removed her hat and ran her fingers through a tumble of untidy chestnut curls in an attempt to neaten them.
Mrs Broome and her daughter joined Dawn, sitting down without a by your leave. Immediately the landlord reappeared with pencil and paper ready.
Having given her order for pies, Mrs Broome turned on her daughter an old-fashioned look. ‘You can stop giving him the eye, miss!’ She smacked the girl’s hand, idle on the table-top. ‘The sooner this one’s wed, the better it’ll be.’ Mrs Broome rolled her eyes.
Dawn gave the blushing girl a glimmer of a smile. She was a pretty brunette of about fifteen and had been sliding sly glances through the window at a strapping stable lad toiling in the courtyard.
‘So...I recall you said you’re visiting relations, Mrs Fenton.’ The older woman crossed her arms over her chest, hoping for a gossip.
‘I am...’ Dawn confirmed. ‘I’ll be glad to get to journey’s end and to my bed tonight. It’s been a long day.’
Mrs Broome jiggled her aching shoulders. ‘Indeed, it has. My bones are fair creaking. But I was determined to go to London to see my father laid to rest. So did his granddaughter, wanting to pay her last respects.’ She frowned at her daughter who was still batting her eyelashes.
‘Oh...I’m sorry to hear about your loss.’
‘As I am to know about yours,’ Mrs Broome said sympathetically. ‘How long are you widowed, my dear? La...and you so young and pretty, too.’
‘Oh...some years.’ Dawn’s lavender gown had given the game away that she was in the latter stage of mourning.
‘Who are you visiting?’ the girl piped up.
‘Betty Broome! Mind your manners,’ the girl’s mother scolded. ‘Inquisitive little thing,’ she half-apologised before taking up where her daughter had left off. ‘Local people, are they, these relations? Or are you travelling on further?’
‘I’m going on to Wivenhoe...’
The Broomes’ questions reminded Dawn of Jack Valance’s interest in her family’s whereabouts. Not that she needed much to prompt her to think of him. For the duration of the journey, with nothing to do for hours on end but gaze into drizzle, she had found it difficult to banish him from her thoughts. She had been going over their brief conversation in the drapery and rueing that she hadn’t looked at her best that afternoon. It was too late now to wish she had dressed with more care when sallying forth to do her shopping. And why should it matter? Jack Valance was getting married. But Dawn knew why it mattered. She had seen desire in his eyes; once he had thought her beautiful and she was woman enough to hope he still did, fiancée or no fiancée. More than that, now they had met again and exchanged a few words, perhaps, just perhaps, he might rue not having kept in touch with her. He hadn’t sought her out in the shop just to be polite. He wasn’t indifferent to her, of that she was sure. She’d seen a spark of some emotion at the backs of his eyes...
‘Do you know that vicar, my dear? The one who is staring at you?’ Mrs Broome nudged Dawn to gain her attention, then jerked a nod at somebody outside.
Dawn gave a soft gasp of surprise. ‘Indeed, I do know him. I am on my way to his house. It’s my stepdaughter’s husband.’ She glanced at her companions. ‘Please excuse me, I should go and speak to him.’ She got up with an inaudible sigh. She had certainly not been expecting to see the Reverend Peter Mansfield until she reached Wivenhoe. And from the expression she’d glimpsed on her stepson-in-law’s face she guessed he’d been equally taken aback to spot her. Donning her cloak, she hurried outside, tweaking forward her hood to protect her face from the sleet.
The fellow who had been talking to the vicar had disappeared and Peter had headed towards the tavern to meet her beneath the shelter of the porch. He was a dark-haired man of medium height and build who, despite being her stepson-in-law, was her senior by five years.
‘Mrs Fenton...’ Peter removed his hat, securing it beneath his arm. ‘This is a nice surprise. I wasn’t expecting to see you until this evening, at the vicarage.’
‘I wasn’t expecting to see you yet either.’ She paused, sensing that his attitude was false and that this premature meeting was as unwelcome for him as it was for her. ‘Have you business in the area, sir?’
‘A clerical meeting...nothing too important. Now, I insist that I take you the rest of the way to Wivenhoe in my gig.’
Dawn hesitated in replying. Oddly, she knew she’d sooner make the rest of the journey squashed in the coach with the Broomes than have his company. But how to refuse without giving offence?
‘My luggage is stowed on the coach. It will be a bit of a commotion to swap vehicles and only a few more hours of travel. It would be as well to carry on as I am...’
‘I insist, ma’am. My wife will be glad of your company as soon as may be and happy to let you occupy the child so she might rest.’ He patted her arm to quieten her. ‘I shall speak to the coachman, never fear. Everything will soon be arranged.’
‘Very well...’ Dawn dipped her head in agreement, forcing a smile. She raised a hand to acknowledge her friends in the taproom. Mrs Broome was indicating with sign language that her crumpets had been placed on the table.
‘I ordered something to eat...’
‘Oh...go to it, ma’am,’ the vicar urged solicitously. ‘I will speak to your coach driver and have your bags transferred. I need no refreshment myself, but will wait for you.’
‘Oh, Eleanor! Why did you not write and let me know you have been poorly? I would have come far sooner to care for you.’ Dawn felt a pang of guilt, wishing she had responded to her stepdaughter’s letter promptly. But she had preferred to spend time with her friends in Mayfair than take up her invitation to visit her stepfamily in Essex.
Eleanor made a feeble gesture from the bed upon which she was resting. ‘You have your own life to live in town, Mama. It is nothing too bad...just a little breathlessness making me feel giddy. The babe is probably lying in the wrong position, but will surely soon move and give me some relief.’
Dawn wasn’t convinced about that. Her stepdaughter didn’t look as though she were merely suffering discomfort, but a proper illness. Eleanor’s complexion was greyish, yet spots of scarlet were on her cheekbones and a film of perspiration beaded her hairline.
Dawn wished she had some experience of childbirth to draw on. She hadn’t been present at Lily’s birth. After being advised of the happy news she had travelled to Essex a week later to see the new arrival. On that occasion Eleanor had looked quite perky, telling her that a midwife had attended her and all had gone as well as was to be expected. ‘Have you been like this for a while? Might it be the baby coming early, do you think, my dear?’ Dawn picked up a hanky from the nightstand and dipped it in the water jug, then cooled her stepdaughter’s brow with it.
‘I felt more myself last week. I doubt it is the baby.’ Eleanor frowned. ‘It is over a month too soon and the pain seems different.’
From the moment Dawn had entered the house and been advised by the vicar that his wife and child were napping and
