The post horn sounded again and they were on their way. “Heavens!” Jane favoured their fellow travellers with a sunny smile. “Now I know what is meant by ‘post-haste.’”
The gentleman seated diagonally opposite returned her smile and raised his glossy beaver politely. His dark hair was touched with grey at the temples, lending a distinguished air to a rather long face with intelligent eyes. Jane like the look of him at once.
“Post-haste!” said the stout, red-faced man beside him in a belligerent tone. “Fast enough, happen, but for convenience and efficiency there’s nowt like a private carriage for them as has the brass. I keep my own carriage, like any gentleman, and think it no extravagance.”
Jane found herself absolutely unable to resist asking, “Then why are you on the Mail, sir?”
Mr. Josiah Ramsbottom’s carriage, it transpired, was being reupholstered in long-wearing Northampton leather, at great cost. Mr. Ramsbottom was only too eager to provide details of that cost in pounds, shillings, and pence. Mr. Ramsbottom, a Manchester cotton merchant, was a self-made man and proud of it.
The other passenger was less forthcoming, but despite Gracie’s unobtrusive protests Jane succeeded in discovering that he was a lawyer returning to London after visiting a client. Once the ice was broken, Mr. Selwyn readily entered into a conversation about Oxford, where he had attended Jesus College. Having walked about the town, Jane had many questions for him. She was pleased when Miss Gracechurch set aside her scruples and joined in.
Mr. Ramsbottom declared that he had no opinion of book-learning and fell mercifully silent but for the odd interjection on the well-known poverty of scholars.
Happily occupied, Jane was surprised when the coach stopped at Crowmarsh Gifford to change horses. She let down the window, leaned out, and called, “Ella, are you all right up there? You are not excessively chilled?”
“No, my...miss,” Ella called back, “’cepting my nose. I’m squeezed in cosy atween the young gentlemen.”
“Very cosy, miss, I assure you,” came Mr. Hancock’s jaunty voice.
“You get a nice view from up here,
miss,
” said Ella. “Right pretty it is, with the river and that. There’s little sort o’ curls o’ mist dancing on the river.”
Jane wished she had paid more attention to the scenery, though it would have been difficult with the windows steamed up. Perhaps she could step out for a moment—but no, the guard sounded the
tantara
on his yard of tin and they were off again.
Mr. Ramsbottom at once engaged her in a discussion of different types of cotton goods, their qualities and especially their prices. He was surprisingly interesting, and the information would have been useful, she thought, had she really been plain Miss Brooke who travelled by the Mail. Miss Gracechurch and Mr. Selwyn were talking about the education of women. Jane would have liked to listen, but that would have meant snubbing poor, vulgar Mr. Ramsbottom.
Her attention divided, she was vaguely aware that the coach had slowed, moving nearer a walking pace that its usual headlong dash. She rubbed at the window but the condensation seemed to be on the outside now.
“What’s up?” enquired Mr. Ramsbottom, wiping the window beside him with a large, red, white-spotted handkerchief. “We ain’t going post-haste now.”
At that moment the coach lurched. Ella screamed. Several male voices swore. Wood creaked, cracked, and snapped. The coach gently tilted to one side and came to rest with the window pressed against a leafless, spiky hawthorn hedge.
“Not again!” Jane groaned.
CHAPTER TWO
“We passed the gates o’ Wintringham Abbey a hundred yards back,” the coachman informed the little group huddled in the dense fog beside the wreck of the Manchester Mail. “Leastways, it’s my belief we did, for all I couldn’t see ’em. I knows this road like the back o’ my hand. We can’t go there.”
“Why not?” demanded Mr. Ramsbottom belligerently.
“’Tis the Earl o’ Wintringham’s place, him they calls My Lord Winter. Winter by name and winter by nature, by all accounts. There ain’t a stiffer, starchier, top-loftier nob in the kingdom. Throw us out on our ears, he would.”
“Surely not!” Jane was incredulous. “You said the nearest village is at least two miles, and it will soon grow dark. We are stranded. He cannot in good conscience refuse us assistance.”
“That’s what you thinks, missy. Earls can do what they bloody well likes and to the devil wi’ the rest of us.”
“I say, mind your language, my good man,” Mr. Reid protested. “Ladies present, don’t you know.” He blushed as Jane flashed him a smile of thanks. “All the same, Miss Brooke, I’ve heard of Lord Wintringham and I wager he’d be on his high ropes if we invaded.”
“Curst cold-hearted cove,” Mr. Hancock confirmed in a voice of doom.
“Whatever the rest of you choose to do,” Jane said resolutely, “I intend to seek shelter at Wintringham Abbey. If I can find the place,” she added on a less certain note, peering into the fog. The hedge on the other side of the ditch where the coach had come to rest was almost invisible. The breeze had dropped and the air was decidedly chilly.
“I am willing to lead the way,” Mr. Selwyn offered. “I suggest we link hands so that no one who wishes to go is left behind. Miss Gracechurch, will you be so good as to take my hand?”
Miss Gracechurch complied. Jane took her other hand, and reached for Ella’s. The others stepped forward, murmuring agreement.
‘‘ Wait!’’ cried the coachman. “You young coves give us a hand tying the baggage on them hosses, and I’ll come along too. Ain’t got nothink to lose, arter all.”
When they set off a few minutes later, in single file, Jane could scarcely see the coachman at the rear end of the line, leading his three horses—the guard had bravely ridden off on the fourth beast with his precious mail sacks. The sound of plodding hooves and jingling harness was muffled by the fog, and for some reason they found themselves speaking in hushed voices. Mr. Selwyn kept to the side of the road. Very soon he came to a bridge of great slabs of stone laid across the ditch. He led his band over, the horses hooves ringing hollowly, and halted before towering gates of wrought iron.
“Locked.”
“There must be a lodge,” Jane said, “but no doubt the gatekeeper would turn us away. See if there is a wicket gate to one side.”
This proved to be the case. With considerable difficulty and much low-voiced profanity the horses were persuaded to squeeze through, their muzzles wrapped in cloths to stop them neighing in protest. Jane was breathless with suppressed laughter as they started up the drive. She was quite looking forward to crossing swords with the haughty Earl of Wintringham.
Guided by white posts linked by black-painted chains, they quickly covered the half mile to the house. Judging by the vast sweep of steps they came upon, Wintringham Abbey must have been an impressive mansion, but even the front door was invisible from the bottom. Mr. Selwyn came to a stop.
“Perhaps we should look for the servants’ entrance,” he said hesitantly.
“We might never find it.” Jane dropped Gracie’s and Ella’s hands and started up the steps. She knew they would follow. The coachman’s plaintive “Don’t forget me!” told her the others were coming, too.
To one side of double doors of iron-banded oak hung a brass bell-pull. She tugged on it twice and heard a clangour within, faint through the thick wood. As it died away, she moved to the centre of her little troop, facing the doors. The right-hand one swung open and she stepped in.
“Who... What...?”
Jane ignored the stammering footman in favour of the butler, who was advancing across the marble floor of the spacious, lofty hall.
“The Mail coach came to grief in the fog,” she announced, pushing back her hood. “I and my companions have come to request shelter.”
“Impossible, madam.” Not an eyebrow twitched. “There is an inn in the next village.”
“We cannot possibly go so far. I daresay this house is large enough to accommodate us without anyone even noticing.”
“I fear her ladyship would disagree, madam. Peter will direct you to Nuffield.” Indicating the footman, he turned away.
Young Mr. Hancock was not about to be cowed by a mere servant, however imposing. “You can’t see your hand in front of your face out there,” he said loudly.
Emboldened, Mr. Ramsbottom joined in with his customary belligerence. “What’s more, it’s demmed nearly dark.”
“At least let the ladies stay,” pleaded Mr. Reid.
A cold, quiet voice cut through the clamour. “Bradbury, who are these intruders?”
The butler swung round. “My lord!”
Jane looked with interest at the infamous earl. Her gaze met icy grey eyes set in a square-chinned face that would have been handsome but for its unrelenting hauteur. Lord Wintringham’s hair was dark, cropped short above a broad brow. Tall and powerful, he wore a superbly tailored shooting jacket, buckskin breeches and top-boots with an air of formality more suited to evening dress. The wrathful flare of his nostrils belied his apparent calm composure.
Jane had pictured an elderly curmudgeon. My Lord Winter was no more than thirty years of age.
Moving towards him, she curtsied. Now was the moment to solve all their problems with what Gracie had called a judicious mention of her title of nobility. Jane easily resisted the temptation. Even if so toplofty a gentleman were willing to believe a shabby young woman from the Mail coach to be a marquis’s daughter, she was determined to best him on her own terms.
“Lord Wintringham?” She favoured him with a sunny smile, unaware that imps of mischief danced in her eyes. “I am Jane Brooke. I beg your pardon for this invasion, but we are in dire need of a refuge. The Mail coach overturned.”
He looked her up and down and his lips curled in contempt. “I daresay Bradbury can direct you to the nearest inn, madam.” l
“I daresay you have not glanced through a window recently, my lord,” she retorted. “The fog is so impenetrable we were hard put to find your vast mansion.”
“Hardly impenetrable, Miss Brooke, since you have penetrated it.” He raised supercilious eyebrows at his butler.
“The mist does seem to have thickened, my lord,” admitted that individual with evident reluctance.
Jane returned to the attack. “Miss Gracechurch, the lady with whom I am travelling, cannot go a step farther.” From the corner of her eye she saw Gracie suddenly lean heavily on Mr. Selwyn’s arm with a failing expression. “And her maid has a shocking cold.”
For a moment she was afraid she had done it too brown as Ella’s prompt sneeze emerged, intermixed with a giggle. However, the earl, uninterested in a mere maidservant, was regarding Miss Gracechurch with a slight frown.
“Forgive me, ma’am,” he said to her abruptly. “I have no desire to figure as an inhospitable misanthrope. Bradbury will see to your comfort.” He turned away.
The butler stared after his master in dismay, his mouth opening and closing as if he wished to ask for elucidation but didn’t quite dare. Jane bit her lip. The poor man must be wondering whether Gracie was to be offered a chair or a bedchamber, not to mention what he was to do with the rest of the uninvited visitors.
Jane was perfectly prepared to assume command, but before his lordship had taken more than two strides he was stopped by an imperious voice.
“Wintringham!” The elderly lady’s gown of grey figured silk, lavishly embellished with Valenciennes to match her lace cap, suggested widowhood. Despite the formal way she addressed his lordship, Jane guessed she must be the dowager countess, though they had no features in common but the coldness of their gaze. “Wintringham, who are these...” she raised a lorgnette and studied the interlopers with austere disapprobation “...these persons?”
“Stranded travellers, ma’am. The fog is become impassable. I feel compelled to offer the hospitality of the Abbey.”
“Indeed! And am I to have no say in my own house?”
“Naturally, ma’am, you will wish to instruct Bradbury as to which accommodations are to be prepared for our...guests.”
Short of arguing with his lordship before their inferiors, the countess had little choice but to comply. Neatly manoeuvred! Jane nearly applauded. She caught Mr. Selwyn’s eye and saw that he found the situation decidedly entertaining. He patted Gracie’s hand. Gracie was struggling with mixed emotions, caught between amusement and trepidation.
Curtsying to Lady Wintringham, Jane said, “We are in sore straits, my lady. It is excessively kind of you to take us in. As you see, we are seven passengers, and the unfortunate coachman is waiting outside with our bags and three horses.”
“Allow me to present Miss Jane Brooke, ma’am,” said the earl. “Miss Brooke appears to be the appointed spokeswoman.”
Was that a glint of mockery in his eyes, or merely irritation? Before Jane could make up her mind, he excused himself, bowed, and strode away.
* * * *
Edmund Neville, Earl of Wintringham, was aware only of irritation. He retired to his library to brood over the invasion of his home led by an impudent young woman whose blue eyes had seemed to laugh at him. He’d have been inclined to throw them all out to fend for themselves but for the opportunity they offered to thwart her ladyship for once. Nothing would persuade the dowager to brangle with him in public.
Also, he had felt sorry for the older female—Churchill? No, Gracechurch. She was obviously exhausted and she looked respectable, probably a gentlewoman come down in the world. The rest he dismissed as a horde of Cits.
Not that anything could be worse than the house party presently assembled at the Abbey, he thought bitterly. He had invited Fitz for a little light relief, and Fitz had turned up with his very pregnant wife, who ought to be decently secluded at home, and her sister. The reason was all too plain to Edmund: the Honourable Lavinia Chatterton was setting her cap at him.
The worst of it was that Lady Wintringham had taken it into her head to support the chit. Lavinia was of noble birth, well-dowered, pretty enough in a childish way, and possessed of all the social graces. The countess had decided that it was time for her nephew to marry and she would harass him unmercifully until he complied.