Beautiful Things: Second Sons Book One

The carriage rattled down the rain-soaked road, hitting each puddle and bump with a vengeance. Rosalie groaned, holding tight to her seat with both hands. Three days of rain with no reprieve, but she couldn’t risk delaying her journey any longer. When a duchess requests your immediate presence, you don’t question it. You pack your bags and get on the first coach.

Which is how Rosalie found herself wedged in the corner of a public coach bound for Carrington. She’d been trapped in this miserable box all day, windows shut tight against the gale. Six hours with no air, forced to endure the overly informal touch of the country solicitor seated next to her. Across from her, a tradesman was asleep, his knees knocking against hers as he snored, hat tipped down over his eyes.

When she couldn’t take the stifling air for another second, she used her handkerchief to wipe the foggy window, peering out through the glass.

“Stopped raining?” the solicitor murmured, leaning against her until she felt his hot breath fan over her cheek.

She clenched her teeth as she fought down the urge to elbow him in the gut. “Mhmm.” She unlatched the window and pushed open the pane of glass.

“Do you know how much longer to Carrington, sir?” the old lady on the far side of the carriage asked.

“Can’t be much farther, ma’am,” the solicitor replied.

“How I long to freshen up,” the lady sighed.

Rosalie couldn’t agree more. Disheveled was a nice word for how she felt. She would have preferred to meet the Dowager Duchess of Norland looking less like a duck waddling in from the pond. Her dark curls were flat, her dress sticky against her legs, sweat beaded uncomfortably between her breasts. Such ghastly summer heat was most unusual for September.

The solicitor groaned, stretching his legs. “It will be so nice to—aghh—”

CRACK.

One moment Rosalie was peering out the window. The next she was crashing into the tradesman. The whole group flopped in a tangle of twisted arms and legs.

“Ouch—”

“Gerroffme—”

Outside, the horses squealed.

“Easy on! Whoa, whoa, whoa!” came the coachman’s cries. The carriage tilted at a wild angle as he reined the team to a halt. After a few panicked moments, all was still. A heavy fist rapped on the roof. “Everyone alright in there?”

The tradesman groaned under Rosalie.

“Get—off—me,” she panted, jabbing the solicitor with both elbows as his arms wrapped needlessly around her.

He moved off, helping the elderly lady right herself.

“Everyone all right?” the coachman called again.

“Ye-yes,” Rosalie replied.

“What happened?” the tradesman growled, dabbing at his cut lip.

“Broken wheel,” the coachman replied. “Dammit!”

“Stay within,” said the footman, his head popping in view of the foggy window. “It’s quite slick out here.”

“Oh, I knew we would crash,” the old lady whined. “All this rain…foolish to travel in such conditions…should have delayed.”

Rosalie held back a smile. The poor lady sounded just like her Aunt Thorpe, who was prone to nervous fits. She could only imagine how her aunt would shriek at a broken wheel. “Don’t worry, ma’am,” she said. “Nothing so broken that can’t be mended—”

Just then, the coachman rattled the door open, stuffing his face within. “Sorry ladies and gents, but it looks like this break can’t be easily mended.”

The group stared daggers at Rosalie, as if this were somehow her fault for being optimistic.

“I’ve sent the lad on ahead,” the coachman continued. “We’re not but a mile from Carrington. He’ll get us a new wheel, and we can be on our way in no time.”

“I’m sure you’ll do your best,” said the tradesman with an irritated grunt.

The carriage door rattled shut and Rosalie was left wedged next to the solicitor.

“Well,” he said with a grin. “Looks like my luck is improving leaps and bounds.”

“What can you mean, sir?” cried the old lady.

He flashed Rosalie a smile. “Only that I get to spend more time with this divine creature, eh Miss Rose?”

Rosalie stiffened. She told them all her name, as was only fitting when one shared a coach for hours on end, but he certainly had not earned the right to drop the use of her surname… or shorten her Christian name. Perhaps if Aunt Thorpe were here, Rosalie would have smiled and ignored his advances. But Rosalie was blessedly, brazenly alone.

And she would suffer fools no longer.

She snatched up her travel case and wrenched open the door, pushing her way out of the coach. Her feet sank with a squelch into the mud, and she grimaced, trying to hold her skirts out of the mess. The air smelled of wet earth, but the surrounding countryside was lovely as a painting. The rain was little more than a fine mist now. All around sat rolling hills. Off to the left, a tree line glowed in the mist, the changing autumn leaves glistening like gold and rubies.

The solicitor ducked his head out the open door. “Get back in here, you silly girl.”

“No,” she replied through clenched teeth. “The coachman says it’s barely a mile to Carrington. I’ll walk.”

She heard three confused murmurs from within the carriage.

“In all that mud?” came the old lady’s voice. “Child, what can you be thinking?”

Rosalie just squelched over to the coachman. “Sir, I will walk on to Carrington. But I’ll leave my case if you don’t mind. Can I retrieve it when you get to the village?”

“Course, miss,” he said with a tip of his hat. “We’ll settle up out back o’ the Whispering Willow.”

She nodded her thanks and lifted her skirts, squelching over to the wet grass.

“Miss Rose, do you require a chaperone?” called the solicitor.

Rosalie turned, eyes flashing. “Sir, if you attempt to follow me, I shall have to find a stick and whack you about the shins until you can follow no more!”

It took nearly an hour to reach Carrington, which assured Rosalie the distance was most certainly greater than one mile. By the time she shuffled down the high street towards the glowing lights of the Whispering Willow, her dress and pelisse were slick with mud up to her knees. Her every step squelched.

“Good evening, welcome to—heavens—” The innkeeper gasped as she eyed Rosalie. “Did you fall from a horse, dear?”

“Something like that,” Rosalie replied, doing her best to wipe her feet on the mat. “I was on the morning coach from Town. We broke a wheel about a mile out on the north road.”

“Aye, we heard about that,” the innkeeper replied. “And you…walked here?”

“Trust me, a little mud was preferable to the alternative,” Rosalie muttered, still feeling the whisper of the solicitor’s hot breath on her neck.

“Well…you’ll be needing a cup o’ tea,” the innkeeper said. “You best come with me.”

Rosalie followed the lady down a dark, narrow hall that connected to a small pub.

“Are you looking for a room?”

“I haven’t money for a room,” Rosalie replied. “My aunt only gave me enough to cover the coach fare. I’m supposed to be going to Alcott Hall. I was told a coach would meet me here to take me the rest of the way—”

The innkeeper turned. “Oh dear, Mr. Henry came already. He picked up a few high society types and left…oh, two hours ago now.”

“Perfect,” Rosalie muttered. Could this day get any worse? “How far is it to Alcott?”

“About five miles,” the innkeeper replied, showing her to a little table in the corner.

Dark wood paneling gave the public house a closed-in, cozy feel. A few crowded booths sat along one wall, a bar along the other, and a man stood in the corner tuning a violin.

“Rest yourself here, and I’ll get you set up with some tea. I’ll have my cook bring you a spot of stew too. On the house, dear, while you wait.”

“Thank you,” Rosalie murmured, taking the offered seat.

In moments, she was served a cup of tea. She sat alone, holding the cup with both hands, loving the feel of the heat sinking into her palms.

It felt daring to sit alone in a pub. Her aunt would surely disapprove. Rosalie just smiled, taking another sip of her tea. She watched as the men in the room laughed and told jokes, patting each other on the back, lighting pipes, taking swigs from their mugs of ale. It was a picture of country life. She longed to fish the sketchbook out of her travel case and capture the scene.

“Hello, darlin’,” a burly man said, dropping into the seat across from her. He spilled a bit of the frothy beer from his mug on the table. “Well, yer a pretty lass, aren’t ya! You remind me of me daughter, Bessie!”

Rosalie leaned back as the man spittled. Was she to be accosted by every unscrupulous man in England?

“Oh, leave the lady alone, Alfie,” a man called from the bar. Others chuckled, but none seemed interested in coming to her aid.

Alfie wasn’t deterred. “What’s a beauty like you doin’ alone in a pub, sweetness?”

She grasped around for something to say to make him leave. “I’m not alone, sir.”

He leaned across the table, eyes glassy with drink. He even had the audacity to reach across, trying to snatch her hand. “Course not. I’m here, ain’t I?”

She lifted her cup out of his reach, lest he spill it in her lap. Suddenly, a hand closed on her shoulder, and she jolted. The hand was firm, and far too large to belong to the innkeeper.

Then a deep voice spoke. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”