Mrs Broome’s country brogue broke the quiet as she directed an order at her daughter seated beside her. Both mother and daughter were broad of beam and had left Dawn very little room, squashed as she was into the corner of the mail coach. But she was grateful that at least she had some air and a mist of sleety rain blowing on to her face from the open window.
‘The weather’s been warm for early spring recently. I’m glad it’s back to normal now or we’d be sweating buckets,’ the older woman cheerily announced while fidgeting on the seat.
Dawn murmured an agreement, the only passenger to politely respond. Indeed, the vagaries of the March weather had caught her out. The prematurely mild air of last week had now acquired a feel of frost that stung the cheeks. The roads that had been dry and dusty had been churned to a bog in places by coach wheels.
The tweedy farmer opposite jiggled his brows, then closed his eyes, making clear he desired no conversation directed at him. The two thin young women seated either side of him turned their heads in opposite directions to gaze out of their respective windows into the gloomy afternoon. They looked to be servants, perhaps travelling from London to visit their families back home. Dawn used a hanky on her rain-spattered brow while hoping that the coaching inn would hove into view so they could all escape this cramped, musty environment. More than that, she wished she had the wherewithal to keep a small conveyance of her own so she wouldn’t need to travel in such discomfort when visiting her stepfamily. Even when Thomas had been alive, the most the Fentons had possessed in the way of transport had been an ancient carriage that he had inherited from his father. His trusty contraption as he had called it had been his downfall. He had known it needed repairs. But his insurance business had been floundering beneath heavy shipping claims and purchasing new springs and axles had been last on his list of expenses.
At their country cottage they had kept a pony and trap to get around. Thomas had taught her to drive it so she could be independent when he was in town on business. The cottage and the pony and trap were gone now...luxuries she could no longer afford on her widow’s pension.
The blast of a bugle curtailed Dawn’s reflectiveness and made her offer up a prayer of thanks that they were approaching a watering hole. All the passengers stirred into life as they anticipated stretching their legs and partaking of some refreshment.
‘I’ll have a beef pie if they’ve got such a thing. My stomach’s fair grumbling.’ Mrs Broome gave Dawn a nudge. ‘You’ll be glad to get down and tuck into something, won’t you, my dear?’
‘Indeed, I will.’ Dawn peered through the window as the coach passed beneath the swinging sign of the Cockerel Tavern into a busy courtyard. She’d no appetite for a pie; a snack would suffice. By nightfall she would reach her destination and hoped to have a good dinner waiting for her. Although the Reverend Peter Mansfield tended to parsimony, he usually provided a hearty evening meal as he always joined them at table then. Other than that, his work kept him abroad for most of the day...and that arrangement suited Dawn very well.
* * *
‘What can I get for you then, ma’am?’ The landlord hovered at Dawn’s elbow.
‘A pot of tea and a plate of buttered crumpets, thank you, sir.’ Having given her order, Dawn sat back in her chair and untied her bonnet strings while the fellow moved off to attend to other weary passengers. A log fire was blazing in the grate, spreading a cosy ambience throughout the low-beamed taproom. Dawn removed her hat and ran her fingers through a tumble of untidy chestnut curls in an attempt to neaten them.
Mrs Broome and her daughter joined Dawn, sitting down without a by your leave. Immediately the landlord reappeared with pencil and paper ready.
Having given her order for pies, Mrs Broome turned on her daughter an old-fashioned look. ‘You can stop giving him the eye, miss!’ She smacked the girl’s hand, idle on the table-top. ‘The sooner this one’s wed, the better it’ll be.’ Mrs Broome rolled her eyes.
Dawn gave the blushing girl a glimmer of a smile. She was a pretty brunette of about fifteen and had been sliding sly glances through the window at a strapping stable lad toiling in the courtyard.
‘So...I recall you said you’re visiting relations, Mrs Fenton.’ The older woman crossed her arms over her chest, hoping for a gossip.
‘I am...’ Dawn confirmed. ‘I’ll be glad to get to journey’s end and to my bed tonight. It’s been a long day.’
Mrs Broome jiggled her aching shoulders. ‘Indeed, it has. My bones are fair creaking. But I was determined to go to London to see my father laid to rest. So did his granddaughter, wanting to pay her last respects.’ She frowned at her daughter who was still batting her eyelashes.
‘Oh...I’m sorry to hear about your loss.’
‘As I am to know about yours,’ Mrs Broome said sympathetically. ‘How long are you widowed, my dear? La...and you so young and pretty, too.’
‘Oh...some years.’ Dawn’s lavender gown had given the game away that she was in the latter stage of mourning.
‘Who are you visiting?’ the girl piped up.
‘Betty Broome! Mind your manners,’ the girl’s mother scolded. ‘Inquisitive little thing,’ she half-apologised before taking up where her daughter had left off. ‘Local people, are they, these relations? Or are you travelling on further?’
‘I’m going on to Wivenhoe...’
The Broomes’ questions reminded Dawn of Jack Valance’s interest in her family’s whereabouts. Not that she needed much to prompt her to think of him. For the duration of the journey, with nothing to do for hours on end but gaze into drizzle, she had found it difficult to banish him from her thoughts. She had been going over their brief conversation in the drapery and rueing that she hadn’t looked at her best that afternoon. It was too late now to wish she had dressed with more care when sallying forth to do her shopping. And why should it matter? Jack Valance was getting married. But Dawn knew why it mattered. She had seen desire in his eyes; once he had thought her beautiful and she was woman enough to hope he still did, fiancée or no fiancée. More than that, now they had met again and exchanged a few words, perhaps, just perhaps, he might rue not having kept in touch with her. He hadn’t sought her out in the shop just to be polite. He wasn’t indifferent to her, of that she was sure. She’d seen a spark of some emotion at the backs of his eyes...
‘Do you know that vicar, my dear? The one who is staring at you?’ Mrs Broome nudged Dawn to gain her attention, then jerked a nod at somebody outside.
Dawn gave a soft gasp of surprise. ‘Indeed, I do know him. I am on my way to his house. It’s my stepdaughter’s husband.’ She glanced at her companions. ‘Please excuse me, I should go and speak to him.’ She got up with an inaudible sigh. She had certainly not been expecting to see the Reverend Peter Mansfield until she reached Wivenhoe. And from the expression she’d glimpsed on her stepson-in-law’s face she guessed he’d been equally taken aback to spot her. Donning her cloak, she hurried outside, tweaking forward her hood to protect her face from the sleet.
The fellow who had been talking to the vicar had disappeared and Peter had headed towards the tavern to meet her beneath the shelter of the porch. He was a dark-haired man of medium height and build who, despite being her stepson-in-law, was her senior by five years.
‘Mrs Fenton...’ Peter removed his hat, securing it beneath his arm. ‘This is a nice surprise. I wasn’t expecting to see you until this evening, at the vicarage.’
‘I wasn’t expecting to see you yet either.’ She paused, sensing that his attitude was false and that this premature meeting was as unwelcome for him as it was for her. ‘Have you business in the area, sir?’
‘A clerical meeting...nothing too important. Now, I insist that I take you the rest of the way to Wivenhoe in my gig.’
Dawn hesitated in replying. Oddly, she knew she’d sooner make the rest of the journey squashed in the coach with the Broomes than have his company. But how to refuse without giving offence?