Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

"You've been crying," Robert said as soon as she reached their cart. He lifted her chin with a finger and examined her face. "Was it that bad having to interact with the farmers and merchants at the local market?" That hard, mocking smile was on his lips again.

Louisa pulled away. "One of the farmers was burning wood in a stove, and the smoke irritated my eyes. Nothing more." She rubbed her cheeks and sniffed.

"Well then, if it's nothing else. I've sold all of Mrs Gary's fruit and vegetables. She'll be happy. Look, I've bought us a new cauldron." He lifted a shiny black kettle. "Is there anything else you'd like? We have some blunt now that we can spend."

"Yes, in fact, there is. I'd like to have a sewing kit. With colourful threads. If you please."

He nodded. "I've seen them sell something like it over there. Follow me."

They bought her a basket filled with threads of all colours, needles, and scissors. None of it was as good as the ones she commonly used. But it would do.

"I'd like to return to the market again with you tomorrow," she informed him on their way home. "I have observed how people sell their wares. I think I understand how to do it now."

"Very well. If that is your wish." He didn't sound enthusiastic about the prospect. Louisa repressed a smile.

It was, of course, entirely unnecessary. But she wanted to keep up the pretence just a little longer.

Back at their hut, she pulled out her muslin dress and spread it out on the rickety table. She pulled out a pair of shears, and with a big breath, started cutting the dress into small squares.

Then she threaded a needle and began to embroider.

The next day, she helped Robert sell the fruit and vegetables. She let him interact with the customers while she rearranged the fruit, weighed them on the scale, and folded the stack of old newspapers into cones, filling them with cherries. They made a good team. If it turned out she'd been mistaken, and he was truly a costermonger after all, they might make their living in this fashion after all.

Toward noontime, when the rush of buyers eased, she picked up her basket and told Robert that she would take a turn about the market.

She avoided the baker's stalls this time, even though she felt the pull, the yearning to see Will again. But she would not. She couldn't bear facing him again. Not when he'd forgotten all that they'd shared.

"Good day again, ma'am," a small voice said next to her. It was the girl who'd sold her the lavender bag.

Louisa smiled at the barefoot girl who stood in front of her, wearing a patched dress. "Just the person I was looking for. Look what I have for you." She opened her basket and showed her the little embroidered pouches she'd made from her muslin dress the night before.

The girl gasped. "They're even more beautiful than the ones my mum makes!"

"If you have some dried lavender, you can fill them, tie them up with a ribbon and sell them." She leaned down and whispered, "But they are worth more than a penny."

The girl looked at her with bright eyes. "I have dried lavender here. And there's some ribbon left. Will you help me sell them?"

Louisa hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. "Why not?"

They sold them all. Whether it was the superior quality of her embroidery, or the delicate muslin of the bags, or that a beautiful woman and a pretty girl together made an irresistible duo when selling their wares, or whether she had finally lost her fear of interacting with people and discovered her inborn talent for negotiating, for she wheedled and haggled with more passion than a fishmonger—or a combination of all of them—they sold their wares and the money flowed in.

After they'd sold the last lavender bag, she heard a soft laugh.

Leaning against the barrel of a neighbouring stall with his arms crossed was Robert, who'd been watching her for a while with clear amusement. "I see business is going well," he said.

She beamed at him. "Yes. Somehow, it is easier to sell things when it is not for myself. Let's count the coins, Anna." She helped the girl count.

"I've never made so much," the girl said, her eyes shining. "It will pay for my mother's medicine." Then she hesitated, split the coins in half, and pushed one pile towards Louisa. "For you. It was my lavender, but you made the pouches."

Louisa shook her head. "No. It is all yours. This was important to me in a way you won't understand. I have already received my due payment. Thank you," she told the girl, who was beside herself with joy.

"God bless you, ma'am," she cried after her when she turned to leave.

The sense of satisfaction and accomplishment and pride was unlike anything she'd ever experienced before.

"Shall we go home, then?" Robert took her arm. And for the first time, she felt a sense of gladness that her husband was Robert, and that they had a home to return to, even if it was only a small, rickety hut.

He helped her onto the cart and steered it out of town.

The road back to Piddleton was clogged with vehicles. The donkey plodded along at a snail's speed. At this rate, they would not arrive until well after dark.

Robert gave her a sideways glance. "You did a good thing there."

"And you didn't think I had it in me," she replied.

"I confess I did not."

"I didn't know it could feel so good to sell one's own creation. It makes me feel quite accomplished. I had a good day … mostly." She fell silent. The memory of her conversation with Will surfaced again.

"Are you certain there is nothing more? You seem somewhat sad."

"No, nothing more." Louisa shook herself. She would have to pull herself out of the doldrums as best as she could, forget Will, forget the past, and focus on her life now. She would have to stop running around with her head in the clouds and become more aware, more observant of what was happening around her.

Including her husband, who was still watching her with sharp, piercing eyes.

"I'm aware that I haven't been quite myself these past few days, I suppose. I've been wool-gathering and distracted and oblivious to my surroundings. I'm not usually like that."

He arched an eyebrow at her but refrained from commenting.

"Nor am I unintelligent or uninformed. I do care. About people, I mean." It sounded defiant.

"I've never doubted that," he drawled.

"Reading about laws and politics in the papers and discussing them in the drawing rooms is one thing, but actually seeing how they affect people is quite another. I admit I've been na?ve." She tilted her nose up and sat as if an iron rod had been implanted in her spine.

"Would you like to explain what exactly you're referring to?"

"The Corn Laws. I've heard Papa talk about them. I've also read about them in the newspapers. But I confess I've never really thought about how it might affect ordinary people. How it might impact their lives." She thought for a moment. "I never really thought about what it means to be poor and what it means for a family with four or five children to not be able to buy bread because it's become too expensive."

"I'm not surprised. It isn't generally expected of ladies to be conversant about the Corn Laws, if I may say so. And they're not expected to have an opinion about it, either. So, you needn't belabour the point too much. It is quite acceptable for a society damsel to not know about the Corn Laws. It wouldn't do to exhibit too much interest in politics and social affairs, would it?"

His patronising, sarcastic tone irritated her. "But it bothers me. And I'd rather you didn't lump me in with other feather-brained society ladies who are like that. You seem to enjoy hammering home the notion that I'm a rich, spoilt heiress who is incapable of forming a coherent thought on such matters, never having set foot in the marketplace." She disregarded the fact that that was exactly what she was.

"Oh my. I'm impressed. In other words, the Ice Damsel has learned something about life. "

"I wish you would stop calling me that." She looked at him crossly.

"Then why did you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Act like you are the Ice Damsel, when you're anything but." He leaned his arms on his knees, his body turned to her.

When her eyes flew up to meet his, he held them in a steady gaze. She was silent for a long time. Robert, no doubt, must have thought she'd never reply, but she did. "It's because … they expected me to. None of them would ever see me as I really was." Not a single person had ever attempted to see beyond the beautiful fa?ade of Miss Louisa Highworth, heiress. It was as if her true self was of no interest to anyone. It was as though the truth of who she was simply wasn't enough.

"Who are you, then, truly?" His voice was soft.

"What I like and what I'm truly interested in is not compatible with the image of Miss Louisa Highworth."

"For example?" he probed.

She took a deep breath before continuing. "I enjoy reading. I suppose one could call me a bluestocking. My favourite writer is Jonathan Swift, Gulliver's Travels, in particular. If I could have been a man, I would have gone to university to study The Classics. I love the smell of bread. I like coarse brown bread more than the soft white one. But the best bread is the kind you bake over an open fire. I also like caraway cakes and orange preserves. I don't like dancing and balls; I never did. I enjoy swimming in the sea or ocean. Papa takes me—took me—to Brighton to the seaside every summer. When I was younger, I used to think I might have made a better boy than a girl." She shrugged. "This is who I am. But people will always see me as Miss Louisa Highworth, heiress, worth twenty-thousand pounds per annum."

"It must have been hard for you," he said quietly. "Never being seen for who you really are."

A lump formed in her throat. Zounds. Why did he suddenly appear to understand her as if he truly saw her? She was about to weep again. She shook her head impatiently and tried to deflect from her emotional state by posing him the question. "And you? Who are you truly, Robert Jones? What are your interests?" Other than running around in disguise, attempting to fool all and sundry.

He shrugged. "The opposite. Aside from a book or two that I enjoy, I read little. Hate to dance, hate the water, and am not particular about food. I eat whatever I can get my hands on as long as it fills my stomach. I don't like confined, dark spaces. My ideal day consists of sleeping, preferably outside. Give me a hammock under the trees, and I'm a happy man. That's it."

She looked at him sharply. "Do you crave sleep during the day because you do not get enough at night?" She'd been awakened several times by muttered, thrashing sounds. He was sleeping on the straw pallet on the other side of the room, and she'd noticed his sleep was fitful and disturbed by nightmares. He'd usually awaken with a start and leave the hut to spend the remaining night outside. She wondered what had given him those nightmares.

As if she had hit a raw nerve, he frowned. "I simply feel the walls of the cottage close in on me, especially at night. I don't like it."

She wanted to press further and enquire why that was the case, but they had reached a crossroads, and Robert pulled the plodding donkey to a halt. Just in time, too, for a curricle came smashing around the curve with great velocity. The driver, unable to rein in the horses, gave a shout of alarm before the vehicle ploughed into a stagecoach that was on its way to Bournemouth. There was a tremendous crash, wood splintering, horses neighing, and people screaming as the stagecoach overturned into the ditch. The curricle flew through the air before coming to a stop on the ground shortly before their cart, burying the driver underneath the splintered, broken wood. A lone wheel bumped off into the field.

Louisa screamed, hiding her face in both her hands. She pressed against Robert, who'd instinctively thrown himself over her to shield her from the flying debris.

"Are you hurt?" he asked after pulling away. His hands cupped her face, checking to see if she was unharmed.

She shook her head. "I'm fine."

A general hubbub of panic broke out as people cried and shouted. "There's blood!" cried one woman.

"The horses have run off!" cried another.

Cries of "Fred? Where is Fred?" and "Mary, are you all right?" were drowned out by groans and cries for help.

"Attention! Everyone, remain calm!" A steely voice cut through the commotion. "Don't panic, shout, and dissolve into hysterics. Keep your wits about you and let us assess the situation." Robert had released Louisa and climbed onto his seat to address everyone. He pointed to a man. "You there, swiftly check the coach and help the people out. Louisa, help him get the people off the road to safety, and look after the women and the injured. You three over there." He pointed to a group of men who'd approached cautiously. "Instruct all approaching vehicles to halt at a safe distance. And you, boy, go to the nearest farm to fetch cotton cloths and bandages. Posthaste. There are casualties."

"Aye, aye, sir!" The boy set off in a jiffy.

"Rally to me, men. We need to lift the curricle first for the people trapped beneath. Form teams of four, one on each corner. On the count of four, we lift."

The men did as he said, and together they lifted the curricle. Underneath it lay both the hapless driver and his tiger, who was unconscious.

Robert continued to bark out rapid orders.

Louisa, together with the man Robert had singled out, helped the people out of the stagecoach and led them to the side of the road. They all seemed unhurt, save for some bumps and bruises.

A girl with a straw bonnet was weeping silently. "It was such a loud crash," she sobbed, "and it happened so suddenly. One moment I was sitting in my seat, the next I was flying through the carriage. I thought we were all going to die."

Louisa soothed her as best as she could. "You are in shock. Come and sit here on this stone and take some deep breaths."

The girl did as she said, and Louisa helped her untie the mangled bonnet. She had light blonde hair and big blue eyes that swam with tears.

Louisa stared at her face.

The girl, too, stared back. "But I know you," she said slowly. "Why do I know you? You're, you're … Louisa Highworth!" Recognition dawned on her small heart-shaped face.

Louisa frowned at her.

"I'm Miss Celeste Cooper-Wiles. Don't you remember me?"

Louisa stared at the face she'd last seen as a child. "Celeste. Of course." She was terrible at remembering faces. But the light blonde hair, the blue eyes, the pretty face were uncannily like the girl who'd been Lord Milford's daughter at Meryfell Hall.

"What strange circumstances under which we meet again." Celeste gave her a strained smile. The girl self-consciously plaited her dress, which Louisa noticed was not only dusty but also washed out and of a simple cut.

"It is strange, indeed. How fortunate that you are unhurt. Let's see to the other passengers before we talk further, shall we?"

Celeste nodded and helped Louisa tend to the other passengers.

In the meantime, Robert and a group of men had pulled the curricle aside and were concentrating on returning the coach to an upright position. He issued orders on how to best accomplish this.

"How efficient he is," Celeste whispered to Louisa. "So commanding. Everyone jumps at his orders. Did you see? He has the entire situation under control. He must have been an experienced army officer, someone higher in the ranks, don't you think?"

Louisa stared at Celeste as the light dawned upon her. "Of course," she replied in a monotone voice. "How excessively foolish of me. I don't know why I didn't see it earlier."

"And he's enormously handsome. Do you think he might still be a bachelor?"

Louisa smiled at her wryly. "Alas, he's married. To me."

Celeste stared at her, mouth agape. "Oh! But they said you'd have no one—none of the suitors—but of course it must have been merely rumours," she added hastily. "How long have you been married?"

It felt like an eternity since she'd dragged the grubby costermonger from the street into their drawing room and declared that she would marry him. Yet it had hardly been … "About a week."

"Felicitations!" Celeste beamed at her.

Louisa wiped her hands on her apron. "Yes. Well. I suppose. I married a costermonger."

Celeste looked at her, confused. "Indeed?" Then she took in Louisa's simple cotton dress and apron, as if seeing her clothes for the first time. "I see." But it was clear on her face that she had a thousand questions, the uppermost of which would be why would a rich heiress marry a costermonger and traipse about the country in a farmer woman's clothes? But she was too polite to ask.

"And you? You haven't married?" Louisa tried to steer the conversation in another direction.

A look of sadness crossed her face. "No. Oh, no. You haven't heard, have you?" She wrapped the string of her tattered bonnet around her finger. "Mother died a year after your last visit. Father passed away three years ago, and George inherited. Except …" She bit on her lips and sighed.

"Except he didn't take good care of his inheritance?" Louisa guessed. She hadn't yet visited Meryfell Hall. The thought of doing so had crossed her mind several times, but something had stopped her.

Celeste nodded. "He gambled most of it away and sold the house and the estate to cover his debts. Meryfell Hall is gone. We've lost our home, George and I."

Knowing George and what he'd been like in his youth, Louisa wasn't really surprised. But he'd dragged his poor sister down with him. Her prospects were ruined, and it would be unlikely for her to find a suitable match in the future. Louisa took her hands and squeezed them. "I'm truly sorry to hear that. Where are you staying now?"

"I am staying with my aunts in a village near Bournemouth. In fact, I am on my way to them right now. George is—" she waved her hand around. "Who knows where. He drifts around. He stays with friends or at inns. Most of the time I don't know where he is. He never writes. I have no prospects at all. I have never had a Season. I would have liked to go to London, but as you can see"—she lifted her dress—"with this outfit I am rather unsuitably attired to be seen in any kind of society. So I suppose I shall spend my remaining days looking after my aunts." She sounded resigned to her fate.

"I'm terribly sorry, Celeste. I did not know." Her father might have mentioned Lord Milford's death, but she couldn't remember the exact circumstances. As for George running wild, that did not surprise her in the least. "We're staying at Piddleton," she began, then interrupted herself. She was about to issue an invitation for Celeste to call on them for tea, then remembered she could hardly entertain her in the rickety hut where they were staying. And she certainly had no drawing room in which to host guests. And even if she had a drawing room, she had no tea to offer. Least of all a teapot or cups in which to serve it. Louisa sighed. "Yes, well." She smiled helplessly at Celeste.

The men had finished cleaning up the scene of the accident and turned to the two injured men lying by the side of the road. The tiger had now regained consciousness. He appeared dazed and was bleeding profusely, but Robert declared it was a mere scratch.

The culprit of the accident was a tulip dressed in the latest fashion, a whipster who'd underestimated his ability to drive a curricle-and-two. Robert was in the process of giving him a sharp tongue-lashing, the gist of which was that he had no business driving such a vehicle if he could not control it, and that these roads were not suitable for racing.

"But I am injured!" the man replied with a whimper. He pointed to his leg, which, indeed, seemed to be at an unnatural angle.

"You'll live," Robert replied curtly.

"But my leg!" the man moaned. "It hurts like the very devil."

Robert crouched down beside him. "Let me have a look. Yes, it does look bad. With injuries like that, the best course of action is to just cut off the offending limb altogether. Where's the surgeon?"

The man screamed. "Don't you dare!"

Robert lifted a lazy eyebrow.

He whimpered, "Don't let him touch my leg."

Robert looked at him contemptuously. "What a lily-livered milksop. Fashion a stretcher and carry him on it. He'll have to wait here until the doctor and the constable arrive. Let this be a lesson to you not to use this road for racing."

Traffic gradually resumed on the now-cleared road. A surgeon had arrived and was tending to the injured. Celeste had walked over to Robert and exchanged a few words with him. It appeared she was thanking him, but he brushed her away. The travellers on the stagecoach were instructed to wait until another coach arrived.

"I hope we meet again soon," Louisa told Celeste before they parted.

Celeste merely gave her a wan smile.

Several people came up to Robert to express their gratitude for his help. Afterwards, he walked over to Louisa and nodded. "Things are under control. Let us resume our journey home."

Taciturn and deep in her thoughts, Louisa returned with Robert to their hut. Once arrived, she climbed down from the cart and stared at their rickety hut as it dawned on her how unnecessary it all was.

She knew now that all she had to do was say the word and they would sleep that night in a feathered bed with silken sheets, and a butler who would serve her tea in her very own drawing room.

Should she challenge him on the matter?

Or should she continue the game?

If so, why? And for how long? Why was she resistant to ending it?

She was so very tired.

"You are rather efficient in dealing with emergencies," she commented, but refrained from saying more.

He merely grunted. "Don't forget to feed the donkey," he said brusquely before he walked away.

Louisa stared after him. Then she took some carrots and held them out to the donkey, who ate them gratefully.

A single question remained uppermost in her mind: Which one of her hundred rejected suitors was Robert Jones?