Page 32 of The Bastard's Iberian Bride
Paulette sleptin fits and dozes, the hustle and bustle of the inn, so unlike her quiet bed in the country, jostling her awake most of the night. Well before dawn she lit a candle, nudged Mabel, and quietly dressed.
There would be room on the coach going south, the innkeeper had promised Mabel the night before.
Paulette sat in the small public parlor, a cup of tea going cold, a blank piece of notepaper mocking her.
At this hour, the local ale-drinkers were all home and rising to care for their animals. The room was quiet, the morning fair. Mr. Gibson had been unwilling to travel at night. He would still be abed.
She set her pencil to the paper.
Dear Mr. Gibson,
She propped her chin in her free hand. PerhapsDearwas too strong. Perhaps she should have omitted it and just begun with his name.
It was too late now. If she rubbed it out it would leave a dark mark.
I thank you for your kind offer to escort me to Cransdall.
She looked up at the naked antlers racked above the fireplace, someone’s dead trophy. And how had the innkeeper obtained that? Some rich man had made a gift of it probably, not out of kindness, but because he’d grown tired of the prize.
Mr. Gibson wasn’t escorting her out of kindness, either. He wanted to dump her on Bakeley.
And—had he actually saidhewas going to Cransdall? Or was he merely sending her in Kincaid’s care?
You are absolved of all concerns for my care, nor do I wish to receive any financial considerations which might necessarily create an appearance of indebtedness to you.
She lifted her pencil. That sounded a bit insulting. He’d been a bastard for all of his life and forced to work for a living. None of that was his fault. She had no wish to offend him.
Not because it isyou,but because I have lived inobligation and obediencefor all of my life and am quite tired of it.
Quite so bloody tired. While tossing and turning during the night, she’d had a chance to speculate on the amount of her trust and her inheritance. Once she’d disposed of her business with the solicitor, surely she and Mabel could live quite simply in the country. Not in her own village, where Mr. Cummings ruled, but elsewhere.
She would give up the idea of a Season in London, which had always been a fairy dream, much like her thoughts about taking up her mother and father’s trade. She could teach drawing, and music, and French to the children of tradesmen and the local gentry. She and Mabel would have a garden and chickens. They would not starve, and in the quiet moments, she would try to get back what was hers from Agruen and figure out her father’s mystery.
She jabbed her pencil at the gnarled table. She was settling, damn it. Damn it, she would find a way to find the life that should be hers, once she worked out what that was.
A raised voice came from the kitchen and she tilted her head. From here, she might not hear the mail coach horn. She must hurry and finish this.
I am going to London to seek out my trustee, and my parents’ solicitor. I have received an accounting from the innkeeper and will pay you back as soon as I have arranged all my affairs, which shall be very soon, I believe since the amount is not so great as I had anticipated.
She took a sip of her tea and frowned. It had gone lukewarm.
And she did not know how to end this.
A distant horn sounded, and her heart beat faster. She hurriedly set her pencil to the paper.
Sincerely,
Paulette Silva Heardwyn
Mabel rushed in with Paulette’s spencer, and she folded the note, wrote Mr. Gibson’s name on it, and handed it to the man on duty.
A servant picked up their bags and led them out through the heavy oak door.
The air, fresh with the morning dew, carried the scent of horses and leather. Lantern lights bounced off the bright yellow coach, painted quite like the dog cart, quite like a bumblebee ready to flit away. Her heart lifted.
Ostlers jostled a new team into place, readying the coach to leave within minutes, and in the shadows near them a man lingered, watching them work.
She extracted her ticket from her reticule and approached.
The man turned and her heart fell. It was Mr. Gibson.
