‘No mention of a parlour for the rest of us, eh, Effie?’ the rosy-cheeked farmwife quipped, raising one of her thick auburn eyebrows. ‘We’ll just have to make do with the tap room and a jug of cider instead!’
‘I’d much rather the tap room and a cider, than share a parlour withthatfancy one!’ Effie scoffed, pushing her cloak back to reveal a simple country dress cut far too tightly across her shapely chest.
Briefly, Phoebe gazed in abject admiration; she’d never seen such an ample bosom, even on Sophie who was by the far the most comely of them all.
‘Won’t you join us inside?’ the rosy farmwife cajoled. ‘You can keep young Effie here company, while I unlace me boots.’
She sighed and leaned forward conspiratorially.
‘Bunions,’ she whispered loudly, before shooting a look around the courtyard to ensure all those within earshot had heard her correctly.
All Phoebe saw was the basket of offending roots at Effie’s feet.
‘Young gentl’man don’t wanna hear nothin’ about yer feet, Ma!’ Effie exclaimed, taking Phoebe’s arm as though she’d known her all her life.
‘What he needs is a drink, like us! Come on.’ She dimpled, shaking back her auburn curls and drawing the rapt admiration of most gentlemen nearby.
Moments later, Phoebe found herself being propelled towards The Swan Inn with more strength than she would have ever thought possible of a young girl. And not for the first time since leaving Knightswood, she found a use for Fred’s ridiculously high shirt points. She sank her chin inside them as far as she could, comforting herself with the thought that a bustling farmwife and her dimpling daughter were likely to be the very last people in the world Thomas would suspect of harbouring his runaway sister.
The busy tap room was located down a long corridor and towards the back of The Swan Inn. It was entirely unlike any of the tearooms Phoebe had frequented with her family, yet the faint wafts of roast beef and spiced cider were so enticing, it wasn’t long before she began wondering if falling in with Effie and her mother might not actually be the luckiest occurrence of her journey so far. A young gentleman travelling alone was unremarkable, but a young gentleman travelling with far more comely companions couldn’t be more invisible; and by the time Effie’s mother had secured a window table with little more than a wink, Phoebe was convinced she was managing her new-found freedom very astutely indeed.
‘Ain’t you gonna take off that hat?’ Effie asked, pulling at her bonnet and shaking out a tumble of auburn locks. ‘Bet your head feels ’ot. I know mine feels like a boiled puddin!’
Phoebe swallowed as Effie and her mother busied themselves with the apparently jovial task of stripping off their hats and winter cloaks. Yet all Phoebe’s thoughts were for the fact that she’d completely overlooked the need to remove her own hat occasionally.
Thankfully, Fred came to the rescue once again.
‘I confess,’ she ventured, recalling her brother’s rather alarming experiment resulting in treacle-like locks, ‘that thanks to a smallmiscalculationwith Macassar oil, I’m rather reluctant.’
She smiled, feigning distinct embarrassment.
‘I wasattemptingMr Brummell’s latest creation, with a rather unimpressive outcome, so I do hope you will excuse my manners – or should I say lack of them – Mrs…?’
‘Oh, just call me Flora, like the rest of Dunsford!’ The farmwife chortled good-naturedly. ‘And of course we’ll excuse you! Beau Brummell, eh? Well, well, you youngsters do like to chase the fashion!’
She leant forward conspiratorially.
‘And while we’re getting things straight, you mustn’t mind Effie’s straight talking, either. It’s how my late husband and I raised her. Say what yer think, Effie, we always told her, especially when it comes to the young gentl’men; no girl got anywhere by holding back!’
Her eyes misted over while Phoebe choked on a sip of water, wondering how many fits of vapours her own mama would’ve had on hearing such advice.
‘Glass of ratafia and a plate of chicken please,’ she whispered to the serving girl who’d arrived to take their luncheon order.
Flora frowned.
‘I meant … a jug of cider, and plate of your landlord’s roast beef…’ Phoebe substituted in a gruffer tone.
Effie’s eyes lit up as her mother sat back, satisfied.
‘Lunch for a lord,’ they chimed happily.
Precisely one hour later, Phoebe was a little unsure why everything seemed quite so entertaining, but quite certain she hadn’t laughed as much since Sophie fell into a muddy horse trough in her new pelisse.
‘Well, what I says is, a girl can handle a pitchforkjustas well as any man!’ Effie concluded, stabbing her fork in the air, as though to accentuate the point.
Phoebe nodded in vigorous agreement, before becoming aware that Fred’s hat had slid to a new and dangerous angle. She adjusted it, only to find the tap room walls behaving similarly. She stared intently, trying to work out what was wrong with them.
‘Ladies, pray do excuse me … I must powder … stretch my legs for a moment!’ she declared with a small, energetic hiccup.
