Page 18 of New Storm Rising
“Blaaargh!”
It was confirmed. Landsickness was a thing. As the coach rolled to a stop, I managed to leap out just in time to avoid decorating the inside of the carriage in lovely vomit-beige.
“Can you threaten to cut my salary again?” I enquired weakly, clutching the side of the coach for support.
“Gladly. But I very much doubt it will have the desired effect.”
Unfortunately—or maybe fortunately, for the sake of my wallet—I had to agree.
“Could you maybe support your dear wife a little?”
Mr Ambrose cast a glance around at the workers and stable hands scattered through the courtyard. “You mean the dear wife that is walking around in men’s trousers and a tailcoat?”
I groaned. “Never mind.”
“I thought as much.”
Taking a few deep breaths to settle my stomach, I glanced around. A shoddy wooden house built in a U-shape surrounded a muddy courtyard with wheel tracks criss-crossing in the dirt. Panting horses that looked like they’d just come back from a nice little express trip to Timbuktu stood here and there. People with bags of fodder and suitcases were hurrying around.
“Where are we, anyway? What is this place?”
Mr Ambrose cocked his head. “What do you think? You didn’t expect to travel the entire way to our destination in a privately rented coach, did you? Do you even have any idea how expensive those are?”
“So instead…?” I enquired, starting to get a bad feeling about this.
“Instead, we’ll go for the tried and trusted alternative!” Striding forward, he stepped up beside one of the panting horses, standing next to a rickety carriage. “Stagecoaches. The very best way to travel in this country of vast possibilities.”
Just then, the horse’s eyes rolled up in its head, and it collapsed to the ground with athump.
I met Mr Rikkard Ambrose’s gaze and raised an eyebrow.
“It’s cheap,” he stated, managing to completely ignore the fainted horse beside him.
“Fancy that.”
Just then, a rotund man came rushing out into the courtyard, rubbing his hands and beaming like a house on fire. I supposed it wasn’t every day that an upstanding gentleman wealthy enough to afford a private carriage randomly decided to ditch his fancy ride and come to this place.
“Welcome! Welcome to my humble establishment, gentlemen! What can I do for ya?”
“What you do for anybody else here.” Dusting off some dirt from his mint-condition ten-year-old tailcoat, Mr Ambrose stepped forward. “Provide speedy transportation. My name is Mr Rikkard Ambrose. We need passage for three to Harrisburg, and farther southwest from there. This is Karim, my bodyguard, and that is Mr Linton, my private secretary.”
“Right ya are, right ya are, boss! At your service!” the portly man bowed, extending a hand first to Mr Ambrose, then to me. “My name’s Burk. Jeremiah Burk. Delighted to meet ya, gentlemen.”
Giving him a broad smile, I stepped forward and grabbed his hand. “Delighted to meet you too, Mr B—luuurgh!”
Needless to say that, after that little incident, he wasn’t quite so delighted to meet me anymore. Judging by the volume of the station master’s curses, travelling by stage coach wasn’t going to be quite as inexpensive as my dear husband had been planning. Oh heck, so what? Mr Blurgh would still have to give us a room for the night, right?
***
Correction: he had to give ustworooms.
“Blasted social conventions!” I punched my pillow. “This is ridiculous! Why can’t two men snuggle together?”
As I lay in my lonesome, solitary bed, for the first time I sincerely regretted that I had come on this journey in my male outfit.
“Seriously?” I punched my pillow. “When I get back, I’m gonna start a new campaign. Same-sex love for the win!”
Never mind such little details as my lack of actual equipment under the trousers. Details, shmetails!
