Page 17 of The Virtues of Christmas
Please argue with me. Please contradict my brisk conclusions, or at least express a hope that we might meet again.
“I’ve come to Inglemere with an eye toward selling it.” His lordship used a gloved finger to brush a wind-whipped lock of hair from Henrietta’s cheek. “My sisters bide in Oxford itself, so owning a town house there makes more sense. If you ever have need of me, I can be reached at the home of Clarissa Brenner, Little Doorman Street.”
Worse and worse.
“I have brothers in the environs of Amblebank,” Henrietta said. “They won’t gainsay my father, but neither do they disdain my company. A wealthy sister is allowed a few peccadilloes.”
I sound bitter.
Probably because I am bitter.
Henrietta was also tired, cold, and once again a lone female making her way against all sense on a path of her own choosing.
The coachman, Logan, came down the inn’s steps. “Ye canna bide here, mistress.”
“What do you mean?” the baron snapped. “Miss Whitlow has been traveling all day. She’s hungry, chilled, fatigued, and due a respite from my company. You should be unloading her trunks as I speak.”
Must he be so ready to get rid of her?
“I’m sorry, guv, but this inn accepts no overnight custom. The innkeeper and his wife are elderly, and they’re off to await the arrival of a new grandchild in Oxford. The housekeeper says we can get a fresh team and a hamper, and warm up for a bit in the common, but there are no beds to be had here.”
No beds? How ironic that a courtesan, who generally plied her trade in a bed, should be so pleased to find none available.
“What sort of inn stays in business by letting its beds go empty?” his lordship fumed. “I’ve never heard the like.”
“Beds are a lot of work,” Henrietta said, which earned her a look of consternation from the baron. “The innkeeper would need maids to change the linens daily, laundresses to do endless washing, heaps and heaps of coal to heat the wash water, more maids to tidy up each room, every day. More coal to keep those rooms warm, and all for not very much coin. The kitchen and the stable generate most of the profit for an establishment like this.”
His lordship peered down at her. “How do you know that?”
“I need investments and have considered buying a few coaching inns. Widows often own their late husband’s businesses, and thus a female owning an inn isn’t that unusual. It’s a chancy proposition, though. Very dependent on mail routes, weather, and the whims of the fashionable.”
“We can continue this discussion inside,” his lordship said. “Get me a fresh team, Logan, and leave Miss Whitlow’s bags on the coach. We can push on to Inglemere as soon as the moon rises.”
The baron took Henrietta by the hand and tugged her in the direction of the steps, and a good thing that was. Left to her own devices, she might have stood in the snowy yard until nightfall, marveling that his lordship had more or less invited her to spend the night at his own house.
* * *
The storm had obligingly taken an intermission, and in the bright illumination of a full moon on new snow, Michael and his guests continued on their way. Lucille was at least awake, which meant he had more incentive to keep his conversation free of innuendo, overtures, or outright begging.
He wanted time alone with Henrietta Whitlow, heneededtime alone with her trunks. Having her as an overnight guest at Inglemere would tempt him to arrange the former, when he must limit himself to the latter.
“I do believe it’s getting colder,” Lucille muttered. “Does that sometimes, when snow lets up. You think it’s cold, then winter stops funning about. How much farther, milord?”
Too far. “We’re better than halfway,” Michael said. “If you’d like to continue to Amblebank, I can have Logan drive you tonight, though I’d suggest you leave your bags with me to make the distance easier for the horses.”Please say you’ll go.
Please stay.
I’m losing my wits.
“Miss Henrietta,” Lucille said, “if you make me spend another minute longer than necessary in this coach, I will turn in my notice, so I will.”
“You turn in your notice at least once a month,” Henrietta said. “In this case, such dramatics won’t be necessary. Nobody in Amblebank would be alarmed if my arrival were delayed until next week, though I do want the children to have their presents on Christmas morning.”
She’d at least be spending her holiday around children. Michael would have to journey into Oxford for that privilege.
“I never know what to get them,” he said. “My nieces and nephews. Two of my sisters are married and between them have a half-dozen children. I’m at something of a loss when it comes to presents. My brothers remain in Ireland, so the issue is less pressing with them.” Fine spirits for the menfolk, silk for his sisters, but the children were a puzzle.
Miss Whitlow passed him the flask of tea they’d been sharing, though the contents had grown cold within a mile of the inn.
