts interrupted, Lyssa heartily agreed. “Worse, his wife wants me here because there is a lock on the door.”
Mr. Campion eyed the hook. “It should work well enough.”
There was a beat of silence and then Lyssa confessed, “I don’t want to stay here.”
Her words seemed to hang in the air…but instead of agreeing with her, he crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame. “You don’t like your quarters?”
“I’d rather sleep on the ground.”
“We were lucky to find shelter last night. We may not be so fortunate tonight if we leave.”
Her nose was growing accustomed to the air in the room, but she wrinkled it all the same. “I don’t feel comfortable with these people.”
“Ah, now we are discussing the truth,” Mr. Campion said with great understanding.
“What do you mean?” Lyssa demanded.
He leaned forward to whisper, “My lady does not like the lower classes.”
No words could have been more damning, especially because there was an element of truth. A truth Lyssa would deny. “I don’t even know what you are talking about. And why shouldn’t I feel uncomfortable around Angus Anderson? The man is as crass as they come.”
“You are a snob.”
“Absolutely not!” Frowning, she took a step back from him. “I am anything but. Don’t forget, Mr. Campion, my father made his fortune in Trade. I know what it is like to be looked down upon and I’d never do it to anyone else.”
“You do it to me all the time.”
His words brought her up short. He was right.
“Of course, I don’t let my guard down,” he continued, knowing his words had hit their mark.
“Your vanity rolls right off me. But these people, they don’t know your father’s name or your past history.
They’ve opened their home to you because that is what one does for strangers.
Their only sin is they are treating you as if you are one of them.
And, yes, Angus Anderson flirts with every female he meets, and I daresay does more if the woman is willing, but even his wife wouldn’t turn you out. ”
Lyssa reeled from the accusation of vanity. “You must have a low opinion of me.”
He shook his head. “I don’t think you know any better.”
“I do.” The air in the room felt warm now with the Irishman so close. And she no longer noticed the odors of leather and liniment. “As a Tradesman’s daughter—”
He interrupted her impatiently. “Being a Tradesman’s daughter is your convenient excuse not to put yourself out for anyone.”
The accusation was outrageous. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do.” His eyes were silvery sharp as they met hers.
“Look at yourself, Miss Harrell. You have the looks to set the Town on fire and your father’s fortune to make you a worthy prize, but you whine that you were snubbed and are therefore unhappy.
Poor little rich girl,” he said without sympathy.
“She doesn’t like her stepmama—like a hundred other women don’t—and has no friends.
All right now, let’s be honest. The only people who snubbed you were those who were jealous.
But you use their small-mindedness to keep a wall between yourself and the rest of the world.
You didn’t even choose your own husband—”
“Wait a minute!” Lyssa leaped to her own defense. “Is this the same man who was lecturing me on the advantages of arranged marriages?”
“I did,” he admitted, “but that was before you started turning up your nose at everything—”
“I have not turned up my nose—”
“You can’t even say my Christian name!”
“I can too!”
“But you don’t.”
He was right.
And the reason she didn’t was, as he’d said, to keep a wall between them. But not for the reasons he suggested. No, she needed the wall because he was too vital, too overpowering…too masculine for her comfort.
Nor was he done. “You expect me to jump at your every whim while you tap your little blistered foot with impatience. Meanwhile, you have yet to listen to sound advice and reason.”
That accusation was doing it a bit too brown. She’d been following him around like a lap dog. “When have I not listened?”
He began ticking off the instances on his fingers. “You wouldn’t go to London—”
“There were killers blocking the road. Killers who followed you, I might add.”
He ignored her jibe. “I told you to stay in your room in the inn last night.”
“We’ve already discussed this,” she countered, since here was a legitimate case when she should have listened to him.