Evans woke her as they drew near the inn at Tanglewood Green. Paggles’s white head was resting on Abigail’s shoulder, and the young woman gently moved it aside to look out the window. Snow was falling thickly, and the sky was quite gray, but, despite this, the Tudor Rose was doing a roaring trade, judging by the amount of traffic.
“The river’s frozen ten feet thick,” the hostler explained to Abigail, who had not yet judged it safe to leave the carriage, “and all the young people do be skating on it.” The coach had driven across a broad stone bridge less than half a mile back, and Abigail guessed that the inn’s back garden went down to the banks of the same river. The Tudor Rose was a charming half-timbered building, and, had it not been so crowded, Abigail would have been glad to go in.
“Would you be wanting a hot cup of cider, love?” The hostler winked at her slyly, and Abigail realized the man must have mistaken her for a servant, not surprising as she was traveling with the baggage.
“No, thank you! Is Mr. Wayborn here to meet us?” she inquired from the window. “I am one of the new tenants for the Dower House.”
“The young squire’s been called away, miss,” he said more respectfully. “He waited for you all the morning. He left word for you to be looked after here. I can send a boy after him.”
A few young men were jostling about in the yard and one of them looked at her saucily. “It’s far too crowded for us to stay here,” Abigail said decisively. “I believe we must go on.”
“The young squire—” the hostler began.
“Mr. Wayborn would not expect you to argue with me,” said Abigail, feeling Paggles shivering. “It is out of the question for us to wait here in this noisy place, and if we do not leave now, the snow will keep us here overnight. Kindly tell the coachman the way to the Dower House. And we shall require another hot brick, if you please.”
When the boy brought the brick, Abigail herself tucked it under Paggles’s feet. Mrs. Spurgeon’s maid seemed amused that the young lady should lavish so much attention on her servant, but Abigail did not care if she appeared ridiculous. Paggles had been the only servant to stay with Lady Anne after her marriage to Red Ritchie, and she had always been more like a grandmother to Abigail than a lady’s maid.
The Dower House was not more than three quarters of a mile from the inn. As the coach rounded a bend of tall, ice-laden elms, Abigail looked out of the window. Her mouth fell open. The coach rolled to a stop.
“Good heavens!” Abigail cried in disbelief.
The house at the end of the drive was a handsome square cottage of rosy stone, half covered in ivy, exactly as it should be but for one thing. A very large elm tree had fallen on it recently, crushing the roof and upper attics of the left-hand side, and spraying shattered glass from the upper windows across the snow. A few men in frieze coats were standing about, shaking their heads over the mess, their breath freezing in the air.
“What is it, Miss Smith?” Evans wanted to know.
Without answering, Abigail flung open the carriage door and jumped out, forgetting in her haste to let down the step. She put her foot down, expecting to encounter something solid, then ended up falling nearly four feet down, landing in a heap in the snow.
“I believe it is customary for the lady to allow the gentleman to open the door for her,” said Cary Wayborn, helping her to her feet.
Abigail leaped at the sound of his voice, which she immediately recognized, and completely forgot about the elm that had fallen on the Dower House. She had been quite wrong in thinking she could see him again and remain rational. The sight of him and the nearness of him instantly shut down the best part of her brain. Her throat went dry and she could only stare at him helplessly. If she had been able to move, she would have run away from him, but her legs were rooted on the spot, and, besides, he was holding her hand. She was acutely aware that, despite the cold, he wasn’t wearing gloves, and his hand was quite as brown as his face. This was not how she had envisioned their second meeting.
Cary’s faith in his sister’s knowledge of London’s debutantes was so strong he did not doubt for a moment that he was looking at his Irish cousin, Miss Cosima Vaughn. While vain enough to believe she’d come to Hertfordshire in pursuit of him, the extreme boldness of the move puzzled him; he had judged her to be a young woman nearly crippled by shyness. Yet here she was, staring at him like a pole-axed doe with those oddly appealing light brown eyes.
“Good Lord,” he murmured aloud. “It is you, isn’t it? I’m not imagining things? You are my cousin from Piccadilly? Aged eleven and three quarters from the back, aged twenty-one from the front?” He began to smile at her, his eyes growing warm as the initial surprise of seeing her wore off. He was starved for female companionship in Hertfordshire, and he thought she might fill the void very nicely indeed. He might even succeed in discovering the scandal that had thus far eluded his inquisitive sister Juliet. Making her blush had already given him more pleasure than he’d had in a month. Better still, she was his cousin, and, as a blood relation, he could tease her and flirt with her as much as he liked, without arousing ugly gossip.
Abigail guessed he was the sort of man that made every woman he met feel special, and she tried to resist his smile. Sternly, she reminded herself that this was a married man.
“What brings you to Hertfordshire?” he asked politely, taking her hand.
Abigail began to stammer.
“Take your time,” he encouraged her. “I don’t mind the snow falling on me.”
She took a deep breath and expelled the words all at once. “You did say if I knew of anyone’s wanting a house.”
“But, surely you’re not Mrs. Spurgeon?” he said, startled.
“I’m traveling with Mrs. Spurgeon,” Abigail explained. She watched, fascinated, as a drop of blood trickled from Cary’s nose. It was rather like watching an archangel bleed.
Unaware he had sprung a leak, Cary looked into the coach and saw Paggles sleeping amongst the boxes. “Is that her?” he inquired in a low voice. “Why, she’s positively ancient.”
“She is my old nurse,” Abigail said, searching in her fox muff for a handkerchief. “Your nose is bleeding, sir.”
“I’m not a bit surprised,” he answered, taking out his own handkerchief to wipe his nose. “A carriage door banged into it quite recently.”
“Oh, no!” Abigail cried, unaware just how recently this mishap had occurred. “People ought to be more careful.”
“You’re quite right,” he agreed, holding his head back while applying pressure to his nose. “It was very careless of me to stand so close to the door.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean you, sir!” Abigail said, mortified that he should have misunderstood her. “It’s entirely the fault of the person in the carriage. He ought to have looked out first, before he flung open the door.”
“She, cousin.”
She fell silent, and when he brought his head down again, he noticed a telltale sheepishness in her eyes. “Does it hurt very much?” she asked, wincing in sympathy. “Really, I’m so dreadfully sorry. It’s just that I looked out the window and—and I saw the tree…”
“What tree?” he inquired politely, putting away his handkerchief. “I’ve a good few trees hanging about, in case you haven’t noticed. Was there one in particular that intrigued you?”
Abigail blinked at him in disbelief. “That tree, sir,” she said, pointing. “The elm.”
“Oh, that tree,” he said, indulging in what she thought a very odd sense of humor. “I was hoping you wouldn’t notice it was an elm. I’m quite bored with elms at the moment. I’ve been hearing stories about them all day. People who wouldn’t know an elm if one fell on their houses have suddenly become quite garrulous on the subject.”
“But