What she saw stopped her short. From within the fogbound confines of the carriage she had given up trying to make out the landscape and she was utterly unprepared. The inn stood between the road and a wide rushing stream and beyond it were mountains. Not hills. Mountains. Steep uncompromising eruptions that reached into the sky, the setting sun turning green into emerald and grey rock into gleaming obsidian. The peaks ruffled the clouds, turning the sky into something alive. She could well imagine that beyond those clouds in this strange land there would be another world, some place the valiant and brave could reach if they scaled these verdant monsters.
She didn’t even notice Lochmore come to stand beside her.
‘Is something wrong?’ he asked, frowning up at the hills.
‘What? Oh, no. It is merely that I have never seen anything so magnificent. Ever.’
He smiled and, though he looked as weary as she felt, this sudden softening of his features, and the flush of sunlight raising the green to prominence in his shadowed eyes and emphasising the raven silk of his hair, made her feel that her words would be as true for him as well. Otherworldly. Unreachable.
‘You like it.’
It was such a mild reflection of the passion the sights aroused in her, but said with such uncharacteristic satisfaction that she laughed, warmed from within.
‘Yes, Your Grace. I like it very well indeed.’
‘That is good, most people find it...daunting. Too stark for their tastes. They miss the rolling English pastures.’
They. She had heard as much from Bella when she visited Uxmore. Along with a host of other complaints. She looked away from him and back at the peaks. The clouds were tearing free of them, revealing more and more grey and green to the sun. They looked miles high, but also just within reach. It was dizzying.
‘It is stark, but that is precisely what is so magnificent. I love the English countryside, but it is a mild, warm kind of love. This is...different. Overwhelming. I don’t want to stop looking.’
They stood for a moment in the quiet of the courtyard, looking. The water gurgled and rushed past, filling the silence with life. Then he sighed and took her elbow gently.
‘There will be plenty more mountains to see, I promise. But now we should feed Jamie and put him to bed. By the tone of his grumbling those last miles, we will be lucky to avoid a scene and I, for one, do not feel equal to it. It has been a very long day and even longer week.’
She nodded, absurdly warmed by his casual hold on her arm and the assumption of intimacy in the way he shared his thoughts about Jamie. Perhaps if Alfred had lived, if they had had a family, she might one day have found herself at a similar moment. If... If... If...
* * *
The Duke’s prediction, unfortunately, proved accurate. Jamie’s grumbling and grizzling in the carriage were not calmed by the food. He kicked off his shoes, complained about the chair, the food, the fire and hovered precipitously on the verge of a full-blown tantrum.
Jo wished it was her right to sweep the overtired boy into her arms, yet all she could do was distract him and entertain him, but to no avail. A chance comment towards the end of the meal reminded him of his dog and his eyes, already red from weariness, glazed with tears.
‘I want to be home! Why didn’t we bring Flops? I wouldn’t be sad if I had Flops.’
‘We cannot bring a dog on such a trip, Jamie...’ the Duke replied. He, too, was losing the battle to remain calm and his voice sounded like gravel crunched underfoot.
‘Yes, we can,’ Jamie shot back. ‘I would care for him and he would sleep with me and I would hold him on my lap in the carriage.’
‘There is hardly any point to discussing it now, Jamie. In a few days we will be home.’
‘No, I want to be home now! I hate going to London.’
‘That isn’t what you said when we visited Astley’s and Gunter’s, the Menagerie at the Exeter Exchange and...’
Jamie surged to his feet, sweeping his plate from the table. It cracked into two half-moons and a flash of fear flickered through the storm on his face.
Jo instinctively bent to retrieve the piece closest to her, but Benneit’s hand shot out and grabbed her arm, stopping her.
‘Pick up those pieces, Jamie.’
She felt the rumble of his voice through the hand that held her arm. He was not exerting any force on her, but somehow she was incapable of extracting her arm so she sat there, watching the two Lochmores.
Jamie breathed deeply and then the word came out like a puff of smoke. ‘Shan’t!’
‘James Hamish Lochmore. Pick them up now.’
Jamie proceeded to kick the piece closest to him. As he was only in stockings this was not a wise move. The cut was not deep, but he stared at the tiny stain of red at the tip of his toe and ran into the small adjoining room where his cot was laid out, slamming the door behind him.
She waited for the wails of crying, but though she heard the creaking of the cot as Jamie flung himself into it, there was no other sound, just the Duke’s breathing, harsh against his clenched teeth as he glared at the door. He had not let go of her arm and she was not about to draw attention to herself. So she watched his fingers on the grey wool of her pelisse. The lines across each knuckle, sharply drawn. She wished she could put her other hand on his, soothe the tension, tell him not to worry.
His grip softened and though his gaze was fixed on the door as if engaged in a staring contest with it, his hand smoothed the fabric of her sleeve twice. Then he caught himself, looked down and drew his hand away. If she had not felt peculiarly bereft at his withdrawal, she might have smiled at the flush of embarrassment that marked his high cheekbones.
‘I apologise, Mrs Langdale. I did not want you to pick it up for him. He must learn to master these tantrums of his.’
‘Must he?’
‘Of course. He will one day have to assume serious responsibilities and there will be no room for such outbursts.’
The silence fell again as she weighed her words.
‘What a pity one cannot hire children.’
‘What?’
‘I think two or three would do. Once we arrive we could send them back.’
‘What the devil are you talking about?’
‘I am talking about a four-year-old boy trapped for days on end in a carriage with three adults, all in various states of ill humour. Jamie’s only sin is that, unlike some of us, he has not yet learnt to mask his ill humour. Having often travelled with a herd of ill-behaved children in carriages, I can assure you Jamie’s brand of tantrums would have gone utterly unnoticed in the Uxmore carriage over a mere hour’s journey. So perhaps if we filled the carriage with other children, Jamie’s behaviour might not appear so offensive to you. Goodnight, Your Grace.’
She didn’t wait for him to respond, but left the parlour. Running away before he could counter-attack was cowardly, but she, too, was tired and blue-devilled, and her arm was still pulsing from the warmth of his hand.
* * *
Benneit remained at the table, his mind searching for an appropriate response to Mrs Langdale’s lecture. He should at least have told her that it was inconceivably annoying how people who had no children always held such firm opinions about how to raise them.
Devil