The Winter Bride (A Chance Sisters Romance) (14 page)

Silence fell between them, talk giving way to the sound of the horses’ hooves on the road, the carriage creaking and groaning as it bounced and swayed along. It was a little unsettling. She gripped the straps hanging above the window to steady her.

Apart from a trip to Max and Abby’s home, where she’d been unwell most of the way, Damaris hadn’t seen much of the English countryside. She supposed she must have when she was little, but she had no memory of it. Mama had talked often of England; it was all so beautiful and green, she’d said. It wasn’t really all that green at the moment, with silvery drifts of mist lingering in the dips and hollows and meandering along streambeds, and silver rime coating the open ground where the remnants of frost caught glimmers of weak winter sunlight. But it was beautiful, as Mama had said.

It was nothing like China, or at least the part of China she’d lived in. It was a different kind of beauty.

These English fields were like patchwork on a quilt, in squares or strips or rectangles—all neat and straight and lined with hedges, not following the flow of the land, as they’d done in China.

And the villages . . . some a mere straggle of houses along the road, others a neat, sturdy collection built around a pretty village square. There were tiny cottages and larger farmhouses and from time to time an imposing mansion glimpsed between trees.

They’d left the turnpike now. The chaise swayed and bounced over potholes in the road, throwing them against each other. She gripped her strap more tightly.

“Are you all right?” Freddy asked her. “You’ve gone very quiet, and you look a little pale.”

“No, I’m quite all right, thank you. Just . . . thinking.”

She stared determinedly out the window. She liked the small whitewashed cottages best. Were any of them like the cottage he had bought her? Some had what she could tell would be flower gardens at the front in spring. Mama had told her about English gardens. She’d tried to make one in China once, but it had shriveled in the summer, and Papa said they should grow food, not flowers.

Food . . . The chaise turned a sharp corner. Without warning her stomach lurched and she tasted bile and a bitter echo of her breakfast.

Oh, Lord, not again.

“Are you sure you’re not feeling ill? We can stop if you want.”

“I’m all right, truly,” she managed.

She stared out the window of the carriage, breathing deeply, determined not to give in to the waves of nausea that grew increasingly worse.

Without warning, Freddy opened a window and shouted to the postilion.

“What—?”

“Stubborn wench,” Freddy informed her as the chaise immediately slowed. “You’re now a delicate shade of green.” The chaise came to a sudden stop and swayed gently to and fro. “Out you get.”

“It’s nothing, just that the movement of the carriage is making me a trifle”—he opened the door and lifted her down—“nauseous,” she finished and, clapping her hand over her mouth, made a rush to the ditch on the side of the road.

After a short, humiliating episode beside the ditch, she wiped her mouth, threw away her soiled handkerchief and made her way unsteadily back to the carriage.

“Better?” Freddy said as he helped her back into the carriage.

She nodded, thoroughly mortified. “I’m sure I will be all right soon. I have the same problem on ships, but it passes eventually.” She settled herself back in her corner of the carriage. “I trust I will not inconvenience you again.”

“It’s no inconvenience at all,” he said. “I was often ill as a child. In another few miles we’ll stop to change the horses, and we’ll get you some hot tea with ginger. That often helps.”

 • • • 

T
hey had to stop twice more before they reached the post inn.

Her stomach was completely empty now, Damaris was sure. There would be no more embarrassing requests to stop, no more standing on the side of the road retching miserably. At least she hoped not.

At the posting inn, she rinsed out her mouth, washed her face and hands and tidied her hair. She glanced at herself in the looking glass. Pasty as an uncooked pie. She pinched her cheeks to bring some color to her face and returned to the travelers’ sitting room.

He made her drink a cup of weak black tea with some grated ginger infused in it.

The thought of it repelled her, but when she drank it she had to admit it did seem to settle her stomach a little. He wanted her to eat some bread too, but she refused.

“Ready to continue the journey?” he asked when she had finished.

She put the empty cup down and said in as bright a manner as she could manage, “Yes. How much farther is it to Breckenridge House?”

“We’ll stop for the night in Basingstoke and if everything goes smoothly we’ll reach my parents’ place by tomorrow evening.”

Two days of travel. The prospect was appalling. It would just have to be endured. Bracing herself for the next stage, she headed outside.

“Not that one.” Freddy took her arm and steered her away from the yellow bounder. She knew now how it got its name. “We’ll use the curricle. The fresh air will do you good.”

Her heart sank. The curricle was light and flimsy; it was probably even bouncier than the chaise. It was quite a climb to reach the seat, and her skirts kept getting in the way. He ended up lifting her bodily so she could place a foot in the stirrup, then held her by the waist as she grabbed the fur rug that someone had dumped on the seat, lifted it out of the way and maneuvered herself awkwardly into position. A more graceless process she could hardly imagine.

The wretched vehicle was designed for men with long legs, wearing boots and buckskins, she thought sourly as he climbed lithely in and wedged himself in beside her. There wasn’t much room. They sat thigh by thigh. She couldn’t give him any more room without tipping herself over the side of the carriage.

He took the fur rug, then put two fingers in his mouth and emitted an earsplitting whistle. A manservant came running from the inn, carrying an oblong wood and metal box with two handles.

“Lift your feet,” Freddy instructed her.

Damaris lifted them.

The man carefully slid the box under her feet and withdrew and she cautiously lowered her feet onto it. It was warm; she could feel the heat right through the soles of her shoes.

“Foot warmer,” Freddy said in answer to her silent surprise. “Hot coals inside it. Should last for an hour or two. We’ll change coals when we change horses.” He tucked the fur rug back around her as he spoke, then picked up the reins. “Ready?”

She was anything but, but she managed a smile and a nod, and they moved off.

The wind was cold on her face, but it was more refreshing than anything, and her feet, resting on that hot coal contraption, were toasty and warm, as was the rest of her, thanks to the rug. And to the feel of his warm body pressed all the way down her right side. She was aware of every inch of him.

He, apparently, was oblivious.

After about fifteen minutes, though, she started to feel queasy again. Freddy gave her a sideways glance. “Feeling better in the fresh air?”

“Much better, thank you,” she lied. There was nothing left in her to vomit, and anyway, this was an open carriage and she’d be able to get down much quicker if she needed to.

“Good, then you can drive.”

“What?”
She looked at him in shock, not quite believing her ears. “But I can’t drive. I don’t know how.”

“I’ll teach you.”

“I
can’t.
I don’t know the first thing about horses.”

“You’ll soon pick it up.” Ignoring her protests that she’d never driven any kind of carriage—ever—and she was not in a fit state to learn anything at the moment, he stopped the curricle, passed her the reins, which he called ribbons, and showed her how to hold them, threading them in a particular way between her gloved fingers.

“Don’t worry, these horses are complete slugs,” he assured her, and she realized they were different from the horses they’d left London with. “My mettlesome lads are back at the posting inn; my tiger will bring them on to Breckenridge at a more leisurely pace. Anyone could drive these two. Now snap the ribbons and say, ‘Walk on.’”

She didn’t move, just gave him an indignant look. If he thought he was going to force her to—

He leaned over and flicked the reins in her resistless hands and the curricle jerked into movement.

Damaris squeaked and gave him a terrified glance.

He smiled, folded his arms and leaned back, completely relaxed. The swine.

She gripped the reins tighter. The curricle was moving. And she was in sole charge. A curricle was such a light and flimsy thing. She sat bolt upright, fearful of running the curricle off the road or into a ditch or a stone wall. Or flipping it right over.

After a minute or two he said, “Good, now let’s speed things up or we’ll be three days on the road to Breckenridge instead of two.”

“But—”

“The road’s nice and straight, and there’s no traffic. Relax your hands a little.”

She glanced down at her hands and saw she had the reins in a death grip. She forced her fingers to relax—and one of the reins started to slither out of her hold. She grabbed them back and glared at the man beside her, who’d made no effort to help whatsoever.

The horses picked up speed. Scenery flew past in a blur. They were going too fast. She could overturn them any second. She glanced at Freddy and saw he was smiling.

“Is my terror amusing you?” she snapped.

“Vastly.” His grin widened. He leaned back and crossed his long, booted legs.

If she crashed the curricle, it would serve him right.

Oh, God, there was a bridge up ahead. “There’s a bridge,” she gasped. It was ancient, built of stone and so narrow they couldn’t possibly squeeze through.

“So there is,” he said, completely unruffled, almost uninterested.

“How do I make them stop?” She was going to kill him, if they ever survived this.

“Lift your hands just a little toward your chest.”

She did. The horses slowed a little but kept moving toward the bridge at a smart trot.

“Steady as she goes, that’s right,” came the calm, infuriating voice on her right.

She wanted to close her eyes but didn’t dare. She didn’t breathe, she didn’t even remember to pray, she just hung onto the reins for dear life, too terrified to move, watching the narrow passage and bracing herself for the sound of a curricle crashing into stone. Or worse.

And then they were over the bridge—and alive. And the road had widened again. She started to breathe once more.

“Well, that was fun, wasn’t it?” he said.

“Fun?
Fun?
It was terrifying.”

He gave her a lazy smile. “You enjoyed it. And you’re a natural.”

“I did not. Not the slightest little bit.” A natural? She was a natural? If she felt just the teeniest bit exhilarated, well, that was relief. She’d just had a narrow escape from death.

He quirked a brow at her. “Are you feeling cold?”

“No.”

“Sick?”

“No.” And she realized to her surprise that it was true. She didn’t feel at all nauseous or queasy.

He grinned at her. “Took your mind off your misery, didn’t it? And you learned something useful. And it was fun. Your face when we approached that bridge . . .” He chuckled.

She stared at him, speechless. Furious. Indignant.

He turned his head to meet her gaze. Those impossibly bright blue eyes were dancing with laughter. “Go on, say it.”

“Say what?”

“That I’m a swine, a beast, a heartless—”

She hit him, thumped him one-handed on the arm, because she was still holding the reins with the other hand. “You are,” she agreed in a heartfelt voice and found herself laughing with him. Because she was alive and not sick anymore, and she was a
natural
. And because it had been fun, now she looked back on it.

“I really was terrified,” she told him when they’d both stopped laughing.

“I know. Most people are, the first time. Do you want me to take over now?”

“Not yet.”

He smiled and settled back, his long legs crossed in total relaxation. Total trust, she realized. In the next hour she negotiated several bends without mishap, another bridge, a man on horseback, who gave them a wordless greeting as they passed, and a flock of geese. He showed her how to stop the horses for that. It was remarkably simple.

And then, finally a town appeared up ahead.

“Want me to take over?”

She handed the reins over without a word, thankful, but at the same time a little reluctant.

“We’ll change horses and stop for a bite to eat.”

She was about to protest that she couldn’t swallow a thing and realized she was actually hungry. “Just some bread and butter and maybe some more of that ginger tea.”

“And then another driving lesson to take your mind off things?”

“Yes, please.”

As the curricle threaded through the traffic in the town—it was market day—she said shyly, “Did you mean it when you said I was a natural?”

“I did. You have good light hands and you judged that bridge to a nicety.”

“I didn’t judge anything,” she admitted. “I left it all up to the horses.”

“Exactly,” he said. “A natural.”