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Chapter Twenty-Four
“Nature, all-powerful nature, is the mother of true eloquence.”
Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.
Rain pelted in blustery lashes, the road to Llanedwyn village no longer visible, and each time Rhys tipped the brim of his beaver hat to glance ahead, harsh darts of water pierced his eyes. Now he was entirely reliant upon the brave Flint who plodded onwards despite bearing the weight of two passengers.
Isabelle sagged against Rhys’ chest, and as much as he endeavoured to protect her from the squalls of rain with his greatcoat wrapped around them both, a quiver constantly ran through her. Even Hugh was silent as he rode aside, a mere silhouette of black slouched hat and cloak blending into the four legs of his horse.
Hugh shoved out an arm as though the grim reaper pointing to hell, but squinting, Rhys saw dim lights appearing from the dark like stars at dusk. The village arose against a backcloth of tenebrous night, the track became cobbles and small squares of light beckoned from the approaching inn, windows unshuttered to welcome the weary traveller.
He thought of the comforting warmth of the fire inside, the famed rabbit pie of the innkeeper’s wife Carys, and a slug of liquor. What would Isabelle prefer, he wondered: a respite from the weather now or continue the further three miles for home?
Yet home would only bring turmoil and tempest. The accusations and shrieks. The furore over the return of the governess.
All of which was enough for him to nudge Flint towards the welcoming glow of candlelight behind the inn’s windows.
For all he wished to do was hold Isabelle for a while. Silent and still within the storm.
“I can no longer feel my ballocks,” Hugh grumbled, shuffling in his saddle. “So I don’t blame you, but I’ll return to the house and let them know all is well.”
“Appreciated, Hugh. Give Mari a hug. Tell her she is a genuine lady.”
“Will do, Rhys.” He tipped his hat. “Until later, Miss Beaujeu.”
A slender hand wafted from Rhys’ greatcoat. “Thank you for coming for me on this foul night, the Scandalous and Gallant Mr Cadwalader.”
Hugh laughed and Rhys frowned but Flint, doubtless wearied, ambled towards a lad who stamped his boots up and down beneath the stable porch. He grabbed the bridle and led them in, a few horses lifting their necks from their hay-laden stalls.
Unwrapping his sodden greatcoat, Rhys discovered Isabelle snuggled up to his chest; not an unacceptable location but for the fact that even his shirt was drenched. He dismounted, handed the reins to the lad and tenderly hauled Isabelle from the saddle – she slid like blancmange from a plate.
Once stood, she shivered, her forehead meeting his upper arm. He’d wrapped her in the woollen cloak that Gwen had provided but it now hung like a wet shroud.
“Isabelle, cariad, would you be partial to…” He leaned close to her ear. “A hot bath?”
She whimpered.
“A change into dry clothes?”
She groaned.
“A kiss?”
Her head shot up. “Bad Monsieur le duc.”
Rhys shivered – due to his sodden shirt, of course. But he realised he held a different Isabelle tonight, another that existed deep beneath those layers of governess starch.
He found every facet of her enchanting.
“Come.” He flung an arm around her shoulders and held her as they battled the barbarous wind to cross the yard before the inn door was hurled wide to reveal the silhouette of Dylan the innkeeper, a short broad man with fists like ham hocks.
“Your Grace!” he shouted. “What brings you here this foul night? Quick now, get yourselves inside.”
They were bustled through the door by Dylan and his wife, the sudden heat of the taproom stinging Rhys’ skin. Five locals were propped at the counter, ales in hand and pie in half-open mouths.
All at once, it struck Rhys that he urgently needed to concoct a reason as to why he was arriving at this hostelry at such a late hour, drenched through and with his niece’s governess sheltered in his arms.
