Nobody. The very word cast her mind in other directions. There would be nobody to meet her or to miss her if she failed to arrive in London. Not this week or the next one.
Perhaps the head gardener whom she had befriended in the past few weeks might one day wonder why she had never come to visit as she had promised she would, but that would be the very most of it. She could vanish here and be swallowed up by snow and her disappearance would not cause a single ripple.
Twenty-eight years old and friendless. The thought would have made her sadder if she had not cultivated her aloofness for a reason. Protection was a many-faceted thing and her solitariness had helped when Frankwell, in his last years, had become a man who wanted to know everything about everyone.
Lord, she smiled wryly. Easier than the man he had first been, at least. She felt with her forefinger for the scar that ran down from her elbow, the edges of skin healed as badly as the care she had received after the accident had happened. So badly, in fact, that she had worn long-sleeved gowns ever since, even in the summer.
Summer? Why was she thinking of warmth when the temperature in this coach must be way below freezing point now?
The driver groaned loudly, struggling to sit, his face a strange shade of pale as he opened his eyes.
‘What happened?’
The tall man answered his question. ‘The wheel fell off the carriage and we overturned.’
‘And the horses? Where are the horses?’
‘I tethered them under a nearby tree. They should last a few hours with the shelter the branches are affording them.’
‘Brentwood is at least an hour on and Colchester two hours back.’ He hung down his head into his hands and looked across at the three figures opposite, his face curling into fear as he saw the dead passenger.
‘If they think that this is my fault, I’ll lose me job and if that happens…’
The right wheel feathered from its axle. It would take an inspector two minutes to ascertain such damage and I can attest to your good skill in driving should the need arise.’
‘And who might you be, sir?’
‘Taris Wellingham.’
Beatrice thought she had never heard a more interesting name. Taris. She turned the unusual name over in her mind as the driver rattled on.
‘The next packet won’t be along till after dawn even should we fail to arrive in Brentwood. They will think in this weather we have sheltered in Ingatestone or stopped further back at Great Baddow. By morning we will all be in the place that he has gone to.’ His hand gestured to the passenger opposite, but he stopped when the old woman started to wail.
‘It will not come to that, madam.’ Taris Wellingham broke into her cries. ‘I have already promised to ride on.’
‘Not alone, sir.’ Beatrice surprised herself with such an outburst, but in these climes a single misstep could mean the difference between life and death and a companion could counter at least some of that danger. ‘Besides, I am a good horsewoman.’ Or had been, she thought, fifteen years ago in the countryside around Norwich.
‘There is no promise that we will make the destination, madam,’ he returned, ‘and so any such thing is out of the question.’
But Bea stood firm. ‘How many horses are there?’
‘Four, although one is lame.’
‘I am not a child, sir, and if I have a desire to accompany you to the next town and a horse is available for me, then I can see no reason why you should be dictating the terms.’
‘You could die if you come.’
‘Or die here if you fail to come back.’
‘This is a busy road…’
‘Upon which we have not seen another vehicle since the journey was resumed after luncheon.’
He smiled, the warmth in his face seen even through the gloom surprising her into a blush. ‘It would be dangerous.’
‘Less so with the two of us.’
‘I’ll take the driver with me, then.’
‘Both his hands are broken, sir. Surely you can see the angle of his fingers. He is going nowhere!’
Silence greeted her last outburst, but she heard him draw in a careful breath and just as carefully expel it.
‘What are you called?’ The imperiousness of his tone brought to mind a man who seldom had to wait for anything.
‘Mrs Bassingstoke. Mrs Beatrice-Maude Bassingstoke.’ She never felt happy giving her name and this occasion was no different, though the eyes that watched her did not fill with the more usual amusement. Nay, rather they seemed to focus above her and away as if he were already plotting their journey.
‘Very well, Mrs Bassingstoke. Do you have other clothes in your bag?’
‘I do, sir.’
‘Then I should take them from where you have them and dress in as many layers as you can manage.’ He passed the fabric she had given him a few moments earlier back. ‘You will need this shawl for your neck.’
‘It is a muslin cloth, sir. From around the cake.’
He hesitated. ‘In lieu of a scarf it will do.’
Damn it, Taris thought, the thing had felt just like a woman’s scarf. Sometimes the sharpness of touch deserted him as fully as sight did and he had heard a questioning note in the voice of this Beatrice-Maude Bassingstoke.
Her voice did not suit the hardness of her name though in its careful cadence he fancied he heard the whisper of secrets.
Bassingstoke? A Norfolk family and she had made mention of Brampton. He had heard something only last month about them, though he could not quite remember what. Would this woman hail from the same bloodline? The quiet strength in her voice had helped him with everything and she had not eaten any of the cake when he had failed to understand what it was she was offering and did not reach out. Even now the small scent of raisins and rum permeated the air and he wished he might have asked her to open her bag again and cut him a slice.
The thought made him smile, though in truth there was very little humour in their situation. If a carriage or a horseman did not pass by soon he would need to get going himself, for the breathing of the older woman was becoming more shallow, a sign that the cold was getting to her. At least the lady next to him seemed determined to accompany him and for that he was glad. He would need a set of good eyes on the frozen road, one that could see even a glimmer of light in any of the fields, denoting a farmhouse or a barn. In this cold any help was gratifying. He had looked for his own luggage outside but could not glean even a shape of it in the snow. Indeed, the carriage had dragged along for a good few seconds before it had tipped and his case might be anywhere. A pity! The clothes inside it would have been an extra layer that he would have to do without, though with the driver recovered he could ask for his cloak to be returned at least.
He listened to the rustle of Beatrice-Maude Bassingstoke dressing, her arm against his as she wriggled into the extra layers. A thin arm, he realised, the bones of it fragile.
Finally she seemed ready. He wanted to ask her if she had a hat on. He wanted to know if her boots were sturdy. He voiced none of these questions, however, deciding that silence was the wiser option and that Mrs Bassingstoke seemed, even on such a short acquaintance, a rather determined woman and one sensible enough to wrap herself up warm against the elements.