Capel Bodfan, Wales, July 1817
Miss Isolde Farrington peered out of the carriage window, although much of the view was obscured by rain on the glass. It mattered not, she thought with disgust. There would be trees, mist-shrouded and dripping, or soggy hillsides dotted with sheep. If there were a town it would be small, with too many Ls in its name, and not enough vowels.
The post-chaise lurched sideways; Izzy clutched the strap, then let out a breath of relief as another lurch set it into forward motion once more.
“Oh, heaven protect us!” Miss Amberley prayed.
Izzy rolled her eyes. This journey had already taken two days longer than it should, but the only dangers had been the prospect of sliding into a ditch or getting stuck in the mud. Inconvenient, certainly, although unlikely to be life-threatening. But her chaperone saw every ditch as a precipitous ravine, and every muddy road as a quagmire ready to suck the chaise into its depths.
Is that how spinsters end up? Izzy wondered if Miss Amberley had been like that all her life, the worry causing the wrinkles and the grey hair. Thank goodness she was only a temporary chaperone for this journey.
Aunt Eugenia must be nearly as old as Miss Amberley. Papa was forty-five, and Aunt Eugenia was the next oldest sibling. Heaven forfend she was as twittery and fearful as Izzy’s companion. This exile in Wales would seem long indeed.
“If only I’d gone to see my sister in June, before all this horrid rain started,” Miss Amberley lamented, not for the first time, or even the tenth.
If only you had.
“It was very good of dear Lord Bedley to allow me to go on to Aberystwyth in his post-chaise after I leave you with Miss Farrington. Such a gentleman, your dear papa.”
Izzy tried not to listen. Her punishment could have been worse—Papa could have sent Miss Templeton, their governess, with her. But that would have meant Mama having to exert herself to supervise Viv and Lynnie for well over a week. Looking after two daughters should not have been difficult, but Mama preferred to lounge in the parlour with a book, or gossip with her friends. Izzy was happy to be without the governess—even Miss Amberley’s twittering was preferable to Miss Templeton’s scolds.
“Oh, we must be nearly there.” Miss Amberley rubbed the window and peered out. Izzy could see only trees—still dripping—through her own window, and the horses and postboys blocked much of the view ahead. She leaned over to see what her companion was looking at.
They were descending the side of a wide valley. Miraculously, the rain had stopped, and Izzy could make out a river below, flecked with white foam as it flowed through fields and between clusters of buildings. The tree-clad slopes beyond the river rose to bare moorland, still with patches of grey cloud clinging to its top.
“Is that Capel Bodfan?” Izzy asked. It looked more like a village than a town.
“I hope so. Tanner did say we should be there this afternoon.”
The buildings resolved themselves into a church and a scattering of dwellings and shops arranged around a street that crossed a bridge over the river.
Why did Aunt Eugenia still live in such an uninviting town? Papa said she’d been left a house by some great aunt on her grandmother’s side of the family, but she could have sold it and moved somewhere more civilised.
The post-chaise rattled over cobblestones and pulled to a halt in front of an inn. Y Ddraig Goch, the sign said. Izzy supposed it meant ‘red dragon’, for a painted statue of such a beast adorned the top of the porch. Beside it, lower buildings filled the street, most with shops on the ground floor. The dwellings were narrow, with just one window between each front door.
The footman opened the chaise door, rain dripping from the brim of his hat. “This is Capel Bodfan, Miss Farrington,” Tanner announced. “The postboys don’t know the town—they will have to ask directions to your aunt’s house. Do you wish to wait in the carriage?”
“We will wait in the inn.” There was no guarantee her aunt had received Papa’s letter, and she might not be at home. It would be good to wait somewhere warm and dry while Tanner called on her aunt. “You may have my trunk taken in.”
“Very well, Miss.” He let the step down and moved away. Izzy heard him giving orders to someone behind the chaise.
She set her bonnet on her head and tied the ribbons, then fastened her pelisse. Miss Amberley was still fussing about the chaise, collecting her own bonnet, knitting, and reticule. Izzy stepped down without waiting for Tanner’s help, grimacing as her foot slid on the slick cobbles.
The air outside was still damp, and cold for July. It might save time if she could ask one of the local people for directions to her aunt’s house, but apart from the sodden postboys and a man unstrapping her trunk, the road in front of the inn was deserted. She fished the piece of paper with the address out of her reticule. How on earth did one even say the words?
“Tsk, no-one here to meet you, Miss Farrington?” Miss Amberley said. “I hope we do not need to take a room here while someone finds your aunt. My sister was expecting me two days ago.”
Yes, I know. You’ve told me so. Repeatedly.
Izzy sighed, and looked along the street. Was she doomed to spend the next month or more in a tiny house like one of these, in this wet weather?
* * *
Rhys Williams squinted up at the sky, then back at the track before him. The rain had eased to a fine drizzle, and now was little more than a persistent dampness in the air.
“Only another mile, Seren,” he said, leaning forward to pat his horse’s neck. “You can have some nice hay and a dry stable.”
Seren whickered in reply, and plodded on along the lane. Rhys took off his hat and knocked it against his boot to rid it of raindrops.
Damned weather—last year had been bad enough. The warmth in June had given hope of this year being better, but now the rains had returned. Even so, it was good to be away from home for a while. Away from the office, and from Uncle John’s hints about his cousin Sophie’s forthcoming seventeenth birthday. But enough was enough—he’d be glad to get indoors. He needed to check if his things had arrived, and perhaps change into cleaner gear before he called on the Lloyds at Plas Coed.
Finally, he reached the outskirts of Capel Bodfan and turned down Bridge Street. A smart chaise stood outside the inn, its sides liberally plastered in mud. A man Rhys remembered as one of Morgan’s grooms stood behind it, unfastening a trunk.
A young lady stepped out of the post-chaise, clad in a pelisse of deep blue frogged with gold. A much older woman descended to the cobbles beside her and looked around, an air of faint puzzlement on her face.
Rhys cast another glance at the travellers as he dismounted by the inn door. The young woman turned her head, and Rhys gave a silent whistle of appreciation. Eyes as blue as a Spanish sky, hair the rich colour of chestnuts, and lips like red wine, all set in an oval face. She spoke to the man with the trunk, who just shook his head and walked into the inn. Rhys slung his saddle bag over his shoulder and took hold of the reins.
“Excuse me?”
Her voice carried well. Rhys wondered who she was talking to as he started to lead Seren through the low arch to the stables.
“You with the horse!”
Rhys looked around. The animals from the post-chaise had already been stabled; he was the only person nearby with a horse. He turned to face her.
That expression would curdle milk.
“I’m looking for Miss Farrington, at…” The woman broke off to consult a piece of paper in her hand. “Stryd y Bont,” she added, mangling the pronunciation as most English people did. “Do you know where that is?”
Farrington? The only Englishwoman he knew around here was Mrs Lloyd.
His brow creased as a sense of familiarity nudged at his brain; he’d heard the name Farrington before.
Izzy tapped her foot as the yokel puzzled over her words. His mount was a magnificent beast, a black gelding with a white star on its forehead, but the man’s serviceable garments indicated he was from the lower orders.
Had he misunderstood her? Or perhaps he had not understood her at all—this place was deep in the heart of Wales.
“Do… you… speak… English?” She made her voice loud and clear to give him the best chance of understanding.
The man nodded, one side of his mouth curling up.
“Where is Stryd y Bont?” Was that the name of a house or a street? Had she even said the words correctly?
He took off his hat, revealing brown hair that curled loosely where it wasn’t soaked. His eyes narrowed as he scratched his head.
Was he a farmer? His skin was tanned, as if he spent a lot of time out of doors, and the mud on his steed and on his boots suggested he’d ridden some distance.
“Well?” she prompted.
“By yur, isn’t it.” He spoke in the sing-song tones of all the natives she had encountered on the journey.
“What…? What does ‘by yur’ mean?”
He pressed his lips together; the creases at their corners and beside his grey eyes gave the impression of suppressed laughter.
At me?
“This road, Miss. Bridge Street, isn’t it.”
“I asked you about Stryd…” Izzy shut her mouth with a snap, heat rising to her face as she realised that Stryd y Bont must be the Welsh for Bridge Street.
“Diwrnod da, Miss.” He knuckled his forehead and led the horse away.
Izzy’s eyes narrowed—were his shoulders shaking? He was laughing at her!
“Wait!”
“Miss Farrington, you must not call out like that.” Miss Amberley put one hand on Izzy’s arm. “It is most unbecoming for one of your station.”
“Excuse me, Miss Farrington, Miss Amberley.”
“What is it, Tanner?” Izzy took a deep breath. As Papa said, one should not vent one’s anger on the servants.
“Will Miss Amberley be staying here, or should I have fresh horses put to?”
“I can’t leave you here, Miss Farrington,” Miss Amberley said. “Not until I have given you into the care of your aunt.”
Izzy sighed. “We will be here for at least an hour, Tanner, possibly more. I’m afraid I don’t know yet how long we will be.”
“Very good, Miss.”
Tanner, too, knuckled his forehead and set off in the same direction as the rider.
“Let us go inside, Miss Farrington, please! We can ask the innkeeper to make enquiries for us. And we may take some refreshment while we wait.”
A sudden sense of guilt rose as Izzy took in the lines of tiredness on her companion’s face. The woman couldn’t help being irritating.
“You’re right. Let us find the landlord.” It would be good to sit on something that did not jolt and sway.
A groom came out of the stables to take Seren. Rhys went into the inn by the back door and through to the taproom, something still prodding at his memory.
“Mr Williams, croeso yn ôl.” Gwen, rosy-cheeked and plump, greeted him as she pulled him a pint of ale without being asked. “The carrier left your trunk here.” She nodded to one corner of the room.
“Thank you.” Rhys put his money on the bar. “Gwen, do you recognise the name Farrington?”
The woman nodded. “Yes. That was Mrs Lloyd before she married. Why?”
That was it. The Lloyds were already married when he first met them a couple of years ago, but he must have heard the name when he’d been visiting.
“There’s a young woman wanting to find her, but she has an address on Stryd y Bont.”
“That’ll be right,” Gwen said. “Lived three doors down, she did, when she first come here.”
Rhys scrubbed his hand through his damp hair. If the young woman was going to stay with the Lloyds, they wouldn’t have space for him as well. “Do you have a room here for a few nights? And someone to send a message to Mrs Lloyd?”
“I’ll see to it,” Gwen promised. “Fancy a bit of mutton pie?”
* * *
Izzy laid her pelisse over the back of a chair in the inn’s cramped parlour. “A pot of tea, if you please,” she said to the innkeeper. “I need to find a Miss Farrington. Do you know her?”
“Someone’s already gone with a note, Miss,” the man said. “You was expected a couple of days ago, see?”
“Very well. Thank you.”
“Miss.” The landlord closed the door behind him.
Izzy took off her bonnet and peered in the mirror over the empty fireplace. The curls framing her face had become sadly crushed, and she took a few minutes to wind them around her fingers and tuck in stray strands. The maid at last night’s inn had only been able to achieve a simple hairstyle.
“Such a pity your maid could not accompany you,” Miss Amberley said. “But the poor girl would have had to ride outside with Tanner in all this rain.”
Doing without Mary was part of Papa’s idea of punishment.
“Do you think your aunt will be able to find a maid for you here?” Miss Amberley looked out of the window, doubt clear on her face. “It’s not a very big town.”
“Papa said I would have to share my aunt’s maid, and help to look after myself.”
“Oh. Oh dear.”
What he’d actually said was that managing for herself would give her a taste of what life would be like as an impoverished spinster, but she could not say that to Miss Amberley. It was too close to the woman’s own situation.
“Do you think your aunt will come soon?” the chaperone went on, her voice querulous. “Tanner says it will take another four or five hours, at least, for me to get to Aberystwyth, and I would like to get there today.”
Izzy made an effort to suppress her impatience—how could she know when her aunt would arrive? “We shouldn’t have to wait long.” The man with the horse had said the street outside the inn was Stryd y Bont, where Aunt Eugenia lived, so she should be quite easy to find.
“Will you recognise her when she comes?”
“I’m not sure,” Izzy said. “I was only nine years old the last time I saw her. We were living at Convale Place then, and she was at Bedley Park with Grandpapa.” Izzy had a vague memory of dark hair and laughing eyes, but much could have changed in eleven years.
“Convale Place? Where is that?”
“Hertfordshire. It’s one of Papa’s lesser estates. I think he didn’t want to live in the same house as Grandpapa when he got married. We only moved to Bedley Park when Grandpapa died.”
“I do hope she arrives soon.” Miss Amberley’s face creased in worry again. “I don’t want to be on the road when darkness falls.”
A serving woman brought a tray with tea and a plate of biscuits. Miss Amberley filled their cups and passed the milk, but the activity didn’t stop her chatter for long. By the time Izzy noticed a one-horse gig pull up outside she had started to wonder if the penalty for murder was the same in Wales as in England. This could not be her aunt—why would she come in a gig if she lived on this street?
“Mrs Lloyd is here, Miss,” the landlord said as he started to gather the tea things.
“Mrs…?” The query died on Izzy’s lips as she gazed at the woman who followed the landlord into the room. It wasn’t her pelisse—good quality, if a few years out of fashion—but her face. The shape of her eyes and nose, a slightly wide mouth—there was some similarity to Izzy’s own features, but a much stronger resemblance to her father. She had the Farrington chestnut hair as well, although she was shorter than Izzy.
“Aunt Eugenia?”
“Hello, you must be Isolde.”
Aunt Eugenia had a friendly smile, Izzy saw with relief. She looked much younger than Papa, too, not to mention slimmer and healthier. Perhaps it was the lack of frown lines.
“Will you introduce me to your companion?”
Izzy remembered her manners. “This is Miss Amberley, who accompanied me here. She is to visit her sister in Aberystwyth, and Papa said the chaise could take her there before going home.”
“Miss Amberley.” Aunt Eugenia nodded.
To Izzy’s surprise, Miss Amberley curtsied. “Can I leave Miss Farrington with you, then, Miss Farr—, er, Mrs Lloyd? I have some distance yet to go.”
“By all means.” Aunt Eugenia turned to the landlord, still loitering in the doorway. “Please have the horses put to, Morgan.”
“Right you are, Missus.”
Aunt Eugenia waited until the landlord had gone before sitting down. “Are you making a long visit to your sister, Miss Amberley?”
“A month, at least. Longer, I hope.”
“Excellent. Aberystwyth is very pleasant, is it not? Have you been there before?”
Izzy was consumed with curiosity about her aunt’s marriage—a marriage that Papa did not seem to know about—but had to listen to the two older women discussing the merits of Aberystwyth until Morgan returned to say the post-chaise was ready.
“I will leave you in good hands, then, Miss Farrington,” Miss Amberley said.
“Have a safe journey,” Izzy replied. “Thank you for escorting me.”
“Are you ready to accompany me home, Isolde?” Aunt Eugenia lowered her voice to little more than a whisper, even though they were now alone in the room. “It would be best to save our questions for somewhere more private. In a village like this, word will have spread of your visit; there is no need to give them all the gossip at once.”
Izzy nodded mutely, and followed Aunt Eugenia out of the room. Had her aunt just winked at her?
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