The Christmas Tart by Mary Jo Putney

Author:Mary Jo Putney
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Mary Jo Putney

Reluctantly Nicole left the warmth of the Saracen’s Head Inn for the damp, bitter chill of the stable yard, where the curricle waited with a fresh pair of horses. As he held the door for her, Philip said, “It’s getting colder. Do you think you’ll be all right? I know this is not the season for a long trip in an open carriage, but this is the last stage. Towcester is less than fifteen miles from Winstead.”

Nicole ached with weariness. Philip must be at least as tired, for it took strength, skill, and continuous concentration to drive safely over the winter-rutted roads. “I’m fine,” she assured him. “You have made the trip such a comfortable one. Fresh hot bricks every time the horses are changed. Quelle luxury! And this is the third time we’ve stopped to eat.”

“You need fattening up.” Philip gave Nicole a teasing smile as he helped her into the curricle, then tucked a heavy blanket across her and the cat basket she carried on her lap.

As he climbed into his own seat, Nicole reflected that when he decided to marry, the girl he chose would be very fortunate, for his consideration made one feel cherished. She slanted a glance out of the corner of her eye. He was also kind, amusing, intelligent, good-natured, and handsome. Yes, when he was ready to marry, his chosen bride would be a very lucky woman.

A mile beyond Towcester, Philip swung the carriage from the main road onto a narrower track that led east. “This is a shortcut to Winstead. We should be home just before dark.”

Nicole hoped he was right. Already it was mid-afternoon and the lowering clouds threatened to drop something unpleasant on the hapless travelers. Eh bien. There was no point in worrying about it, she decided philosophically as the curricle lurched into an unusually large rut.

She wrapped her right arm around the cat basket and gripped the carriage rail with her left hand. “Will there be hot mulled wine when we reach Winstead?”

“If not that, something equally warming.” The road was getting progressively rougher so Philip slowed the team’s pace. “How did you come to England, or is that something you would rather not discuss?”

“It’s not a dramatic tale. We had been in Paris and were returning to Brittany. A few miles from home, one of my father’s peasants, who had been watching for our return, stopped our carriage to warn us that Guards were waiting at the manor to arrest the whole family. We abandoned the carriage, and the peasant drove us to the coast in his cart. A fisherman took us across the Channel to England with no more than the luggage we had brought from Paris.

“I was only six, and everything happened so quickly that I didn’t understand that I would never again see my playmates on the estate, or the nurse who raised me, or my pony. But we were fortunate—we had our lives. Others were not so lucky.”

“Did you come to London?”

“My mother had a cousin in Bristol, so we went there.

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