Shivering, she took her place by the window, then glared again. Not only was he boarding the coach, the only remaining seat was next to her own. She groaned. Would the long journey into Cornwall be plagued by this amorous drunk?
Why had Papa insisted that she travel straight through instead of spending the nights at inns? After all, she was merely a governess, no longer expected to travel with a maid. And at two-and-twenty, with no looks to recommend her, she was already firmly on the shelf.
A glance at her traveling companions in no way improved her mood. Three people slept wedged into the opposite seat: a heavy-set farmer reeking of onions, whose stentorian breathing already grated on her nerves and whose outstretched legs left little room for her own; an exceptionally stout, red-faced woman who – judging from the way she leaned against his shoulder – was probably his wife; and a thin young man crushed into the corner, possibly a clerk. Even the din of the inn yard, as ostlers rushed new teams into the traces, failed to penetrate their slumbers. The third occupant of her own seat was awake, but there was little hope of company from that quarter. Well into middle age, the black-garbed spinster pursed disapprovingly thin lips and glared down a long, aristocratic nose. As the drunk dropped heavily onto the seat and slumped against Caroline’s shoulder, the lady sniffed loudly and edged farther into her own corner.
Caroline twice tried to force her tormentor to sit up, but finally abandoned the effort and determinedly stared out the window as the coach lurched onto the road. Perhaps reviewing her new position would divert her mind from her sudden trepidation.
Trepidation? No. Fear. There, she had admitted it. She was terrified of stepping into the unknown. Shudders raced down her spine. From fear. From cold. From the rainwater seeping through her gown where the drunk’s head pressed into her shoulder. But she would survive. Pushing fear aside, she concentrated on the benefits of leaving home.
She was ideally suited to be a governess. It would be little different from what she had done for more than six years. As the third of eight daughters and four sons born to the Sheldridge Corners vicar, she was long accustomed to dealing with children. Since age sixteen she had disciplined and educated the younger half of the family.
Fortune had smiled upon her own youth when the neighboring squire had invited her to join his daughters’ lessons. The genial squire had also allowed her the run of his extensive library and spent hours discussing the many books she devoured. Thus she was more learned than most young men in spite of the time she had spent mastering ladies’ accomplishments and overseeing her siblings. She had established regular school hours for them, opening the lessons to several village children after the first year. Some of her former pupils had since been apprenticed as clerks.
But times were bad and getting worse. The wars dragged endlessly on and tithes were down after consecutive years of poor harvests. Costs rose ever higher until the vicar could no longer support his offspring, though five had already moved out. Despite lacking dowries, Caroline’s two older sisters had found husbands the previous summer, for they were comely lasses, well-trained in household management. Constance married a nearby solicitor, and Prudence attracted the eye of a still-young, widowed baronet with two small daughters but no heir. After intensive coaching, Peter won an Oxford scholarship to take orders. Paul joined the navy, which did not demand he purchase his commission as did the army. Elizabeth obtained a position as companion to the Dowager Viscountess Barton, a blessing as the lady lived only four miles from Sheldridge Corners so Liza could visit the family on her days out.
That left only Caroline of an age to move elsewhere. At seventeen, Anne was able to take over her teaching chores. So she accepted a governess post in distant Cornwall, where she would educate three young girls (brats, that unquenchable internal voice reminded – spoiled, brainless hoydens) and their sensitive brother, whose delicate constitution prohibited the rigors of public school. Though not an ideal position, she was nonetheless lucky to find it.
Her father had been strangely hesitant over agreeing, despite his efforts to arrange the post. “It is so far away,” he mourned, pacing the study in agitation. “And we know nothing of the family.”
“I must accept,” she stated calmly. “And with luck I can send you fifteen pounds a year.”
“But that is more than half of your salary,” he protested.
“It matters not. And Anne is more than capable of taking over my chores so Mama will not be overburdened.”
“Perhaps you should wait one more year,” he offered. “I had hoped you would one day marry.”
She thrust her own unrealistic dreams firmly aside. “Papa, we have discussed this before, as you well know. We lack both social standing and money. Pru and Connie managed to attract beaux due to their beauty, but I can never expect to repeat their successes.”
“Fustian!” exploded the vicar. “You are a fine-looking girl.”
“Be reasonable, Father.” She shrugged. “I am no antidote, ‘tis true. But I can never claim the sort of beauty that compensates for a missing dowry. Nor can I remain content watching you and Mama struggle when I could contribute to the family well-being.”
He had accepted the inevitable without further argument, though she knew he suffered over his inability to properly provide for his children. She and Mama had united in opposition when he wanted to ask his brother for help. Uncle Arthur was barely scraping sustenance out of his estate and was in no position to support others.
Stifling the vision of a life of leisure she could never obtain, she continued to enumerate the benefits of this post.
Cornwall was lovely – she again ignored the voice bemoaning that the house was quite isolated. A little common sense and discipline would turn her charges into models of decorum. And where else could she impart her knowledge to a young man? She refused to entertain fears that she would have no support from that doting mother on questions of discipline, and would receive only the barest of necessities in the way of room and board. That horrid voice whispered that none but the worst nipfarthing would expect her to teach both son and daughters. Nor would she dwell on the loneliness she would undoubtedly suffer after a lifetime spent in a roisterous, loving enclave like the vicarage. And she refused to question why she would be the fourth to hold the position this year alone. An involuntary shudder raced down her spine, which she immediately attributed to the cold and damp.
A loud belch spewed brandy fumes in her face, effectively masking the farm couple’s stench and directing her thoughts toward her immediate problem. Again she tried to push the drunk from her numbed shoulder. His hat rolled onto the floor, disclosing that the moisture seeping through her cloak was wine. His hair was soaked with it. What could possibly make this journey worse?
Hardly had she formulated the question when the coach lurched sharply over a series of ruts, bucking like a boat on a storm-tossed sea. The drunkard lunged across her, threw open the window, and barely shoved his head out before casting up his accounts. His stomach heaved against her hips. Swallowing her own reaction, she tried to hold the sweating, shaking body away as he continued his endless retching. Finally, one hand dug into her arm and he dragged himself back inside.
“S-sorry,” he whispered shakily, then collapsed onto her lap, his dark curls now dripping from the pelting rain.
“Serves you right for drinking so much,” she snapped angrily but he had passed out. She exchanged an exasperated glance with the spinster, who sniffed loudly and turned to glare out her own window.
Lacking the strength to move him, she closed the window, resigned to the most uncomfortable night of her life.
Please, Lord, don’t let this journey be a portent of my new life,
she prayed silently.
* * * *
An especially bad bump jarred Caroline awake. Amazingly, she had dozed off. The drunkard still sprawled across her lap, her hand unaccountably holding him in place. Judging from the numbness in her legs, several hours must have elapsed. Even the spinster was asleep.
She shivered. Water had seeped through both cloak and dress, chilling her as the temperature approached freezing. Damp gloves offered little protection for her fingers. Half-boots did nothing to warm her toes. A glance at the window showed rain falling harder than ever.
Surely even mail coaches slowed in such weather… But the driver was loudly urging his horses faster. The wheels skidded sideways, sending her heart into her throat. Another lurch dug the farmer’s elbow into his wife and she gasped.
“Harry!” she screamed, shaking him violently. “Wake up! Something’s mighty wrong.”
Snorts and wheezes were his only response.
Was some young sprig tooling the mail coach? Caroline sobbed in terror while the fat lady continued her exhortations of Harry. Though common on the stage, such irregularities were supposed to never happen on the King’s mail. But their increasingly reckless pace convinced her that they were victim to just such a prank. No professional driver would handle the ribbons with this reckless abandon.
They swung wildly around a curve, the drunk’s weight crushing her into the corner, his pressure making it difficult to breathe. The spinster’s piercing screech woke Harry and the clerk.
“Stop, I say!” shouted Harry, pounding on the panel separating them from the driver’s box.
“We’ll all die!” sobbed his wife, burying her head in his shoulder.
“Imbecile! Stop, or I’ll report you at the next posting inn!” he continued loudly, to no avail. He opened the window to repeat his demands, now punctuated by obscenities, but accomplished nothing beyond admitting freezing rain and wind into the coach.
The drunk groaned, his hand pawing at Caroline’s bosom before he again passed out.
“Wouldn’t do no good if ye did report the bloody bastard. Who’d believe ye? He must be mad,” muttered the clerk, his face gray with fear, both hands exerting a death grip on the strap.
“Watch your language, young man,” demanded the spinster. “There is a lady present.”
Another sharp bump slammed Caroline’s head into the roof, but failed to dislodge the beast in her lap.
“Harry, do something!” begged the wife, clutching his arm as the coach again skidded sideways.
“What the bloody ‘ell is you doin’?” shouted the mail’s guard from his perch up behind with the post. Scrabbling sounds moved along the roof and all eyes raised to follow his progress.
“Pray God the guard can slow us,” Caroline gasped, meeting the terror-stricken eyes of the farmer’s wife as another sickening lurch nearly landed them in the ditch. One of her hands dug into the drunk’s shoulder.
“This is the most despicable journey I have ever suffered. Such low company should never be allowed to board,” snapped the spinster, casting a look of such scorn at Caroline that she gasped in shock. “And now this!” Back ramrod straight, she glared at the other passengers. Only her death grip on the strap detracted from her haughty disdain.
Opening her mouth to protest, Caroline screamed in terror as the coach leaned sharply around another corner, poised agonizingly on two wheels, then rolled down an embankment. A horse squealed with pain.
She watched in horror as her fellow passengers tumbled slowly in her direction. Then her head exploded in a cloud of sparks and the world went black.
Chapter 2
The Honourable Thomas Mannering awoke to a full cavalry brigade rampaging through his skull. His stomach churned in protest at the least movement, and his mouth had apparently been used as a nesting site by a flock of untidy birds. Altogether, a normal morning.
What was not normal was the lumpy mattress. Squeezing his eyelids tight, he burrowed into the pillow, avoiding the light he knew from vast experience would only worsen his condition. Where was he? What activities had he indulged in this time.
He groaned as memory returned. Of course – the unwanted journey; the mental battle between images of Alicia and Josephine; and that moment when he could go no further…
Desperately needing a drink, he had left the mail, reserving the last seat on the next coach. But the drink or two needed to restore his courage had stretched to several bottles. His last memory was of a buxom barmaid brushing suggestively against his arm.
He shifted, suddenly aware that he was not alone. One arm was draped over a deliciously soft body, his fingers cupping a generous breast. This triggered another memory – nuzzling his face against that same breast as he drifted to sleep.
Had he taken the barmaid to bed? It would hardly surprise him, nor was she an antidote like some he had lately encountered. In recent months he had cut a wide and indiscriminate swath through the muslin company, even accepting the questionable services of street prostitutes in his quest for nepenthe. It was a wonder he remained healthy. But another of his increasingly common black-outs left no memories of this particular liaison.
Shielding his eyes, he cautiously cracked one lid open, then heaved a sigh of relief. The light was too dim to hurt. He carefully turned his head to inspect the girl. Was she clean enough to risk another romp?
Pain knifed his neck.
Pain was something new, but he had no time to assess its cause. Astonishment sent him reeling to the chamber pot without a moment to spare. Following an unpleasant interval, he grasped his swirling head and hesitantly approached the bed.
His eyes had not lied. The woman was both a stranger and seriously injured. Her head was swathed in bandages, as was the arm that lay atop the coverlet.
“Damnation!” he muttered angrily, looking for some clue as to where he was. The sloped roof and peeling walls hinted at the top floor of an unfashionable inn. Nothing unusual about that… The tiny apartment was furnished as if for servants, containing a narrow bed, a single rickety chair, and an equally decrepit table. At least a fire burned in the mean grate, though doing little to suppress the January chill. Two valises rested atop a small trunk. Thankfully opening his own, he extracted a traveling flask and took a long pull to settle his stomach and clear the cobwebs from his aching head.