Ann Lethbridge - More Than A Lover

He grimaced. It was something he had always hated, but at least he’d only been required to write a letter. He’d never had to face anyone’s widow with the bad news, though he’d met plenty of them since returning to England. Made a point of it. And they were grateful, most of them, when they should have taken him to task for not caring for their men better than he had.

‘What happened?’ he asked.

‘I don’t know. The coach bounced so hard it must have hit a rut in the road and then I was thrown against the door. I don’t remember much after that.’

With a coachman as competent as Tonbridge’s driving a team as steady as this one, it was hard to imagine Garge running foul of a rut. ‘Did you see anything unusual?’

She frowned. ‘What sort of thing?’

Clearly his conversation with the innkeeper had his senses on high alert. ‘I wondered if something might have distracted Garge. Made him make a mistake?’

She frowned. ‘I heard a crack. The whip. I assumed he was trying to make up some time after the slow going in the valley.’

Ice ran through his veins. A shot? He bit back a curse, not wanting to scare her. He needed to look at the carriage. And the coachman. He rose and stared around him. ‘Well, there is no moving the carriage with that broken wheel. We must find you some shelter.’ He’d also have to notify the local authority about the death. ‘Our best course is to hope someone travels along this road, sooner rather than later.’ Once he knew she was safe, he’d come back before the local coroner arrived and see if his suspicions were borne out by evidence.

She touched a hand to her temple. ‘Yes. Of course. That is best.’ She looked hopefully up and down the road.

He couldn’t believe her calmness. Most women in her place would be fainting all over the place and calling for their hartshorn. Not his sisters, though, he realised, suddenly missing them like the blazes, when he’d done his best to ignore them for years. She was like the women who had followed the drum with their husbands. One of the kind made of sterner stuff. The kind a man could admire as well as lust after. Curse his wayward thoughts.

‘Sit here and don’t move while I see to the horses.’

She stiffened and he realised he’d phrased it as an order. ‘If you don’t mind?’

Her posture relaxed. She nodded, trickles of rain coursing down her face.

‘I don’t suppose you have an umbrella in the coach?’

She shook her head, her eyes sad.

Blast, he needed to get her out of the rain before she caught some sort of ague. As soon as he was sure the horses would not make a dash for it, he would sit her back in the carriage.

And then he heard the sound of wheels on the road and the clop of hooves. For a change it seemed luck was on his side.

Rescue was at hand.

* * *

Sitting by the hearth in a tiny parlour of the small inn at a crossroads some two miles from the accident, Caro could not seem to get warm no matter how close she sat to the blazing logs. They had been lucky the carter had agreed to bring her to the closest inn while Mr Read stayed with the horses. The Crossed Keys, situated high on the moorland, was the only hostelry for miles. The carter had then gone off with the innkeeper to fetch the local constable.

In her mind’s eye, she kept seeing poor Mr Garge, lying on his back on the rock-strewn ground. Kept thinking of his wife. She had no doubt that Tonbridge would offer the woman some sort of aid, but that wasn’t the point. They were a devoted couple and now the woman would be alone. Caro knew the pain of losing everyone you loved. Even blessed as she was with Thomas, it had taken years before the agony of that loss had eased to a dull ache she rarely noticed.

The innkeeper’s wife, Mrs Lane, bustled in with a tray. ‘Here you go, ma’am. This will warm you from the inside out. I’ve taken the liberty of adding a tot of brandy. Put some heart into you, you look that pale.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Lane, but I do not drink strong spirits.’

‘It’s medicinal,’ the woman said and folded her arms across her ample bosom. ‘Ye’ll drink it like a good lass. One swallow. I’d do no less for one of me own.’

A will of iron shone in the other woman’s eyes, but there was kindness there, too. How kind would she be if she knew the truth of Caro’s past? But that was neither here nor there in this situation. She picked up the goblet and sniffed. The pungent fumes hit the back of her throat and made her eyes water. ‘I don’t think—’

‘The trick is to drink it down quick, lass. The longer you dally, the worse it will get.’

Like the rest of the unpleasant things in life. Heaving a sigh, Caro closed her eyes, tipped the glass and swallowed. Her throat seized at the burn. She choked and coughed and gasped while Mrs Lane banged her on the back—until she caught her breath and was able to ward her off.

‘I’m fine,’ she managed.

‘Aye, well, you will be. Now drink your tea and we’ll await for the menfolk to return. Meanwhile I’ve a supper to cook.’ She marched out.

Her husband, who was also the local undertaker, had sent his potboy for the local coroner. The Lanes were indeed practical folk.

Caro poured her tea and sipped to take the taste of the brandy away. She had to admit she did feel better. And warmer. A whole lot warmer. A welcome numbness stole over her. She leaned back against the plump cushion.

* * *

A sound jerked her fully awake. She opened her eyes to find Mr Read staring down at her with an odd look on his face.

She sat up, her cheeks flushing hot. ‘Oh,’ she gasped. ‘I must have fallen asleep. I beg your pardon.’ She glanced at the clock. Goodness. She had slept for more than an hour. The landlady had taken her tray away and she hadn’t heard a thing. ‘Is everything all right?’

Such a stupid question from the look on his face. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to break free of the fog of sleep.

He grimaced. ‘I hate to do this, but the coroner is requesting a word. About the accident.’

The last word had an odd emphasis, but when she looked at his face, there was nothing to see but a kindly concern. ‘Yes. Of course. If it is required.’

‘I’ll fetch him.’ He made a small gesture with his hand and let it fall. ‘You might want to take a peek in the mirror. Your cap...’ His words trailed off, but there was heat in his eyes she did not understand. He turned away smartly. ‘I’ll fetch him up.’

The moment he closed the door, she leaped to her feet and stared at her reflection in the mirror above the mantel. Heavens, her cap was askew and tendrils of hair were hanging in strings around her face. Mr Read must think her a slattern to be drinking and sleeping in such a state. Cheeks pink with embarrassment, her stomach dipping in shame, she quickly tidied herself barely moments before she heard the tread of heavy steps on the stairs followed by a sharp knock.

‘Come.’

Mr Read ushered in a heavyset gentleman who appeared to be in his sixties with wind-roughened cheeks and a beak of a nose above a grizzled beard.

‘Mrs Falkner, may I introduce Sir Reginald Walcombe. Sir Reginald, this is the lady of whom I spoke.’

Sir Reginald bowed, with a creaking of corset. ‘Ma’am.’

‘Please, gentlemen, be seated,’ she said.

Sir Reginald sat, pulled out an enormous white linen handkerchief and mopped his brow. ‘Stairs, ma’am,’ he wheezed apologetically.

Behind him, amusement twinkled in Mr Read’s eyes for such a brief moment she almost might have imagined it. Almost. But it was such a warming and comforting thing, she knew she had not. Indeed, she had a tiny bit of trouble repressing a smile. ‘May I call for the tea tray, Sir Reginald?’