Page 54 of The Muse of Maiden Lane

Stella’s sense of impending doom swelled greater as the train bore her ever closer to home. This, at last, was the end of her adventures. There would be no more seasons. No more chances for romance.

No more Teddy.

Her thoughts drifted to him with increasing frequency as the train rattled down the track, carrying her further and further away from their brief week’s idyll in Hampshire. It began to seem so much a dream.

Good heavens, but she’d kissed him!

Or rather, he’d kissed her.

The sweet, pulse-fluttering memory of it was sufficient to occupy her thoughts for the first hundred miles of her journey. She wondered whether it was better to have been kissed like that just once, or to have never been kissed at all. The latter, she decided morosely. At least then, she’d be ignorant of what she was missing.

But not now.

Now she would have to live on the memory of that kiss until she expired as a dried-up, dependent spinster, buried in Fostonbury churchyard, her headstone proclaiming her “Daughter of” and “Sister of,” but nothing much else at all.

It was wholly unacceptable.

She expended the next twenty miles composing alternative epitaphs for herself. “Daughter, Sister, Horsewoman, and Friend,” or “Horsewoman, Friend, and Beloved Wife of—”

Of someone.

The final miles home were spent calculating the expense of purchasing her own headstone, to have engraved in advance exactly as she chose. Was it morbid to invest in one so soon? Would she stir even more gossip among the villagers?

“I am the desperate character,” she murmured to herself as she stared out the window, lost in her own gloomy thoughts.

She arrived at Fairhook Station later that evening, cold and tired, as the sun was sinking beneath the snow-covered Derbyshire peaks. It was the nearest stop to Fostonbury. Stella’s village was too small and insignificant to have a platform halt of its own. Normally, on returning from town, she and her brother hired a cab to take them home. Tonight, however, on descending the platform, she found Squire Smalljoy’s carriage waiting for her.

Stella stared at it in the light of the gas lamps that flanked the station. Never before had the squire offered the courtesy of his conveyance—not to Stella or to her brother—as far as she was aware. The significance of the gesture was unmistakable.

As death knells for her future went, it was as resounding as the clang of steel in a locomotive collision.

“The squire sent us to collect you,” the footman said, taking Stella’s bags from Lady Arundell’s manservant. “With your brother’s permission.”

“I see,” Stella said.

Drat Daniel and his matchmaking!

Under other circumstances, she would have mustered the fortitude to refuse the offer. But it was freezing out, and the chance of finding a cart to drive her to Fostonbury seemed unlikely at this hour.

She looked to Lady Arundell’s manservant. Her ladyship had instructed him to see Stella all the way to her door. “If you’ll join us?” Stella said. “You may like something to eat at the vicarage, and perhaps a bed for the night, before you resume your journey.”

“I shan’t need a bed, miss,” he said. “But a cup of tea wouldn’t be amiss.”

“You can ride outside with me, sir,” Squire Smalljoy’s footman said as he carried Stella’s bags to the carriage.

Stella grudgingly followed. She permitted the footman to hand her up into the coach.

The coachman called out to the team of chestnuts, sending the coach surging forward with a shudder. Given the snowfall on the roads, it took a good half hour to arrive at the gates of the vicarage. A swirl of smoke coiled from the modest dwelling’s crooked stone chimney, alerting her to Daniel’s presence. He was doubtless awaiting her in his book room, armed with a stern lecture regarding the dangers of women indulging in pleasure jaunts instead of adhering to familial duty.

Stella wasn’t eager to hear it. Her heart was yearning for Locket. Disembarking from the carriage, she paused only long enough to direct Lady Arundell’s manservant to the vicarage before making her way to the stable.

It was a humble structure made of green-painted wood. Locket stood inside, safe within the confines of her loose-box, bedded down for the night on a thick layer of straw. The flighty mare shifted anxiously on her hooves, uttering a shrill whinny of greeting as Stella approached.

“There’s my wild girl,” Stella murmured. Stripping off her gloves, she caught the mare’s elegant head in her hands, holding it gently as she pressed a kiss to her velvety, dark gray nose. “Have you missed me dreadfully?”

Locket snuffled in reply, emitting warm, hay-sweet puffs of breath against Stella’s cheek.

Stella inhaled deeply. Her world tipped back into place, righting itself on its axis. Everything else fell away, leaving her calm and composed, and once again her familiar, capable self. Good heavens, had she really been composing her own epitaph earlier? This was what came of being separated from Locket for any length of time.