Again, My Lord: A Twist Series Novel (4 page)

“No!” She darted to the window, but she knew it was already too late.

After retrieving the statue twenty miles south of her home that morning, she had told Jackson that he was to put it on the carriage to Dashbourne. Clearly he had failed in that task. She would have a sharp word with her husband’s drunken coachman. But not until they returned home. Jackson had been especially surly lately. She didn’t put it past him to drive her over every pothole in the country on their way home just to spite her.

She gripped the sill. Bringing the statue here from the auction had been her reason for making the journey, the excuse for taking Harry away from home. If she returned to Herald’s Court with it, Richard would be infuriated. And he would suspect her of subterfuge.

Staring out into the rain, she considered telling Jackson not to unharness the team now, and chasing after her family’s carriage. Perhaps this was a sign: her opportunity to escape.
Finally
.

But Richard’s threat glued her feet to the floor. If she ever complained to her family, he would send Harry off to live with his sister in York—his sister who liked to use the cane on servants and children as often as possible.

She would never complain. No one need know what her marriage truly was. And she had a plan: wrest Harry away from her husband by whatever means possible. If that meant returning to Herald’s Court with the assurance to her husband that Harry needn’t be a burden any longer, that he was remaining indefinitely with Evelina and her mother at Dashbourne, then so be it. That she might rarely see her son again was a misery she would endure for his sake.

With agitated fingers she pulled off her boots and sat on the bed beside the crate.

Her mother had written to her about this statue with such excitement. A private antiquities collector not far from Herald’s Court had recently died, and all the art was auctioned off. But the collector’s son knew that Lady Chance wanted that statue for the museum exhibit she hoped to mount in London someday, and he sold it to her via letter before the public auction. It was far too valuable to send by post, though. Calista had seized upon the opportunity to take Harry away: how wonderful, she had told Richard, that she could be courier for her mother, and then her mother and Evelina would entertain Harry for a month in return.

Hotly possessive of her attention, Richard perpetually imagined himself in competition with his own son. The arrangement had made good sense to him. Screaming from the prickling pain of his gout, and shouting at every tiny sound Harry made in the house, he had declared that his wife must go, but hurry home immediately. When she asked to be able to go all the way to Dashbourne to see her mother, he forbade her to take more than a single night away. He needed her. If she remained away any longer, she would pay.

She would pay.

The same threat he always leveled. The threat he always made good on. And so she had come as far from Herald’s Court as she could in a single day, to this inn in this village a mere two hours away from the home she had returned to only once in six years: for her father’s funeral.

She would find another way of transporting the statue to her mother. Until then, she would just have to hide it from Richard.

The crate was nailed shut, but the wood was soft enough so that with the side of her palm wedged under the edge she could shove the lid open. Inside, wood shavings made a bed for the statue wrapped in folds of felt. Brushing the shavings aside, she pried the bundle out and lifted it onto the bed. Approximately two feet long, it was astonishingly heavy and made a depression in the mattress.

Calista unfolded the felt. Almond-shaped eyes stared blankly up at her from a face of perfect classical proportions. Two thousand years old, the Aphrodite carved of alabaster was indeed a masterpiece. With cascading hair and a garment that caressed the goddess’s curves as though it flowed from her very skin, she seemed almost alive.
Real
. Full of love and affection and desire and lust and all the joys that the Goddess of Love bestowed on mere mortals.

Foolishness
.

Hauling the stone into her arms, Calista placed it on the dressing table, the single piece of furniture other than the bed in the room, beside a basin and pitcher of water for washing. What she had seen of this inn as yet seemed unexceptionable. The stable and foyer were well kept, the rugs cozy and the bed linens clean. But the village of Swinly was so tiny and out of the way that its only inn was far from fashionable. Richard had counted on that, of course. A fashionable inn would have cost him more. Worse, she might accidentally encounter someone from the high society he had never taken her into since their wedding, and he could not allow that.

Yet she had anyway. She had encountered the one person she least wished to ever see again.

She looked about the plain room in which the gorgeous Goddess of Love was the only hint of luxury. An earl’s daughter—an earl’s
sister
—and she had come to this—this debased penury, this continual hidden shame, this pale, cold, hard woman with circles beneath her eyes and bruises on her body in places no one but she ever saw.

“You are a horrid liar,” she said to the Aphrodite statue. Then, thinking of the man in the taproom downstairs, she said with pinched lips, “And a cruel tease.”

Unbuttoning her gown, petticoat and stays, she used the water in the pitcher on the table to wash the worst of the mud from the skirts. Then she hung the damp clothing and stockings before the grate upon which the coals were already dying, doused the candle, and crawled beneath the coverlet.

Tomorrow she would return home to the man who two months earlier had begun to lay his hand not only on her, but also on her son.

“Tomorrow I will find a solution,” she whispered to the rain beating on the window and roof of her little room. During the long, solitary ride home she would devise a plan that would free her son from Richard without bringing shame upon her mother, sister, brothers, or anybody else. Ian was only now beginning to wrest their family’s name from the dirt their father had dragged it through. She would not follow her father’s model. The Chance name and title would never be stained because of her. No one would ever know.

Pride was all she had left.

“Tomorrow,” she said, and it felt like both a promise and a prayer.

Calista jolted up in bed
, the toll of an enormous bell crashing through her sleep. Clapping palms over her ears, she cast her eyes into the murkiness.

She was in her bedchamber in the inn. Her traveling case sat on the dressing table, the Aphrodite statue beside it, and rain pattered against the window as the bell’s ring faded into silence.

Barely a moment of peace passed before it boomed a second time. It sounded like it was beside her ear. Climbing out of bed as the bell’s third toll made the candleholder jitter on the dressing table, she darted across the chilly floor and peered out the window. Through the rain slashing over the rear yard of the inn, she saw a massive stone tower that even in the reluctant light of winter dawn was unmistakably a church. In the downpour last night she had not noticed it.

The tolls ceased at seven. Mumbling a curse, she stared longingly at the bed. Sleep was a luxury Calista Holland was never permitted, apparently not even in escape.

Except that at home, since Richard’s gout had come on so severely four months earlier, she had been sleeping in the guest bedchamber. There her son often found her as dawn peeked through the draperies. Climbing under the blankets, he would cuddle his warm little body up to her and she would allow herself another thirty minutes of dozing until she had to leave him to see to his father’s demands and the rest of the household.

She missed him already. How would she endure a month without his little hand firmly in hers, his arms around her neck as he hugged her, and his sincere eyes as he told her about his day spent following the maid on her rounds of the house when Calista could not be with him? She could barely endure a single night.

Dressing in clothes that had not dried entirely and were stiff with cold, she buttoned her pelisse up tightly over her growling belly while staring at the Aphrodite statue. Like a ghost, it was pale white in the light of the rainy dawn, its body as supply sinuous yet its eyes as lifeless as they were in candlelight.

Then she went in search of tea.

As she exited her room, a cat slinking along the corridor lifted its head and bounded toward her. Curling around her ankles, it meowed.

“Oh, go away, do. You will rub hair all over my hem.” Gently toeing it aside with the tip of her boot, she went to the stairs.

As she descended, the innkeeper’s wife bustled from the taproom toward a closed door off the foyer, her arms brimming with plates of eggs and bacon.

“Good day, milady!” She offered Calista a harried smile between bright red cheeks. “The inn’s all filled up with the rain bringing people in off the road last night, and I’ve my hands full at present. But I’ll be with you right quick. Will you be having tea or coffee?”

“Tea, please.” Her head ached and her stomach was sick with hunger. “Does the church bell ring at seven o’clock
every
day of the week, not only Sundays?”

The round little woman bustled toward the closed door. “Oh, no, milady! On Sundays Old Mary doesn’t ring till
eight
o’clock.”

Calista turned toward the open taproom door, steeling herself. But
he
must have left already. Even if he had not, he certainly would not be eating in a common taproom; he was probably behind that closed door Mrs. Whittle had gone into, a private parlor, no doubt. Also, she was a grown woman now. Wherever the wretched Marquess of Dare was, nervous stomachs were for stupid young girls. Not for her. Not in years.

Not only had the Marquess of Dare not departed the inn, but he sat in the opposite corner of the taproom in a chair facing the door. Among the dozen other guests present—mostly tradesmen by the look of their clothing—his table alone had an empty place. News journal unfolded before him, coffee cup and empty plate at his elbow, he appeared perfectly at ease.

A marquess in a common taproom? Perhaps in dire straits, yes. But even then she would not have thought it possible of
this
marquess.

He lifted his gaze to her. Standing, he folded his paper and moved across the room toward her.

“Good day, madam. The table is yours.”

“Won’t Lord Mallory be breakfasting as well?”

He looked down at her with those stormy eyes and made a swift, open perusal of her features.

“He continued on to his destination last night. But if he were taking breakfast here now, I am certain he would be delighted to share the table with you. You’ve had a near miss. He never forsakes the opportunity to flirt outrageously with a beautiful woman.” Almost—
almost
—amusement glimmered in the gray. He bowed. “I wish you a good journey.”

“No one’ll be making any journeys from here today,” came a gruff voice at the door. A man with white whiskers and a crisp cap shook rain from his coat and wagged his head. “The ford’s four feet high if it’s an inch, and the north road’s flooded out clear across the valley.”

Calista pivoted to him. “The road is flooded?”

“’Fraid so, mum.” He repeated the rueful shake of his head like a bad actor in a penny play. “Did the same after the storm of ’09. Swinly might as well be an island today.”

“What do you mean?” Lord Dare said. “This village is now encircled by water?”

Others were gathering behind him to hear the news. The innkeeper had come from the kitchen holding a pot of coffee in one hand, and a cup and saucer in the other.

“Like a sailing ship upon the ocean, sir,” the man said. “Not only the village. Butcher’s fields to the north and Drover’s field to the east as well. Hip deep, they are.”

“Glory be!” the innkeeper exclaimed. “And Mr. Whittle still in Wallings. I told him he’d best return yesterday, but he’d hear nothing of it till he’d got that new milking cow he wanted. Stubborn man.”

A serving maid came from behind the other door. Mrs. Whittle thrust the pot and cup into her hands.

“Here now, Molly, wipe that table over there and pour her ladyship a cup. Then fetch breakfast for her. My heavens! We’re nearly run out of milk already and it’s not even eight o’clock yet.” She hurried back into the kitchen.

“Are you certain, sir?” Calista asked the whiskered man.

“Just come from Drover’s place,” he said with a frown.

“But how do you come to be an authority on the flooding?” Cold panic was licking at her. “Perhaps you are wrong.”

His chest puffed out and his whiskers quivered. “I’ve been the constable of this village since ’05, ma’am, so I think that gives me plenty of authority.”

“Sir,” Lord Dare said, commanding the attention of the constable and everyone else in the place with the single word. “I am D—” His gaze flicked to Calista. “I am Everard,” he said. “You are soaked through and must be chilled to the bone. May I offer you a pint? Then you can tell me more about the flood at your leisure.”

The constable gave him a short study. Extending his hand to shake, he nodded.

“Eustace Pritchard at your service, Mr. Everard. Glad to make your acquaintance.” The onlookers were grumbling as they returned to their breakfasts, and he followed the marquess to the table. “Molly, bring over that coffee.”

“I believe that pot is intended for Lady Holland,” Lord Dare said smoothly. “Molly, if you’ll bring another pot and cup for Mr. Pritchard, I would appreciate it.”

“My lady.” Now the constable bowed deeply. “Welcome to Swinly. I apologize for the rain that’s delayed your travel. But there’s Mother Nature for you, upsetting everybody’s plans.”

“I don’t take coffee,” she said. “I asked for tea. And you should know that this man is the Marquess of Dare.”

His bushy brows popped up.

“My lord, it’s an honor! What a stew we’re in here. But the rain’s already lightening up. If it ends this afternoon the ford should be clear by dawn. We’ll have you out of here tomorrow, my lady.”

“Is there really no way out of Swinly at present?” When she arrived home tomorrow night, a full day late, Richard would rage. “None at all?”

“Not unless you care to swim,” the constable said with a wink at Lord Dare.

“Does anyone in the village have a boat?”

The constable chuckled. “Nothing more than the ferryman’s raft, but that’s on the other side of the river and it’s far too high to use now, of course.”

The marquess was looking at her, carefully it seemed. The constable was still chuckling. A pair of tradesmen were gawping at her openly and she feared that in her muddle after the bell shocked her awake she’d left something unbuttoned. Rain poured down steadily beyond the taproom windows and the church bell began pounding eight o’clock through the walls of the inn.

“There must be some way out of this village today,” she insisted.

“Mum.” Molly offered her a cup of coffee filled to the brim.

“I said tea, please. Twice.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, milady,” Molly mumbled and backed away straight into a farmer rising from a table. Her arm jerked forward, the full cup leaped off its dish, and coffee splashed in a cascading arc all down the front of Calista’s gown.

“Oh.”

Molly gasped. “Oh, milady! I’m that sorry, I am! I’ll fetch a rag right quick.”

Calista batted at the drips on her only gown with her palms. “Thank you. And perhaps while you are at it you could bring me some
tea
.”

Molly hurried from the room past a woman entering.

“Lady Calista?” the woman exclaimed. “Lady Calista Chance?” She hurried forward. “It
is
you. Calista Chance—oh, but I’d heard you
married,
of course. Oh, what a delight to see you after all these years!” She had a round, ordinary face and yellow curls and wore on her head a glorious cascade of lace and chintz tied with a pristine white ribbon.

Calista dabbed at her skirt with a table linen. Coffee had soaked through the bodice and waist, but she could not attend to that yet. Her stomach twisted with hunger and she felt wretchedly faint.

“
Dear
Lady Calista, don’t you remember
me
?” the yellow-haired woman said.

“I’m afraid I don’t.” It was hopeless. The gown was ruined, and probably the petticoat and her stays as well. And she only had these. She must wear them all day, wet and smelling like coffee.

Lord Dare and the constable had settled at a table with a handful of farmers and tradesmen and she heard words like “flood line” and “recede” and “downed bridge.” She didn’t bother listening. What did talking about it matter if she was trapped anyway? Her fate when she returned home would be the same tomorrow or any day after that.

“Where did that girl go?” she muttered and looked toward the door where Mrs. Whittle entered to set plates of food before other patrons. “Have you any soda, Mrs. Whittle? Or soap?” She was revealing that she must clean her own clothing. But after a full day in this tiny inn in this tiny village, everybody would know she traveled with no maid, only a drunken coachman. And that she could not pay for both breakfast and dinner, never mind lunch.

“Of course, my lady,” Mrs. Whittle said with the same gamely harried smile. “I’ll have Molly bring it up to your chamber.”

“No.” She’d had enough of Molly’s help at present. “I’ll come for it myself.”

“Dear,
dear
Lady Calista, you must remember
me,
” the woman with the gorgeous hat insisted. “It’s
Harriet
. Harriet Ryan! I’m married now, of course, as we
all
are, naturally. But you
must
remember.”

Calista looked up from her stained gown. “Harriet Ryan.”

“You
do
remember me. But I am Harriet Tinkerson now, of course. I
knew
you would remember. We sat beside each other in watercolors at the Bailey Academy for Young Ladies for two full years, after all.”

“How nice for you.”
School
. The exile her father had sent her into when she was fourteen, intending to make her a tasty prize for a wealthy man. A school of such low tuition that she had been surrounded by tradesmen’s daughters and noblemen’s illegitimate by-blows, ashamed and wishing she were back at Dashbourne, wishing she were already married, wishing she were
dead
—anything but this blot on her pride.

But her father’s plan had worked. She had become a treat for a very wealthy man who paid generously for her, and then, as soon as the vows were said, hoarded his gold like Midas. And now she had one traveling gown, stained irreparably with coffee. When she returned home, she would dye it brown to match the stain and it would have several more years’ good use.

“It
was
nice! Delightful, in fact,” Harriet Ryan said at her shoulder. “Are you a guest here?”

“No, I am a chambermaid at this establishment, of course.”

“Ha ha! You always were
wonderfully
diverting, Lady Calista. But of course you are a guest here. It is an inn!”

“I am just passing through,” she mumbled and moved toward the doorway.

“And now with this flood you will be here until tomorrow.” Harriet followed her. “How splendid! I have a shop now. A millinery shop. Isn’t that
perfect
? You know I always did like hats better than painting or French or anything else those horrid spinsters made us study, didn’t I? My shop is right in the middle of Swinly, on the high street, safe from the flood. I will adore giving you the
grand
tour of it today,” she said with a horrid faux French accent. “Oh,
do
say you will come see my darling shop. I daresay it’s as elegant as any shop in London you’ve ever seen.”

Calista had seen precious few shops in London. During the three weeks her father had permitted them there six years ago, he had not allowed them to shop. They had barely afforded the servants and food, let alone clothing and other fripperies.

“I really don’t see how I can, with my gown and what-have-you to see to.” Calista smiled thinly. “Good day.”