house.”
Mrs. Pakefield looked gratified. “They’re good souls, both of ’em. But do you say you walked from the post road?”
“Oh, it was no hardship, Mrs. Pakefield. Only I would very much appreciate a glass of lemonade. And then perhaps a cup of coffee.” She interrupted the woman’s murmured assent with a gesture towards Francis. “And my husband—oh, this is my husband, Lord Francis Fanshawe.” Her eyes had become accustomed to the gloom, and she was able to note with satisfaction the instant startled lift to the woman’s head. “My husband would much appreciate a tankard of ale to begin with, but he is excessively hungry.”
“Yes, of course, ma’am—my lady, I should say—I’ll have Cook rustle up a repast in no time.”
“Some ham, perhaps,” said Ottilia, unable to resist throwing a mischievous glance at Francis. His lips quirked, but he said nothing.
Mrs. Pakefield at once launched into a recital of the range of viands at her disposal, ushering the visitors meanwhile through the door on which Francis had previously knocked. The atmosphere at once brightened, and Ottilia looked approvingly around a roomy apartment whose windows let onto the frontage, presenting an excellent view of the green and its environs. The sun streamed in, throwing latticed shadows onto a large round table. There was another long table near the opposite wall beyond the empty hearth, with a bench behind.
“What a pleasant room,” Ottilia said effusively, crossing to look out.
A swift glance took in the tavern opposite, flanked at alittle distance by several buildings on each side, a round little grey structure in the middle of the green—a lock-up?—and a row of houses at the far end, at either side of which the divided lane led away. Behind them at a little distance rose a tower that pointed the location of the church. Ottilia could not have hoped for better.
“This is so pretty, with the view and the sun coming in.”
She turned as she spoke to examine the landlady in the better light and was pleased to note the flush of pleasure rising into Mrs. Pakefield’s cheeks.
“Thank you kindly, ma’am.” Crossing to the table, she took hold of a large brass handbell set there and rang it violently, bobbing a curtsy towards Francis. “I’ll fetch Pakefield to you, my lord, for the ale.”
“That will be most welcome,” he said, setting a chair for Ottilia at the round table.
She did not immediately take advantage of the opportunity to sit down, instead fixing her attention on Mrs. Pakefield. There was an anxious look in the woman’s eyes, which Ottilia suspected was not entirely due to the presence of her unexpected guests.
“You look a little dismayed, Mrs. Pakefield,” she ventured.
The landlady visibly pulled herself together. “No, my lady, it’s only … Well, I was wondering … You see, we don’t run to a parlour. But if you’ll make shift with this room, I can see to it that you’re private. We’ve none but the local gentryfolk at this present who come in for coffee each day. Leastways, the ladies do, and Mr. Netherburn if he don’t go across to the Cock. They won’t mind giving it up for once.”
But this would not suit Ottilia in the least. She smiled as she at last took her seat. “Do you mean Mrs. Radlett and Miss Beeleigh? I should not dream of depriving them, Mrs. Pakefield. Besides, I like company, and what in the world should we do with ourselves all alone here until such time as our carriage can be mended?”
Relief flooded the woman’s features. “It’s good of you to say so, my lady. And today of all days. I can’t think as the ladies won’t come in.”
Ottilia caught her husband’s eye briefly as he pulled out a chair for himself and sat down. She allowed her eyelids to flicker a message, and one of his brows went up.
“Yes, we understand this is a difficult day for you all,” he said pleasantly.
Ottilia sighed thankfully and threw him a look meant to convey
Mrs. Pakefield looked gratified. “They’re good souls, both of ’em. But do you say you walked from the post road?”
“Oh, it was no hardship, Mrs. Pakefield. Only I would very much appreciate a glass of lemonade. And then perhaps a cup of coffee.” She interrupted the woman’s murmured assent with a gesture towards Francis. “And my husband—oh, this is my husband, Lord Francis Fanshawe.” Her eyes had become accustomed to the gloom, and she was able to note with satisfaction the instant startled lift to the woman’s head. “My husband would much appreciate a tankard of ale to begin with, but he is excessively hungry.”
“Yes, of course, ma’am—my lady, I should say—I’ll have Cook rustle up a repast in no time.”
“Some ham, perhaps,” said Ottilia, unable to resist throwing a mischievous glance at Francis. His lips quirked, but he said nothing.
Mrs. Pakefield at once launched into a recital of the range of viands at her disposal, ushering the visitors meanwhile through the door on which Francis had previously knocked. The atmosphere at once brightened, and Ottilia looked approvingly around a roomy apartment whose windows let onto the frontage, presenting an excellent view of the green and its environs. The sun streamed in, throwing latticed shadows onto a large round table. There was another long table near the opposite wall beyond the empty hearth, with a bench behind.
“What a pleasant room,” Ottilia said effusively, crossing to look out.
A swift glance took in the tavern opposite, flanked at alittle distance by several buildings on each side, a round little grey structure in the middle of the green—a lock-up?—and a row of houses at the far end, at either side of which the divided lane led away. Behind them at a little distance rose a tower that pointed the location of the church. Ottilia could not have hoped for better.
“This is so pretty, with the view and the sun coming in.”
She turned as she spoke to examine the landlady in the better light and was pleased to note the flush of pleasure rising into Mrs. Pakefield’s cheeks.
“Thank you kindly, ma’am.” Crossing to the table, she took hold of a large brass handbell set there and rang it violently, bobbing a curtsy towards Francis. “I’ll fetch Pakefield to you, my lord, for the ale.”
“That will be most welcome,” he said, setting a chair for Ottilia at the round table.
She did not immediately take advantage of the opportunity to sit down, instead fixing her attention on Mrs. Pakefield. There was an anxious look in the woman’s eyes, which Ottilia suspected was not entirely due to the presence of her unexpected guests.
“You look a little dismayed, Mrs. Pakefield,” she ventured.
The landlady visibly pulled herself together. “No, my lady, it’s only … Well, I was wondering … You see, we don’t run to a parlour. But if you’ll make shift with this room, I can see to it that you’re private. We’ve none but the local gentryfolk at this present who come in for coffee each day. Leastways, the ladies do, and Mr. Netherburn if he don’t go across to the Cock. They won’t mind giving it up for once.”
But this would not suit Ottilia in the least. She smiled as she at last took her seat. “Do you mean Mrs. Radlett and Miss Beeleigh? I should not dream of depriving them, Mrs. Pakefield. Besides, I like company, and what in the world should we do with ourselves all alone here until such time as our carriage can be mended?”
Relief flooded the woman’s features. “It’s good of you to say so, my lady. And today of all days. I can’t think as the ladies won’t come in.”
Ottilia caught her husband’s eye briefly as he pulled out a chair for himself and sat down. She allowed her eyelids to flicker a message, and one of his brows went up.
“Yes, we understand this is a difficult day for you all,” he said pleasantly.
Ottilia sighed thankfully and threw him a look meant to convey
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