No one to tell me all would be well.
Rocking on my seat, I shivered and shut my eyes tightly.
Praying to think myself safe.
Praying to find a placid sea.
Let me be on the cliffs of Ballard, held in strength, even if I stand alone. Lord, give me that moment.
The buxom women began to quiet, nodding in slumber.
Noises ramped up, then subsided.
That spinning sense inside me slowed.
Felton.
If I survived being smothered by the scents, I’d apologize immediately. In this instance, he did know best.
We were civilized enough to ride in silence.
Moo.
The calf seized the rest of the snowy cloth and chewed it. She looked as if she wanted to eat my coat. The way she pressed at my side, I think she would.
My only hope was that Felton wouldn’t gloat too badly when I met him at dinner.
Moo.
No, I wasn’t too proud to beg after all.
CHAPTER49
CECILIA—DINNER FORTWO
Horrible.
I climbed out of the carriage. My limbs shook, not from fear but from being cramped by my companions. A runaway wife, public transport, and Moomoo didn’t make a proper mix.
The sun had set but the small coaching inn’s entry was lit with torches. People came in and out, heading to their carriages or the barn. I hadn’t the energy to cross the threshold.
Had to catch my breath and let my ears stop ringing. Yet, I couldn’t settle.
One close of my eyes exposed nothing—no landscapes, no faces. Blank and black, that was better than seeing the faces I shouldn’t, or remembering Helena no longer hearing my chatter.
Wrapping my arms about me, I almost wished Felton had waited at the entry. That he’d ease my shakes. I’d tell him he was right about the carriage.
My hesitation grew. My fingers became damp even in the chill of the air. I wished I smelled tea roses, but the lathered horses were too close. I had the scent of a pasture in my clothes, none of the sweet clover or the fresh honeyed smell of jacarandas before they fell. This was definitely after.
When I stuck my hands in my pocket, my fingers went through the holes Moomoo made. I loved this coat. Felton bought it for my first snow in England. Agatha and Amelia, we all flopped in the white ice, the creamy snow, to make what they called an angel. I was wet and cold, and Felton fished me out.
One thing was certain, another day with Moomoo on public transport and my purple velvet coat would be beyond repair.
Yet, that was also my problem. Like stage scaffolding, not knowing what to repair and what to let alone.
More noise. More crowds. I ran inside to escape.
Conversations, loud and boisterous, were everywhere, but my ears perked to a baby’s coo.
