“General Hardinge himself has invited us for Christmas,” the colonel explained. “A singular honor and a distinguished company. And now this blasted rain. A fine Christmas this is going to be.”
“We all seem to be agreed on that point, at least,” Lord Birkin said politely, and waited his turn to ask about dinner.
Sometimes the most dreaded moments turned out not to be so dreadful after all, Pamela realized when the emptiness of her stomach drove her downstairs in search of dinner. Although the dining room appeared alarmingly full with fellow guests and she felt doubly alone, she did not long remain so. Two middle-aged ladies looked up at her from their table, as did all the other occupants of the room, saw her lone state, and took her beneath their wing. Soon she was tucked safely into a chair at their table.
“Doubtless you expected to be at your destination all within one day, my dear,” Miss Eugenia Horn said in explanation of Pamela’s lack of a companion.
“Yes, ma’am,” she said. “I did not expect the rain.”
“But it is always wiser to expect the unexpected and go nowhere without a chaperon,” Miss Amelia Horn added. “You would not wish to give anyone the impression that you were fast.”
“No, ma’am.” Pamela was too grateful for their company to feel offended.
The Misses Horn proceeded to complain about the dampness of their bedsheets and their threadbare state.
“I suppose,” Miss Amelia Horn said, “that we should have expected the unexpected, Eugenia, and brought our own. It is never wise to travel without.”
The rain and all being stranded at the very worst time of the year had appeared to draw the other occupants of the room together, Pamela noticed. Conversation was becoming general. She looked about her with some curiosity, careful not to stare at anyone. A quiet gentleman of somewhat less than middle years sat at the table next to hers. He said very little, but listened to everyone, a smile in his eyes and lurking about his mouth. He was perhaps the only member of the party to look as if he did not particularly resent being where he was.
An elderly couple sat at another table, the man loudly and firmly condemning England as a place to live and declaring darkly that if the government did not do something about it soon, all sensible Englishmen would take themselves off to live on the Continent or in America. He did not make it clear whether he expected the government to do something about the excessive amount of rainfall to which England was susceptible or whether he was referring to something else. Whatever the cause, he was very flushed and very angry. His wife sat across the table from him, quietly nodding. Pamela realized after a while that the nodding was involuntary. They were Colonel and Mrs. Forbes, she learned in the course of dinner.
A young and handsome couple sat at another table, perhaps the most handsome pair Pamela had ever seen. The lady was brown-haired and brown-eyed and had a proud and beautiful face and the sort of shapely figure that always made Pamela sigh with envy. Her husband, Lord Birkin, was like a blond Greek god, the kind of man she had always found rather intimidating. They were clearly unhappy both with each other and with a ruined Christmas. Apparently they were on their way to a large country party. They were the sort of people who had everything and nothing, though that was a flash judgment, Pamela admitted to herself, and perhaps unfair.
There was another gentleman in the room. Pamela’s eyes skirted about him whenever she looked up. On the few occasions when she looked directly at him, her uncomfortable impression that he was staring at her was confirmed. He was not handsome. Oh, yes, he was, of course, but not in the way of the blond god. He was more attractive than handsome, with his dark hair and hooded eyes-they might be blue, she thought-and a cynical curl to his lip. She had met his like a few times since becoming a governess. He was undressing her with his eyes and probably doing other things to her with his mind. She had to concentrate on keeping her hands steady on her knife and fork.
“Oh. On my way home, ma’am,” she said in answer to a question Mrs.
Forbes had asked her. “To my parents’ home for Christmas.Eight miles from here.”
Everyone was listening to her. They were sharing stories, commiserating with one another for the unhappy turn of events that had brought them all to the White Hart. Only the quiet gentleman seemed to have had no Christmas destination to lament.
“I am a governess, ma’am,” she said when Miss Eugenia Horn asked her the question. “My father is a clergyman.” The gentleman of the lazy eyelids-the innkeeper had addressed him as “my lord”-was still staring at her, one hand turning his glass of ale.
The conversation turned to the food and a spirited discussion of whether it was beef or veal or pork they were eating. There was no unanimous agreement.
A governess, the Marquess of Lytton was thinking, daughter of a clergyman. A shame.A decided shame. Governesses were of two kinds, of course. There were the virtuous governesses, the unassailable ones, and there were the governesses starved for pleasures of the sexual variety and quite delightfully voracious in their appetites when one had finally maneuvered them between bedsheets or into some other satisfactory location. He judged that Miss Pamela Wilder was of the former variety, though one never knew for sure until one had made careful overtures.
Perhaps she would live up to her name.
She was certainly the only possibility at the inn. There had not appeared to be even any chambermaids or barmaids with whom to warm his bed. He had the uncomfortable feeling that he might be facing an alarmingly celibate Christmas if Miss Wilder were saving herself for a future and probably illusory husband. There was the delectable Lady Birkin, of course, but then he had never made a practice of bedding other men’s wives or even flirting with them, whether the husband was in tow or not.
Miss Pamela Wilder was the only possibility then. And a distinct possibility she was, provided she was assailable. She was slim, perhaps a little slimmer than he liked his women when there was a choice, but there was a grace about her figure and movements that he found intriguingly feminine and that stirred his loins, though he had drunk only two tankards of the landlord’s indescribably bad ale. Her face was lovely-wide-eyed, long-lashed, with a straight nose and a soft, thoroughly kissable mouth. Her hair was smooth and tied in a simple knot at her neck, as one would expect of a governess, but no simplicity of style could dim its blond sheen.
Two nights, probably three, at this inn, he thought, if they were fortunate. She could help Christmas pass with relative comfort, perhaps with enormous comfort. She might console him for the fact that the consummation of his lust with Lady Frazer must be postponed beyond the festive season.
The innkeeper and his wife did not seem to feel it would be diplomatic to discuss private business in private. Mr. Joe Palmer was refilling the gentlemen’s glasses with ale when the inevitable new arrivals came to the inn, looking for a room. Mrs. Letty Palmer came and stood in the doorway to discuss the matter with him just as if the room were not full of guests who had their own conversations to conduct.
“We don’t ’ave no room for ’em,” Mr. Palmer said with firm decision.
“They’ll ‘ave to go somewhere else, Letty.”
“There’s nowhere else for ’em to go,” Mrs. Palmer said. “We’re full with quality and their servants. They aren’t quality, Joe. I thought p’raps the taproom?”
“And ’ave ’em rob us blind as soon as we goes to bed?” Mr. Palmer said contemptuously, earning a roar of fury from Mr. Forbes when he slopped ale onto the cloth beside that gentleman’s glass. “We don’t ’ave no room, Letty.”
“The woman’s in the family way,” Mrs. Palmer said. “Looks as if she’s about to drop ’er load any day, Joe.”
“Oh, dear,” Miss Eugenia Horn said, a hand to her mouth. Such matters were not to be spoken aloud in genteel and mixed company.