“No.” Thos stuck a finger beneath his tight neckcloth. “It were definitely thick. My pa’s never wrong.”
With brows raised, Ernest and Redmond followed the lads towards the entrance of The Bird in Hand.From outside it resembled a manor house with three storeys and five bays of sash windows – prosperous and…boisterous.
In fact, the interior was more crammed than the Prince’s on a Saturday eve, with passengers who’d alighted from that Berkeley Coach – gentlewomen crowded the corners, gentlemen crowded the bar, ladies marched to the private parlours and lords called for brandy.
With all the tables and chairs taken, they remained at the bar, the pot boy wiping his brow at the many jugs to be poured.
Ernest held his brimming tankard aloft. “Well done, everyone. I’m proud of how you all worked together yesterday.”
Pewter clonked against pewter, cheers boomed, then silence as everyone supped their ales.
One of the grooms slapped Daniel on the back. “How it be going with Mary?”
“No idea,” growled Daniel. “I burn afire whenever I see her. Feel like a horse with a poultice on, I do.”
Redmond nodded.
Ernest nodded.
“And when she speaks, I feel…” The young swain scowled. “As witless as a sheep.”
Redmond nodded.
Ernest nodded.
“But I can’t abide not being with her,” he lamented.
Redmond nodded.
Ernest nodded.
“Grampy Tom said I should leave well alone till I’ve at least thirty years.”
Redmond nodded.
Ernest frowned. That was a long ti–
“All done, my lord,” called Thos, thumping his tankard to the counter. “’Tis The White Horse next.”
The lads nodded and lunged towards the door.
Ernest peered to his half-full tankard, then to Redmond’s empty one.
Bloody hell…
What had he let himself in for?
ATOUCHmore homely than the previous hostelry, The White horse had hops dangling from the low beams and smoke gathering like clouds from the many clay pipes. Locals were also interspersed amongst the passengers from the newly arrived Retaliator stagecoach to Bath.
The Rothwell grooms and stable lads managed to snatch tables by the window and Ernest hoped they stayed here for a while as the beer was fulsome and golden, and venison pie was available according to the chalkboard in the corner. The lads fell into a discussion of whose homemade mead was stronger, Granny Ebhart’s or Farmer Killmaster’s – not a name to inspire confidence – and which maids they would ask to the Wychmere Feast.
Staring out the small leaded window, the street a blur behind centuries-old glass, Ernest wondered if Hebe would still be here for the Feast, for she’d made no mention of it.
He knew that soon her sketches of the horses would be complete but whenever he contemplated Hebe’s departure from Wychmere – from his life – a curious sensation ripped within his chest.
Of course, he’d miss her rosemary scent around the castle and her pretty lips pursing at dinner, but his feelings now went further than mere admiration and desire.
The curious sensation was more akin to a relentless panic, and as far as he could gather after Redmond’s analogy, that might only mean one word…
