Winter Wonderland (8 page)

Barnaby pushed open the door and followed Miranda into the blessed warmth. As they stamped the snow from their shoes in the tiny vestibule, a middle-aged woman (with a head of wild, though faded, red hair pinned so carelessly atop her head that much of it was falling about her face) appeared in the doorway of what was probably a taproom. “Bless me sainted mither!” she exclaimed in a thick brogue. “What wind o' the de'il blew ye here in this storm?”

“Only shank's mare,” Barnaby said shortly. “For God's sake, woman, save your questions and take the lady to a fire.”

“Aye, sir. Yer lady does look frozen through.” The woman promptly put a proprietary arm about Miranda's waist and led her into the taproom, a room only large enough to accommodate three tables. But the fireplace was huge, and an appropriately large fire crackled within it. Miranda knelt before the blaze and, pulling off her thin gloves, held her hands up to the warmth.

The woman studied the kneeling Miranda with a look of sympathy before removing her soaked bonnet and pelisse. Then she turned to another door in the far corner. “Hanlon, ye lazy sot, come out 'ere,” she shouted. “'Tis company we 'ave! They'll be wantin' a hot toddy, so shake yer leg, me man!”

A moment later, a man appeared carrying two mugs. Short and bald, his florid face exuded good humor. He greeted the lady at the fireplace and handed her a tankard. “'Tis a specialty of the 'ouse,” he explained, smiling broadly, “called a Lamb's Wool. The name's a mite unfittin', but it'll warm yer innards.”

Miranda accepted the drink gratefully and took a swig at once. The innkeeper, meanwhile, crossed the room to Barnaby. “'Ere, sir, let me 'ave that wet coat o' yourn. Just drink this down, an' you'll be feelin' better afore it's gone.”

“A Lamb's Wool, eh?” Barnaby sniffed into the tankard suspiciously. “What's in it?”

“Cider an' home brew an' a bit o' the grape,” the innkeeper said as he went off with the wet outergarments. “Nothin' at all t' trouble yer stomach.”

Barnaby drank a draught and discovered that the innkeeper had the right of it. A delicious warmth spread through his body. Never had he tasted so satisfying a brew.

The innkeeper's wife came up to him and watched with a pleased grin as he drank. “Good, ain't it? No one's ever had a bad word fer my husband's Lamb's Wool. And now you'll be wantin' a hot supper, I'll be bound.”

“Yes, indeed, Mrs. Hanlon—it is Mrs. Hanlon, is it not?—some supper will be most welcome. Anything you have on hand, so long as it's hot. And afterwards, of course, a place to sleep for the night.”

“That goes wi'out sayin'. 'Tain't a night fer man 'r beast out there.”

Barnaby, looking down at the woman's friendly, guileless face, felt dishonest for accepting her hospitality without telling her he could not pay for it. He decided that the only honorable thing to do was to be frank with her. Not wishing to involve Miranda in sordid money matters, he motioned to Mrs. Hanlon to follow him into the vestibule. “Before we proceed any further, Mrs. Hanlon,” he confided in a low voice, “I think I'd better tell you that the Norfolk stage on which we were traveling was beset by highwaymen. We were robbed of every valuable we possessed. Thus, I've not a groat on my person with which to pay you. I won't be able to settle the bill until I pass this way again after the New Year. Do you think you can trust me until then?”

“Ha!” came a snort from behind him. Barnaby looked round to find the hitherto-beaming innkeeper standing in the doorway, but he now had no smile on his face.
“Trust
ye?” he exclaimed contemptuously. “Don't take us fer fools. We been ast fer trust afore. You ain't the first what claimed that highwaymen emptied yer pockets. But that don't mean I'll let ye try to empty ours!”

Barnaby was not accustomed to having his word doubted, but his diplomatic training had taught him that one doesn't win an argument by losing one's temper. “You do believe we were robbed, don't you? You can go to see the abandoned coach for yourself when the snow lets up,” he pointed out reasonably. “It's only five miles up the road.”

“Oh, we 'ave no doubt ye was robbed,” Mrs. Hanlon said, throwing a glare at her husband. “That stretch o' road up north is a footpad's dream.”

“Then you've dealt with their victims before?”

“And been cheated by 'em, too, givin' them trust,” the innkeeper said scornfully. “At least the footpads, when they come,” he added under his breath, “pay fer their shot in cash.”

Barnaby did not miss the implications of that muttered remark. The innkeeper had had dealings with the footpads in the past. That was useful information for the future, when he returned to deal with the felons.

Meanwhile, the redheaded Mrs. Hanlon wheeled on her husband. “Hanlon, still yer clapper, and don' be a looby! Can't ye see that this here's a gen'leman? One look should tell ye 'e's the sort'll keep 'is word. An' there's naught to be done in any case. We can't put 'em out in the snow, now, can we?”

The innkeeper frowned, shook his head and stomped back to where he'd come from, muttering something about women being as suited to business as cats to water.

Mrs. Hanlon was not in the least perturbed. “Well, that's settled,” she said cheerfully. “Ye'll pay in the New Year. With a bit extra, fer int'rest, which ye'll agree is on'y fair and proper.”

Barnaby grinned. “You're a better businesswoman than your husband gives you credit for.”

The woman winked at him. “Don' I know it!” Pleased with herself, she pushed back a lock of tumbled hair (which promptly fell back down) and led him back into the taproom. “Now then, sir, sit yerself down. I'll 'ave a supper fer ye in a trice. Do ye think yer missus'd like a bit o' mutton stew?”

Barnaby, having seated himself, blinked up at the woman. “My
missus
? Do you mean the lady there? She's not—”

“Come now, sir,” Mrs. Hanlon laughed, patting him playfully on his shoulder, “I can sniff out a married couple easy as I can a spoilt fish.”

“Can you, indeed? And just what is it about that lady and me that makes your nose conclude we're wed?”

“You ain't speakin' to one another. 'Tis on'y married folk who disregard one another that way.”

“Perhaps all married people disregard one another,” Barnaby pointed out dryly, “but not all people who disregard one another are married.”

The logic eluded the innkeeper's wife. “I ain't followin' you, sir,” she said, confused.

Miranda, who'd been listening, gave a small laugh. “What the gentleman means, Mrs. Hanlon,” she explained, looking up from the fire, “is that disregarding one another is not restricted to married people. It's the same as saying that all fish swim, but not everyone who swims is a fish.”

“Exactly!” Barnaby smiled across at her, pleased to be so well understood. “Or one could say that all artists draw, but not everyone who draws is an artist.”

“Or …” Miranda's eyes brightened at what began to seem like a game. “All tailors sew, but not everyone who sews is a tailor.”

Barnaby actually chuckled. “All doctors bleed you, but not everyone who bleeds you is a doctor.”

“That's a good one,” Miranda said appreciatively. “Let me think. Ah, yes. All murderers lie, but not everyone who lies is a murderer.”

Mrs. Hanlon blinked in sudden understanding. “Oh, I see now. All candles burn, but not everythin' that burns is a candle.”

“Yes, that's it!” Barnaby threw the woman a warm grin.

“Good for you,” Miranda applauded. Warmed in body by the fire and in mood by the game, she wanted the camaraderie to continue. “All young girls flirt,” she offered, “but not all flirts are young girls.”

It was an unfortunate choice, for it suddenly reminded Barnaby of something he'd momentarily forgotten: who she was. His smile faded and he turned away. “That's enough,” he said sourly. “The point's been made.”

Miranda's eyebrows rose. The gentleman's abrupt change of tone was a surprise. What had she said to offend?

Mrs. Hanlon looked from one to the other curiously. “Are ye sure ye ain't married?”

“No, of course not,” Miranda said, her mood destroyed.

“Heaven forbid!” Barnaby muttered.

Mrs. Hanlon could hardly believe them. “Well, ye surely fooled me. I ain't never yet seen a pair look more wedded than you.” She glared at them in sudden disapproval. “All I can say is ye'd
better
be wed, for I 'ave on'y one bedroom upstairs. If ye can't share it, one of ye'll 'ave to spend the night down 'ere sleepin' on a bench.”

Barnaby winced. “And we all know who
that
will be,” he said in glum surrender to his fate.

Thus it was that, two hours later, he found himself uncomfortably laid out upon a narrow bench in a deserted taproom under a shabby comforter, his legs hanging over one carved armrest and his head propped on the other. Above him, snug under the eaves, Miss-Miranda-Pardew-that-was was contentedly ensconced in a featherbed, warm, cozy, and probably having happy dreams of all the men she'd destroyed in the past. Of all the irritations Barnaby had suffered this day, the fact that she was luxuriously, voluptuously asleep right over his head was by far the most irritating.

He tried in vain to find a position of comfort for his weary bones, but even the blanket folded in four thicknesses under him could not soften the rigidity of the hard oak bench. “It's perfect,” he muttered to himself as he shifted awkwardly onto his side only to discover that there was no place for his damnably long legs. “Quite perfect. A perfect ending to this absolutely perfect day.” He'd started out this morning with an instinctive conviction that he should never have left home. How right he'd been!

Seven

Miranda woke the next morning and looked round her tiny room in confusion. She had no idea of the time; the air was too gloomily dark to permit her to guess how far the morning had advanced. But as she reluctantly edged herself out from under the two comforters that had kept her warm during the night, she promised herself that, whatever the time, she would set out as soon as possible for Wymondham. It would not do to allow her new employer to believe she was unreliable. She had to get to the Traherne establishment before Mrs. Traherne lost patience.

She'd lain awake half the night worrying about how she was to get to her destination without funds, but the morning brought with it a feeling of optimism. Someone would give her a ride. The surly gentleman to whom she was tied yesterday was evidently going in the same direction. Perhaps she could prevail upon him to take her to her destination.

In one quick leap, she rose from the bed and, shivering, ran barefoot to the little dormer window of her low-ceilinged bedchamber and peeped out. To her dismay, she found that the snow was still falling. The whole world was buried in whiteness, and here and there the wind had blown the snow into huge drifts. The view smote her like a blow. There would be no traffic on the roads today. How could she possibly manage to reach the Traherne household under these trying circumstances? It might be
days
before the roads cleared. What would Mrs. Traherne think of her if she arrived at Wymondham several days after she was expected? Miranda's fear that she'd be given the sack—a fear that had haunted her in the dark of the night but had subsided in daylight—now returned in all its nighttime power. What a dreadful fix she was in! She'd cut her ties with the past so completely that they were past mending. If she were sacked, where on earth could she go?

Her spirits had only partially recovered when she came downstairs half an hour later. She found the surly gentleman standing before the bow window of the taproom, staring disconsolately out at the deepening white cover. He did not hear her approach. This gave her the opportunity to study him while he was unaware of her doing so. He was an attractive fellow, she noted, with a broad forehead, thick hair and a spare yet powerful frame. He had an air of refinement, and he'd shown both bravery and cleverness in his encounters with the footpads yesterday. All that was to the good, as was his momentary flash of charm during the brief little game they'd played with the innkeeper's wife last evening. But for the most part, he was sullen and insulting. For some reason, he'd taken her in dislike. She couldn't help wondering why. Perhaps she reminded him of someone he disliked. Perhaps he'd suffered a recent tragedy which affected his mood. Perhaps he was ill or in pain and too brave to speak of it. One should not judge too harshly, she reminded herself, when one lacks the relevant information.

She really knew nothing about the fellow. He seemed a gentleman, but did he have a profession or a trade? Was he riding toward home on the stage or away from it? Was he married? Did he have a houseful of children depending on him? Why, she didn't even know his name!

It would be helpful, she decided, to make friends with him, especially if she intended to ask him to assist her in getting to her destination. Moreover, if they were to be forced to spend days in a deserted country inn waiting for the snow to let up, the hours would pass more pleasantly if the company were congenial. Perhaps she should try again to win him over.

She stepped over the threshold, put on a bright smile and said, “Good morning,” in the most pleasant voice she could muster.

He turned from the window, startled by her abrupt arrival. At this unexpected sight of her, something in his chest flipped over. Why did the sight of her move him? he wondered in dismay. But perhaps his perturbation was caused by his not having had time to prepare his defenses. Moreover, her appearance this morning was not what he'd anticipated. In the first place, her cheeks were still flushed from a warm sleep, making her look younger than she'd seemed yesterday. Then there was her hair, no longer covered by the matronly cap; it was brushed into shining smoothness and pulled back from her face into a tight knot at the nape of her neck, giving her an air of purity he found quite inconsistent with his impression of her character. Lastly, and most unexpected of all, was the look in her eyes—a look of glowing warmth and kindness. Miranda Pardew,
kind
? Impossible!