A small wistful smile crossed her face as she heard the rhythmic sound of hammering on metal, and she glanced out of the window to catch a glimpse of the blacksmith's shop.
Under a four-columned canopy with a thatched roof stood a massive forge, the heat of which Mira could feel all the way to the carriage. In front of it, with his back to her, the blacksmith worked. He raised a heavily muscled arm to hammer on the anvil in a rhythmic pattern. His back was turned to her, and his hair was curled at the nape of his neck. With his huge shoulders, his muscles flexing, he brought the hammer down with a clank, clank, clank.
With a sudden sharp inhale, Mira gripped the edge of the window with both hands.
She watched as he lifted his arm to inspect the horseshoe he'd been working on, sinews taut and glistening with sweat, and lowered it into a bucket of cold water. It hissed.
As the carriage passed, she leaned her head out of the window to catch a last glimpse of the blacksmith, who'd turned so she could see his profile.
A proud nose and sensual, full lips.
Mira felt all her breath knocked out of her body.
"It can't be," she gasped.
She leaned further out to catch another glimpse, but the coach was already rounding the bend to enter the curving lane that led to Highcourt Abbey.
Her head spun; her heart pounded.
It was just a trick of the imagination.
It must be.
Mira took a deep breath, leaned back in her seat and willed her heart to slow.
How often she'd seen Kit, in a random man's walk, a gesture, a laugh. It had given her a jolt every time. A jolt that shot through her like lightning and then vanished just as quickly, leaving her trembling and shaking with emptiness and disappointment.
She'd even made herself a fool more than once, following a complete stranger down entire Oxford Street, only to realise he wasn't Kit. Just because of the way he walked and the way his hair had fallen over his forehead ... this time would be no different.
When would her mind finally cease creating these illusions?
As her breathing resumed its normal pattern and her heart slowed, Miss Cullpepper stirred in her seat.
"It's cold," she complained.
Mira closed the window.
Suddenly alert, Miss Cullpepper sat up. "Look, Mira. We're approaching Highcourt Abbey. I vow I have never been so nervous!"
Highcourt Abbey was beyond anything Mira had ever seen in her life. As their carriage drove along the sweeping alley, the massive manor appeared, throning on top of a hill in the middle of a sweeping parkland surrounded by lawns and trees. As the rays of the setting winter sun fell upon the building, it glistened like gold.
"Oh my," Miss Cullpepper gasped. "This is no mansion. It's a palace out of a fairy tale."
Mira agreed but felt queasy.
Attending the opera was one thing, but a fortnight in the company of the high aristocracy, with her pretending to be a lady?
How could that go well?
Surely, they would see through her quickly, that she was no lady, but a fraud.
Would they throw her into the Tower when they discovered who she really was? Would they clap her into Newgate?
"The good thing about this place is that it is expansive," Miss Cullpepper mused. "I like the wide, open lawns with the lakes at the front. There will be space to breathe. And the house itself seems to have sufficient space. It won't crowd me in, will it? And surely it is big enough for all the guests to get lost in. With a bit of luck, it won't be as cramped as those London townhouses, and I won't feel faint all the time."
"Surely not, miss." Mira's stomach somersaulted.
Lady Randolph awoke with a short snore just as their carriage pulled into the court. "Have we arrived already? 'Pon my soul, if it isn't the princess waiting at the entrance."
