“Iwantto go.”
“Well. I suppose you could travel alone. But don’t come crying to me when you find that none of the party is eligible, or that you once again, haven’t met anyone.” Her mother drank her tea.
On the sixthof April, Violet took a carriage up from London, on the main road and traveled by post to Bricewold, where she was to take another carriage thoughtfully provided by her uncle. But interestingly enough, she was not alone.
As she disembarked from the Euston Flyer and took her traveling valise, having traveled with no servant, she felt someone watching her. She shaded her eyes from the mid-afternoon sun and looked around.
There outside the local inn stood a young man leaning against the wall. He was dressed in black shoes, brown trousers, and a matching long coat, along with a light, cream-colored waistcoat and white cravat, hastily tied. His slim, black hat turned upward as he gazed at her with interest. He had a thin face with a firm, square jaw, and a stocky build. He eyed her boldly, keenly, which felt quite forward, even though it was just a look.
Violet stood back as the carriage driver for the Euston Flyer called out for passengers. She slipped out of the way of horses coming down the road and misstepped, when in a thrice, the young man touched her arm, steadying her. “Here, miss, let me help you.”
She sniffed, embarrassed at losing her balance. “I’m fine, thank you.”
He let go. “As you wish.”
She took a spot on the little shaded porch before the inn and looked around.
“Looking for a carriage?” he asked.
She nodded.
“You wouldn’t perhaps, be waiting for a carriage from Mr. Edwin Griffin, now would you?”
She glanced at him. “You know my uncle?”
He blinked at her. “Yes. So you are. Waiting, that is.”
“Yes. Who are you?” She had meant to ask politely, but it had come out more like an imperious demand. Realizing this might come across as rude, she curtseyed and introduced herself. “Miss Violet Thorn. How do you do?”
He leaned in. “Thorn? Is that truly your surname? When I heard it, I thought it was Mr. Griffin’s idea of a joke.”
“My name is Miss Thorn,” she stressed, her ire rising.
His smile grew. “You certainly have a prickly disposition.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing. Apologies. I can see Mr. Griffin’s humor intact, as usual.”
“What do you mean?”
He straightened and touched his hat. “When I met him at the police station a few weeks back, he seemed a jolly sort, even though we were both reporting crimes. A short while later, we went out for a drink to commiserate about each other’s misfortune, and he invited me to a party where I was sure to meet lots of lovely, eligible young women. My parents happen to be gardeners, so I thought Mr. Griffin was having a little joke at my expense. Now I see it is simply coincidence, the connection of our names. Forgive me. My name is Harold Fairbanks. How do you do?”
She shot him a dirty look, sniffed, and looked away as he laughed. It was a good laugh, she decided. A rich, warm sound.
“The carriage is waiting, just over there,” he said, pointing.
“Ah.” She bent to pick up her valise, but he snatched it up faster. “Allow me.”
She watched, her mouth set in a frown as he strode over to the waiting carriage with both their bags. She was sure hers was heavy, but he carried it with no problem, not even slowing his stride as he handed them to the waiting footman.
She crossed the road, and he helped her into the carriage, holding her gloved hand. She gritted her teeth in annoyance.
“What vexes you so?” he asked, a teasing note in his voice.
“I could have carried my own bag,” she pointed out.
“Yes, but that would have deprived me of the opportunity of being a gentleman, and then where would we be? Besides,I think it is going to rain.” He peered up at the grey sky and darkening clouds. “Move over, would you?”
