"We're still a couple of hours from the Beeches."
She tugged the rug up higher, although cuddled up against Mr. Townsend, she wasn't cold. "I'm perfectly fine."
"You're as taut as a sail in a high wind," he said.
She blushed to realize that their physical nearness left her few secrets. But what did that matter when her son was lost? Her hand clenched on the side of the carriage and she stared out across the moonlit landscape. All she could hear was the horses' hooves, the creak of the curricle, and the whistling wind. They combined into an ominous chant.
You're too late. You're too late.
"Stop expecting the worst," Mr. Townsend said, without taking his attention from the road.
"I can't help it," she muttered. "Perhaps…perhaps if you talk to me, it will help."
"Talk?" He sounded like she'd asked him to turn somersaults in midair.
"Yes. Please. Something to take my mind off the boys."
"I live to serve."
"I doubt it."
"What shall we discuss, my lady? The latest fashion in bonnets? Prinny's plans for the coronation? The best recipe for syllabub?"
"No," she said, appreciating his efforts to ease her distress. She'd misjudged Mr. Townsend on their first meeting. He was far from a boor and a bully. "I'd like to know about you."
"Me." The flat tone conveyed no enthusiasm.
"Yes. Tell me about your life."
"There isn't much to say."
"I don't believe that."
"Well, not much to interest a lady like you."
"You needn't give me all the grisly details." She was positive there had been grisly details. He was too capable not to have encountered and overcome trouble in his life. "I don't know… For example, were you born with money?"
"No. Can't you tell from the way I speak?"
"I…I like the way you speak. It's real."
Many men dragged themselves up in the world. Most aped the aristocracy, usually not very well. She admired that Mr. Townsend didn't try to hide where he came from. Despite his humble origins, he was a proud man—and given his success, he had every right to his pride.
A grunt of sardonic amusement. "It is, at that."
"Well?"
He sighed. "Wouldn't you rather tell me about yourself?"
"No. That means talking about Brand. And right now—"
He spoke before she finished. That was something else she liked about Mr. Townsend. He was quick on the uptake. "My father was a mine manager in South Yorkshire. An honest, hardworking man. My mother was a foreigner."
"A foreigner?" she asked, intrigued.
His firm mouth relaxed a fraction. "Aye, from Lancashire."
She gave a short laugh. "How exotic."