‘Right you are!’ Flora laughed heartily. ‘Run-dez-vouzback on the coach, as they say – though whoevertheyare, I’m sure I’ve no idea!’ she added, draining the last of her cider in one impressive draught.
Beaming magnanimously, Phoebe stood up. Or at least, it appeared she’d stood up because she was definitely vertical, but her legs were behaving in a most irregular manner. Indeed, if she didn’t know any better she’d say that rather than standing, she wasactually floating. Phoebe checked her person suspiciously, but everything appeared to be connected in much the same way as before, and her head was starting to feel very warm indeed, so she paused only to beam again before making for the corridor.
Fortunately, the fresh air was an immediate tonic – even if the corridor did seem steeper than before – and it was just as she was beginning to wonder if she didn’t make a more convincing Fred than Fred himself, that she heard the voices.
‘I don’t care what bookings you’ve taken, I need your freshest pair, and I’ll pay double whatever anyone else is paying!’
Phoebe paused outside a private parlour, as a raised exchange filtered out into the hallway.
‘I understand, sir, of course, sir… It’s just the local fight you see, sir, it means a lot of The Swan’s horses have been promised already.’
‘I don’t think you heard me,’ a glacial voice returned. ‘I have no interest in bookings or the local fight. All I care about is leaving this inn with your fastest horses within the next few minutes – do I make myself clear? I mean to be in Bridgewater by nightfall!’
‘But … but … that’s impossible, sir! It’s already past luncheon and you’ll lose the light by?—’
‘Do we understand one another?’ the haughty tone cut in again, leaving Phoebe in little doubt as to its owner.
‘Knew he was an arrogant dandy,’ she muttered, just as an imperious march sounded across the floor.
In her head, Phoebe made an elegant escape down the corridor, far away from the disagreeable viscount and his perfect eyebrows, but in reality her floating legs dissolved beneath her, leaving her sprawled across the parlour entrance, face to face with his immaculate Hessian boots.
And worse still, Fred’s old hat took off like an AWOL pudding bowl.
‘Really, Briggs!’ the viscount hissed. ‘I thought The Swan commanded a rather better quality of clientele than drunkards and scoundrels! I may need to rethink my patronage altogether if this proves not to be the case, andespeciallyif fresh horses prove too much of a challenge!’
For a moment there was only a tense silence, then a stream of incoherent apologies filled the air, as the viscount turned and strode away.
Mortified, Phoebe clutched at her exposed head, knowing she needed to retrieve her hat as quickly as possible if she were to avoid detection. She scuttled across the floor in what she hoped was a swift and subtle movement, though she suspected it was neither.
‘Kindly remove yourdubious personfrom myquality establishment this second!’ Briggs boomed as she reached the offending item, nearly making her drop it again.
Flushing, Phoebe pressed her hat to her head before turning to face the livid man.
‘I won’t have drunkards blackening The Swan’s good name, and losing me my hard-earned custom, do you hear me? Be off with you now before I send word to the authorities that I’ve a rightscallywaghere, and no mistake!’
For a second, Phoebe could only blink at the blustering landlord in disbelief. She’d never been spoken to in such a manner, even when she fell through the stable roof, with the groom still abed. Then a loop of her hair slipped out beneath Fred’s hat, and landed in a coil on her shoulder. They both stared at the traitorous lock before Briggs lifted his eyes, incredulity all over his face as he started towards her.
So Phoebe did the only thing left for a girl wearing her brother’s short drawerstodo – she picked herself up and fled.
ChapterThree
Three months and one unimpressive highwayman until the wedding
It seemed onions really did possess some beneficial powers.
Not only because their pungent scent helped to soothe Phoebe’s queasy stomach somehow, but because they negated the need to explain her retreat inside Fred’s hat for the next leg of the journey.
The spinning rooms, the viscount’s condemnation, the landlord’s expulsion – it was all too much – especially since her head pounded like a storm over Haytor. So after claiming fatigue with her loud and cheerful companions, she lay back and pulled Fred’s hat low over her eyes. And this time she didn’t mind the jolt of the wheels, at all. The only thing she could think was how her mouth tasted like the skin of a wizened apple, and her stomach was threatening to empty itself at any given moment.
Phoebe stifled a groan, grateful for every draught in the overstuffed coach, as her head bulged with all the stories her brothers had told about the devilish effect of too much liquor. At the time she’d thought them exaggerating or trying to impress her, but now she knew they were being entirely honest, and silently she berated herself for not being more cautious. The only drink she’d ever been allowed to sip at home was ratafia, and even that had given her the bellyache. It was while she was mulling overallthe things she’d like to say to her brothers about their very poor life choices, that she at last slid into a lucid sleep – featuring oxen and bunions – and where she might have remained quite contentedly, had a rough lurch not shaken her awake a while later.
Reluctantly, Phoebe peeled her eyes open, though both felt weighed down by a stone apiece. The afternoon light was beginning to fade, and most of her fellow passengers were looking as dishevelled as she felt. She blinked, aware of a dull throbbing at the back of her head. Somehow, and against all the odds, she’d slept for the entire afternoon.
‘Have we reached Bristol yet?’ she murmured, noticing the severe-looking gentleman was now stretched out like a basking lizard, and using a worn Bible as a night mask.
‘Bristol? I wished we ’ad!’
Flora’s moan was loud enough to stir the rest of the dozing passengers, while Phoebe watched the severe-looking gentleman snort the Bible off his face, and catch it in his lap.
