Sergeant Newell—she couldn’t help seeing him as a military man—had been a considerate and compassionate dinner companion, but she could see he sensed her mood. He deserved better entertainment for his evening. After a few more desultory bits of conversation, Patience excused herself.
He rose and bowed politely, but didn’t offer to accompany her to her room. There would be no point, and she would have refused in any case. She left up the stairs that led to the balcony above the tap room. Just before she turned down the passageway to the chambers beyond, she glanced back down.
He smiled up at her; he had been watching. Her heart did a little dance.
* * *
Zach stared at the gallery, though Patience had disappeared into the inn’s warren of guest rooms, so lost in thought the sound of Jamie Heyworth’s voice caused him to jump.
“Come share a pint with me, Newell!”
Ale sounded good. Something stronger sounded better. They took seats at a battered table along the side, close to the bar.
Drink swiftly obtained, the major raised an eyebrow at Zach’s choice of rum, especially when he downed it and asked for another. “You look glum for a man who just enjoyed the company of a lovely lady.”
“That’s the problem. I’m not likely to have the pleasure again.”
“The lady looked pleased enough to be in your company. I saw the way she gazed down at you. Your friend from Stratford-Upon-Avon would have words for that expression.”
Zach snorted and took another deep swallow. “I learned something before we sat down, or I might not have gotten into it.”
The major leaned forward, both arms on the table. “Not to her detriment. Our innkeeper finds her unexceptional.”
“Well he should. The woman is an earl’s niece.”
Heyworth’s brows rose. “She is? I wouldn’t have guessed.”
“You shouldn’t have to. She should have been well chaperoned in a private parlor not consorting with a common coachman in a public tavern.”
“Wait, wait. Dinner is hardly consorting and Patience Abney is not some flower fresh from the school room that must be handled delicately. She appeared perfectly comfortable in the tap room to me. She seems comfortable working alongside the inn servants.”
Zach glared sourly into his mug of rum. “She shouldn’t be.”
The major shook his head. “Needs must when the devil drives in a storm. Even our scholarly friend Mallet helped with horses and carriages this morning.”
“Scholarly. Is his Latin decent?”
Heyworth’s mouthful of ale landed on the table, setting off some frantic sopping up and choking. “Andrew’s Latin, my man, is beyond decent. Latin, Greek, Hebrew. Ran circles around the rest of us. His father tutored private students at Cambridge. We all thought he was headed that way, but he ended up in the army. Why?”
“Miss Abney needs help for Peter, at least while we’re stuck here.”
“You admire that woman.”
“That I do. She has more drive and ambition than most men, and less help.” He briefly sketched what he’d learned about her school.
The major let him rattle on until he finally put up two hands to stave off the flow of words. “Now you’re planning how she could expand this little enterprise. I’ll tell you one thing, Newell. What you said about consorting with a common coachman? You are many things, my friend, but common isn’t one of them.”
That remark seemed to call for another round of drinks, which led, as sufficient amounts of alcohol often did, to shared memories, good and bad, of old companions, muddy hillsides, and French treachery. When the major called for a song, it seemed a good enough notion.
Tables moved, locals gathered, someone found a fiddle, and Zach Newell put his raw feelings into song. Admire the woman he might, but she was far above his station. He’d treasure the dinner; it was the last one they would share. One song led to another, each more maudlin than the last.
The bee shall honey taste no more,
the dove become a ranger
The falling waters cease to roar,
ere I shall seek to change her
