Page 5 of The Lover's Eye
She had only met Lord Pemberton a few times, and the best thing he had to recommend himself was her sister’s unwavering admiration.He wore the lavish costumes befitting a marquess, but his manner was rough.Plainspoken and dispassionate, making no effort to endear himself to Isobel or her father.She was surprised he had bothered to write her at all.
When Isobel had managed to get down half her lunch, she rejoined the others outside.Brook was staring at the sky, shielding his eyes from a fresh onslaught of snow.It was falling heavily—and worse, already accumulating on the rooftops and the horses’ harnesses.
“Most unusual, that,” he said.“I rather expected things would improve, being so close to the coast as we are now.It might be advisable for us to stop here for the night, miss.We have some fifteen miles to go, yet, and if continues like this …”
Isobel couldn’t meet his eye.The wind whipped at the length of her redingote, and she worked to tuck a lock of black hair back beneath her bonnet.Of course he was right.It was midafternoon, but the first whisper of darkness lay over the hills.The inn behind her was bright and inviting, promising no risk—but, also, no reward.Onemore burst of energy from the horses would see her safely to Marriane’s side.
“I want to continue,” Isobel said finally.
Brook was in no position to argue, but his expression darkened with unease as they set out again, leaving the smoking chimneys behind.Isobel pulled back the curtains and huddled deeper into the cushions, which had grown warm from the heat of her body.
They travelled through a dense pine forest, the trees standing crisp and agile, stretching out as far as the eye could see.The world was darker beneath the forest’s canopy, but the trees huddled together like close companions, breaking the falling mix of snow and ice.
Isobel turned to Betsey with a smile.“Isn’t it beautiful?”
“I don’t know, miss.I think it’s eerie myself.”
When the coach and four emerged on the other side, they were met with proof of how much the trees had tempered the storm.Evidence came in the form of wind, which whistled sharply enough to make Betsey start.It shook the poorly sprung coach, and Isobel felt an instant squeeze of guilt.Guilt for declining to stay at the last inn; guilt for being moderately warm and dry, when all she could think of was the coachman, footman, and four horses left to the elements.
She bit the inside of her cheek and closed the curtain.She tried to distract herself with thoughts of Marriane and guesses as to what Shoremoss Hall and the wild Northumberland coastline would be like.Perhaps they had travelled further than she realized, and it was just around the corner.
Her efforts fast proved futile.Isobel’s hand flung to the curtains again, and her stomach dipped at what she saw.
It was nearly dark, and the snow fell in a volatile blur.She could make out the forest behind them; the tops of the pines a sharp delineation against the surrounding white, a black serration against an angry sky.They couldn’t have travelled above a mile.
“Should I ask them to stop?”Isobel asked suddenly, her voice high.
“Stop?”Betsey asked, a brow lifting.“Little good that would do us here.We must go on, at least until the next village.”
But the next village never came.They had entered a pastoral vastness.If there were any trees or homes to be seen, they were obscured by the driving wind and snow.What felt like an hour to Isobel passed before the coach ambled down a hill, and stopped.
“Oh, thank heavens,” she said.“Maybe we’ve arrived.”
The strained expression on Betsey’s face did nothing to bolster her hopes.The coach moved forward a measure, then fell back.One of the horses gave a sharp whinny.
Isobel was rapping on the roof to get Brook’s attention and demand the animals rest when he appeared, a dark figure beyond the opening door.“We’ve gotten stuck, miss,” he said against the wind.His nose and cheeks were bright red, his eyes squinted to slits.
Stuck, indeed.Brook and the footman’s attempts to push the coach free were unsuccessful, even after the ladies stepped out to lighten the vehicle.
From outside, her boots squishing in a mix of sludge and ice, Isobel was confronted with the full truth.When the coach had reached the low point of the hill, its wheels had lodged in thick mud.Attempts to move it only sprayed more of the filth up and sank the wheels in deeper.
Both Brook and the footman looked exhausted, their faces haggard and their overcoats soaked.The horses did not look much better, shifting irritably in place and blowing out labored breaths, which turned to steam in the frigid air.
A general hopelessness had begun to settle over the group when the wind eased for a moment, and Betsey gasped.“Why, there’s someone coming!”
A dark, shadowy figure trudged down the hill toward them, the snow rising above his ankles in places.He reached the coach, giving its slumped stature a cursory appraisal before turning to its inhabitants.Isobel squinted against cutting wind to see, but his face was cast into obscurity by the weak coach lamps.
“Got yourself in a spot of trouble, have you?”he asked.“I heard the commotion from the lodge gates.”
Lodge gates.Isobel could have cheered.She would be at her sister’s bedside in minutes.
Brook was conversing with the servant, whose voice now held a note of disbelief.“You’ve come all the way from Kittwick?In this?”
“Yes, sir,” Brook said.“You know of it?”
“Only heard of it.There’s a Lady Pemberton lives nearby, and she hails from there.”
Isobel’s heart sank.The ladies had climbed back into the coach and were shivering beneath their rugs, but she could still hear the ongoing conversation.If not Shoremoss Hall, where were they?
