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Authors: Lynne Connolly
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maid bustled out, the lappets of her cap whipping out behind her in her haste to leave the room.
Connie had some mending to do after breakfast, which left her clear to think. As her fingers flew over the sheets and the handkerchiefs, she pondered the letter. Apart from the lack of transport, it seemed a reasonable request but she was puzzled that he hadn’t sent a carriage or arranged for a post chaise, much as she disliked that form of transport.
Or at least, that the Downhollands hadn’t done so. They had arranged for one for her recent visit to their house.
If he’d obtained an invitation to a presentation at court, that was a coup, although she’d have to buy a mantua, an old-fashioned gown she’d have no use for afterwards. Or she’d wager she could hire one.
She dropped the sheet she’d darned and picked up a handkerchief that needed edging.
Jasper’s protestations of love and passion seemed a trifle overdone but gentlemen often paid extravagant compliments in the hope they would receive more in return. Hastily, Connie moved away from that thought, although she would have welcomed the attentions of someone else in her bed and concentrated on turning the corner of the handkerchief neatly. Alex was someone she must never think of again, except as a passing acquaintance.
By the end of a relatively restful afternoon, she had made her decision. She was to dine at the vicarage that night and as Saxton helped her dress, she put matters in train.
“I need a ticket to London on the stage next Wednesday. Two tickets. Inside the coach, please. I’ve written a note to Mr. Dankworth, telling him of my arrival and I want that sent as soon as possible.” She picked up the string of amethyst beads she’d inherited from her mother. Not as grand as most London ensembles, but it would do. It would certainly do for tonight. She straightened so Saxton could tighten her stays.
“I’ll require someone to accompany me. I’d prefer you, Saxton, since you’re a sensible woman and unlikely to let the sights overcome you but if you decide you cannot, Benton will do. I’ll be marrying Mr. Dankworth in London. We’ll hold a ball when we return to celebrate the event locally.” They could hire the Assembly Rooms in local Pantown. “Saxton, can you please stop tugging at my laces? That’s quite tight enough.”
Although Connie was standing with her back to Saxton she could see her in the mirror. The maid’s round face flushed beet red. “Sorry ma’am.” She must be overset, because she didn’t call her Missus. Or maybe she was excited. The untypical fumbling was a clue. “I’ll tell Harrison about the letter and I’ll send him to buy the tickets in the morning. Just wondering, ma’am but why don’t you hire a chaise?”
“I don’t see why I should pay a fortune to travel in that kind of discomfort. It’s fast, to be sure but the roads aren’t suitable, or at least the ones we took weren’t. So I might as well pay a modest amount and still be uncomfortable.”
The only way she’d travel in comfort was on a good road, preferably a turnpike, in a well-sprung, private vehicle, taking its time. Since she couldn’t afford that, she’d make do with the stage.
“Yes, missus.”
At least they were back to that.
* * * *
Could people die of boredom?
When Connie thought there was nothing new to say about the weather, one of her fellow passengers on this godforsaken vehicle thought of something else.
The occupants of the inside of the coach were so respectable they could have given her vicar a run for his money. They discussed the weather, the French, who they hated to the last man and woman, the strangeness of the Londoner and the irresponsibility of the ruling class. Especially its young men who did nothing that they didn’t want to.
Connie could have disabused them of that notion but she chose not to. However much the motherly woman sitting opposite her probed and poked, she enlightened her no
Connie had some mending to do after breakfast, which left her clear to think. As her fingers flew over the sheets and the handkerchiefs, she pondered the letter. Apart from the lack of transport, it seemed a reasonable request but she was puzzled that he hadn’t sent a carriage or arranged for a post chaise, much as she disliked that form of transport.
Or at least, that the Downhollands hadn’t done so. They had arranged for one for her recent visit to their house.
If he’d obtained an invitation to a presentation at court, that was a coup, although she’d have to buy a mantua, an old-fashioned gown she’d have no use for afterwards. Or she’d wager she could hire one.
She dropped the sheet she’d darned and picked up a handkerchief that needed edging.
Jasper’s protestations of love and passion seemed a trifle overdone but gentlemen often paid extravagant compliments in the hope they would receive more in return. Hastily, Connie moved away from that thought, although she would have welcomed the attentions of someone else in her bed and concentrated on turning the corner of the handkerchief neatly. Alex was someone she must never think of again, except as a passing acquaintance.
By the end of a relatively restful afternoon, she had made her decision. She was to dine at the vicarage that night and as Saxton helped her dress, she put matters in train.
“I need a ticket to London on the stage next Wednesday. Two tickets. Inside the coach, please. I’ve written a note to Mr. Dankworth, telling him of my arrival and I want that sent as soon as possible.” She picked up the string of amethyst beads she’d inherited from her mother. Not as grand as most London ensembles, but it would do. It would certainly do for tonight. She straightened so Saxton could tighten her stays.
“I’ll require someone to accompany me. I’d prefer you, Saxton, since you’re a sensible woman and unlikely to let the sights overcome you but if you decide you cannot, Benton will do. I’ll be marrying Mr. Dankworth in London. We’ll hold a ball when we return to celebrate the event locally.” They could hire the Assembly Rooms in local Pantown. “Saxton, can you please stop tugging at my laces? That’s quite tight enough.”
Although Connie was standing with her back to Saxton she could see her in the mirror. The maid’s round face flushed beet red. “Sorry ma’am.” She must be overset, because she didn’t call her Missus. Or maybe she was excited. The untypical fumbling was a clue. “I’ll tell Harrison about the letter and I’ll send him to buy the tickets in the morning. Just wondering, ma’am but why don’t you hire a chaise?”
“I don’t see why I should pay a fortune to travel in that kind of discomfort. It’s fast, to be sure but the roads aren’t suitable, or at least the ones we took weren’t. So I might as well pay a modest amount and still be uncomfortable.”
The only way she’d travel in comfort was on a good road, preferably a turnpike, in a well-sprung, private vehicle, taking its time. Since she couldn’t afford that, she’d make do with the stage.
“Yes, missus.”
At least they were back to that.
* * * *
Could people die of boredom?
When Connie thought there was nothing new to say about the weather, one of her fellow passengers on this godforsaken vehicle thought of something else.
The occupants of the inside of the coach were so respectable they could have given her vicar a run for his money. They discussed the weather, the French, who they hated to the last man and woman, the strangeness of the Londoner and the irresponsibility of the ruling class. Especially its young men who did nothing that they didn’t want to.
Connie could have disabused them of that notion but she chose not to. However much the motherly woman sitting opposite her probed and poked, she enlightened her no
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