Page 27 of The Cornish Bride

Chapter Twelve

Sitting in her room, Ysella tumbled thoughts through her mind, searching for a solution to her predicament. For that was how she saw it. She had been thwarted by her brother, and her stubborn streak had no intention of letting him win. She was meant to be with Oliver, and no argument Kit could propound would make her change her mind. What a mean, selfish pig Kit was to treat her in this way.

She had to meet up with Oliver again, but now Kit knew she’d gone riding without a groom in attendance, she was unlikely to get away with that again. He’d be watching her. And he’d have the grooms watching her as well, knowing him. With no one to see, she gave in to the impulse to stamp her foot. Several times. Not even if she were to ride at six in the morning, which in any case would probably still be dark, would she be able to sneak out to meet Oliver. And on top of that, she couldn’t hope that Oliver would spend his entire day riding back and forth through the more remote corners of the estate in the hopes she might escape surveillance and join him.

No. She had to get a message to him.

But who could she send? Not Martha, who had already made her disapproval of Oliver obvious and had probably informed Mama about her rendezvous with him in the park in London. The dreadful tattletale would go straight to Mama, or even worse, to Kit, should Ysella entrust her with a missive for her beloved. She had to find some other way of getting in touch with him. At least she knew where he was staying.

Try as she might, however hard she racked her brain, she couldn’t come up with any solution. Well, she might as well write him the letter she intended to send, and keep it on her person in case an opportunity arose to send it. That would be an excellent idea.

She sat down at the bureau in her room and opened it. In one of the neat little alcoves resided the rose scented notepaper her dear friend Caroline Fairfield had given her at Christmas. “For writing notes to friends you will make in London, and perhaps to gentlemen admirers,” Caroline had said. That would be perfect. She took a sheet and picked up her pen. What to write?

‘Deere Oliver, I must apolagize for my brothers behaviortodayyesterday. He isveryextremely worrid for his wife, my deerest friend Morvoren, who has beenveryill. Or he would not I know have asked you to leeve so presipitusly. He still refuses any callers at allwhileat the moment, but I am certun he will come around. I have an ideer that I will visit my dressmaker in Marlbro with my maid and think he will not be so desprut that he will want to acompny me. They are the Missis Segewick in the High Streat. I will come on Wensday at noon. Your Ysella.’

There, that was a good letter. He wouldn’t mind the crossings out. Ysella was not the best of communicators by letter, as Morvoren could verify, but she didn’t care. She’d said what she wanted to say and arranged a meeting that no one could eavesdrop on. Now to find someone to take the letter to the Castle Inn, and make sure it wasn’t that flapjaw Martha who would accompany her on Wednesday. She folded the letter, dripped some sealing wax onto it and when that was dry, carefully wrote Oliver’s name and address on the front. Captin Oliver Feathuston, The Cassle Inn, Marlbro. Done.

As it happened, luck favored Ysella, and on descending the stairs the next morning for breakfast, her blighted love not having diminished the hunger caused by having missed dinner the night before, she found a messenger boy waiting at the foot of the stairs.

A quick glance around showed no one else about. “You, boy,” she called softly.

The boy, who looked to be a farm boy of about fourteen, turned his head. “Me, Miss?”

Ysella laughed, partly at her good fortune in coming downstairs at the very moment when a useful boy had presented himself and partly at the look of amazement on his face at being accosted by the daughter of the house. That she presented a very pretty countenance, she well knew, and it seemed the boy had noticed.

“Yes, you. I don’t see any other boys about, do you?”

The boy fidgeted his feet and, as though his hands had suddenly grown enormous, quickly put them behind his back.

Ysella reached the foot of the stairs, and approached him, fixing her most charming smile on her face and batting her eyelashes at him. “What are you doing here?”

The boy fidgeted still more under her gaze, his cheeks taking on an alarming ruddy hue. “I-I had a message for his lordship. I’m waitin’ for a reply… Miss.”

Ysella wasn’t in the least interested in what the message had been about. Instead, she batted her eyelashes a bit more at the boy, who reddened even further and took a step back as though afraid she might be dangerous.

She followed him, until his back came up against the wainscotting and stopped him from retreating further. “Do you think you could carry a message for me?” she purred, slathering on the charm.

He nodded, eyes big in his rosy-cheeked face.

She stepped back, satisfied. “Perfect. Do you think you can carry a message for me as far as Marlborough? To the Castle Inn?”

The boy hesitated. Marlborough was a long way away for a boy on foot, and he’d probably be in trouble with whoever had sent him to the Abbey if he was away all day with no explanation for his absence.

Ysella pounced. “I can pay you.” She held up her reticule in which she kept her pin money and gave it an encouraging shake. “But… you have to tell no one you’ve delivered my message. No one at all.”

The boy’s muddy brown eyes had grown wider at the mention of money. No doubt he was unused to having any of his own if he worked for his father on the estate. Any money he earned would go straight to his family, bypassing his own pockets.

“I c’n do that, Miss,” he whispered, as though awareness of the secret nature of his mission had been immediately borne in upon him. He held out a grubby hand, the nails broken and blackened.

Ysella took the note out of her reticule and handed it over to her unlikely Cupid. Rummaging a little deeper, she came out with a handful of coins. Picking through them, she found a threepenny bit and held it up.

The boy’s avaricious eyes narrowed a little and he didn’t take it. His gaze fixed instead on the pile of coins in Ysella’s hand.

Ysella sighed. “Very well, sixpence for you, young man, and you will need to hurry.” She chose a second threepenny bit and the boy took the two coins with evident delight.

“Who do I give it to, Miss?”

“It’s written on the letter.”