Barbara Metzger by Christmas Wishes Page A

Juneclaire’s cloak, as well as the quality of its cut and fabric. Juneclaire felt those old eyes missed nothing, not her tapestry bag, the muddied half boots, or the mismatched mittens. Juneclaire bobbed a curtsy, lest these good people think her manners as ramshackle as her appearance, and smiled. “A happy day to you, sir, ma’am. I am Juneclaire Beaumont, and I would be delighted to accept your kind offer.”
    Alice smiled back at Juneclaire’s pretty behavior and moved over on the seat. Her black dress crinkled as she moved, so starched it was. She had a new green bow on her black ruched bonnet, and Sam wore a sprig of holly in his lapel. “Can’t think what folks is about,” he groused now, clucking the equally ancient horse into motion, such as it was, “passing a little gel like you up on the way to church, and this being a holy day and all.”
    “You know what it is, Sam. What with highway robberies and shootings, folks think they can’t trust anyone. Little Bramley has never seen the like. Our Johnny brought the news this morning, Miss Beaumont. Such goings-on.”
    Juneclaire only had to nod and exclaim “How terrible” a few times while Sam and Alice speculated on the unmourned demise of Charlie Parrett. Sam spit over the side of the carriage. “Should end any of this bobbery about a gang of footpads in the neighborhood. Charlie Parrett was ringleader, mark me, and you’ll see no more lawbreaking roundabouts, and a sight more rabbits and grouse on Lord Cantwell’s estate, to boot.” He laughed and coughed and spit again.
    Alice patted his hand, then turned to Juneclaire. “A nice young lady like yourself hadn’t ought to be alone on the roads during such uncertain times.”
    There was no censure in Alice’s remark, just a great deal of curiosity. Juneclaire knew her face would turn red if she tried to lie to this shrewd little woman, and her tongue would twist itself in knots. It always did, so she told the truth. “I have no choice, for I had to help a friend in need, and my own situation was intolerable, so I am going to London to seek a position. I have coach fare and a bit extra.”
    Sam spit again but Alice tsk ed. She didn’t know about any friend, but she could imagine what kind of trouble bedeviled such a pretty gal. “Well, you won’t find the men are any different in London, Miss Beaumont. I can tell you, for Sam and I were in service at one of the great houses for years, we were, till the master pensioned us off and we came here. I suppose you have references and appointments and friends to stay with till you are settled?”
    Juneclaire stared at her mittens, wishing the right one could grow an inch up the cuff. “No, ma’am, just the address of our old housekeeper. I was hoping she might—”
    “Without references? You must have come down with the last rain, Miss Beaumont. And if Bramley sounds bad, with talk of highwaymen and poachers and murderers, you should see London. There’s cut-purses on every corner, and that’s not the worst of it. Why, a pretty girl like you would get swallowed up the second your foot touched pavement. There are folks there who meet the coaches looking for just such ones as yourself. They offer the little country girls jobs and rooms and rides—and do you know where the girls end up?”
    Juneclaire didn’t, but she could guess. Aunt Marta had preached about the fleshpots of the city often enough. Feeling slightly ill, Juneclaire thanked Mrs. Grey for her warning. “Now I shall know better how to go on.”
    “You’ve never been in service, have you, dearie?” Alice guessed, shaking her head.
    “Not that I ever got paid for, no. But I cannot go back. Pansy—”
    While Juneclaire was realizing that she no longer had to worry about Pansy’s future, Mrs. Grey was bemoaning a world where gently bred females—and she did not hesitate to declare Miss Beaumont a lady—had to leave home and hearth to see their virtue intact. Alice didn’t doubt