“Jack.” He dipped his head to peer outside. “Tricky to tell, but it’s just up ahead. You’re from London, you say?”
Jack…
But that told her nothing about him! He could be a solicitor or an actuary. Or perhaps he was a detective! A spy? That would explain why he hadn’t provided his full name.
“Do you have business in Old St. Vincentshire?” she queried.
“No.”
She pinched her lips together, hoping he’d tell her more, but he too, remained silent.
Perhaps she wasn’t too far off in suspecting him to be some sort of spy.
“Are you going home for Christmas… Jack?”
He answered with a grimace. “Will anyone be missing you over the holidays? Somebody back in London?”
“Oh.” For all of two seconds, memories of Christmases once taken for granted squeezed her heart—of her mother hanging decorations on Christmas Eve, of watching Rachel and Bartholomew burn their fingertips trying to pluck raisins out of a flaming bowl of brandy.
And then taking a turn herself.
There would be no celebrations this year.
No sucking brandy off her burnt fingertips, no gifts, no singing, no games and parties that went on for the twelve days of Christmastide.
Not for her this year. And most likely, never again.
The rest of her life was going to be spent in service.
If her older sister Rachel failed to land a husband this coming spring, she too would have to find a position. Would Bartholomew change his ways? Or would he merely bury her parents deeper in debt? Delia’s mother would miss her, Delia had no doubt, although her father would barely notice her absence—if at all.
But Jack was waiting for a simple answer.
“My mother will miss me. And I have a few friends, but they’ll be busy at a Christmas house party.”
He nodded, and then laughed ironically. “Nothing like the holidays to bring out an abundance of feigned sentimentality. Revelers consume too much rich food and wine imagining they can cultivate the same joy they knew as children. But it’s all for naught. It only makes extra work for the servants, what with the large meals, not to mention evergreen needles littering the carpets. And for what purpose? Christmas is ultimately a disappointment.”
“But—" She’d never known a person who hated Christmas so… vehemently.
“Not to worry, Miss Somerset,” he interrupted before she could defend the most wonderful time of the year. “I must admit that having found you, things seem to be looking up.”
Having found her…?
Things were looking up…?
She blinked. Did that mean he was attracted to her? Or that he was simply pleased to have her company? Or that he could feel satisfied in that he’d saved a life?
Surely it didn’t mean that he was glad to have foundher—Delia Somerset—perpetual wallflower who was only ever noticed because she was Rachel Somerset’s younger sister?
Before she could ask for an explanation, the carriage slowed to turn, and shops and houses came into view outside the window. Unfortunately, before relief had a chance to set in, her blood ran cold. Because although she wasn’t lying dead on the side of the road, her spectacles and her money, along with her night rail, a pair of slippers, and the two gowns she’d managed to fit into her valise, were.
“I don’t suppose the inn will have any available rooms—or cots.” She sighed. She’d not had any luck convincing the other innkeeper to extend her credit, but perhaps this one would take pity on her. If not, she was simply going to have to spend the night on a bench in the taproom.
If the taproom customers were anything like the coarse fellows she’d left behind a few hours before, she doubted she’d get much sleep. She’d need to stay alert. Such circumstances, she realized, were one occasion where she really wouldn’t mind being unnoticeable.
But she must be grateful. A wooden bench in a taproom was far better than a snowdrift in the middle of nowhere.
She was safe. She was alive.