The worst happened. Tears sheened her eyes before she could force them back. “I’m sorry,” she blurted, fumbling for a handkerchief. “I don’t know where those came from.”
“My guess? You haven’t had enough people in your life who root for your success. They’re more about their own selfish goals. But look at yourself. You’re a force of nature. When we met, you stayed cool, calm, and collected. You assessed the situation, figured out a plan, and executed. And now you’re here ready to take on a trip to Scotland. And you know what? It’s not because you trust me—although you absolutely should. No, it’s because you trust yourself, and that takes a special kind of strength.”
Chapter Eleven
Four hours into the journey, Lizzy found herself wedged between the stagecoach wall and Tucker Taylor. The limited space had become even more suffocating with the addition of five more passengers. A minister, who dozed off before they’d even left Salisbury’s city limits, now filled the coach with thunderous snores, accompanied by the wet, snorting harmony of a naval officer. An elderly woman and her lady’s maid, on their way to visit the woman’s daughter, who had recently delivered her eighth child, occupied the seats opposite Lizzy. And across from Mr.Taylor sat a dark-haired naval officer who repeatedly attempted to discreetly insert a finger halfway up his hooked nose.
The stagecoach’s incessant jostling on the uneven road only served to intensify Lizzy’s discomfort. The rhythmic thumping emanating through the roof mirrored the throbbing ache in her head, each thud reverberating through her skull. Two youths, paying a reduced fare to perch on the top of the stagecoach, seemed blissfully unaware of the impact of their restless kicks and roughhousing. The elderly woman descended into fits of hysteria.
“Oh, Harriet! My poor nerves,” she wailed to her maid, fumbling for a handkerchief to blot the sweat sheening her upper lip. Harriet, unmoved, clucked her tongue, adjusted her round wire spectacles, and buried herself once again in her book, the title of which had eluded Lizzy’s attempts to discover it.
The stagecoach lurched as it struck a deep rut, the violent jolt threatening to catapult Lizzy across the interior. In a flash, Mr.Taylor shot out his arm, a silent protector keeping her firmly in place. His lightning reflexes prevented her from being tossed like a rag doll. She cast him a sidelong glance, a subtle nod of her head silently acknowledging his assistance.
“Careful, dear sister.” A smirk played on his lips as a tacit understanding passed between them. Their fabricated narrative painted them as siblings who had recently returned from a prolonged stay in America, now journeying northward to visit an infirm uncle. The tale was riddled with more holes than a block of Swiss cheese, prompting them to steer clear of casual discourse, lest their deception be laid bare.
“Oh, Harriet, I’ve gone and had the most dreadful thought.” The older woman’s declaration sent a ripple of unease through the cramped confines.
“What if the coach goes off the road, plunges into a river, and we all drown in no more than a few feet of water? I heard about a man who drowned in an inch-deep puddle once.”
“We’re not passing a river, mum,” the maid replied absentmindedly, engrossed in her book. “And there are no puddles on the road. So you’ll be quite all right.”
“What about if we are set upon by highwaymen?” Her frown made her look rather like a gorgon. “The villains could rob us and then do who knows what.”
“She sounds a little too thrilled by the opportunity.” Tuck’sbreath grazed Lizzy’s ear, his words heating her already too-warm skin. She closed her eyes, breath hitching as she shifted in her seat. How did he manage to evoke so much with so little? Her corset felt constricting, as if her breasts were larger—an illusion, but they felt more sensitive, more tender.
The lady’s maid turned the page. “That’s why the coach driver has a guard.”
Indeed, there was a guard. When they’d boarded, he stood sentinel at the door.
Lizzy crossed her arms and, with the hand closest to Mr.Taylor, delivered a sharp pinch to his side. He emitted a low grunt.
“A cup of cream.”
It took Lizzy a moment to realize the older woman was addressing Mr.Taylor. He caught on a beat later. “Excuse me?”
“That’s the best remedy for indigestion. I’ve heard that sound before, and mark my words, I know the cure. Take it the moment you begin to feel bilious.”
He looked lost, confusion etched on his features.
Lizzy intervened. “What a good idea. We’ll try that, won’t we, brother?”
The older woman scoffed, and in that moment, Lizzy realized no one in the coach believed their pretense of being siblings. They likely imagined she was on a journey to ruin and damnation.
A sudden bang vibrated through the stagecoach, causing the entire carriage to shudder. Skinny legs appeared outside the window, kicking wildly. A cacophony of screams and curses filled the air, then silence settled in, an eerie calm after the storm.
“I say, what in God’s name is this, man?” The naval officer, now shaken from his stupor, was at the door, yelling.
Outside the window, the boy with the kicking legs descended from the roof into the tall grass beside the road, pale but seemingly unharmed.
The older woman wept, and the maid’s book lay on the floor, cover-side up.Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure, by John Cleland.
Somewhere in the fog of Lizzy’s mind, a small flicker of realization ignited. This book—she’d heard of it before, whispered about among friends who hinted of its shocking and provocative nature. Lizzy had never read a scandalous book and dearly wanted to try one. The lady’s maid caught her staring, hastily grabbed it, and tucked it away in her carpetbag to shield it from prying eyes.
“The bloody wheel’s lost a bearing,” the coachman shouted from outside. “We’re not far from the inn. Youse will all need to go the rest of the way on foot.”
The stagecoach had broken down three miles from the inn on the outskirts of Bristol, where they were meant to rest overnight before continuing their journey. The Crown and Horns, as the coach driver had called it, was to be identified by its red-painted door.
Dinnertime approached, and Lizzy hadn’t eaten since the tea and cakes at Salisbury, which now felt like a distant memory. This was the furthest she’d ever ventured from friends or family, and she realized that the only person who’d care if she made it to the inn unscathed was the man walking beside her.
