Chapter Nine
Gwendolyn and Mariana finished the delightful luncheon of watercress soup, chicken, green beans, and fresh, juicy peaches that Lady Maynard’s housekeeper had brought to them in the private sitting room near the back of the house that they had been using for the previous three weeks.
Gwendolyn sighed. “I do wish we could go out for a bit. This room is comfortable and pretty but sometimes it feels as if the walls are closing in.”
Mariana tried to be cheerful. “Perhaps we can go into the garden later on. The rain has stopped and I don’t think Lady Maynard is expecting any visitors today.”
The door opened and Lady Maynard entered in time to hear these words, an understanding smile on her face. “Indeed, no visitors this afternoon. You can spend time outside with Freya. The roses are particularly beautiful today.”
Freya accompanied her mother. She grinned at her friends. “I want to make some rose water while the roses are blooming so profusely. It is good for the complexion, or so a writer in The Lady’s Companion avers.”
Lady Maynard held up two letters. “At last, the answers I have been waiting for have arrived.” She unfolded the first. “Mrs. Gladstone, a widow who volunteers at one of the studios where young women learn the kind of skills they can use to earn an income, is traveling to her daughter’s home up north. She has agreed to chaperone you.”
Freya wrinkled her nose. “She’s rather dull and thinks novels are unwholesome for young ladies.”
But Gwendolyn was more interested in something else Lady Maynard had said. “Up north? That is an awfully long way from here. From the people we know.” Her lips trembled and the last words were almost lost as she swallowed.
Lady Maynard patted her hand. “It is far, my dear, but you will only be there for a few months.”
“But where are they going to stay?” Freya asked. “We don’t know anyone in the north.”
“Do you remember the senior housemaid, Gladys, who was with us in Berkshire?”
Freya frowned for a moment and then her face cleared. “Oh, yes. She married a farmer.”
“Yes. She is now Mrs. Ewbanks and lives near the Solway Firth.”
“The Solway Firth,” Mariana spoke for the first time since the announcement had been made. “That’s in Scotland, near Gretna Green.”
Lady Maynard nodded. “Yes, although the Ewbanks live on the English side of the border. They have, over the years, helped various young women who have found themselves in difficult situations when their romantic notions of elopement have been shattered.”
“O Thomas, Thomas, hold thy tongue,
That tongue of thine must go with me,
And if ye speak a word in Elfin land,
Ye’ll ne’er get back to your ain countrie.”
Mariana quoted the lines from Walter Scott’s Thomas the Rhymer in a low voice.
“Oh, Mariana, don’t be morbid.” Freya grabbed her hands. “You will be back soon and we will have such fun together.”
“Of course, you will be back. Carlisle is not the ends of the earth,” Lady Maynard said briskly. “Now, let’s look over your things and decide what you need to take with you.”
*
Rain was falling softly as the carriage lumbered slowly along a muddy road. A heavy jolt brought the large, old-fashioned travel coach to a halt. Gwendolyn slid to the right as the carriage tilted, grabbing hold of Mariana to stop from crashing into the side. She gave a low scream.
Mrs. Gladstone woke from her slumber with a start and opened the curtain to peer out. “This isn’t the inn,” she announced.
Mrs. Gladstone’s companion, a thin, querulous woman of indefinite age and obsequious manner, was pale and whimpering as she held a handkerchief soaked in cologne to her nose. The overwhelming odor of ammonia almost caused Gwendolyn to gag and she had to cover her mouth with her hand.
A soft rap on the door was followed by the head of one of the footmen. “Coachman Jim offers his apologies, ma’am, but there has been a mishap.”
“What is it?”
“The left front wheel got stuck in the mud and a spoke has broken.”
Mariana peered out of the window. The coachman, almost as decrepit as the coach, was loosening the horses from the shafts and the groomsman and the second groom were pulling at the broken wheel but the mud was thick and sludgy and they slipped when they tried to move the carriage.
It rocked to one side and Gwendolyn stifled a shriek. The movement made her stomach churn and she gulped.
“What are we going to do?” Mariana asked. She tried to keep the panic out of her voice. They had last passed a village about an hour previously and the rain was falling in steady columns that showed no sign of relenting.
“We sit quietly and wait until the problem is solved,” Mrs. Gladstone replied.
She pulled the traveling hamper out from under the seat and opened it.
They could not light the little spirit stove in the carriage, but when they left the inn where they had spent the night, the innkeeper had handed them a pewter flask filled with hot sweet tea.
Wrapped in heavy cloths and placed near hot bricks, it was still warm.
Mrs. Gladstone set out four china cups and poured the tea as calmly as if she were entertaining the vicar in her best parlor.
Gwendolyn took hers and the slice of seed cake Mrs. Gladstone handed to her.
She leaned back against the dark grey squabs and sighed.
This further delay in the tedious journey that had started ten days ago had to be borne stoically.
She tried not to think of the parties and routs she would have been attending in London or of the people who had been left behind.
Like Robert Montgomery. It was inexplicable that of all the men she knew, it was the baron who slipped into her thoughts most often.
The Gwendolyn who had been the sought-after beauty of London Society felt like a different person, someone she had heard of in a bright and enchanting fairy tale but who bore no resemblance to the girl in the coach.
Her reality now was confined to the drab walls of the carriage, the glimpses of grey sky outside, the trivial chatter of Mrs. Gladstone and her companion.
The journey would have been unbearable if not for the support and kindness of Mariana, who spent her time divided between reading, sewing tiny garments for the expected baby, and entertaining Gwendolyn as best she could in the cramped and confined carriage.
Gwendolyn had not sewn any items for the baby as of yet, even though her sewing was usually neat and pretty and elicited much praise from admirers.
Such practical actions would make her situation real, and for the moment, she was living in a kind of limbo from which she did not want to break free.
She napped, read a little, paged through copies of The Lady’s Magazine given to her by Freya.
But the stories of young ladies who found themselves in perilous situations were too close to the truth of her own experience that she found little comfort in the journal she usually poured over for hours.
The coach had stopped jostling but was still resting at an angle.
The door opened once again and the footman gave a brief bow.
“Madame, I fear that not only the wheel but also the shaft are in need of repair and we will require the help of a wheelwright. There is a village about three miles along the road and Jim is on his way there.”
“This is rather annoying,” Mrs. Gladstone observed. “We should have made it to the Ewbanks’ farm by now and I had hoped I would be in my own home tonight.”
Gwendolyn sat up straight and looked at the fields visible through the window. A mixture of dread and relief gripped her. The journey was almost at an end but this dreary and isolated place was where she would be living for the next few months.
*
Roland Montgomery cursed the rain that trickled down his neck.
His great coat provided warmth but it could not stop the relentless rain from finding tiny gaps.
He had been visiting one of the most prosperous tenant farms of his estate to discuss new methods of crop rotation.
Mr. Ewbanks, a solid, intelligent farmer whose family had managed the lands for generations had been overseeing changes on the farm that were proving efficient and profitable.
Montgomery’s task now was to convince the other tenant farmers to adopt similar methods.
He was deep in thought when he rounded a curve in the road and his horse missed a step.
Roland sighed at the sight of the broken-down carriage blocking the road.
He had become reclusive since his return from London and he did not wish to entertain strangers now, but he could not leave anyone stranded and without help when he had the means to help.
The coachman, a large man whose ruddy face and wispy grey hair spoke of advanced years, was trying to dislodge a wheel that had slipped onto a muddy rut. Two other attendants were helping him but they were making little progress. Rather, their exertions were forcing the wheel deeper into the mud.
Roland, thankful that the rain had stopped falling, swung off his horse and approached them, greeting the elderly coachman with as much politeness as if he were a duke.
The coachman straightened and saluted. “Ah, thank you, sir. I’ve sent Jim, the groom, to the next village, but I fear we won’t be able to move on tonight, and the ladies can’t stay in the coach all night. ”
As if on cue, the door of the carriage opened and Mrs. Gladstone, who had heard the baron’s voice, emerged. Roland came forward. “Madame, I am Lord Roland Montgomery. High Fell Manor is not far from here, and I invite you and your companions to rest there while your coach is repaired.”
“That is very kind of you, Lord Montgomery, but the roads are very muddy and we will be covered in dirt if we walk even a few yards.”
“I will send a gig to convey you to my house, or to the nearest inn, if you prefer.”