f’rit later.”
Eight miles! It might as well have been as far off as the moon. But perhaps the reading of the Will would be delayed for some reason. Perhaps if she arrived before the end, Mr Harwood would make an allowance for her difficulties. Having come so far, she must try.
She picked up the brown paper parcel with clean linen and her toothbrush. “If you please, will you direct me?”
The tapster stepped out of the inn with her and pointed along the street. “Turn right, ‘n’ follow the road along the stream, miss. That’s the Riddle, see. First fork in the road, go left across the bridge, second go right ‘cross that bridge, then on through Riddle Abbas ‘n’ Kingstonriddle. Jus’ past the village, by the big oak, the Addle joins the Riddle. There’s a lane’ll take ye along the Addle to Addlescombe. Can’t miss it.” He scratched his head ruminatively. “Leastways, if ye finds yoursel’ in Upriddle, ye has missed it.”
Thanking him, Nerissa hugged her grey duffel cloak close about her and plodded off. “First bridge left, second bridge right,” she repeated to herself. She’d worry about the rest later. Surely someone in the villages would point out her way.
By the time she reached the second bridge, she knew she wasn’t going to make it on foot. In a daze of fatigue, she sank down onto the low parapet and hid her face in her hands.
And then she heard the sound of hooves and wheels. A dusty curricle turned the corner behind her and started across the bridge. In a final access of hope, Nerissa jumped up and waved her arms.
As the curricle stopped beside her, she cried out, “Sir, please, are you going to Riddle...” A flood of heat rose in her cheeks as she realized the name of the next village had utterly vanished from her mind.
The driver’s blue, red-rimmed eyes brightened with amusement and a grin transformed his tired, unshaven, rather cynical face. “No, ma’am, I fear I prefer cards to charades,” he informed her, tipping his hat to reveal ruffled coal-black hair. His broken nose gave him a slightly sinister air--an Iago, or a Cassius. “However, I can offer you a lift as far as Kingstonriddle if that will be of assistance to you. I am bound for Addlescombe.”
“For Addlescombe?” Nerissa forgot her embarrassment and the stranger’s disreputable appearance. “How excessively fortunate, so am I.”
Miles gazed down at the young woman. Her face pale, with dark circles beneath the wide-set, dark-lashed grey eyes, she looked as exhausted as he felt. She could be a governess in her plain, travel-stained grey cloak, a wisp of brown hair escaping the hood, but as far as he knew Addlescombe had no need of governesses. More likely she was a rival for Sir Barnabas’s fortune.
If he left her behind, she’d miss the reading of the Will, which might be to his benefit. What a pity he had not yet sunk to such depths of iniquity! He leaned down to give her a hand up.
As she settled beside him, he urged the horses onward. A prim and proper miss to all appearances, he thought, though as a last resort she had let a stranger take her up in his carriage. He wouldn’t put it past his godfather to hold her up to him as an example of the rewards of virtue.
“Thank you, sir.” Her voice was soft, but with a curious clarity of enunciation. She sat erect despite her weariness, her clasped hands resting composedly upon the parcel in her lap. “It is of the utmost importance to me that I reach Addlescombe by nine o’clock. I hope you are familiar with the way, for the directions I received thoroughly muddled me.”
“Addled you, as one might say?”
Glancing down, he received a smile of singular sweetness. Her grey irises had an irregular circle of green around the pupils, he noted.
“My wits are addled indeed,” she agreed. “The roof of a stagecoach is not a restful place to spend the night. Perhaps I had best introduce myself, sir. I am Nerissa Wingate, the late Sir
Eight miles! It might as well have been as far off as the moon. But perhaps the reading of the Will would be delayed for some reason. Perhaps if she arrived before the end, Mr Harwood would make an allowance for her difficulties. Having come so far, she must try.
She picked up the brown paper parcel with clean linen and her toothbrush. “If you please, will you direct me?”
The tapster stepped out of the inn with her and pointed along the street. “Turn right, ‘n’ follow the road along the stream, miss. That’s the Riddle, see. First fork in the road, go left across the bridge, second go right ‘cross that bridge, then on through Riddle Abbas ‘n’ Kingstonriddle. Jus’ past the village, by the big oak, the Addle joins the Riddle. There’s a lane’ll take ye along the Addle to Addlescombe. Can’t miss it.” He scratched his head ruminatively. “Leastways, if ye finds yoursel’ in Upriddle, ye has missed it.”
Thanking him, Nerissa hugged her grey duffel cloak close about her and plodded off. “First bridge left, second bridge right,” she repeated to herself. She’d worry about the rest later. Surely someone in the villages would point out her way.
By the time she reached the second bridge, she knew she wasn’t going to make it on foot. In a daze of fatigue, she sank down onto the low parapet and hid her face in her hands.
And then she heard the sound of hooves and wheels. A dusty curricle turned the corner behind her and started across the bridge. In a final access of hope, Nerissa jumped up and waved her arms.
As the curricle stopped beside her, she cried out, “Sir, please, are you going to Riddle...” A flood of heat rose in her cheeks as she realized the name of the next village had utterly vanished from her mind.
The driver’s blue, red-rimmed eyes brightened with amusement and a grin transformed his tired, unshaven, rather cynical face. “No, ma’am, I fear I prefer cards to charades,” he informed her, tipping his hat to reveal ruffled coal-black hair. His broken nose gave him a slightly sinister air--an Iago, or a Cassius. “However, I can offer you a lift as far as Kingstonriddle if that will be of assistance to you. I am bound for Addlescombe.”
“For Addlescombe?” Nerissa forgot her embarrassment and the stranger’s disreputable appearance. “How excessively fortunate, so am I.”
Miles gazed down at the young woman. Her face pale, with dark circles beneath the wide-set, dark-lashed grey eyes, she looked as exhausted as he felt. She could be a governess in her plain, travel-stained grey cloak, a wisp of brown hair escaping the hood, but as far as he knew Addlescombe had no need of governesses. More likely she was a rival for Sir Barnabas’s fortune.
If he left her behind, she’d miss the reading of the Will, which might be to his benefit. What a pity he had not yet sunk to such depths of iniquity! He leaned down to give her a hand up.
As she settled beside him, he urged the horses onward. A prim and proper miss to all appearances, he thought, though as a last resort she had let a stranger take her up in his carriage. He wouldn’t put it past his godfather to hold her up to him as an example of the rewards of virtue.
“Thank you, sir.” Her voice was soft, but with a curious clarity of enunciation. She sat erect despite her weariness, her clasped hands resting composedly upon the parcel in her lap. “It is of the utmost importance to me that I reach Addlescombe by nine o’clock. I hope you are familiar with the way, for the directions I received thoroughly muddled me.”
“Addled you, as one might say?”
Glancing down, he received a smile of singular sweetness. Her grey irises had an irregular circle of green around the pupils, he noted.
“My wits are addled indeed,” she agreed. “The roof of a stagecoach is not a restful place to spend the night. Perhaps I had best introduce myself, sir. I am Nerissa Wingate, the late Sir