Mrs. Giswell started to her feet, as well. “Of course.”
“You stay here. I’ll remain in the courtyard, well in sight of Stevens and Wolstanton,” she said, naming her coachman and driver.
“My lady, that is not—”
“Please, Mrs. Giswell. Give me a moment to breathe.”
The older woman snapped her mouth closed and sat again. “Of course, my lady. I did not mean to offend.”
“You didn’t off—Oh, for heaven’s sake. I’ll be back in ten minutes.” And she would apologize when she returned, because as frustrating as Mrs. Giswell was, Marjorie knew blasted well that she needed the woman.
She would have preferred not to have to carry the image of her companion’s hurt expression with her as she traipsed through the mud. Every time Mrs. Giswell opened her mouth, her own circumstances seemed more… hopeless. Even if she succeeded in winning over the aristocracy, even if they all accepted her and invited her to every soiree and luncheon, she would know she’d only arrived there because of carefully placed gifts and a large quantity of money. The magic of the song vanished once she joined the chorus, apparently. But still, to hold grand parties and chat with well-spoken, well-educated folk about important topics… It could still happen. If she was patient, and generous to the correct people.
The light drizzle, the cold pricks of water soaking through her shawl and onto her skin, actually felt refreshing. She nodded to her coachman and driver, seated on boxes beneath an overhang and eating something that steamed in the chilly air.
Five or six more hours, tomorrow morning at the latest if they decided to stop for the night, and they would be at Lattimer. It wouldn’t be just her and the constantly Society-minded Mrs. Giswell. Perhaps her brother or his betrothed would even have an alternate plan to her purchasing a carriage for some woman who otherwise couldn’t be bothered to look in her direction.
A face appeared around the corner of the building. The young boy with the pretty gray eyes smiled at her. Marjorie grinned back. “Good afternoon, sir.”
His nose wrinkled. “I’m nae a sir.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m eight, I reckon.” He beckoned to her and backed around the corner again.
“I’m not following you, sir,” she called, pulling her shawl closer around her shoulders. “It’s raining.” If not for the prospect of six more hours in Mrs. Giswell’s company she would have returned to the inn already. Perhaps she should, anyway; the last thing she wanted was to be bedridden at Lattimer once she finally arrived there.
The boy appeared again, a very young black and white kitten cradled in his hands. “I only wanted to show ye the kittens in the haystack,” he said, his Highlands brogue rendered even more charming by his youth. “I reckon I’ll keep this one, name him Bruce.”
“Oh, he’s too young to leave his mama, don’t you think?” she returned, walking up to gently scratch the adorable little thing between the ears.
“If I wait, someone else’ll take him. Or the foxes will. And they’ll get the other wee ones, too.”
“Perhaps you could find a box and take all of them and the mother home with you.”
He wrinkled his nose again, clearly considering. “I reckon I can do that, if ye’ll help me collect ’em. I counted seven bairns, plus the mama.”
She hesitated, perfectly aware that duke’s sisters did not climb into haystacks after cats. Especially not when they wore gowns that cost more than six months of her old salary.
The boy tilted his head, red hair falling across one eye. “Are ye scared of me, miss? Everyone says the English are cowards, but I didnae ken ye were afraid of kittens. Of course I’ve only met one English before, but he wasnae a lass. He’s a peddler who comes by to sell pots and pans and he’s English, but he says he’s nae been to London so I dunnae know if I believe him.”
Stifling a grin, Marjorie sighed. “No, I’m not scared of you, sir. My name is Marjorie. What’s yours?”
“Connell.”
“Let’s go rescue your kittens, shall we, Connell?”
He smiled widely. “Aye.”
Hiking her skirts, she stepped into the unkempt grass behind the stable. A half-collapsed pile of wet hay leaned against the back of the building, kept mostly out of the rain by the deep eaves. In the eyes of a female cat it was probably the perfect place to have a litter.
“I’ll get the mama and three kittens,” she said, crouching where he indicated and leaning down to spy an unhappy-looking tabby. “Can you carry four kit—”
Something pulled fast and hard over her head from behind. She lost her balance, flailing backward. Hands far stronger than the boy’s would have been grabbed onto her wrists and bound them together in front of her. Shaking herself out of her shock, Marjorie took a deep breath to scream.
“Make a sound, and it’ll be the last one ye make,” another voice growled. “Ye ken, Sassenach?”
Since he’d just ordered her not to talk, she settled for nodding beneath the heavy material covering her head and shoulders. Fear stiffened her muscles, making her feel heavy and uncoordinated as she worked to sit upright.
