Page 12 of Pride: The Rogue
“B-Best i-idea,” Mr. Dryver called in, as he reached up to shut the panel. “G-Get out of the e-elements, miss.”
Get out of the elements? Wind and rain continued hammering through the broken window.
A laugh nearly escaped Livian, before she noted the seriousness in the optimistic servant’s eyes.
Before he could close her in what would certainly become her black lacquer casket if she stayed, Livian grabbed her valise and handed it through the opening.
After Mr. Dryver took the floral embroidered bag in hand, Livian jumped down. The servant gawked at her. Steadying her footing, she managed to tug her foot free of the sludge with greater ease than before.
“Thank you, M-Mr. Dryver,” she said, relieving the slack-jawed young man of her bag.
He dropped a low, respectful bow, and headed over to free the horses.
While he set to work, Livian, satchel in hand, started north. The weight of her skirts would stall her, and Mr. Dryver would easily overtake any progress she made.
Thunder rumbled.
“M-Miss Lovelace!” the servant cried out.
There came the slap and splash of Mr. Dryver’s boots flying through the sodden ground. “Wot are ye doin’?” he begged when he’d caught up. “Ye can’t be doing that.”
“J-Just what am I d-doing?” she managed her first real amusement of the day.
“W-Walking!” he exclaimed. “In th-this weather. Y-ye’ll c-catch your d-death. At that, c-carrying your own bag.”
“M-Mr. Dryver, be it you and I both, or me alone, if we remain h-here, it is highly doubtful we’ll s-survive,” she calmly explained. “Y-You have a r-responsibility to your team of horses.”
He dug in. “Ladies don’t carry their own things.”
Perhaps.But she wasn’t a lady. Given the way her brother-in-law, the Earl of Maxwell, and Livan’s sister, Verity, pampered her, one would never know.
“They most certainly do,” she gently said. “My sister, the countess does so every day.” Granted Verity did because she knew how ridiculous it was to not do things for herself.
The young man cocked his head.
All the while the storm raged around them.
“Mr. Dryver,” she called loudly enough to make herself heard over the increasingly violent and loud winds. “Either we remain here, in the middle of a storm chopping down the wood needed to build an arc so we might survive this deluge, standing here debating what ladies do and not do and get knocked to death by falling debris, get swept away.Or, I carry my own b-bag and begin walking wh-while you see to the h-horses.”
Mr. Dryver doffed his hopelessly drenched hat and scratched it over his head with a puzzled brow. “Can’t go about building an arc, miss. Don’t have the necessary equipment or manpower.”
Not for the first time, torn between laughing or crying, Livian briefly closed her eyes and prayed for patience. “I’m jesting, but among my s-suggested options which makes the most sense?”
“The…latter one?” Like one who thought he’d been handed a puzzle, the driver’s voice tipped up into a question.
“The latter one.”
An eternity later, Livian and Mr. Dryver and two horses, close to freezing, made it to the brightly-lit inn.
The chimney sent voluminous smoke pouring as if in welcome.
“We-we’ve done it, Mr. Dryver,” she said between tears.
“S-sure ’ave ye did, Miss Lovelace.”
As the driver went off to care for the horses, Livian let herself in the boisterous, cheer-filled, and more importantly warm inn.
Yes, her sister was correct: one’s situation could always be worse.
