Page 7 of The Duke Who Loved a Widow
Henry had inherited his father’s love of learning. He wanted to be outdoors, watching birds building their nests or squirrels gathering nuts for winter hibernation. Last summer, he had built a wormery, a true palace for worms, watching them for three days and making notes before returning them to the vegetable garden.
It’s probably hedgehogs today. He really does need a tutor, he loves learning about nature.
The woodland path felt cool, with the sun shining through the canopy above. Green leaves were forming on the trees after the long days of winter.
She couldn’t see Dash, but the spaniel must be just around the corner. In fact, she could hear Henry’s voice calling for his dog.
As she turned the corner, the path became very muddy. There had been lots of rain that week, and she suspected a spring nearby. She watched her feet, careful not to slip, wondering what sort of mucky mess Henry would be in when she finally tracked him down.
There, that’s his voice again, she thought. They can’t be far away. I wonder if Emma’s noticed Henry has gone. I suspect not.
There they are. What on earth?
Hearing a frantic barking and whining sound, she quickened her pace. Was that two dogs? Now Henry’s voice, crying out in alarm.
Arabella broke into a run, desperate to find Henry somewhere ahead of her and in distress.
Chapter 3
The Talbot Inn at Doncaster the previous night had been a nightmare. Robert had thought the coaching inns at Stilton and Grantham had been dreadful with lumpy beds, noisy all night, and mediocre evening dinner. They had left them both before breakfast as he’d refused to stay and see what mess of porridge they served in the mornings.
The Talbot was in a class of its own. Infested with fleas and unable to provide other than a plate of cheese and stale bread. Fleas, and not even a decent mutton pie.
Rain struck his face as he left the Talbot to climb into the waiting carriage. A relentless downpour had been their constant companion all the way up the Great North Road.
Grayson, his coachman, wrapped in a heavy great coat and muffler, held the team of horses steady. The two junior footmen, Nick Henderson and John Brearley, in place at front and rear, vigilant for highwaymen, a frequent occurrence on this notorious route north.
Near Stilton, the wheels had been stuck in the mud, causing a delay of several hours while he worked alongsideGrayson and his two footmen, digging out the heavy barouche carriage.
He took a deep breath as the carriage lurched sideways. With the atrocious weather they’d been having since they left London, his clothes were wet, and he felt chilled to the bone.
The last stage towards home. With any luck, he would take supper at Castle Montbury, sitting by a roaring fire, eating a special welcome home meal prepared by Cook. Cook, who had shown him how to bake cookies and bread and allowed him to raid the pantry before he went to Cambridge University.
He closed his eyes, hoping against hope that he might fall asleep with the rocking of the barouche box.
Robert fell forward as the carriage came to an abrupt halt.
“Grayson, what’s the problem?”
“Henderson’s having a look, Your Grace. Something’s amiss with the wheel.”
He saw the top of Nick Henderson’s head as he bent down in the sodden, muddy path to inspect the damage. Robert opened the door and jumped down to join him.
“It’s the axle, Your Grace. It’s come loose. I don’t think it’s broken, but it’s coming apart here. In a way, it’s a near miss. If the axle had split, the carriage would have been out of action for at least a week.
“How soon can it be mended?” The thought of returning to the Talbot at Doncaster and more stale bread and fleas was appalling.
“I reckon Mr Grayson, John, and I can mend it once we reach the next coaching inn. We’ve made good time today and are not far from the Royal Oak at Sherburn.”
He called up to Grayson, “It’s a slipped axle, Grayson. If we can go slowly to Sherburn, we can put up at the Royal Oak and mend it ourselves. It isn’t going to take more than a few hours.”
“Right-oh,” came the reply. “I’ll take it slowly and get us to Sherburn.”
An hour later, the damaged coach trundled into the yard of the Royal Oak in the small market town of Sherburn. Robert felt better when he’d eaten and asked Mrs Manby, the proprietress, to make sure his men had a substantial lunch as they worked to repair the carriage.
The sun now shone, a rare sight after days of torrential rain, and the ground looked good for riding. He went over to talk to Grayson and Henderson about the extent of the repair. The Royal Oak was a decent staging post, but he wanted to be home at Castle Montbury by nightfall.
“I reckon another two hours, three at most, Your Lordship,” Grayson told him.
