Chapter Seven
Farmer Metson and his wife were gullible but kind.
They had immediately accepted that Roland and Lissy were married and assumed—from Lissy’s comparatively young age—that they must be newly wed.
News that a coach had been attacked locally had already reached the farmhouse and had been the subject of conversation for the whole family at the very same moment Roland had knocked on the door.
“Sit you there by the fire, Mrs. Cowley,” said Mrs. Metson. “If you don’t mind me saying so, you could spread your skirts out a little, so they dry. Get something reviving inside you, and then we’ll work out what to do next. My girls will help, while I get supper prepared.”
“You are most kind.” Lissy relaxed in the high-backed wooden chair and allowed the leaping flames in the hearth to soothe her shattered nerves.
Roland was ensconced with Farmer Metson at the other end of the long farmhouse table, discussing recent events.
He looked tousled and tired, repeatedly rubbing at one shoulder, but each time he returned her gaze, he treated her to his lopsided grin, and she felt reassured.
“Everyone thought it was very strange that a coach on the Chelmsford road should be stolen, then just tipped over and abandoned like that. At least the horses had been cut loose—they’d have threshed themselves to bits otherwise, poor creatures.
I hear they were wandering around in the hedge and drinking from the ditch when the alarm was raised. ”
Metson chuckled and took a swig from his tankard of ale before he continued.
“They’re not like country workhorses, you know.
Very highly strung. I heard the baggage was off the top of the vehicle and in the road when the constable got there.
It was a mystery where the passengers and the coachman had gone to, or that the vehicle should have gone in the ditch in the first place when there was nothing wrong with it. ”
So, Oscar had crashed the coach, had he? Well, she’d tried to warn Mr. Sutton, but would he listen? No. Why would a villain like him listen to sense?
Lissy chewed on her lip. Despite Oscar’s betrayal, she couldn’t help but fear he’d been injured in the accident—she already knew how dangerous it was jumping from the door of a moving coach.
How much worse must it be to topple off the roof of one?
It might explain why he and Sutton had fled after the accident—they needed a physician’s services.
“I don’t suppose you know what happened to the luggage?” Roland queried. “We’d like our belongings back.”
“Taken to the Sun at Feering, most likely. The landlord will keep them there for the time being, until somebody claims them—Fisher’s a reliable fellow.”
“How far is this inn? I’d better claim our baggage before someone else does.”
“Oh, no, sir—you need to rest. No man is made of iron, you know, and even the sturdiest fellow needs time to recover from an incident like that. Besides,” Metson added, lowering his voice, “your lady would fret if you were to leave her now amongst us heathens.”
Roland laughed. “My lady would do nothing of the kind. She’s the most stalwart companion a man could wish for!”
Lissy flushed with pleasure, then realized he was only saying this to keep up the impression that they were a dewy-eyed newly wed couple.
“I’ll tell you what, Mr. Cowley—if you pen a note to the landlord, I’ll have Jeffrey head over to the inn with it and see if we can’t arrange for you to pick up your things in the morning.”
“I don’t want our Jeffrey charging about the countryside when there are bandits on the road!” Mrs. Metson shot her husband a stern look.
“Quite right. I’ll go with him.” Roland started to rise from his seat.
Metson leaped to his feet. “You’ll do so no such thing.
Jeffrey and I will go together while you rest here and gather your strength.
We live out of the way enough that those highwaymen won’t be a problem, and unless they live hereabouts, they won’t know the way we’ll be traveling.
Highwaymen prefer the toll roads to the pack horse tracks of the old days. ”
Roland glanced across at Lissy. “The gentlemen who attacked us are not highwaymen in the general sense and pose no threat to anyone else. One of them has a score to settle with me. Neither is, to my knowledge, local.”
Lissy nodded her agreement. Oscar was Suffolk-born and bred.
She knew nothing of Sutton’s stamping grounds, but if Roland thought them safe from discovery by their pursuers, he was probably correct.
She would like her luggage back, because it contained her drawing book.
But did she want it so she could hold onto memories of happier times with Oscar?
Right now, she felt more inclined to tear out the portraits she’d drawn of him and trample on them.
The farmer and his son departed, leaving Roland poring over a copy of Franklin’s Roads and the map that formed its frontispiece. A mug of steaming liquid was presented to him by one of the Metsons’ daughters, who then approached Lissy with another tankard.
“Here’s some spiced mulled cider, miss.”
Lissy took a sip, then declared it to be the best thing she’d ever tasted. Tired and overwrought as she was, it went straight to her head, and she soon found herself feeling very comfortable with the world, recent troubles forgotten.
“Are you well, Mrs. Cowley?” Roland called across the room.
“Improving rapidly, thank you . . . husband. What are you doing?”
“Plotting an alternative route to Ipswich that will avoid major towns, as well as the regular coaching inns and the roads that serve them. It’ll take longer to reach our destination, but we’re less likely to encounter undesirables on the way.”
That would mean spending even more time in Roland’s company. Well—she could probably bear it if she had to. But where was he going, what was his mission, and why was he traveling incognito? Now that they were companions in adversity, he might be prepared to tell her about it.
The Metsons’ eldest daughter returned and settled on a milking stool, gazing in concern at Lissy’s damaged temple before raising her eyes to her bonnet.
“Your bonnet is sadly crushed, Mrs. Cowley. It is a wonder it didn’t fall off when you jumped out of the coach.
I cannot believe I am meeting someone who has had such an adventure!
It’s even more exciting than when the golden rabbit was born last spring, or when Jeffrey fell down the well.
Oh, but you probably don’t think it’s exciting at all.
If you let me, I can make your bonnet right as rain before you continue your journey.
I can’t mend your head, but Lavender, my younger sister, can. ”
Lissy was past caring what she looked like, but there was an eagerness in the girl’s eyes she could not ignore. She undid the ribbon and removed the bonnet. It was a sorry sight.
“Oh, don’t worry, Mrs. Cowley. If I just undo the stitching on the lining here, I can run a hot iron over the straw—having wet it thoroughly first of course—and sew in a piece of waxed canvas.
Then I can stitch the lining back in place, and no one will be any the wiser.
I’m very happy to do it, once my chores are done. ”
Lissy nodded her agreement and was about to settle back into a gentle fireside doze when another of the Metson offspring appeared.
This young woman was a complete contrast to her sister, being somewhat pale and thin.
She kept her right hand clutched close against her stomach, and Lissy noticed scarring and lumps as if the hand were diseased or had been badly injured.
“I’m Lavender. If you let me, I’ll clean and anoint your head.
I promise I’ll be careful and I won’t hurt you—I’m in charge of the physick in this house.
” Then she laughed, a tinkling bell of a laugh that warmed the heart.
“Don’t think you can offend me by noticing my hand—an accident with a fire a long time ago.
As you can see, I use my left hand all the time.
What with that, and my knowledge of medicinal herbs, our ancestors would have branded me a witch! ”
“Nobody would ever think you were a witch. No witch could sing like an angel like you do, Lavender.”
“You’re always praising me beyond my worth, Wilhemina.” She grinned at her elder sister, now busy scrubbing and laying the table.
“You can sing?” Lissy echoed.
“So, they tell me.” Lavender reached for a cloth and dabbed at Lissy’s head wound. “But I really only sing for myself.”
Lissy took another draft of her warm cider and submitted herself to Lavender’s gentle ministrations.
There was a moment when an astringent lotion made her wince, but after that, a heat spread out from it which must be doing her good.
Finally, a pad was applied, and a bandage wrapped around her head.
It was comforting . . . but she must look an absolute fright.
She glanced anxiously across at Roland, but he was still tracing his finger along the road network and asking if Wilhemina or Mrs. Metson knew anything about the width of the various bridges, the merits of the inns along the way, or the type of vehicle best suited to these countryside routes.
Hopefully, Roland was too well-mannered to laugh at her, whatever she looked like.
“Wilhemina’s more talented than me—she’s an excellent painter,” Lavender observed as she moved away with her bowl of water. “We have some of her watercolors on the wall, and they are often commented on by visitors.”
A sigh escaped Lissy. How she missed her painting!
It seemed as if years had passed since she had last sat down with her drawing book and colors.
Would life ever settle enough for her to be able to do so again?
Not so long ago, her fingertips had been stained with cyan, burnt umber, aquamarine, and raw ochre.
Now, they were clean, like those of a proper young lady—save for a few specks of dirt from inside the hollow tree.
A frisson of sensation fizzed up her spine, and when she glanced up, it was to see Roland watching her. Before she could interpret his expression or evaluate her response to it, Farmer Metson breezed in through the door, weighed down with their luggage, and the moment was lost.
It had become clear to Lissy, even before she and Roland sat down to enjoy a simple rural repast with the Metsons, that they would be traveling no farther that night.
Mrs. Metson cheerfully offered them her son’s room, asserting that Jeffrey would be fine on the truckle bed in front of the fire.
Rufus the cocker spaniel would keep him company.
The farmer’s wife led Lissy and Roland upstairs as soon as the room was ready for them.
“The bed’s rather narrow,” she apologized, “but I hope you’ll manage.”
Lissy gasped at the sight of the tiny chamber, so full of furniture and chests that there was barely room to stand on either side of the bed. Recalling that she and Roland were supposed to be freshly married, she turned the sound into a sneeze, then sneezed again for good measure.
“Oh, I’m sorry—there may be a little dust in the air. Wilhemina cleans with great vigor.” Mrs. Metson then withdrew, leaving a single candle guttering on the washstand.
Roland surveyed the bed. “Well,” he said, “this is marginally better than the hollow oak.”
Better in what way? Lissy’s reputation was potentially already ruined by a lover who’d failed to marry her, and now she was to share a bed with an unmarried gentleman.
The idea should have been more shocking, but she was exhausted enough to sleep anywhere, and her head felt so heavy!
Ah, well—at least Mama wouldn’t keep trying to marry her off from now on—no sensible man in England would take her after this.
She felt the gentle pressure of a hand at her waist. “Don’t be alarmed. No one will ever know.”
“They had better not.” Her mind went back to the sleeping arrangements she’d shared with Oscar. Here, there was no hanging blanket to offer any privacy—she was going to have to rely on trust.
“Promise you won’t look.” She sounded like a peevish child.
Roland chuckled. “I won’t if you don’t.”
The fact that he was making light of their situation was oddly reassuring.
She divested herself of her gown, shoes, and stockings, and winced at the chill of the floorboards beneath her feet.
Hurriedly, she pulled her nightgown over her head and climbed onto the horsehair mattress, which puffed out the bucolic smell of the countryside.
Fortunately, the odor was countered by the lavender-scented sheets.
Roland snuffed out the candle, and she felt the bed dip as he sat down and began removing his clothing.
Her throat went dry, and suddenly her mind was filled with forbidden imaginings. What did he look like without his shirt? How broad were his shoulders really, or did he just have a skilled tailor? Was his chest as muscled and powerful as she’d imagined when he’d lifted her out of the reed bed?
“Aaah!” A gasp of pain, quickly muted, emerged from Roland’s side of the bed.
“What’s the matter?” she whispered.
“Ah, just my shoulder. It feels as if the muscles have gone into spasm. I’m starting to wish I’d had something stronger than cider.”
Lissy shifted around in the bed. “Have you broken it? Dislocated it?”
“I doubt it. But it’s devilishly painful trying to pull this shirt over my head.”
She should offer to help. She really should.
But what if her fingertips were to touch his naked flesh?
What if they were to stray, in fascinated exploration, across his heated skin?
Subduing a delicious shiver, she rolled back over, horrified at her reaction.
What had Wilhemina put in that cider? Some kind of love philter?
“You had best be careful, then, and not lie on that side.”
He grunted. “I’m not going to repeat the agony by pulling my nightshirt on. You’ll have to make sure to look the other way in the morning. Assuming you feel you must.”
Lissy squeezed as close to the edge of the bed as she could, trying to ignore the teasing note in his voice.
All she needed to do was let the warmth and the darkness close over her, allow the large meal and plentiful cider to do their work, and stop imagining Roland Chetwynd naked.
She clamped her eyes shut and concentrated on the faint creaks of the settling house, the distant hoot of an owl, and the soft rhythm of Roland’s breathing.
She was half asleep when his voice came, low and amused, from the darkness.
“If news of this adventure gets out,” he said, “you’ll have to marry me, you know.”
Suddenly, she was wide awake again. Marry him? Oh, heavens . . . why did that not feel like the worst idea in the world?