Minor Indiscretions (2 page)

"Cow's dry. Well's dry. You be wanted to home."

Doom.

The bags were unloaded; the hired chaise pulled away.

"Nanny?"

"Money's gone. Can't get blood from a turnip, I says."

"From a stone, Nanny. You cannot get blood from a stone. But what—"

Nanny shook her head and kept on knitting. "All that learning. A body can't eat stones, missy. Nor books nor fine ideas. Head as hard as rocks. Hard times."

"Do you mean we're… poor?"

"We were always poor. What's worse than poor?"

"But, but Mama and the orphans and—"

"Your mama's in a decline, children running wild. Servants gone. Constable's nosing round. We'll be digging acorns next, I told her. Tried eating toads, missy?" At Melody's gasp she guessed not. "Bein't all bad, howsomever. Some of us got our health. Not Ducky nor little Meggie, a course, who's never been a strong 'un, and some of the boys is sniffling. Your ma hardly gets out of bed these days. Then there's my rheumatics and—"

"But what happened? What about all the plans for house parties and a London Season?" Melody plucked at the folds of her new, expensive cape. "My new clothes?"

Nanny turned her nose up at the green velvet. "Here, you'll need this."

This
was a wool scarf she uncoiled like a rope from her workbasket and wrapped around Melody's throat. It was that same scratchy, undyed wool Nanny always used, with the smell of sheep still in it. Melody could feel rashes on her chin already. "But—"

"Air dreams, your mama always had her head filled with air dreams. She'll tell you. You're needed to home, is all I'm supposed to say." And Nanny pursed her lips, gathered up her knitting, and stomped out the door.

Heaven help us, the bags were being loaded. The rickety, ramshackle, crumbly old family carriage stood waiting. In Melody's memory only chickens had used it, for roosting. The neighborhood of Copley-Whitmore was small enough to get everywhere on foot, and Aunt Judith had been a firm believer in healthful exercise—rain, sleet, or snow. An ancient driver was at the reins, muffled to the eyes in another undyed wool scarf.

"Isn't that old Toby from Tucker's farm? Why, he's more used to driving—" Yes, now that she looked closer, those were indeed plow horses between the traces, huge, placid beasts that had one gait, a ponderous, plodding walk. "Why, it will take forever to get home behind those animals."

The old man cackled. "Aye, but they'll go in the prettiest, straightest line you ever seen." Then he scratched his chin.

At least she was not going to hell in a handcart, Melody decided, wrinkling her nose. She was getting there slower, in a henhouse on wheels.

The horses plowed on. Urging Toby to greater speed was fruitless, for the old man was quite deaf when it suited him. Nanny knitted, like the Fates weaving Melody's future in itchy skeins. There was no budging Nanny from her decision to stay mumchance on everything Melody wanted to know either. Conjecture was pointless, so Melody tried to settle back on the odoriferous squabs, but loose horsehair stuffing kept pricking into her back, and the badly sprung carriage kept rocking her head and shoulder into the unpadded door. Life at Miss Meadow's was taking on a rosier cast.

At least they would not starve. Nanny had brought a huge hamper of food along, filled with fresh bread, cold chicken, thick chunks of cheese, apples, a jug of cider, and even Melody's favorite gingerbread.

"There's so much here, Nanny; surely your tales of woe must be exaggerated," Melody noted hopefully.

"Out of the mouths of babes…"

Melody stopped chewing. "You cannot mean the children are going hungry? I couldn't eat another morsel if I thought so."

Her chick withering away without proper nourishment? Nanny relented. "Nay, we brought our own rather than pay ransom prices for a bit of victuals from those highway robbers pretending to be honest innkeeps. Dirty hands they have, too; you never know if they be mucking stables or serving dinner." Nanny bit into an apple. "At least I know whose orchard these were stole from."

Melody choked.

Needless to say, the travelers were treated less than royally at the inn where they spent the night. The women would not order dinner, and the horses did not require changing or a postboy's attentions, just feed and a rest. And not only did Nanny haggle with the owner over the price of a room, but she accused the poor man of watering the wine, brewing the tea leaves thrice over, making improper advances to his serving girls, and burying the bones of unwary wayfarers out back. And she did all this, standing as rigid as a masthead on a man-of-war, in the only public room the inn offered, in full view and hearing of two local dairymen, a merchant of some sort in a checkered waistcoat, and a party of four rowdy young bucks on their way to a mill.

Melody pulled her cape's hood down over her eyes and prayed for a bolt of lightning. Instead she got snickers and guffaws and the tiniest of attic rooms with the narrowest of thin mattresses, which she was to share with Nanny. There was not even a chair, nor room to sleep on the floor. There was no hot water to wash in, which really was all of a piece, for Nanny would not let her change into her night-clothes, or sleep beneath the covers. Who knew what pox-ridden fiend slept there last?

Not Miss Ashton, that was for sure, cold and crammed between Nanny's angular bulk and the even more rigid wall, listening to the raucous young men in the taproom and Nanny's snores.

The following day dawned cold, cloudy, and very, very early. Workhorses rise with the sun. So, it seems, do disgruntled innkeepers who see no reason to cater to jug-bitten nobs who take to smashing chairs, toplofty old harridans with tongues like vipers, or schoolgirls who really should have had more beauty sleep.

Miss Ashton needed a hot bath, her morning chocolate, and someone to help braid her thick hair. What she got was advice: "Don't you go putting on airs like some I could mention."

So cold wash water it was. Then Nanny took the brush and scraped it through Melody's hair like a garden hoe through creepers. Melody hurriedly tied her hair back in a ribbon while she still had any, and straightened her dress as much as possible. Nanny retied her muffler, despite Melody's protests, saying, "Fresh air is what you need to get rid of that peaked look."

"Nanny, I'm a grown woman now. You can't keep treating me like an unruly child!"

"Humph. Birds don't fall far from the tree."

"That's apples, Nanny."

"If you want apples to break your fast, that's fine with me, Miss Book-Learning. I'd just as soon not give that thief another groat for lumpy porridge."

Old Bess and Thimble were right fresh, Toby informed them. "They'll be setting a lively pace this morning, see if they don't."

"Maybe they could be encouraged into a trot now and then, do you think? Nothing that might tire them out, of course."

Toby cupped his hand to his ear. "What's that, miss?"

Melody gave up and took a deep breath of the last unfouled air she would get for a while. She smiled that it should be
unfowled
, and climbed into her seat across from Nanny. The bread was not quite as fresh this morning, and the cider was a touch vinegary, but at least her hunger was satisfied. Melody's need for sleep came next. She made herself as comfortable as possible, using her hood as a pillow, and drowsed off to the steady clops of the horses, the sway of the carriage, and the click of Nanny's needles.

She awoke to angry shouts and curses, and Nanny's hands clapped painfully over her ears.

The horses were keeping their steady pace, it seemed, straight and true down the center of the road, to the disgust of other travelers.

"Halloo, the carriage! Move off to the side, blast you, and let someone pass. By all that's holy, you don't own the whole bloody highway!"

Toby was still deaf this morning. Nanny put her head out of the window and shouted back, "You ought to have your mouth washed out with soap, young jackanapes. This is the King's highway, and there be ladies present."

That carriage passed them, two of its wheels dangerously close to the ditch, and then a few others went by, sporting vehicles with raffish young gentlemen at the ribbons, from what Melody could see from her position, scrunched down in her seat as small as possible. It wouldn't matter if there was no money for a London Season; her chances there would be immediately ruined if any of these town-bronzed gentlemen recognized her.

The next voices on the road behind were familiar. The four revelers from last night's inn were on the road earlier than usual, before they'd had a chance to sleep off the evening's effects. They had just completed their private wagers on the coming mill, so quite naturally, by these bloods' standards, the only thing left to enliven the drive to West Fenton was a contest between their two racing curricles. It made no matter that the roadway was becoming crowded with other vehicles headed for the same destination, or oncoming traffic, or farmers herding sheep by the verge, or the great lumbering relic of a coach. It certainly never occurred to any of the young gents that their judgment might be the slightest diminished.

"It's the old hag from the inn," called out the driver of the leading carriage to his passenger's, "Tallyho!" The other curricle drew neck and neck, and Miss Ashton could hear bets being laid, wild sums being wagered on which vehicle could pass the old coach first. They both pulled wide, to either side of Melody's carriage.

Melody tried to shout to Toby to pull over, but Nanny was waving her knitting out the window and ranting about how someone should take sticks to such care-for-naughts.

"Catch the prize!" one driver roared, while his whooping passenger leaned dizzyingly off the edge of his seat.

"Twenty guineas more if you can snabble it!" came from the other side.

Melody shut her eyes. Nanny squawked. There was an ominous crunch as one of the curricle's wheels scraped by, and then the old coach came to such a quick halt that Melody was thrown forward right off her seat, onto the floor that was still littered with chicken droppings.

Now Old Bess and Thimble knew their job. If there was a rabbit in the field, it was the rabbit's job to scamper off. If the plow was stuck on a rock, it was Toby's job to free it. They weren't bothered by silly fools darting by, or loud laughter, or even Nanny's squalls of divine retribution. But snakes, long, flappy white snakes trailing across their backs—that was not their job. They whoaed all right, with another crunch of the wooden axle.

Nanny stood clutching her empty workbag, shaking her head in disbelief, while Toby and Melody walked around the carriage.

"Wheel's took a whack, I swear, no telling if it'll last. Axle's got a crack, prob'ly. Worse, horses is spooked. These two ain't going to budge right aways. I know them. After a bit, maybe we could go real slow, see if she holds."

Slower than they'd been going? "Perhaps you should walk ahead and send a blacksmith back," Melody suggested.

"What's that, miss? You and Nanny want to step along to the village coming up? That's a fine idea, ma'am. Could be hours else, and you'd likely have to walk it anyway, if t'wheel comes off. There's a posting house on the square, so there's bound to be a smith. I'll just give Old Bess and Thimble here a chance at some of that new spring grass, then be along after you."

In little under an hour, Toby caught up, leading the pair, the coach creaking behind. Just when the road was really congested with all manner of sporting gentlemen heading for West Fenton and the mill, Melody's little procession wended its slow way onward, following the path of—and meticulously rewinding—a thread of hoof-marked, mud-caked, crinkled wool.

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This time Melody was determined to get to the innkeeper first. It was the innkeeper's wife, though, who spied the bedraggled group entering her establishment and sent her husband away to tend to the crowded taproom. In Mamie Barstow's experience, sporting nobs always attracted a certain type of women, and she wasn't having any of it, not at her inn. She stood guarding the front door, arms folded across her chest.

"Good day, ma'am," Melody began. "Your inn looks to be a pleasant place, and my companion and I are sorely in need of rest and refreshment. I hope that you can accommodate us."

On closer examination, Mrs. Barstow recognized quality. The young woman with such cultured accents was standing proud as a queen, just as if she didn't look like she'd been dragged through a hedge backward, and the companion was brandishing a knitting needle aloft like a saber charge. The old wreck of a carriage would have been in fashion thirty years ago, but the driver would have been old even then. Whatever this odd lot was, they weren't loose women; light-skirts fared better. Still, they did not belong at her inn, not today.

"I'm sorry, miss, but you can see there's a big to-do this afternoon. The place is overbooked as it is, and some of the gentlemen are like to get above themselves, if you know what I mean."

Nanny snorted. "Hanging's too good for the likes of them. Attacking honest women in broad daylight. Ravaging the countryside. Spare the rod, and use a butcher's knife, I say."

Mrs. Barstow's mouth hung open, and the door was about to shut. Melody quickly withdrew the roll of coins from her reticule. As she unwrapped her bona fides she raised her chin. "I believe some of your guests are already castaway, but we have no choice. There has been a mishap with the carriage, and we are left here until it can be repaired."

"Oh dear, and no work likely to get done soon, with every man jack in the town out to watch the fight. Still, every bed is spoken for, and some doubled as it is."

"Heathens," Nanny muttered.

"Please, ma'am, we just require a quiet place away from the public view." Melody jingled a few coins together.

"I suppose I could let you have our own rooms for a bit. Mr. Barstow can bunk with the stable lads, and I'll share with the maids, for all the sleep we'll be getting this night. It won't be what you're used to, I swear, but you'll be safer here than out on the road."