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Chapter Three
“Time hastens you on to eternity.”
Private Education: A Practical Plan for the Studies of Young Ladies.
Elizabeth Appleton. 1815.
“Hwyl fawr!” Isabelle waved adieu to her travel companions as the stagecoach trundled from the inn’s yard and out onto the village thoroughfare to continue its journey to Caernarfon.
In their genial company, the hours had passed swiftly. They’d shared honied oatcakes, chatted about the state of the roads, and she’d learned many a Welsh phrase.
But now with her carpetbag on the damp cobbles to her left and the hefty portmanteau of books to her right, Isabelle stood alone, a stranger in a strange land.
Forever moving on.
She swivelled and surveyed the inn’s yard.
Not a single ostler or keeper had emerged to attend their stagecoach and the establishment’s slate building appeared grim and devoid of existence. A tangle of roofs and chimneys could be glimpsed beyond the stable barns, and she surmised that this inn lay on the edge of Llanedwyn village, a whiff of wet coal and boiling mutton permeating the air.
The rain had lessened to a thick drizzle but the sky loomed low and languorous as though gathering its breath.
Sighing, she hefted her bags and hastened for the inn doo–
“Please, Rhun, please. No one will know…”
Isabelle paused.
“And I have to get back before dark.”
The voice appeared to be from the stable yard beyond, so after dumping her portmanteau and carpetbag beneath the inn’s eaves, Isabelle followed the slate wall to the corner and poked her head around.
“One mare won’t be missed, Rhun,” a young female with her back to Isabelle bewailed, her woollen riding habit muddied and dark hair loose and glistening. “Those brainless sheep startled mine and she just took off. I’ve walked miles and my toes are numb.”
“I can’t, Miss. I mustn’t,” beseeched a slouching stable lad in a leather apron. “You’ll bring me trouble, so you shall.”
With a most elaborate huff, the girl planted hands on hips, and Isabelle smiled. Not a villager, she deduced, as her boots, despite the muck, were new leather and the cuffs of her riding habit richly embroidered.
The girl tapped her foot. “You’ll be in even more trouble if I tell your pa you stole a kiss from Carys in the buttery. You know he doesn’t like you dallying with our scullery maids.”
The lad glowered to the puddles beneath his hobnailed boots and Isabelle eyed the huffing blackmailer more closely. The ducal Castell y Ddraig was a mere three miles further and the girl spoke of servants with casual ease. A growing suspicion lurked that–
“I have to get back before my next prune-faced harridan of a governess arrives.”
Isabelle folded her arms.
“Any old nag will do, Rhun, please.”
Rhun, bless his soggy stockings, did at least have the wherewithal to wince and straighten as he spied Isabelle step forth. “Miss Cadogan, I don’t thin–”
“She’ll probably lock me in my room for weeks, you realise. Or even months. I’ll starve to naught. They’ll just find my empty slippers on the rug.”
“Er, Miss…”
“And Cousin Elen says she’s French. She’ll make me learn…verbs.”
Isabelle nodded. That was true. “With conjugation in all tenses,” she added crisply.
The little terror spun, eyes wide as mallet heads. “I…”
