It was also all I got.
Last, this time, unlike last time, when I wasn’t trying to sleep, or talking to Idina, I’d paid attention on the journey.
They didn’t have signs that announced village names, but there were ways to find out (like the sign above Sydawell Mercantile, in what had to be Sydawell). I also saw bakers, butchers and blacksmiths (obviously) and shingles out for thatchers and dressmakers and coopers.
Most everything was clean and sparkly and had a bent to a mashup of Disney’s Fantasyland and an exceptionally conceived renaissance festival.
It was fascinating and amazing to see.
But it looked like the good news was, I’d get one thing accomplished, having Mom back and Maxine safe wherever she needed to be.
However, now that I could focus on it, my worry was that the bigger hurdle would be getting us back home.
Which meant I had to ponder the concept we’d have to figure out how to be there for a while until I could find a way home.
I was no baker, butcher, or dressmaker, and neither was Mom.
But I was the one out free in this world, so I had to do some reconnaissance and at least know a little something about where we were stuck.
So I was thinking ahead, even if I couldn’t quite plan ahead.
Loren, by the by, took off while the servants were loading the trunks on the carriages back at Pinkwick House.
He swung up on a big steed with a glossy, luxuriant brown coat and black shading along his nose and around his feet. He tipped his chin to me with a low, sexy, “Countess,” then dug his heels in his mount and took off, long cape flying behind him and everything.
It was hot.
I hadn’t seen him since.
Which was a bummer.
That was, it was a bummer until now.
Since he was currently striding across the sidewalk looking gorgeous wearing tan breeches, a navy-blue coat, a white shirt that was frothy at the chest (and he worked it), this underpinned by a black waistcoat and grounded in black boots.
No neckcloth.
I’ll say it again.
Hot.
He came to my carriage door and opened it.
I was suddenly very aware that I still had the hairdo I had at dinner a day and a half ago.
Though with a “traveling costume” which was a lot like my last one, except the train was longer, it was a salmon color, and there was silk frogging on the jacket and around the skirt above where it kicked out wide in a graceful sweep.
He offered a hand, I took it, and he helped me down the steps.
When I got to my feet, I looked up at him.
“Hey,” I whispered.
His head twitched, as did his lips, and he replied, also in a whisper, “Hey.”
“Milady, I’m sorry to interrupt, but…your hat,” Idina called.
I turned and saw nothing but, suspended in what seemed like mid-air out the carriage door, the massive salmon concoction that was mostly stiff netting edged in darker silk binding or ribbon that had a variety of frills and flips with some feathers sticking out.
I felt myself blush (blush! God!) as Loren reached out and took the hat (because this felt strangely like he was reaching out and touching my person), then he offered it to me.
I took it, put it on my head, and now Idina, clearly one to be thorough, was proffering an enormous, gilded hatpin.
Loren took that too, and again extended it to me.
My cheeks flamed as I took it.
Why was this embarrassing me?
Better question…
Why did it feel so intimate?
It took effort, but I focused entirely on pinning the hat to my head, because, if I didn’t hit a hank of hair, that pin would hurt.
I managed that, then, as Ansley strolled our way from the carriage that came to a halt behind us, somewhat desperately, I noted, “I’m pleased we made such good time, but can we go immediately to where my mother is?”
At this point, I saw the carriage Ansley was in clip clopping away.
I glanced around.
No Edgar.
“Where’s Father?” I asked.
“Being taken to jail,” Ansley answered.
Not blushing anymore, I felt the blood drain from my face.
“What? Why? He must—”
“My lady,” Loren said quietly, and I turned to him. “Your mother and sister were released hours ago when Maitland and I arrived here.”
I stared.
“Your sister’s doctor has been called and will arrive with haste,” he continued. “We offered your mother a maid, a meal and a bath, but she won’t let go of your sister and is refusing anything until she sees you. I have assured her you are well, and your arrival is imminent.”
I grasped the froth of his shirt in my gloved hand. “Where is she?”
“She’s inside.”
“You brought her here? How was she? Is she okay?”
“Okay?”
“Healthy. Well. Strong.”
“We didn’t bring her here. She was already here. She was imprisoned in the cellars.”
I stared again, though I spoke through it this time.