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Mr Hartfield looked angry. He shut the carriage door, scowling at the roof of the carriage. “This trip is a farce,” he muttered. “It is just one delay after the other.”
Delia felt a pang of pure relief. Yes, she wanted to get to Bradford as much as Mr Hartfield did. But she had just been dreaming of a long, extended rest.
I will be able to bathe! I can sleep in a bed!
The driver set off again, at a reduced pace. Before long, they pulled alongside a brightly lit inn. Everyone climbed out, stretching and talking in an animated way, clearly as relieved as she was to have a long break. All except Mr Hartfield, who was still scowling as he strode into the inn.
There was confusion as they sorted out rooms for the night. The inn didn’t have enough rooms for everyone, and there was only one private one. Miss Tilney quickly elected to take the small, private room that was as large as a broom closet. Mr Hartfield and Mr Hawkins had to share a room. Mr Giles grinned, saying he would bunk down in the stables amongst the straw.
Delia was assigned to share another room with Sister Mary Majella. They climbed the rickety stairs together. When they walked into the room, Delia baulked. It was plain and spartan, with two narrow twin beds. There was a small bowl and pitcher for washing but no bath. Her dream of reclining in a hot bath burst like a bubble.
“Well, it will do,” declared the nun briskly. “It is a lot better than sleeping in that carriage, pressed up against Mr Hawkins.” She turned to Delia. “At least you do not snore or smell, colleen. That is something to thank the Lord for, so it is.”
She scurried around, placing her dog-eared bible on the small table beside a bed, as well as her large bag containing her knitting. Delia sighed, sitting on the other bed. It was hard and uninviting with threadbare blankets. But she knew that the nun was right—at least she would be able to lie horizontally while sleeping at least and not be pressed up against other people. There would be no continual jolting like in the carriage.
Their trunks were brought up and placed at the door. Sister Mary Majella dragged hers into the centre of the room, opening it with a flourish. Before long, she was totally absorbed.
Delia sighed, feeling her heart clench as she gazed at Minnie’s battered trunk. At least she could change clothes. She dragged it to the other side of her bed, where there was a modicum of privacy, before unlatching the lock. Her heart pounded as she peered inside.
There wasn’t much. Three gowns, neatly folded and pressed. Minnie had always been very neat and orderly. Some undergarments, including a worn chemise and petticoat, were among the packed items. A small box was nestled in a corner. Intrigued, Delia reached for it and opened it.
It contained a small brooch that didn’t look like it was worth very much. She had seen similar ones for sale at local fairs. There was a small piece of paper folded in half beneath it. Delia opened it.
For Grannie. I hope you like it. Love Minnie.
Delia’s heart clenched. The brooch was Minnie’s gift to her grandmother—her grandmother, who she hadn’t seen in a very long time. Her eyes filled with tears.
She had stolen this chance for Minnie to spend time with her grandmother. Her maid had said she would still make her way to Bradford, come hell or high water, and meet Delia at her gran’s home. But what if that never happened? What if Minnie hadn’t been able to escape and was stuck in Surrey, being interrogated as to where her mistress had fled?
What if Minnienevermade it to Bradford?
She felt so bad that it was like an ache in her chest. Her impulsive decision to run away was going to cost Minnie so much. And even though the maid had said she was wanting to move north anyway, and that the arrangement suited her, Delia suddenly wasn’t so sure. Had Minnie just said that to put her mind at ease? Because she knew that Minnie would do anything for her. Her friend’s loyalty was immense.
Her decision had upended Minnie’s life, as well. And there was no telling what the fallout would be.
She had been so selfish, so focused on her own problems that she had played with the life of her maid. She swore to herself that if Minnie never made it to Bradford, she would find the maid and help her, come what may, even if it meant exposure for herself.
With trembling hands, she placed the note and brooch back in the box, tucking it into the corner of the trunk. Then she discovered something else. A small vial. She picked it up, taking out the stopper. The scent of rosewater wafted towards her. It was Minnie’s perfume, and it reminded her so forcibly of her friend that another wave of sorrow washed over her.
She placed the vial on her bedside table. She would wash and change and then she would dab herself with the perfume. It would keep Minnie close to her and remind her of her vow.
I will not desert you, Minnie. I will find you. I swear it on my life.
***
Ambrose wandered into the main room of the inn. There was a scattering of locals standing at the bar, but no one from the coach was down yet. He wasn’t surprised. They were probably resting, luxuriating in the fact they had unexpectedly gotten rooms for the night. That pertained to everyone except Mr Giles, who was, unfortunately, bunking with the horses, but the man hadn’t seemed perturbed by it.
He walked to the bar, ordering an ale, before sitting down at a table in a far corner by himself. He didn’t feel like socialising with the locals. He was surprised that Mr Giles wasn’t among them, pouring as many ales down his throat as he could. The man had a drinking problem, but he wasn’t offensive, at least. He was a happy-go-lucky drunk. That was something to be grateful for.
He took a long sip of ale, grimacing. In one sense, he would have preferred sharing a room with Giles rather than Mr Hawkins. The man stank. Fervently, he hoped Hawkins would avail himself of the wash basin in the corner of the room. What the man really needed was a good long soak in a bath, but unfortunately, that wasn’t going to happen in this place.
He thought about the man’s claim that he owned a fleet of ships and that he’d had tea with the Queen. He thought it unlikely, given the man’s poor-quality clothing and lack of personal hygiene. It was a tall tale. He had met characters like Hawkins before, who invented life histories. So long as he wasn’t a confidence man, then it was harmless enough. Nonetheless, he would keep an eye on him. He had made sure that his trunk was securely locked before he had left their shared room, just in case.
He sighed, taking another sip of ale. He felt morose. As much as it would be good to sleep in a bed for the night, this unexpected, extended stop was taking precious time off the journey. He felt a band tightening around his head. What was happening at his factory in Bradford? Was his manager that had been left in charge coping? Was he going to get back to find chaos and ruin?
I must stop this worry. It does no good. If anything has happened at the factory, it will just have to wait until I get back.
Determinedly, he tried to push the worry aside. He was stuck here for the night, and there was simply nothing he could do about it now.
