Page 6 of Destined to be a Duchess
With a nod, Anthony stepped away, leaving the rest of them to get to work. Patrick’s laugh was the first thing he heard as he circled the carriage. Miss Barclay’s eyes widened, and she quickly dropped into a curtsy. When the stranger failed to do the same, Miss Barclay pressed down on her shoulder, forcing her to bow. His mouth twitched with a smile despite the dire circumstances they found themselves in.
“Your Grace, how relieved I am to see you so well after these long years.” Miss Barclay was as deferential as ever. She released the woman, and they both straightened. “Allow me to introduce Miss Marianne Buller. She has been invited to Moorhaven Manor at the behest of Her Grace. We were completing the journey from London when ...”
All eyes turned to the carriage.
Anthony inspected Miss Buller, waiting for her to greet him. He wasn’t a stickler for propriety like some of his peers—especially not after his time abroad—but a dark part of him was enjoying watching the invitee squirm. She was slightly tall for a woman,with hair that was neither blonde nor brown, though her eyes were unmistakably green.
Undeniably pretty, with a full face and a lively gaze, she had an innocent essence that reminded Anthony of a Gainsborough portrait he had seen long ago. Her thin lips were pursed in worry or perhaps amusement. Was she stifling a frown or a smile? Anthony wasn’t certain he wanted to find out. Some things, though not all, were better left unknown.
A prod in the ribs from Miss Barclay forced her into action. “It is a pleasure to ... make your acquaintance ... Your Grace.” Miss Buller bowed again, and it was just about the worst curtsy he had ever seen.
Patrick broke the awkward silence. He was a damned natural flirt, and his interruption seemed to put Miss Buller at ease immediately. He smiled, turning towards Anthony. The sun refracted off his blond hair, making him look approachable and friendly in a way Anthony had never been able to muster.
“Miss Buller was just telling me that your mother has invited her to stay with you,” Patrick explained, his voice lilting in mischief. “It seems that manor of yours will be bursting at the seams for all the guests you’re hosting this week.”
“Mr Patrick Bowers,” Anthony introduced in turn, forfeiting his own introduction. “We have been travelling companions for the last year, having met in ...” He stopped himself from explainingfurther, unsure why he had even started. Miss Buller didn’t deserve to know anything about him until she had explained how she knew his mother.
“Well, it does not matter where we met. Mr Plym and the footman will be driving to Thetford to find a mechanic. In the meantime, I suggest the two of you join us in our coach. We will travel the rest of the way to Norwich together.”
It was not a question but an order. Despite her obvious inexperience with the aristocracy, Miss Buller seemed to understand as much. Anthony stepped aside to allow Miss Barclay and her ward to join the coach ahead of him.
He shivered as Miss Buller stepped past, filling the air with her perfume. His mother’s attendants knew better than to fragrance themselves. It drew too much attention to them. The scent was heady and floral, momentarily dazing him. Worse still, the woman looked him straight in the eye as Miss Barclay dragged her past, eliciting a nervous shiver down his spine.
“What were you saying to them?” Anthony asked Patrick once the women were out of earshot. Their hired driver guided them into the coach, the door closing behind them.
“In the twenty seconds before you arrived, you mean?” Patrick grinned, ambling towards the vehicles. “I introduced myself, and they introduced themselves in turn. Is the concept of polite conversation so unknown to you?”
“I think we can both agree that you are conversational enough for the both of us, politely or otherwise.” Anthony scowled. “Do you believe the woman’s story?”
Patrick shrugged. “There’s only one way to find out. She doesn’t strike me as a charlatan.”
Not yet,Anthony thought, watching Patrick march away.But who’s to say she’s not taking advantage of my mother’s soft, grieving heart? The sooner I can get some answers from her, the better.
Thankfully, Anthony didn’t need to wait long.
The party drove in companionable silence for twenty minutes, having seen off Plym and James towards Thetford. Anthony had watched them go from the back window, glad the carriage remained intact until they turned the bend, where they drove out of sight. The moment they arrived at Moorhaven, he would send a rider from the house to ensure the faulty carriage had arrived safely in Thetford.
It was a tight squeeze inside their hired coach. The box was supposed to seat four passengers, but the vehicle’s spaciousness had been largely oversold at the coaching station. He squeezed himself into the corner, not wanting to knock knees with Miss Buller seated in front of him. Eventually, Patrick began talkingagain, asking Miss Barclay about her history with the Colline family and gathering information about Moorhaven Manor.
Anthony had turned away, watching his home county roll past the small sliver of window accorded to him by their lack of space. He hadn’t known how it would feel to return to a town – a world – in which his father no longer existed.
So far, it felt odd, as if he was seeing East Anglia through new eyes despite having lived in these parts his entire life. It was still beautiful, despite the surrounding fields being flat as canvases, especially in that late summer light, and he longed for the morning he could take a long walk through the grounds of the manor.
As though the driver had read his mind and misconstrued the thought, the carriage suddenly stopped. Anthony glanced over at Patrick, looking out his window and seeing a small inn on the other side.
“The horses were standing too long in that heat,” the driver explained as they piled out of the carriage a few minutes later. “I’ll be just a moment, Your Grace. We’ll water the horses and be off again in no time.”
Anthony nodded, sending the driver off towards the adjoining stables. He must have remembered Anthony’s desire for anonymity. The inn was a stone’s throw from the main thoroughfare to Norwich, but it was secluded enough to ensurethat only a few travellers would pass through, if any. The inn looked mostly empty from the outside. A sign read ‘Old Buckenham Mill and Lodgings”.
Sitting along a hissing waterway, the building comprised an old water mill attached to the main inn. It was bordered by tall trees baking in the sun. Anthony glanced up at the building with its stone face and trailing ivy, wondering whether this property fell in his domain.
There were so many unknowns regarding his new title, and without his father to shepherd him properly through the transition as they had always planned, it seemed inevitable that Anthony would fail.
He gasped quietly as a hand appeared in the periphery of his vision. Miss Buller had sidled up beside him, extending a handkerchief.
“I noticed in the carriage ... your hand is covered in grease.” She cocked her head to the side, gesturing for him to take the cloth. “I have another, and it’s hardly irreplaceable. Please, take it.”
Anthony wasn’t sure where to look first. Anywhere was better than her kind eyes. Two of his fingers were black from where he had been examining the undercarriage. He was used to having stained hands, what with his work. Paint always caked under his nails, where it would lodge until his next bath.
