Beads of water ran down his face and his shirt was soaked to the skin, sticking against his body so that the outline of muscle and sinew was plainly evident. A body used to work and sport. Taking a cloth from her bag, Bea caught his arm and handed it to him, the gloom of the carriage picking up the white in his teeth as he smiled, their fingers touching with a shock of old knowledge.
Her world of books came closer: Chariclea and Theagenes, Daphnis and Chloe—just a few of the lovers from centuries past who had delighted her with their tales of passion.
But never for her.
The plainness of her visage would not attract a man like this one, a man who even now turned to the driver, finding his hand and measuring the beat of his heart against the count of numbers.
‘You have done this before?’ She was pleased her voice sounded so level-headed. So sensible.
‘Many times,’ he returned, swiping at hair that fell in dripping waves around his face. Long, much longer than most men kept theirs. There was arrogance in his smile, the look of a man who knew how attractive he was to women. All women. And certainly to one well past her prime.
Looking away, she hated the hammer beat of her heart. ‘Will anyone come, do you think?’
Another question. This time aimed at the carriage in general.
‘No one.’ The younger man was quick in his reply. ‘They will not come until the morning and by then Mama will be…’
‘Dead…dead and frozen.’ His mother finished the sentiment off, her pointless rant an extension of the son’s understanding of their predicament.
‘If we sit close and conserve our energy, we can wait it out for a few hours.’ The stranger’s voice held a strand of impatience, the first thread of anything other than the practicality that she had heard.
‘And after that…?’ The younger man’s voice shook.
‘If no one comes by midnight, I will take a horse and ride towards Brentwood.’
Bea stopped him. ‘But it is at least an hour away and in this weather…’ She left the rest unsaid.
‘Then we must hope for travellers on the road,’ he returned and brought out a silver flask from his pocket, the metal in it glinting in what little light there was.
After a good swallow he wiped the top and handed it over to her.
‘For warmth,’ he stated. ‘Give it to the others when you have had some.’ Although she was a woman who seldom touched alcohol, she did as he said, the fire-hot draught of the liquor chasing away the cold. The older woman and younger man, however, did not wish for any. Not knowing quite what to do now, she tried to hand it back to the man squeezed in beside her.
When he neither reached for it nor shook his head, she left it on her lap, the cap screwed back on with as much force as she could manage so that not a drop would be wasted. He had much on his mind, which explained his indifference, she decided, the flask and its whereabouts the least of all his worries.
Finding her own bag wedged under the seat, she brought out the Christmas cake that she had procured before leaving Brampton. Three days ago? She could barely believe it was only that long. Unfolding the paper around the delicacy, she looked up.
‘Would everyone like a piece?’
The two opposite reached out and she laid a generous portion in their hands, but the tall man did nothing, merely tilting his head as though listening for something. Beatrice tried to imagine what it was that had caught his attention as she tucked the cake away. She did not take any either, reasoning perhaps he wished for her to ration the food just in case the snowstorm kept up and nobody came.
Nobody. The very word cast her mind in other directions. There would be nobody to meet her or to miss her if she failed to arrive in London. Not this week or the next one.
Perhaps the head gardener whom she had befriended in the past few weeks might one day wonder why she had never come to visit as she had promised she would, but that would be the very most of it. She could vanish here and be swallowed up by snow and her disappearance would not cause a single ripple.
Twenty-eight years old and friendless. The thought would have made her sadder if she had not cultivated her aloofness for a reason. Protection was a many-faceted thing and her solitariness had helped when Frankwell, in his last years, had become a man who wanted to know everything about everyone.
Lord, she smiled wryly. Easier than the man he had first been, at least. She felt with her forefinger for the scar that ran down from her elbow, the edges of skin healed as badly as the care she had received after the accident had happened. So badly, in fact, that she had worn long-sleeved gowns ever since, even in the summer.
Summer? Why was she thinking of warmth when the temperature in this coach must be way below freezing point now?
The driver groaned loudly, struggling to sit, his face a strange shade of pale as he opened his eyes.
‘What happened?’
The tall man answered his question. ‘The wheel fell off the carriage and we overturned.’
‘And the horses? Where are the horses?’
‘I tethered them under a nearby tree. They should last a few hours with the shelter the branches are affording them.’
‘Brentwood is at least an hour on and Colchester two hours back.’ He hung down his head into his hands and looked across at the three figures opposite, his face curling into fear as he saw the dead passenger.
‘If they think that this is my fault, I’ll lose me job and if that happens…’
The right wheel feathered from its axle. It would take an inspector two minutes to ascertain such damage and I can attest to your good skill in driving should the need arise.’
‘And who might you be, sir?’
‘Taris Wellingham.’
Beatrice thought she had never heard a more interesting name. Taris. She turned the unusual name over in her mind as the driver rattled on.
‘The next packet won’t be along till after dawn even should we fail to arrive in Brentwood. They will think in this weather we have sheltered in Ingatestone or stopped further back at Great Baddow. By morning we will all be in the place that he has gone to.’ His hand gestured to the passenger opposite, but he stopped when the old woman started to wail.
‘It will not come to that, madam.’ Taris Wellingham broke into her cries. ‘I have already promised to ride on.’
‘Not alone, sir.’ Beatrice surprised herself with such an outburst, but in these climes a single misstep could mean the difference between life and death and a companion could counter at least some of that danger. ‘Besides, I am a good horsewoman.’ Or had been, she thought, fifteen years ago in the countryside around Norwich.
‘There is no promise that we will make the destination, madam,’ he returned, ‘and so any such thing is out of the question.’
But Bea stood firm. ‘How many horses are there?’
‘Four, although one is lame.’
‘I am not a child, sir, and if I have a desire to accompany you to the next town and a horse is available for me, then I can see no reason why you should be dictating the terms.’
‘You could die if you come.’
‘Or die here if you fail to come back.’
‘This is a busy road…’
‘Upon which we have not seen another vehicle since the journey was resumed after luncheon.’
He smiled, the warmth in his face seen even through the gloom surprising her into a blush. ‘It would be dangerous.’
‘Less so with the two of us.’
‘I’ll take the driver with me, then.’
‘Both his hands are broken, sir. Surely you can see the angle of his fingers. He is going nowhere!’
Silence greeted her last outburst, but she heard him draw in a careful breath and just as carefully expel it.
‘What are you called?’ The imperiousness of his tone brought to mind a man who seldom had to wait for anything.
‘Mrs Bassingstoke. Mrs Beatrice-Maude Bassingstoke.’ She never felt happy giving her name and this occasion was no different, though the eyes that watched her did not fill with the more usual amusement. Nay, rather they seemed to focus above her and away as if he were already plotting their journey.
‘Very well, Mrs Bassingstoke. Do you have other clothes in your bag?’
‘I do, sir.’
‘Then I should take them from where you have them and dress in as many layers as you can manage.’ He passed the fabric she had given him a few moments earlier back. ‘You will need this shawl for your neck.’
‘It is a muslin cloth, sir. From around the cake.’
He hesitated. ‘In lieu of a scarf it will do.’
Damn it, Taris thought, the thing had felt just like a woman’s scarf. Sometimes the sharpness of touch deserted him as fully as sight did and he had heard a questioning note in the voice of this Beatrice-Maude Bassingstoke.
Her voice did not suit the hardness of her name though in its careful cadence he fancied he heard the whisper of secrets.
Bassingstoke? A Norfolk family and she had made mention of Brampton. He had heard something only last month about them, though he could not quite remember what. Would this woman hail from the same bloodline? The quiet strength in her voice had helped him with everything and she had not eaten any of the cake when he had failed to understand what it was she was offering and did not reach out. Even now the small scent of raisins and rum permeated the air and he wished he might have asked her to open her bag again and cut him a slice.