Ever His Bride (21 page)

“I need to see the Leicester Union Workhouse
for myself, Lillian, before I deliver up Kerrie to them.” She
walked the few blocks to Sparkenhoe Street, took one look at the
dreary, ill-kept, six-sided brick edifice then stumbled back to the
Evesham and sat in the morning room with Lillian, watching Kerrie
through the kitchen door, standing on a stool, merrily scrubbing
that morning’s dish, singing brightly about a duck on a
spillway.

“What am I going to do, Lillian?”

“The vicar and I’ve been trying to shut down
that workhouse for years. And now the Board of Governors have
reopened the stoneyard. There’ll be even more blood on their hands,
if not a riot.”

“I can’t leave her in that dreadful place!
And I surely can’t take her with me.” Couldn’t possibly take her
home to a man like Hunter Claybourne and his unfathomable,
unrelenting prejudice against the poor.

Lillian was smiling oddly when she left the
table to stand at the kitchen door. “Such a sweet-natured little
thing. They’ll soon beat it out of her at the workhouse. I’ve a
mind to— Tell me if you think I’ve gone mad, Felicity, but I want
to keep her.”

“Here?”

“I would welcome the company, and I’m certain
that Kerrie could use a home.”

The answer was almost too simple. “Oh,
Lillian, that’s a grand idea!”

“I’ll check with the vicar this very morning;
he’ll know what to do, how to make it legal.” She took Felicity’s
hands. “You’re an angel, Felicity Mayfield.”

“No, you’re the angel, Lillian.” She hadn’t
the heart or the energy to tell her that she was now Felicity
Claybourne, the much-indebted wife of a man who quite possibly
would allow little Kerrie to starve—given a penny’s profit.

Felicity left Leicester as the day clouded
over; the weather grew ever wetter the farther north she traveled.
She disembarked at Durham to change trains for Blenwick and Giles’s
apprentice school.

With all the changes in her schedule, she’d
missed the infamous Cheese Race in Brimsleigh, but there was
another turf maze near the parish church at Blenwick, and a
supposed connection to Richard the Third at the Brightwater Arms,
where, with any luck she’d find a charming room for the next few
days and could treat Giles to an outing and feed him till he burst.
How fine it will be to see the boy again, his cheeks rosy, his
limbs not so painfully thin.

“Felicity Claybourne?”

She heard her name through the rain just as
she’d been about to climb the steps to the third-class car, stopped
and turned to find a conductor peering at her in a way that
reminded her far too much of Mr. Cobson.

“Who is it you want?” she asked, wise enough
to offer as little information as possible.

“Please come with me, ma’am. There’s been a
change in your ticket.”

Absurd. “What do you mean by ‘change’?”

“This way, if you please, miss.” He snatched
her ticket out of her hand and started toward the rear of the
train.

“But there’s nothing wrong with my ticket,
sir!” Indeed the new car was still third-class, but it was
protected by a solid metal roof and rain-stopping leather curtains
along the roofline. “I’m going west to Blenwick through
Stanhope.”

She ran to catch up, but the conductor had
stopped at the last passenger car.

First class. Bloody hell! Whatever the
problem it was Claybourne’s doing. It had to be!

“Give me back my ticket.” She made a grab for
it but missed.

“Your ticket’s no good, Mrs. Claybourne. It’s
this car or none at all.” He opened the door and motioned her
inside.

A paraffin lamp glowed from a double sconce,
and a new boiled-water heater warmed the compartment like a cozy
parlor, wrapping her in its invitation as it poured heat out into
the night air. She had always envied the people who traveled in
these private coaches, a third of a railcar in size and large
enough to permanently house three families from Bethnal Green.

“We’re in station for only a few minutes
more, miss. Please climb aboard.”

“No, thank you, sir.” If Claybourne thought
he could control her all the way from London, he would soon learn
otherwise. “And if you won’t give me back my ticket, I’ll go
purchase another, and wait for the next train.”

The conductor’s worried eyes darted up over
the top of her head and fixed there with an anxious frown. “Sorry,
miss, there’s not another train to Blenwick until tomorrow.”

“Very well; I’ll just stay the night on a
bench here in the station. Looks comfortable enough for me!” She
turned from the conductor and would have stalked off, but there was
a very tall and very familiar obstacle blocking her way.

“Not comfortable enough, wife. You’ll be
riding with me.”

H
unter knew better
than to smile down at the fuming woman, though he was so damned
relieved to find her, he could hardly speak. It had taken him all
day, but here she was. Safe and sounding perfectly fit.

“I’m not going anywhere with you, Mr.
Claybourne. How dare you insert yourself into my business trip!”
She looked like something dredged up from a drowning. Her bonnet
missing; her hair wet to the scalp. Her eyes were as big and bright
as the moon, and blazing with anger.

“I’ll not have my wife riding in an open car
like a Guernsey cow to market.”

“A cow? You follow me all the way from London
just to call me a cow?”

“Enough.” Not wanting the woman to make any
more of a scene on the crowded platform than she already had, he
scooped her and her portmanteau into his arms and stepped up into
his private compartment, then slammed the door behind him.

“So. You’ve imprisoned me again, Mr.
Claybourne.” She wriggled out of his arms and backed up against the
bench seat. “Don’t you ever tire of this game?”

“Where have you been, Miss Mayfield?”

“I haven’t been anywhere yet, though God
knows how I’ve tried. Now, step aside and let me out of here!”

The train shuddered forward, and Hunter
caught hold of the luggage rack above his head to keep from
pitching to the floor.

“You have remarkable timing, Mr. Claybourne.”
She threw her portmanteau onto the seat behind her, seemed entirely
unaffected by the jerking movement of the train, as untroubled as a
sailor riding out a violent storm on his sea legs.

“Tell me where you have been!”

She lifted that stubborn chin. “You followed
me here. You tell me.”

He’d have fired Tilson for such
insubordination. He tossed his hat into the rack. “You were to
telegraph me, Miss Mayfield.”

“I’ve been away one night. You knew where I
would be.” She settled back into the seat, seemed to be sizing him
up for a coffin.

“You were to stop in Derby last night. You
didn’t.”

“I . . .” She dropped her gaze, then unwound
herself from her soggy cocoon and stretched her hands out toward
the heater. “I was detained along the way.”

“Detained how?” By whom, he wanted to ask. He
remembered the delight in her eyes when that young reporter had
embraced her. Couldn’t concentrate on his accounts for the memory
of it, for wondering who she would meet in her travels, who might
be waiting to enfold her in his arms. He’d wondered most of all why
the thought of her meeting another man set his blood to
boiling.

“I stopped to see a friend,” she said,
picking hairpins from her hair.

“What sort of friend?” He took his usual
place in the center of the seat opposite, chiding himself for
sounding too much like a jealous husband. It wasn’t that, at all.
He was jealous of his name, his time, his reputation, nothing more.
That’s why he’d purchased a wedding band for her—merely to simplify
their relationship. But now the damn ring had begun to burn a hole
in the pocket of his waistcoat.

“I visited a woman I’ve known since I was a
child. She lives in Leicester, runs an inn there.” She seemed too
easy with her explanation, fluffing her hair and speaking
offhandedly in that smoke-wrapped voice that warmed the air around
him. “I stayed the night with her.”

“You didn’t telegraph me with your changed
itinerary.”

“I didn’t have time, Mr. Claybourne.”

“You should have made time.” He waited for
her response, but she only blinked twice, sighed her dismissal of
the subject, and began unlacing her soaking wet boots.

“How did you find me?”

The woman must believe herself invisible in
her travels, rather than the uncommon passenger she is. “You leave
crumbs at every stop, my dear. And the telegraph is a powerful tool
for reaching ahead.”

“That doesn’t explain what brings you
here.”

He snorted and unfolded the
Times.
“I’ve come on business.” Had left London by an express car late
last night, hadn’t slept a wink since.

She glared at him as she hung her shawl on a
hook behind her. “I hope you don’t expect me to return to
Claybourne Manor with you.”

“Go wherever you like.” He forced his
attention away from the cynical shake of her head and went back to
the news of the day. But his gaze was drawn to her movements. She
leaned back against the side wall of the compartment and stuck her
legs out in front of her on the seat. So comfortable, so settled.
So like a stream that easily found its way down the mountain, no
matter the obstacle in its path.

Where the devil had she been the night
before? He’d wandered the shadowed halls of Claybourne Manor,
dodging sticks of furniture he’d never seen before, following
fragrant trails that lead to clouds of cut flowers. Twice he’d
started toward her chamber, only to remember that she was gone.

“This woman in Leicester,” he said, lowering
the newspaper to study her more closely. “How do you know her?”

“Is this an investigation, or are you bored,
Mr. Claybourne?”

It had taken Hunter years to train his staff
not to answer his questions with other questions.
She
did it
constantly. He’d been allotted only a single year with his
wife—chances were slim that she would change in so short a time. He
decided to look bored.

He gave a half-shrug, yawned too easily.
“Just idly curious, Miss Mayfield.”

She studied him, her gaze touching his eyes,
then riding leisurely across his mouth until a quickening rose up
in his chest. She offered him a grudging smile.

“Fair enough. Mrs. Paget’s late husband was
my father’s surveyor.” She gathered her stockinged feet up under
her skirt and covered her legs with a blanket. “We knew everyone
along the railways. Mother died when I was six. From then on, I
traveled with Father. I lived where he lived; learned geology,
surveying, drafting, geometry—”

“Geometry?” He greatly doubted this store of
knowledge; the woman had a mind that ran three miles ahead of
itself. Couldn’t imagine her fastened to a chair for hours on end,
writing out mathematical problems.

“Don’t look so skeptical, Mr. Claybourne. I
learned from Father’s engineering crews, and from him, of course. I
actually helped survey now and again when a team was short a
member.”

“You surveyed for your father?” A female
surveyor? It wasn’t possible. Yet she seemed unconcerned with his
disbelief, paying no attention to him as she tucked herself deeper
beneath the blanket.

“And I did some drafting, too. I liked that
best. In any case, it’s left me a very good judge of railways.”

“You think so?” Now he was certain she was
taking him down a spur line only to dump him off a cliff. Let her
play out her little game. It was actually beginning to amuse him.
“Then what of this railway? The Blenwick Line?”

She clicked her tongue. “Constructed too
quickly, in order to service the lead mine industry. The grade is
too steep for the size of the locomotive, and the curves are too
tight.” She turned and shook her head. “Frankly, Mr. Claybourne,
it’s a bit dangerous—”

“Explain yourself.” He sat forward, his
elbows on his knees, ready to watch her bragging come to a
sputtering halt. Instead, she sat up and squinted out the window
into the darkening evening and seemed to be making a calculation of
some sort.

“The first bridge over the Wear is too
narrow, and this grade is too great. The roadbed should have been
dropped or cut through a tunnel, or should have been half again as
long to accommodate the steepness of the grade. A one foot rise for
every one hundred feet of distance would have been adequate;
one-in-sixty is just too much strain on a curving iron rail. But of
course, a tunnel is much more expensive and, as you know, the
shareholders must have their profits—”

“And you’re so sure this is a
one-in-sixty?”

Her nod was emphatic and troubled. “Father
would never have allowed the track to be laid.”

“Yet you ride on the Blenwick.” He didn’t
want to make much of her speculation, but she seemed so sure of
herself, and still not at all concerned whether or not he believed
her.