Chapter Three
What would ahero do if a lady in need appeared on his doorstep? Lift her gently in his arms and carry her inside? Sally forth, sword in hand, to attack the villain pursuing her? Fanny puzzled over the question as she rode down Clarion Hall’s lane in a nice little gig, Mr. Benson at the reins.
Her dream that she might find such a hero at Clarion Hall had died quickly. Eli Benson did not fit any of Fanny’s ideas of a hero by any measure. He wasn’t particularly tall. His pleasant face had nothing of the tortured hero nor his looks anything of the blond Adonis she pictured for the next book. A hero strode forth with an air of command. Mr. Benson had the competent air of a solicitor. A hero would not, she was certain, sit and consider the legal aspects of the lady’s situation or whether she was entitled to his help before acting.
They turned onto the road downhill to the Willow, and Fanny admitted something else.You, Fanny Hancock, are a shop clerk, not some grand lady.
Truthfully, she didn’t think much of the ladies in most of the novels she read. She tried to give those in her books a bit more backbone, but they still left rescue to the hero. A girl needed dreams. If she was brutally honest, she’d come to Clarion Hall hoping to find a hero who would take her burdens off her shoulders.That should teach you the futility of dreaming, Fanny-girl.
The gig hit a rut and lurched to one side. The man next to her easily brought it under control. Yes,competentwas the word for Eli Benson. As they bounced on down the hill, toward the Willow, she couldn’t help thinking her hero would have whisked the lady away in his well-sprung carriage richly fitted with plush seats, clever pockets for drinks, windows to block out road dust, and a soft blanket to cover her knees. It would be drawn by four white horses, and—
“I’m sorry about that rut. I’ve been meaning to see about improving this road, though there’s little enough traffic on it.” Benson’s eyes never left their path. He brought the horse and vehicle smoothly onto and across the bridge. Moments later they pulled into the stable yard at the Willow.
The innkeeper she remembered came out with a welcoming smile. “Eli! You’ve brought our Miss Hancock back to us.” He grinned up at Fanny. “I am pleased my son brought you safely.”
Son? No wonder he spoke about the innkeeper with confidence. Her solicitor-who-was-not-a hero took her hand, helping her down as if she was a grand lady after all. At his touch, gloved hand to gloved hand, her fingers tingled. The only man who’d ever touched her before was Grandfather.
“Miss Hancock needs our help, Da,” he said.
“I thought that might be the case.” The old man nodded, his eyes filling with concern. “Come inside and we’ll sort it out.”
“We may need Emma’s help as well,” the younger man said, irritating Fanny. She needed assistance, true enough, but not a public spectacle!
“Then it is a blessing your sister came over to inventory the linens this afternoon,” the innkeeper said.
Neither gave her room to object nor even speak. “Come along, Miss Hancock. Has my son fed you? I thought not.” The old man urged her toward the private dining room, calling an order for tea along the way. “And a well-laden tray, Annie. A wee dram of brandy, too. She looks as if she needs it.”
Sun shone through the west-facing windows of the dining room, a cozy space with four tables covered in linen, widows with chintz curtains, and wooden chairs with seat cushions. Fanny’s last vague thought before she sat down was that her kindly innkeeper might not be a hero, but he, at least, had that air of command. For the first time, she felt hopeful.
*
Eli took amoment to write an urgent message for the earl and gave it to Alfred, the ostler, to put on the London-bound mail. With the time it would take to scare up and order a post rider on his way, the mail would be just as fast. Satisfied with his effort, he trotted off upstairs to find his sister bottom-up in the fourth-floor linen closet, sorting a bin of towels.
“Emma, we need you downstairs. We have a guest with a problem.”
His sister, a plump, cheerful matron three years his senior, blinked up at him, clearing her vision and putting up a hand to fix her hair. “What sort of problem?”
“Technically it is a Clarion problem, but—just come so I don’t have to say it all twice.”
She glanced at him skeptically and laid her apron and inventory list on the bin. “Since when are Clarion problems the Willow’s problems?”
“Since a forgotten heir turned up needing a room at the Willow.”
That put a spring in her step. They entered the dining room to see Miss Hancock devouring a cold chicken sandwich. When their father urged another on her, she took it.
“Ah. You found Emma. Good. Let’s give this lovely lady time to finish her tea. She’ll feel more the thing with nourishment,” Da said.
“When did you eat last, Miss Hancock?” Eli asked.
The girl chewed slowly before wiping her mouth with a serviette. He wondered again how old she was.
“I finished the bread and cheese I brought this morning before we passed through Ashbourne.”
“Have one of the Chelsea buns. Our cook’s are the best in England,” Emma urged her. “I’m Emma Corbin by the way. My brother forgets his manners.”
“Emma is correct,” Eli said. “For once. Miss Hancock, may I make known to you my sister, Emma, and my father, Mr. Robert Benson, your innkeeper. Da and Emma, this is Miss Frances Hancock.”
“A Caulfield,” Emma murmured.
