Chapter Four
Traveling long distancesin a two-wheel gig was a miserable experience. Fanny almost missed the mail coach, although she had to admit the fresh air in her face—and the faint whiff of Eli Benson’s woodsy scent—smelled a far sight better than unwashed bodies and the onion sandwich the barber from Sheffield had brought aboard.
It didn’t help that she shared the seat with an overbearing man who claimed she had no legal right to help from her father’s estate but inserted himself into her life anyway. It was the moneylenders that had gotten his attention, she decided, not the hungry children. Ledger ink must run in his veins. She thanked the angels he didn’t chatter, at least. He said nothing at all during the morning, leaving Fanny to plan a scene inside her head in which a young mother, the heroine’s sister, and her children were put out to freeze on the side of the road by a cruel earl.
Benson didn’t speak at all until they pulled into a posting inn. They’d come thirty miles, he said, and the horse needed to rest.
“You can’t mean to stop here for the night. We’ll be three or four days on the road at that rate.”
“Don’t be daft. I’m changing out horses. I’ll rent a hack and arrange for Cicero here to board until I pick him up on the way home.” He began to unhitch the horse with skill and an economy of movement that didn’t surprise her. Benson seemed skilled at everything he did.
Did that wretch just call me daft?“The mail kept on through the night. If we do the same, we can be to Manchester tomorrow morning.”
“That we will not do. The roads aren’t safe for such as us in the dark. We’ll stop for the night and rest ourselves and the horse overnight so he can take us the remainder of the way.” He spoke without looking up from his task.
“Where will we stay?” she gasped. The cost and the company both weighed on her.
“Not to worry. I know the better ones. Why don’t you have a bite in the public room while I take care of this.”
I have no coin in my purse, you nodcock, and unlike your father’s inn, this isn’t a charitable establishment. He had obviously forgotten, and she wasn’t going to ask for money. Her debt—the earl’s debt—piled up quickly as it was. “I’m not hungry. The basket the Willow provided has kept me well fed. I will take a walk.”
She strode up and down, mentally reworking her story so that it was the earl’s coldhearted steward who put the family out. She nibbled her lip, wondering if she ought to change the duke, her hero, to an earl. Or perhaps the villain would be an earl. She returned to find a fresh horse in the traces, and Eli Benson leaning against the gig, sipping a drink. “I thought you were in a hurry,” he grumbled, handing her a mug.
The cider tasted close to perfection and cooled her dry mouth.
Benson handed his mug to a grinning ostler, who had been assisting him. He reached for hers. “I put your sandwich on the seat.” He gave her mug to the ostler and reached out a hand to help her. “Up you go.”
His hand sent a cascade of feminine awareness up her arm to her middle, leaving her uncomfortable with his looming presence. She scooted to the edge of the seat.
Soon they were tooling on down the highway while Fanny nibbled her sandwich.
He broke into her habitual reverie. “Tell me about the store.”
“What do you want to know?” she asked.
“What sort of premises do you have?”
She described the size (large for the type of business), location (prime commercial district), and condition (good repair—Fanny saw to that herself). “We live above it. It is home.
“How long have you lived there?” he asked.
“My entire life. Grandpapa built the business. He left it to my mother.”
“And Rundle ran it into the ground.”
She nodded morosely. “The worm ruined everything.”
“How is business?”
“Not as good as in Grandpapa’s day. Mam did well enough, but she hadn’t the knack for business or customers. I plan—”But that doesn’t matter now.
Benson shot her a penetrating glance. “I gather your plan is to ask the earl to cover the mortgage outright, and run the store yourself. Tell me what is ‘good.’ Average monthly take, number of customers? Do you have a lot of repeat business?”
She answered him with the figures. “But Horace ran customers off, turning up in the store reeking of gin. Even the loyal ones thinned out.”
His interrogation continued for an hour or more. He had more questions than a six-year-old, but Fanny had answers. She thought she heard respect in his voice after her explanation about relations with suppliers. Eventually he ran out of things to say and they sank back into a silence that didn’t feel as welcome as Fanny expected.
The drizzle that descended on them late in the afternoon added to her misery. Benson pulled the hood up, and it helped some. They rode on for another hour or more.
