Marianna Mayfield studied her. Something was different about Miss Rogers. What was it? “Well don’t think too long,”Marianna said. “We’re leaving at four this afternoon, according to Sir John. Unless I can persuade him to forgo this idiotic notion. Jealous fool.”
Hannah looked up at her, expression torn. Almost miserable. She said, “If I’m not here by half past three, don’t wait for me. It means I’m not coming.”
The hours passed all too quickly. The maid continued packing, and Marianna continued pacing. Still Anthony did not arrive. Nor did Hannah.
Marianna looked out the drawing room window toward the street. The traveling chariot had been moved to the front of the house, four horses now harnessed to it, the lead horse now and again stamping an eager hoof.
The maid, butler, and a hired lad stowed their belongings in the built-in imperial—like a large, shallow valise atop the roof. More baggage rode in the rear, strapped into the outside seat where two servants could have sat, had Sir John allowed her to take any with them.
At that moment, he strode into the room, imposing in his caped greatcoat. He sternly insisted Marianna gather her remaining things and prepare to depart so Hopkins could begin closing up the house. He turned on his heel and stalked away, his grim expression brooking no disagreement.
One of Marianna’s friends had told her she was lucky to have a husband with such a decided, commanding manner. Marianna did not agree. But she knew further argument about staying would be futile. The house had already been sold. She glanced at her watch pin. Twenty after three.
Ten more minutes...
Still hoping her former companion would arrive in time, she gathered her last bandbox and reticule and stepped outside.
Beside the carriage, Sir John spoke with the two hired postilions,who would ride the left-hand horses of each pair for the first stage of the journey. They were taking no groom or guard. As Marianna approached, Sir John reached inside and extracted a blunderbuss from the chariot’s concealed gun case. After verifying its readiness, he returned it to its hiding place. Apparently, he would act as guard himself. Perhaps she ought to be glad Anthony had not shown up after all.
Her gaze fell to her watch pin once more. Half past three.Dash it.She had so hoped Hannah would come.
Suddenly that very figure appeared at the end of Camden Place, where the crescent met Lansdown Street. Marianna’s heart lifted. As she watched, a tall, dark-haired young man jogged after Hannah and caught her by the elbow. They were too far away for Marianna to hear their conversation, but she saw Hannah shake her head and gently extract her arm from his grip. Resignation showed in her expression, but no fear. A suitor, perhaps? If so, no wonder she hesitated to leave Bath.
Hannah turned away from the man and strode toward the carriage.
“John, look,” Marianna said. “Miss Rogers has come to join us!”
Her tall husband stiffened and turned to stare, expression inscrutable.
Hannah Rogers hurried toward them, valise bumping against her leg.
Marianna beamed. “Oh, Hannah, how happy I am to see you! I dread making this journey, but I shall not mind nearly so much with you beside me.”
“The offer still stands?” Hannah asked, panting to catch her breath.
Marianna ignored her husband’s glare and smiled at her would-be companion. “Of course.”
“And I may return if the situation doesn’t suit?”
“Well, you won’t be a prisoner, Hannah. I wish I could saythe same for myself.” She sent Sir John a pointed look. Waited for him to refuse. To insist they travel alone.
His jaw clenched, but he said nothing.
One of the hired lads strapped Hannah’s valise with the others, and the three travelers entered the carriage, settling themselves onto the rich blue velvet cushions. Marianna reached up and fingered the golden tassels of the window draperies and murmured, “What a pretty cage.”
They rode through the night in uneasy silence, stopping to change horses at coaching inns along the way. Cramped and sleepy, Marianna sat as far away from Sir John as possible on the bench seat they shared. She leaned against the carriage wall and looked out the side window, avoiding his gaze.
The brass candle lamps glowed steadily beyond the windowpane. Eventually, night waned and dawn began to redden the sky, following their westward course along the Bristol Channel.
Miss Rogers, perched on the pull-down seat nearby, seemed to grow more restless with each passing mile. Brow furrowed, she bit her lip and twisted her long fingers again and again in her lap. Outside, a light drizzle began to fall, and if Marianna was not mistaken, her companion’s eyes were damp as well.
As they entered yet another unknown hamlet and rumbled past its village green, the three of them stared out the window at a sobering sight: a pair of low-lying wooden stocks. Two women sat on the ground behind them, bound at the ankles. One woman scowled and swore at the jeering passersby. The other stared off into the distance with as much quiet dignity as the mortifying position allowed. Marianna wondered what each woman had been found guilty of. She was struck by how differently each faced the consequences of her actions, whatever they were. A chill passed up Marianna’s neck. Would she face consequences for her own actions? She shrugged off the uncomfortable thought. Nothing would happen to her. It hadnot been her fault—or her idea. And after all, they had got away with everything for more than two years now.
Some time later, they stopped at another coaching inn. To that point, they had traveled with a team of four, driven by a succession of mounted postilions. But this inn had only two horses available, and how mismatched they were. The weary postilions departed, replaced by a fresh young man of nineteen or twenty. He converted the chariot’s front box into a coachman’s seat and from there, lifted the reins.
“It won’t be long now,” Sir John said, continuing to survey the road behind them with wary eyes. “We’re beginning the final short stretch of the journey.”
As they left the inn yard, the drizzle swelled into a driving rain. The wind increased with each mile, howling and rocking the carriage.
