A Sisterly Regard (19 page)

"I am amazed that Everingham would defy his mother
sufficiently to be considered a suspect," Farwell said.

"As am I," the Duchess agreed, "but the driver's description of
the crest certainly points toward him."

"What about Robert Dervigne?" Cousin Louisa asked. There
was a dead silence for a few seconds.

"No! By gad!" Papa exploded. "If he's harmed her..."

"She would not! Oh, George, tell me that she would not go
with him!" his wife cried.

Phaedra said nothing, but she grew very pale and was forced to
sink into a chair.

Mr. Farwell broke into the babble to say, "Dervigne is not the
guilty party." At their disbelieving stares, he continued, "Man's a rake and
a seducer of innocents, but he ain't stupid enough to get himself in a
situation where he'd have to marry the girl. Which this would be. No, he's
not the one--this time."

"Are you sure?"

"He was walking past White's as I emerged, just minutes ago."
Again he waited until he had everyone's attention. "Unless there's a dark
horse in the running, it's Everingham."

"Must we simply sit here and wait until they return? Oh,
George, I cannot stand it," Mama cried.

"Neither shall you have to, my love. I will immediately drive out
along the Great North Road and see what I can learn. We've still a few
hours of light. Edgemont," he called in a loud voice. To the others he said,
"I'll bring her home to be wed. My daughter's not going to be jumping an
anvil. Not if I have a say."

"Yes, my lord," the butler said as he opened the parlor
door.

"Have the horses put to at once. I depart immediately."

"Wait, my lord," Reggie said. "I have a racing curricle, and
could make better time than you in your coach."

"If you do not fall asleep," Phaedra said softly.

"I shall not, Miss Phaedra, you may be assured. I never sleep
while driving."

"I appreciate the offer young man, but she is my daughter.
Would you take me on your curricle, then?" Papa asked.

"Of course, my lord. I will pick you up here within the
half-hour." He bowed to the ladies and left them.

Lord Gifford called Edgemont back to rescind his order for the
coach and went upstairs to change into buckskins for the trip. The Duchess
resumed her recitation, relating some really shocking
on dits.
Even Mama was interested in the tales, despite her distress.

Phaedra was initially embarrassed, for some of what the duchess
related was quite warm, but as the recitation continued, she found she was
rather enjoying the stories. They were neither vindictive nor slanderous,
and were often quite humorous. She had had no idea that so much went on
behind the respectable scenes of Society.

How unfair! Everything Chloe did was mild and innocent in
comparison.

When Papa re-entered, he kissed Mama gently but thoroughly.
"I'm off, Isabella. Try not to worry."

Phaedra ran ahead to the front door. Outside Mr. Farwell, in
sensible buckskins and a riding jacket, was holding the reins of a pair of
powerful, restive blacks. Phaedra went to the side of his curricle and held
up her hand. As he took it, she said, "Mr. Farwell, I must apologize for my
unkind remark. I sincerely appreciate what you are doing for my family. I
wish you godspeed."

He leaned over and kissed her hand, causing her to snatch it
from him. "I do this for you, Phaedra, not for your family nor for your
sister's reputation. See you remember that." Before she could answer, she
was shouldered aside by her father, who mounted quickly.

"Spring 'em, Farwell," he said, and the curricle raced
away.

Phaedra's hand burned as she returned to the parlor. As she
entered, a thought struck her and she laughed, somewhat hysterically.
"She could not think of Everingham kissing her, because he looks like a
sheep And now she will marry him. Oh, Mama, this is too much!"

Lord Everingham's shiny black coach was well sprung and the
squabs were of blue velvet. Chloe had never ridden in a more comfortable
or more elegant equipage. She was sure she would not become sick in such
a luxurious vehicle. In fact, she was determined not to, for she did not
wish to give Lord Everingham a disgust of her. Gentlemen had little
patience with ladies who did not travel well. Pleading the ravages of a
night without sleep, she begged her suitor's indulgence and curled herself
into a corner of the comfortable seat.

She slept until the first change of horses. While waiting for a
new team to be brought to them, the coachman suggested that breakfast
was in order.

"I think not," Lord Everingham told him. "Ask the landlord for
some bread and cheese and a jug of ale. I want us to be farther from
London before we make an extended stop."

Chloe could tell the coachman was not well pleased at being
deprived of a hearty breakfast. For herself, she was content to nibble at a
piece of dry bread, knowing that anything more substantial would not set
well in a moving coach. Her queasy stomach was better after her sleep,
but she still did not feel entirely well.

The journey resumed. Soon they were dozing in opposite
corners of the coach. For some reason, now that they were alone, she
could find very little to say to Jeremy. He seemed similarly lacking in
conversation. The long and tiring night had put dark circles under his eyes
and deepened the creases beside his mouth. Oddly enough, he looked less
sheeplike this morning.

Shortly after one in the afternoon, the coach drew into yet
another inn yard. The coachman opened the door. "My lord, it will be a
while before they can ready a fresh team for us. There will be time
luncheon. Shall I ask the innkeeper to prepare a parlor for you?"

Everingham yawned. "Yes. I confess I am feeling sharp set. Miss
Hazelbourne, would you care to alight?"

Chloe, feeling the need to refresh herself, agreed. She was met
by the innkeeper's wife who pointed her to the ladies' necessary. When
she emerged, she was directed to the private parlor taken by Lord
Everingham.

He was standing at the window, a tankard in his hand. For the
first time, she saw him as the man she might spend the rest of her life
with.
I must begin as I am to go on
, she told herself, unable to
admit she was not entirely certain she wanted to be Lady Everingham for
the next thirty or forty years.

"Jeremy, I am so tired of traveling. How much farther must we
go today?"

"As far as possible, my love. We are sure to be pursued."

"I do not think so. I left no note, so no one will know where I
have gone."

"But surely someone will seek you?"

"Probably, but how will they know where to search? Can we not
stay here until tomorrow? Please?" She put on her most beguiling
expression. She knew that if she ate luncheon, she would become sick if
forced back into a moving carriage. And she was very hungry.

"No, my precious, we must continue. I would like to be well
north of Hertfordshire before we halt for the night."

"Oh, very well, but I do so hate the idea of traveling farther
today."

Luncheon was brought in just then, and they applied themselves
to it. Unfortunately for Chloe, the meat pie was dominated by greasy
mutton. Overcome with hunger, she ate of it, even knowing it would not
agree with her once she was again within the moving coach.

And so it did not, for they were scarce on the road for a quarter
hour when her stomach began protesting. She relaxed into the squabs,
hoping that she would be able to control her nausea. Lord Everingham,
awake now, began to tell Chloe about his estate in Warwickshire. She
managed to maintain her composure for nearly an hour, due mostly to the
fact that the road remained relatively smooth. But inevitably the coach
reached a bumpy, uneven stretch of roadway. Her rebellious stomach
immediately made itself felt. She moaned.

Everingham was instantly solicitous. "Are you ill, my dear?" He
attempted to put his arm about her shoulder.

"Oh, no," she protested, pulling away. "I am merely somewhat
uncomfortable from the motion of the coach. I will be better soon."

He again attempted to comfort her, and this time he succeeded
in encircling her shoulders. She sagged against him for a moment, then
pushed away. He tried to hold her. Just then her control over her stomach
broke and she disgraced herself.

"My garments! Oh, it's vile! I am covered with it!" he cried. He
pounded on the roof, the smelly remnants of Chloe's lunch dripping from
his clothing and onto the seat. "Smith! Smith, I say! Stop the coach!"

When Smith opened the door, Everingham jumped out. "Help
me get these wet garments off, Smith. Oh, this is horrible."

Meanwhile Chloe's sickness had worn itself out and she lay
moaning in the corner of the coach. She made a halfhearted attempt to
clean her own soiled garments with her dainty handkerchief. Fortunately
only a portion of her skirt was damp and she soon had it wiped clean,
although the dampness had soaked through, all the way to her skin. She
shivered as a solitary tear trickled down her cheek. Always before when
she had become sick from traveling, her parents or sister had held her head
until she was recovered, and then had tenderly cared for her and offered
abundant sympathy. Now she was left untended, and by one who had
sworn his lasting devotion.

Smith climbed into the coach, holding a stained piece of sacking.
He started mopping up the mess with it, completely ignoring her.

Outraged, Chloe said, "Give me that rag so I may dry my
gown."

He looked at her, then down at the mess on the floor. "I be
sorry, miss, but I'm to clean the coach."

She stared at him in disbelief. "But I am cold and damp."

"Soon's I get master taken care of, I'll find you something to dry
yourself with," he promised, as he continued to swab. "There, that'll do
it. Can't do nothin' about the smell, but his honor won't be getting his feet
dirty, anyhow."

As he was climbing down, he said, "I'll bring your bandbox in a
bit, miss."

Chloe sat in the corner and fumed. She no longer felt the cold,
for fury was warming her from within. The longer she sat, listening to
Everingham's complaints as he changed his clothing, the more angry she
became. When he opened the door, she attacked. "You are no gentleman!
I could have died in here and all you cared about was your
clothing."

"And you are no lady!" he retorted. "No woman of quality
would have so forgot herself to have done this to me."

"I could not help myself. But to offer no assistance when I was
sick. Oh, Jeremy, you said you loved me," she wailed.

"My mother would have never allowed herself to become sick
upon a gentleman's garments."

"Your mother is no doubt far too high in the instep to suffer
from ordinary human frailties."

"At least she would have been more considerate. I have no valet
to tend my soiled garments. Likely they are ruined."

"I have no maid, either, but I am not whining about the lack.
You said you would care for me. What a thoughtless husband you will
be."

"Now my lord, miss, let's have no more argufying," Smith told
them as he handed Chloe's bandbox inside. "I've cleaned the worst, my
lord. You just climb back in there and we'll see if there's not an inn nearby
where you can clean up."

"I am not getting back into that noisome thing until it has been
washed out," Everingham said. "I shall ride forward with you." He stalked
out of Chloe's view.

Smith made to close the door again.

"Wait," she cried. "I do not wish to ride inside either. It smells
so horrible, and the squabs are damp."

"I'm afeared you must, miss. There's scarce room on the seat for
his lordship and me, and you couldn't hang on the footman's perch. It can't
be far to the next inn; you can clean up there."

"I will not! You cannot force me to ride in this filthy, smelly
coach."

The door in the roof opened and Everingham peered in. "Well,
then, Chloe, you will have to walk, because it is my coach, and I will not
ride inside nor on the footman's perch, and Smith must drive."

"Oh, you!" Chloe spat.

The trapdoor slammed shut. Smith quietly closed the door and
left her alone.

I hate him. I hate them both, but most especially
Jeremy.

Fortunately the next inn was reached in little over a quarter of
an hour. It was not one of the better hostelries, but there were two
bedchambers free, as well as a private parlor where they could dine. Insult
was added to injury when the landlady informed Chloe that she would not
be able to bathe immediately. There was only one tub available, and his
lordship had commanded that it be brought to him first.

She stormed, she wept, she pled, but Everingham's chivalry
stopped short of his relinquishing the inn's only bathtub.

She sat in her room, clad in her damp and smelly dress, for the
better part of an hour before the tub was brought to her and cans of hot
water were carried in. The water was dumped into the tub, a towel was
tossed upon the bed. There was no maid to assist her, so she was forced to
tussle with buttons and laces. Even worse, she had no soap, for she had not
brought any and all the inn had to offer was harsh and scratchy.

She emerged from the bath, smelling better and feeling a little
cleaner, but in no good humor. When she pulled her primrose challis
morning dress from her portmanteau, she found it dreadfully
wrinkled.

She put it on anyway.

Cleanly clothed at last, she attacked her hair, tangled from the
night before and damp from her bath. It stubbornly refused to behave. She
finally pulled it back and tied it with a ribbon at the nape of her neck. A
quick glance at the cloudy mirror told her she looked less than her best.
I do not care. This is no longer an exciting adventure. I hate him. I wouldn't
marry him if he were the last man on earth.