Green.’
‘Can’t you wait until Mr Dyvelston returns? Please? For my sake?’ Lottie pressed her handkerchief more firmly to her mouth and willed Tristan to return. Her whole body tensed as she peered out of the carriage door into the crowded yard: drovers, farmhands and the odd woman, but no broad shoulders encased in a fine frock coat. Her insides shook at being cast amongst those people. ‘I beg you to reconsider.’
The big man shook his head. ‘It wouldn’t be proper, like. I have me orders. I like my job, miss. I won’t jeopardise it for no one.’
‘Why not? Mr Dyvelston charged you to look after me. I am sure he did. You cannot intend to leave me here with those ruffians.’ Lottie bit her lip, aware that the words had come out more harshly than she had intended. But he had to understand that she had been cosseted and looked after. She was of gentle birth.
‘No, he didn’t, like.’ The coachman lifted a bag from the back and set it down on the muddy cobblestones. ‘This is all there is, miss. I am sure he will return in a few moments. If you please, miss. I am on my way to London to wait for Lord Thorngrafton’s instructions. It is a week’s journey in good weather and I’d like to get on my way.’
‘But you have been driving through the night. Surely you will need time to rest. Mr Dyvelston will return in a few moments.’ Lottie clasped her hands together. ‘I beg you. Have mercy.’
‘That is true and you should be safe in that time. I want to be well into England afore I do that. If you please, miss….’
Lottie looked at the single bag. Her mother had said that she would send her things on. It appeared that Tristan had not bothered to pack a trunk or even a bag. She reached down and picked the satchel up. The yard blurred for a moment, but she stiffened her back. Regained her composure. She would be fine. Tristan would return before she knew it. She held out her hand and the coachman helped her from the carriage. ‘Thank you. It is very kind of you.’
She reached into her reticule and drew out a halfpenny. ‘This is for you.’
‘It’s all right, miss, Lord Thorngrafton pays me well, so he does. Best of luck.’ The coachman twisted his hat. ‘Begging your pardon, but this here is from Lord Thorngrafton… in case you change your mind. In case…’
Lottie regarded the bank note with a sinking heart. Lord Thorngrafton must believe that Tristan was planning to abandon her. ‘Don’t you trust Mr Dyvelston?’
‘I trust him all right, but…just the same. Best to be prepared, miss.’
‘I couldn’t, really.’ Lottie turned her face into her handkerchief.
‘Take it, miss, for my sake. Lord Thorngrafton has a right temper if his will is crossed.’
Her throat closed. She had wronged Lord Thorngrafton last November. He had thought about her comfort and had not been sure of his cousin. He had sought to protect her. She fingered the note and placed it in her reticule. ‘You must thank Lord Thorngrafton for me. I will thank him myself when I can.’
‘As you wish, miss. God speed.’ The coachman touched his hat and went back to his place.
He snapped the reins and the carriage started to move. It made its way through the jumble of carts and horses, rolling away from her. A single tear ran down her cheek, but she pushed it away with impatient fingers.
Lottie stood there, her head held high and her fingers clutching her satchel and reticule in the centre of the yard, aware that people were looking at her and her much creased clothes. Aware that she had rapidly become an object of interest and curiosity. Lottie tightened her grip. She refused to stand there, being gaped at like some spectacle in a diorama or other cheap entertainment. She had to act.
She walked towards the inn and peeked into the public room, hoping to discover the familiar shape of Tristan’s shoulders or his top hat floating above the crowd. The entire room appeared full of farmers, day labourers and drovers. High-pitched female laughter came from a dimly lit corner where Lottie could just make out a flurry of petticoats and entangled limbs. She stared for a heartbeat at the brazenness of it. The stench was worse than the yard. Lottie gave a soft cry and buried her face more firmly in the handkerchief.
‘Is there something you want, dearie?’ an old crone asked, leering at her with a one-toothed smile. ‘Sell your ear bobs, or your pretty hair? I pay top price for golden curls like yours.’
‘Not my hair. Not my ear bobs.’ Lottie blanched and rapidly made her way back into the coaching yard. She heard the crone’s laughter chasing her as she went.
Lottie paused by the stable entrance and tried to get her breath as she scanned the yard for any sign of Tristan. But it remained stubbornly free of her future husband. She closed her eyes and wished. Opened them. Nothing. The sun beat down on her bonnet and her shift stuck to her back. Maybe Lord Thorngrafton’s surmise was correct and Tristan did not intend to come back for her. He had only taken her here to abandon her to her fate. He would then claim she had run away and he’d be free to live his dissolute life.
Abandoned at the altar to a life of sin.
Cousin Frances had taken great pleasure in describing several Minerva Press novels where this was a main feature. The villain lures the heroine with blandishments, only to abandon her after he has had his wicked way with her, forcing her into a Life of Degradation…if it were not for the hero.
Lottie gave a tremulous smile. She had to think logically. Tristan had not had his wicked way with her, beyond the kiss they had shared on the terrace. If he had been planning to abandon her, he would have done so then, instead of taking her here. She had to be logical, and not give way to panic.
A sob built in her throat and she muffled it with the handkerchief. She refused to give way to wailing here despite the longing in her breast. She scrubbed her eyes with the now-crumpled handkerchief, replaced it in her reticule and took a fresh one as she made a slow circuit of the yard. When she returned to the stables, there was still no sign of Tristan. It was as if he had vanished.
Had something happened? Had some evil befallen him? An ice-cold hand went around her heart.
She counted to thirty and then thirty once more. Looked again hard at the door Tristan had disappeared through. Tristan failed to appear.
She bit her lips and attempted to think clearly as a pain pounded against her eyeballs. Something had happened to Tristan. She had to find where he had gone and determine if he did intend to marry her. She would search for him, all day and night if she had to, and, if he remained lost, she would return to Newcastle, much chastened, hoping for charity. She would use Lord Thorngrafton’s money to purchase her train fare back to Newcastle. The first thing she would do when she did arrive home would be to raid her savings and send the money back to Lord Thorngrafton. It would be the polite thing to do, and she would not mention the scoundrel-like behaviour of his cousin.
Henry and her mother might not be pleased to see her, but they would not turn her from their door. She was certain of that. She was part of their family, in spite of everything.
She cringed, thinking of the words Henry would use, and how Mama would cry and how Lucy would look and sigh. Behind her skirts, everyone would whisper that she had deserved it, that pride came before a fall.
Emma
