Chapter 1
The girl had been crying since York.
Sobs racked her slim body in rhythm with the mail coach’s motion. She pressed a handkerchief to her face as her shoulders shook. The remaining passengers ignored the girl by looking pointedly out of the window to the rain-drenched fields, down on their books or knitting needles.
The Honourable Roberta Talbot, known to her friends as Birdie, found this intolerable. The girl’s grief pierced her soul. When the tin post horn sounded, announcing their arrival at the coaching inn, Birdie decided that she would have to do something about it.
Because no one else would. Birdie to the rescue. As usual.
“Take care of the luggage, Mary,” she told her maid, who’d been staring out of the window with a sour face for the last half an hour. “I’ll meet you inside.”
Mary pressed her lips to a thin line.
When the passengers descended, the girl followed, stumbled on the last stair, and nearly tumbled into the mud. Birdie caught her by the elbow.
“I’m sure a good cup of tea will do us both good,” Birdie chattered as she directed the girl through the rain to the inn’s entrance. Warmth and the smell of food greeted them. “And some shortbread, yes? Look, they even have a good fire roaring in here.” Birdie led the befuddled girl through the taproom to a table nearest to the fireplace and pushed her into a chair. Her tears had stopped, and she met Birdie’s gaze with red, swollen eyes.
“What is your name, child?” Birdie asked, feeling as old as her own grandmother. She plopped down in a seat across and patted the girl’s hand. Birdie had just turned twenty-one. Ages old, when one had been on the shelf before one was even out. Not that she’d ever had a chance to begin with; she felt she’d been born a crone. With a sigh, Birdie took off her soggy bonnet and wiped strands of dishevelled hair from her cheek. ‘Pon her soul. She probably looked like a hag, wrapped in those shawls that made her look even plumper than she already was.
No wonder no man would look at her twice.
“Cecily,” the girl whispered. “Cecily Burns.” Her lips wobbled again. She swallowed, and tears filled her lovely porcelain blue eyes. With the fire flickering over her golden locks, she looked like a fairy princess. The girl was a real beauty: she had the complexion, the lithe figure, the corkscrew curls. You could curl Birdie’s red hair till doomsday, and it would stay limp and frizzy. It was her maid’s bane and despair. No Milk of Roses or Olympian Dew could eliminate the smattering of freckles on her nose. The current fashion was unfavourable for Birdie; it made her luscious figure appear plump or pregnant. She had resigned herself to all this long ago. There was nothing to be done about it.
“There, there. I’m sure it’s not as bad as that. Oh, here comes the tea!” Birdie beamed at the woman who served them a tray with piping hot tea and a plate of shortbread. Her stomach growled.
“Here you go, missus,” the woman muttered. Even the innkeeper’s wife thought she was as old as Hera.
“Lovely.” Birdie accepted the tea and biscuits with a smile. “Thank you. But I will need something more fortifying, as well. A good strong meal. What do you have?”
“We have lamb stew,” the woman offered.
“Perfect. Two plates, then. With some fresh bread,” Birdie replied. “We will need our rooms shortly. The rooms are aired and the fire’s tended, I am sure.” She beamed a smile at the woman. As the daughter of a baron who had been forced to manage her family consisting of two sisters, a wayward brother, an extravagant mother, two dogs, a parrot, and a cat, she knew how to manage her environment. Otherwise, nothing would function. Her schooldays, spent at Miss Hilversham’s Seminary for Young Ladies, had seemed like a holiday in comparison. Although, even there, she’d been the girl to offer solutions to problems. Who organised the midnight picnic? Who thought of oiling the creaky door? Who prevented two girls from drowning when they fell into a well? Birdie. Always, Birdie.
“Some warm bricks in the bed will be appreciated,” Birdie added. “I see you run an excellent place, here.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The woman straightened. “I will see to it immediately.”
Turning to Cecily, Birdie said, “I’m Miss Roberta Talbot.”
The girl looked at her with woeful eyes. “Itisas bad as that,” she said in a voice so quiet that Birdie hardly understood her.
Bending forward, Birdie asked, “What is?”
“You said, ‘I’m sure things are not as bad as that.’” Her lips wobbled again. “But it is.”
“Dear me.” Birdie stirred three spoonfuls of sugar into her teacup, as usual, tasted the tea, pulled her mouth down in distaste, and added a fourth. “You shall have to tell me all about it, then.”
The girl twisted her shawl in her hands. “You see. I am to be married.”
Birdie’s spoon stopped in a mid-stir. “You are to be congratulated?”
The girl burst into noisy tears.
“Oh dear, oh dear.” Birdie set down her cup and patted her shoulders. “I suppose not.” She helped wipe the girl’s nose. “I take it you donotwant to be married?”
“Oh no! It is most terrible.” The girl hiccupped. “You see…you see”—she took a big gulp of breath— “I am to be married to a man I’ve never even met. He is hideously old. In the far north of Scotland. I don’t even know exactly where.” She shuddered as if it were the most horrid place imaginable.
Birdie took a big bite out of a piece of shortbread. “An arranged marriage?”
