he said aloud. ‘He’s had it three years now and it is beginning to look the worse for wear. I must persuade him to turn it in for a phaeton, much more befitting his status as a physician of the first rank.’ He turned from the window to face them. ‘Captain Carstairs, did you find something to suit?’
‘The captain is going to buy Lord Pymore’s travelling chaise,’ Charlotte told him, fetching papers from a cupboard and taking her seat at her desk. ‘He has agreed our price.’
‘Good.’ Henry said. ‘Captain, do you need embellishments? Heraldry? Additional lines, scrolls perhaps?’
‘No, thank you, I cannot wait for such things to be done. It will do me very well as it is, but I do need harness and cattle. Miss Gilpin tells me you can also supply those.’
‘Indeed we can. I pride myself on dealing in animals sound in wind and limb. You may safely leave those to me. Do you have a coachman?’
‘Yes,’ Alex said, thinking of Davy Locke, who had been his servant on board ship and now went by the grand title of valet, though anyone less like a valet was hard to imagine. He was an untidy giant of a man, but a good man to have beside you in a tussle, whether it be confronting lawbreakers or struggling to get into a tight-fitting coat. He was, surprisingly for an ex-seaman, very good with horses. He put it down to working on a farm before he was pressed into service with the navy. A man of many talents was Davy Locke.
‘I shall have the paperwork drawn up in a few minutes, Captain,’ Charlotte put in. ‘You are welcome to inspect the premises while you wait.’ She gave him what she considered to be a condescending smile. ‘You may learn something of coachmaking.’
Alex, recognising the put-down for what it was, smiled, bowed and left the room, followed by Henry Gilpin, who went immediately to inspect the coach body which had been safely brought down to the ground floor and was being set upon a wooden cradle waiting to receive it. It had yet to be set on its undercarriage, painted and decorated and the interior finished, but even so Alex could appreciate the skilful work of the woodworkers.
Henry began explaining some of the processes to him, but Alex was hardly listening. He was thinking about Miss Gilpin. She was certainly very touchy about her gender. Perhaps she wished she had been born a boy. She was undoubtedly handsome with fine eyebrows, a straight nose and a well-defined, determined chin, but he would not describe her as feminine, not in the way he would have used the word. Her gown was decidedly practical, in a heavy grey taffeta, having only the slightest of false hips, and her quilted stomacher was made to match the gown and had no decoration beyond a satin bow on the square neckline. There wasn’t an ounce of lace on it anywhere. It was certainly not the height of fashion. She wore her own rich brown hair pulled back into a thick roll on top of her head and fastened with combs. She wore no gloves and her fingers were ink-stained.
And yet … and yet, she had the most expressive grey eyes. There was intelligence behind them, and humour, too, something he could admire. Was she really as competent as she appeared or was there, underneath that façade, a woman as weak and fickle as all her gender? Would she collapse in a flood of tears as soon as her self-sufficiency was put to the test? Did she really know the ins and outs of a coach-building business or was her father simply humouring a spoiled daughter? He found himself wanting to know the answers, to engage her in conversation, to find out what she was really like under that severe exterior. He felt sure such discourse would not be shallow and meaningless. It was a pity he was leaving town so soon, but then, on reflection, perhaps it was not. She was clearly not the sort for mere dalliance and he certainly did not wish for anything deeper, not after what had happened with Letitia. She had soured him for all women.
Why on earth had he suddenly thought of Letitia? He had buried that experience deep inside him where it could not surface, or so he had thought, but standing looking at half-a-dozen workmen manhandling the body of a coach with the aid of pulleys, he was suddenly back in his salad days.
He had met Letitia Cornish on a voyage out to India. Her father was a wealthy nabob and he the mere second lieutenant of an East Indiaman, plying back and forth between England and Calcutta, carrying European wines, furniture, glassware and even carriages on the outward journey, returning with spices, precious stones, ornaments, carpets and tigerskin rugs. She had been patrolling the deck and had stopped to gaze out over the stern at the wake, as if wishing she were back where she had come from. Hearing his footstep behind her, she had turned to speak to him. ‘Lieutenant, I am not in your way, am I?’
‘Not at all, Miss Cornish, but there is blow coming up and I advise you to go below. The sea is like to become very rough. Allow me to escort you.’ It was couched as a request, but she was expected to obey, which she did reluctantly. ‘It is so stuffy in the cabin,’ she said. ‘I prefer the fresh air.’
‘I fear it will become a little more than fresh,’ he had said, smiling as he accompanied her to the companionway. ‘When the storm is over, I will come and fetch you and you may take the air again.’
He had kept his word and escorted her back on deck as soon as the havoc caused by the storm had been cleared away and they were once more sailing on an even keel. She was looking white-faced, but assured him she had not been sick and would be right as rain as soon as she was up in the fresh air again. Her father had not emerged from his cabin. In spite of being a frequent traveller between England and India, he was not a good sailor and neither was Letitia’s maid and she was often left to her own devices. Thus they often met when he was on watch and she was patrolling the deck and they would stop and talk. In his eyes she was perfection with her shining golden hair and clear blue eyes.
He learned she was eighteen, a year younger than he was. Her mother had died years before; she could hardly remember her and Letitia had been brought up by her father with the help of an elderly aunt. Now she was grown up, her father was taking her to India where they expected to stay for several months while Mr Cornish assembled a new cargo to take back to England and after that she was to be brought out in London society. He told her about his life at sea, how he hoped to follow in his father’s and uncle’s footsteps and become a master mariner for the East India Company. By the time they reached Calcutta they were in love.
Her father would have none of it when Alex had approached him for permission to propose. ‘A penniless lieutenant—I should think not!’ he had said. ‘Whatever gave you the notion I would entertain a scapegrace like you for a son-in-law? After her money, are you? Think to make yourself wealthy at my expense?’
‘No, sir, certainly not, sir. I love your daughter and she loves me.’
‘Love, bah! What is that but a weak indulgence? Letitia will marry one of the young gentlemen I pick out for her when we return to London. And every one of them will have a title and some standing in society. She is wealthy enough and comely enough to take her pick. You, sir, are beneath her notice.’
Alex had been furious and had to use all his self-control not to lash out at the man, but young though he was, he knew alienating her father would not endear him to Letitia. Instead he turned on his heel and left with the man’s derisive laughter echoing in his ears. But he was not yet ready to give up. He knew Letitia liked to ride out very early in the morning before the heat became too intense and so he contrived to be out on horseback at the same time and prevailed upon her to dismount and talk to him. He had been hoping to persuade her to defy her father and run away with him. How foolish that notion was he had not realised at the time. She had tearfully refused to do any such thing. Her dear papa was always right and she would obey him as she always had.
He had not been able to understand her unquestioning acceptance of the fate laid down for her and continued to protest until the time came to part. ‘Goodbye, Alex,’ she had said and reached up to kiss his cheek and then remounted with the help of her
