Puck and Prejudice

Chapter Eleven

Four hours into the journey, Lizzy found herself wedged between the stagecoach wall and Tucker Taylor. The limited space had

become even more suffocating with the addition of five more passengers. A minister, who dozed off before they’d even left

Salisbury’s city limits, now filled the coach with thunderous snores, accompanied by the wet, snorting harmony of a naval

officer. An elderly woman and her lady’s maid, on their way to visit the woman’s daughter, who had recently delivered her

eighth child, occupied the seats opposite Lizzy. And across from Mr.Taylor sat a dark-haired naval officer who repeatedly

attempted to discreetly insert a finger halfway up his hooked nose.

The stagecoach’s incessant jostling on the uneven road only served to intensify Lizzy’s discomfort. The rhythmic thumping

emanating through the roof mirrored the throbbing ache in her head, each thud reverberating through her skull. Two youths,

paying a reduced fare to perch on the top of the stagecoach, seemed blissfully unaware of the impact of their restless kicks

and roughhousing. The elderly woman descended into fits of hysteria.

“Oh, Harriet! My poor nerves,” she wailed to her maid, fum bling for a handkerchief to blot the sweat sheening her upper lip. Harriet, unmoved, clucked her tongue, adjusted her round wire spectacles, and buried herself once again in her book, the title of which had eluded Lizzy’s attempts to discover it.

The stagecoach lurched as it struck a deep rut, the violent jolt threatening to catapult Lizzy across the interior. In a flash,

Mr.Taylor shot out his arm, a silent protector keeping her firmly in place. His lightning reflexes prevented her from being

tossed like a rag doll. She cast him a sidelong glance, a subtle nod of her head silently acknowledging his assistance.

“Careful, dear sister.” A smirk played on his lips as a tacit understanding passed between them. Their fabricated narrative

painted them as siblings who had recently returned from a prolonged stay in America, now journeying northward to visit an

infirm uncle. The tale was riddled with more holes than a block of Swiss cheese, prompting them to steer clear of casual discourse,

lest their deception be laid bare.

“Oh, Harriet, I’ve gone and had the most dreadful thought.” The older woman’s declaration sent a ripple of unease through

the cramped confines.

“What if the coach goes off the road, plunges into a river, and we all drown in no more than a few feet of water? I heard

about a man who drowned in an inch-deep puddle once.”

“We’re not passing a river, mum,” the maid replied absentmindedly, engrossed in her book. “And there are no puddles on the

road. So you’ll be quite all right.”

“What about if we are set upon by highwaymen?” Her frown made her look rather like a gorgon. “The villains could rob us and

then do who knows what.”

“She sounds a little too thrilled by the opportunity.” Tuck’s breath grazed Lizzy’s ear, his words heating her already too-warm skin. She closed her eyes, breath hitching as she shifted in her seat. How did he manage to evoke so much with so little? Her corset felt constricting, as if her breasts were larger—an illusion, but they felt more sensitive, more tender.

The lady’s maid turned the page. “That’s why the coach driver has a guard.”

Indeed, there was a guard. When they’d boarded, he stood sentinel at the door.

Lizzy crossed her arms and, with the hand closest to Mr.Taylor, delivered a sharp pinch to his side. He emitted a low grunt.

“A cup of cream.”

It took Lizzy a moment to realize the older woman was addressing Mr.Taylor. He caught on a beat later. “Excuse me?”

“That’s the best remedy for indigestion. I’ve heard that sound before, and mark my words, I know the cure. Take it the moment

you begin to feel bilious.”

He looked lost, confusion etched on his features.

Lizzy intervened. “What a good idea. We’ll try that, won’t we, brother?”

The older woman scoffed, and in that moment, Lizzy realized no one in the coach believed their pretense of being siblings.

They likely imagined she was on a journey to ruin and damnation.

A sudden bang vibrated through the stagecoach, causing the entire carriage to shudder. Skinny legs appeared outside the window,

kicking wildly. A cacophony of screams and curses filled the air, then silence settled in, an eerie calm after the storm.

“I say, what in God’s name is this, man?” The naval officer, now shaken from his stupor, was at the door, yelling.

Outside the window, the boy with the kicking legs descended from the roof into the tall grass beside the road, pale but seemingly unharmed.

The older woman wept, and the maid’s book lay on the floor, cover-side up. Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure , by John Cleland.

Somewhere in the fog of Lizzy’s mind, a small flicker of realization ignited. This book—she’d heard of it before, whispered

about among friends who hinted of its shocking and provocative nature. Lizzy had never read a scandalous book and dearly wanted

to try one. The lady’s maid caught her staring, hastily grabbed it, and tucked it away in her carpetbag to shield it from

prying eyes.

“The bloody wheel’s lost a bearing,” the coachman shouted from outside. “We’re not far from the inn. Youse will all need to

go the rest of the way on foot.”

The stagecoach had broken down three miles from the inn on the outskirts of Bristol, where they were meant to rest overnight

before continuing their journey. The Crown and Horns, as the coach driver had called it, was to be identified by its red-painted

door.

Dinnertime approached, and Lizzy hadn’t eaten since the tea and cakes at Salisbury, which now felt like a distant memory.

This was the furthest she’d ever ventured from friends or family, and she realized that the only person who’d care if she

made it to the inn unscathed was the man walking beside her.

“Are you quite sure you wouldn’t like some help?” she asked Mr.Taylor again. He had both leather travel cases tucked under

his arms.

“You concentrate on walking.” He frowned at her linen boots. “Those shoes look like more trouble than they’re worth.”

The minister led the way, muttering what sounded more like complaints and curses than prayers for their safe arrival. The two boys from the roof darted about in the fields, playing tag and whooping it up. Meanwhile, the lady’s maid and the elderly woman brought up the rear, convinced they were about to be hunted down like foxes by highwaymen.

“Would you say this is your worst day ever?” Lizzy asked him. “It seems to be the case for everyone else on this road at the

moment.”

“What? That wheel back there?” Mr.Taylor made a wry face. “Nah, a minor inconvenience at best. My legs were cramped. A walk

feels good.” He adjusted the portmanteaus for balance. “As a matter of fact, this is what I’d call a good day.”

“A bold claim. Why would that be?”

“I don’t like to sit and worry. Moving feels good. Feels like we’re doing something, even though I don’t know what that something

is.”

She nodded. “I’m like that too. Sitting and waiting and hoping for a change? I’ve done that long enough.”

“And there’s the matter of the company. It’s not half bad.”

“Oh.” She pointed at herself. “Is that meant to mean me?”

“You? You’re a pain. I meant the nose-picker and the snorer. They were great. Life of the party.”

Her mouth turned up despite herself.

“I suppose I should work on getting to know you better, seeing as you are about to become my husband.”

“That’s up to you,” he said. “I know plenty of married folks that don’t know anything about the other. My parents, for example. I bet if you asked my dad what my mom’s favorite color is, he wouldn’t have a clue. Her middle name? Favorite food? They’ve been married thirty years, and I’d bet real money he couldn’t tell you.”

“That’s horrible.” Her heart ached at the thought.

“He likes getting taken care of, and she likes doing the caring. It’s not how I ever want to be.”

“Lavender,” she said.

“What?”

“Lavender is my favorite color,” she answered simply. “And to be specific, not the color they use for dresses or ribbons.

It’s close but it’s never quite right. I mean the color of a lavender sprig plucked right from the bush. Someday—”

“When you’re a widow,” he said, finishing her thought.

“Yes, exactly. I want to have a field of lavender. I’ll go out in it at sunset and sit and write and never have to talk to

another person if I don’t feel like doing so.”

“What’s your middle name?”

“Oh no, no, no.” A nervous laugh escaped her. “I prefer not to say.”

“Well, now you have to.”

“I don’t have to do anything of the sort. You may guess. But I’ll not do it of my own free will.”

“Mary?” he ventured, his eyes narrowed in thought.

She made a face. “Far too easy and common. No, of course not.”

“Penelope, Mabel, Scarlet, Josephine,” he rattled off.

“No, no, no, and no.”

He shrugged, a hint of discomfort in the motion. “Favorite food?”

That was easy. “Pineapple,” she shared, proudly. “Have you ever tried one?”

“Sure. Lots.”

She tripped. “What do you mean by lots ?”

He gave her a confused glance. “I mean that I’ve eaten pineapple a lot. Just like I said. What’s the big deal?”

“Over five?”

“Five pineapples? Yeah?” His brows pulled tight. “I’ve been to Hawaii three times, plus it’s at every hotel breakfast buffet.”

“This is most shocking news.” Lizzy tried to grasp what he was saying and failed. “You’ve traveled to the islands of Hawaii?”

“Yeah. Once with my parents on vacation, once in college, and once with a girlfriend.”

Lizzy couldn’t keep up. “How many pineapples have you eaten?”

He barked out a laugh. “This is the absolute last question I think I ever would have imagined answering.”

“They are rare here, and very, very expensive. I had a taste of one at a Christmas dinner eight years ago.” She sighed wistfully.

“I’ve never forgotten the flavor.”

“I didn’t realize. Dang. If I’d known, I’d have stuffed one in my pocket to time travel with.”

The inn came into view in the distance, the Crown and Horns.

She sighed. “We’ll wash up and eat a very boring dinner without a single pineapple to be had.”

At the inn, the keeper was flushed from the bustle of patrons. “I don’t have as many rooms as I’d like,” she said. “You’ll

have to be sharing. The lads can go into the barn. The two ladies in the room at the top of the stairs, the three gents can

go to the one at the end of the hall, and my siblings here...” Her voice drew out, holding more than a trace of sarcasm.

“You get the attic.”

“Are you sure there’s nothing else?” Lizzy breathed, her heart dropping into her stomach.

“Not unless you want to go with the two ladies in the room at the top of the stairs.” The innkeeper arched a brow as if daring Lizzy to take the offer.

And listen to more prattle about highwaymen? Lizzy would prefer to do anything but. The attic it was.

When they entered their room, she gripped the doorframe for support. It was a tight space with one window, the glass coated

with dirt and grime.

And pushed up under the sloping roof was a single sagging bed.