Lady Roma's Romance (23 page)

“Wilde? From which inns do the London coaches depart?”

“There are several, my lady, depending on when you wish to leave and when you wish to arrive.” His eyes took on a faraway look as he recited, “A four-seater leaves from York House at five minutes to six
A
.
M
. There are several others throughout the day, ending with the Bristol Mail leaving from the Lamb at five-and-twenty past five in the evening. With that, naturally, one does not arrive in London until early in the morning.”

“If I had an appointment in London at ten o’clock in St. James, let us say, which coach-”

“Wilde, that will do,” Lord Yarborough said.

“Not just yet, Wilde. If you please.”

He cast a worried glance at his employer, but the years of obeying Lady Roma’s orders prevailed. “I would recommend the coach which leaves from Fromont and Company at half-past twelve. This permits one to have a long night’s rest and a good meal before setting out. As you know, my lady, such things are essential if one is to endure the rigors of public travel.”

“Thank you, Wilde. Pray send the footman early to secure me a place on the waybill. And if you would be good enough to order me a hamper to take along. Some cold chicken or whatever Cook can devise in the time. There should be sufficient for two.”

“Roma, what are you planning?”

She waited until the door closed once more behind Wilde. Then she walked up to her father and smiled at him with great love. “I shall go to London. Aunt Clare has asked me several times to come and stay. I shall see a little of the town and pursue my future husband. It takes three readings of the banns on successive Sundays to be married. That means I have no less than three weeks to make Bret change his mind. I will, too.”

“Have you gone mad?”

“You’ve always encouraged me to do what I see fit whether in making us comfortable in some farmer’s cot or running the household at Yarborough Hall. Not once, that I can recall, have you questioned my judgment or doubted my abilities.”

“But you are very competent at those things. The most competent woman I have known. But marriage ... no woman may choose for herself with wisdom.”

Roma glanced over her shoulder at Sabina. “I suggest you talk that subject over with your own future wife. For myself, I have considerable packing to do.” With that, she left the room.

“Roma,” he said, but his stentorian bellow was not a great success. It came out more as a plea.

Sabina slipped off the settee and brought him a cup of tea. “Here, my true love, though I wish it were brandy.”

He looked down at her with troubled eyes as he sipped it. “I don’t understand. She never once said she was unhappy.”

“She probably didn’t know what she lacked until happiness came for her. That’s what happened to me. I wasn’t unhappy living with Mother, though I know she became so used to having my service that she would sometimes forget it was voluntary. I felt useful and kept very busy with all my little duties.”

“I never ordered Roma about,” he protested.

“I don’t mean to imply that you did. But didn’t you take her for granted, just a little? We women don’t mind that so much; most of the time we don’t even notice it until something happens to bring it forcibly to our attention. Like falling in love. Feeling so cherished only points out with what little regard some others may treat us.”

“Your mother is not a very wise woman to have forgotten that you were more than just a drudge.”

“If it hadn’t been for you, Roger ... When I fell in love with you at first sight, I knew I could never return to that dull misery. Even if you hadn’t come, if we’d never met again, I would have found a way out.” She smiled reminiscently. “I’d already clipped out several advertisements for governesses and companions. I’d even written a few replies, though I’d not yet built up enough courage to send any of them.”

“You would never have been offered any such position. You’re much too pretty. I’ve thought so from the first time we met. You were so shy, sketching away in the museum.”

“But that wasn’t the first time we met. Oh, I don’t expect you to remember, though you had it very pat. ‘Lady Lingamore’s rout, last spring.’ I was glad you remembered me even a little, for I took one look at you and my heart was gone, flying away like a bird.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

“What could I say?” she asked. “I couldn’t throw myself at your feet. I could only cling to a shred of hope that someday we might meet again.”

“And now we’ll never be parted,” he said, running his fingertip over the gentle curve of her face.

“I’m afraid you may often wish me at Jericho, for I mean to hang about your neck, hardly to be shook off.”

“Shall I stoop to make it easier?” he offered, bending lower.

She nipped the cup from his hands. “More tea, my lord?”

“Sabina . . . come here.” For a moment, she let him kiss her, the cup held out and away, but when her pulse quickened, she pulled out of his arms.

“We must be good,” she said. Seating herself again behind the large silver pot, she poured out a second cup and fixed it to his liking. Her smile was very demure yet mischievous.

“I still don’t understand how Roma could fall in love with a man so far beneath her,” Lord Yarborough said, reaching for a crisp biscuit, as he sat beside her.

“Love takes no notice of rank. Shakespeare says so and he ought to know. But then, it’s an ill-regulated world for which I am very grateful. For I know I am not of your rank.”

“Your father was at least a gentleman, and your mother’s family, too, is very well established.”

“But, Roger,” Sabina said fervently, “I wouldn’t have cared what you were. It’s very pleasant your being an earl, but I would have loved you no matter what profession you had.”

“But a brewer...”

“I would have loved you if you’d been driving a brewer’s wagon, let alone if you’d been the owner’s great-nephew. Roma told me that this man wants to turn the whole concern over to Bret as soon as he’s ready to take the reins. Whatever problems Bret and Roma may have, poverty won’t be among them.”

“Then why did he indicate that it was her fortune that stood between them when he is to have one of his own?”

Sabina bit her lip. “I’m afraid it may be her title that is the real stumbling block. After all, ‘Lady Roma and Mr. Bret Donovan’ does have a curious sound to it.”

“I could lock her in her room until she comes to her senses.”

Sabina lay her head against his shoulder. “Let her go, Roger. She’s no fool. She’ll get what she wants.”

* * * *

Doubts came in with the morning light. What if he didn’t want her? What if he’d only said those things to be polite, knowing that he was leaving and not wishing to hurt her? Bret had always been kind to her, even while telling her when she was foolish. Perhaps he’d gone to London to escape her importunities, rather than give her a heavy set-down. What if she found him in town and he was not pleased to see her? She could imagine so clearly his consternation, his embarrassment as he rejected her. Just imagining it made her cheeks burn.

Roma considered throwing the coverlet over her head and staying in bed until Christmas, 1843. Thirty years in bed, more or less, and the worst would be over.

Here came Pigeon, bustling, the tray rattling as she set it down, jerking open the curtains to let in the soft light.

“A fine day, my lady. The snow isn’t so deep as an ankle. You’ll not need your pattens today.”

Could she tell Pigeon she did not feel well and that their trip would be postponed indefinitely? No, she’d rally ‘round with blue pills and black drafts, mercury and St. John’s Wort, until it was safer to be out of bed than in. Roma threw aside the covers and sat up.

“Good morning, my lady,” Pigeon said.

“You’re in a good humor.”

“I always feel more lively after it snows. Something to do with the air, I fancy.” She gave a little sniff and turned to more serious matters. “I’ve laid out your green day dress, my lady, as that is the most comfortable for traveling. Would you prefer your velvet pelisse with the high collar or the blue one of Cord Du Roi?”

“The green, please, Pigeon. The other one still isn’t quite right under the arms.”

“Very good, my lady.” Pigeon brought the tray to lay across Roma’s knees. “If I may continue with our packing?”

“By all means.”

Roma did not particularly wish to take her maid on this journey, but it would be quite impossible to leave without her and not only for the sake of propriety. Pigeon would never forgive her. “I don’t know how I would manage without you,” she said.

Another slight sniff. “I must have a word with that feckless laundry maid before I go. She has skimped on the bluing again.”

Roma felt a little shy at going downstairs and put it off as long as she could. She knew perfectly well that the servants were gossiping as hard as they could, not only within this household, but across fences and in queues throughout the city. Yet it was not the reluctance to meet Wilde’s sympathetic and sentimental eye that kept her lingering in her room. She didn’t want to begin the argument over again with her father for fear that this time, he might persuade her. But she refused to listen to the counsels of cowardice.

Roma pushed her way into his study. “I’m ready to go, Father.”

He stood by the globe under the window, spinning it idly with his fingers while he gazed out at the street. “Will you return for my wedding?” he asked.

“If you’ll allow it.”

He nodded, and his hand rose up to wipe his face. “I wouldn’t dare do it without you. Who is to make sure I face the correct direction and say the right words?”

“Sabina will help you.”

“She helped last night. She made me see ... I still don’t understand why you feel you must go now, today. Surely, if you wrote Mr. Donovan a letter?”

“I don’t know why. But I feel I must. If he goes off to Ireland, who knows what may happen? Irish women are said to be very fascinating. It’s safest if I go, too.”

“Then God speed you, my daughter.” He squeezed her ‘round the shoulders and pressed an awkward kiss into her temple. “If those banns are read, I should like an announcement sent to me of the date and time of your wedding. I must see how it is done. Perhaps if I see your Mr. Donovan married, I can gather some useful hints.”

“Just say ‘yes’ whenever you are asked a question. Oh, and remember to breathe.”

A clock dropped a rain of mellow notes into the air. ‘You’d better go,” Lord Yarborough said. “The Mail does not wait.”

She threw her arms around him and kissed his bristly cheek. “Ireland isn’t that far,” she said. “You and Sabina are to come to visit, do you hear?”

“Go. With my blessing.”

There was no time to cry, though her cheeks were wet when she bid farewell to Wilde and several other servants who found cause to be in the hall. The temporary maid was crying more loudly than any of them. Pigeon’s disapproving sniff turned into an explosive cough.

Fromont and Company’s coach office in Market Place seemed strangely sleepy. One would never guess that this was an exit point that saw a coach leave no less than every three hours. Roma inquired whether she and her maid would be accommodated as arranged last evening. “Yes, it’ll be along,” the clerk said, yawning as if it were dawn instead of nearly noon.

When it did at last arrive, it was no light-bodied sporting vehicle, designed and built to cover the greatest distance in the shortest space of time. Like a pumpkin that had not been transformed nearly enough, the body of the coach had been painted a baneful orange, the wheels showing the remains of battered green paint, like the curling tendrils of a fairy-tale gourd gone bad. The four horses that drew it, however, seemed restive and eager, the near off-side one pawing the ground in anticipation.

Pigeon opened the door, and her nose wrinkled in disgust. “When was this conveyance last cleaned, I wonder?”

The driver threw the reins to the ostler and leapt down. He leered at her genially. “Cleaned it this morning, my beauty.”

“Jack-sauce!” Rather than risk further insult, Pigeon entered the coach to inspect it before permitting her mistress to ascend. “I suppose it will have to do.”

“How are the roads, driver?” Roma asked. “This weather. ..”

“Bless you, miss, this ain’t nothing to old Thunderer here. This coach’s been on this run for five years and never been over once barring that time near Marlborough. Slid into this corner on a little patch of ice no bigger than your hand. Nobody hurt, though.”

“It’s a great comfort to have a truly competent driver like yourself on the box,” Roma said. He gave a hitch to his moleskin trousers and expanded his already broad chest to the danger point for his buttons. After that, Pigeon had nothing to fear. The driver even wiped off the windows for them so they could see the passing scene unobscured by years of greasy hand prints.

The two seats opposite were unoccupied this morning, but the clerk gave the driver to understand there might be passengers to pick up in Devizes. “If the weather don’t make ‘em go to ground like hedgehogs,” the driver said, nuzzling from a small brown bottle. “I’ll get this lot to London as soon as I can, but I don’t count on having any more passengers.”

“There should be a band playing,” Roma said softly as they started forward with a great leap. Pigeon closed her eyes resolutely, but Roma felt quite sure she wasn’t praying.

“Go ahead and sleep if you can,” Pigeon said. “I never can sleep on coaches.”

Almost at once, the maid’s head began to bounce and nod just as her father’s had last night. Roma, feeling tired but finding herself awake to the uttermost fiber, tucked her cold hands into her second-best rabbit muff and put her head against the wall.

Her doubts had kept her up late, even after she’d stopped packing at two o’clock in the morning. Now, for better or worse, she had embarked upon this journey. All the second-guessing lay behind her, at least until she saw Bret again. If only she wouldn’t keep seeing his face before her mind’s eye with this amazed and miserable expression. The amazed part was all right, but the misery was all wrong.