Page 8 of Lady Mary's May Day Mischief
“Ha! How about an Army man! Someone who’s been to France and Belgium and—”
Mary winced. “I don’t want to talk about the war.”
“I don’t blame you.” Fifi sighed.
They rode in silence for many minutes.
“I’m glad we weren’t joined by any more passengers this morning,” Fifi said as the rickety coach creaked and groaned over the road east. “Odd, don’t you think, that so few are traveling?”
“It’s a short distance. I’d say most would take the trip in their own conveyances.”
Fifi touched a fingertip to the fraying leather upholstery near her window. “As would we if I still owned mine and yours didn’t need repair.”
“Your Aunt and Uncle Courtland will welcome us no matter how we arrive. They always do each year.” Mary shifted in the lumpy squabs as the carriage jounced along. Her own had broken an axel and her groom, now working alone in her mews, had not had time to repair the vehicle before today’s journey.
“Before we arrive, let me say this about Esme.” Fifi looked about as if to find the rainbow in the matter. “To be fair, she is not so rabid to rise in society that she would wed a man she didn’t care for. And Northington deserves to be loved.”
Mary rejoiced at this largesse from Fifi. It meant she was coming around to her usual bright self. That way, she’d catch a man not merely in jest, but in truth. Even Welles, who normally showed no emotion, toyed with a grin over this.
“Oh, my dear, you deserve it too,” Mary said.
“And you,” Fifi added, her normal cheer glowing in her blue eyes. She removed her glasses, tucked them away in her reticule and rubbed the bridge of her nose.
“Ahh, well!” Mary waved away Fifi’s belief. Only once had she felt the desire she heard other women claim they bore one certain man. That was two years ago when Blake was home and the elation of a romance between them was so fleeting she had to discount it as fantasy. “I don’t think there is anyone for me.”
“You have much to share with a man. Besides, for this party, you promised me you would flirt.”
The coach lurched to one side.
“What’s happen—?” Mary slid against Fifi as the coach shivered and shook.
Welles yelped as she fell forward onto Mary. “Milady!”
Horses neighed.
The conveyance swayed one way, then shuddered…and stilled.
Mary was crushed against Fifi.
Welles was on the floor, blinking at her mistress.
Outside the horses raised a ruckus.
The coachman and his three footmen shouted at each other.
Welles pushed backward, but gained no traction. The coach wobbled on an angle and Welles fell to her knees once more. She clamored to one side to try to right herself. “I’ll get help, milady.”
Fifi jiggled the handle of the door to try to open it. “Stuck.”
Mary’s bonnet slid over her left ear, the ribbons strangling her. She tugged at them and tore them away. She tried to push up from Fifi. “We could say that the famous Flying-Post Coaches from Bath to London, don’t fly at all.”
Welles fell upon the coach door and rammed her shoulder against it. The coach jostled at her thrust, but did not move. Still, at the precarious angle the coach hung, this maneuver looked dangerous to Mary.
“Stop, Welles. Don’t risk your safety.”
“Milady,” said Welles, “we must get out. I’ll try the door again.”
“I won’t have you hurt, Welles. Let the men get us out.”
