Barbara Metzger by Christmas Wishes Page B

this Pansy had been seduced and abandoned by some rakish lordling or other, and Miss Beaumont was next.
    “Don’t fret, missy. I’ll talk to Mrs. Vicar Broome right after service. She knows everything that’s going on in the parish, so she’ll find you a ride toward Springdale. That’s the next closer coaching stop to London, and folks in Bramley have lots of relatives there. Someone’s bound to be going off for Christmas dinner. And we’ll fix you up with some kind of letter of introduction. I still have lots of friends in London, though I wish there was another way.”
    During Reverend Broome’s reading of the Nativity, Juneclaire thought about another way. Would she rather be a servant in someone else’s household or a drudge in her aunt’s? Servants got paid pittances, barely enough to repay Merry’s loan, and that was assuming she found a position at all. Back with the Stantons, though, she did have a room of her own, the use of Uncle’s library, all the food she wanted to eat—and no strangers whispering about her in church.
    She knew she was an object of speculation, but she would have been horrified to hear her tale so embroidered. By the time Mrs. Broome had pressed a hot roll and a shilling into her hand, Juneclaire was escaping a ravening monster and ravishment. Pity the man who pursued Miss Beaumont to the hitherto peaceful little village.
    Juneclaire was bustled toward Mr. Josiah Coglin, who was waiting with his wife and daughters for their coach to be brought round from the inn. The owner of the mercantile and his family were bound for Springdale, where Mr. Coglin’s brother ran a similar enterprise. Mr. Coglin was all sympathy to Juneclaire’s plight, quickly whispered into his ear by the efficient Mrs. Broome. Of course, the vicar’s wife would never be indelicately explicit, but Mr. Coglin got the idea. So did Mrs. Mavis Coglin, who thought the drab little chit with heavy eyebrows must have invited any insults, since her looks had nothing to recommend her. Mrs. Coglin saw no reason to chance such a questionable miss with her own blond-haired, blue-eyed angels, or her husband. Miss Beaumont could ride on the seat with the driver and footman, she declared, lest the ladies’ skirts get crushed. Further, if the chit wished to go into service, she’d better learn her place.
    Juneclaire clutched her carpetbag in one hand—no one offered to take it for her—and waved goodbye to the Greys and Mrs. Broome with the other. Once the Coglin ladies were settled inside, the grinning footman took his seat, nearer to Juneclaire than she could like. She was already pressed against the coachman on her other side, and that man’s watery eyes were more on her than the horses.
    Could Stanton Hall be worse than this?
     
    They stopped at an inn about an hour later when the younger Miss Coglin complained of queasiness. The footman, whose name Juneclaire had learned was Scully, hopped down smartly to lower the steps. All the while he was handing out the ladies and Mr. Coglin, he kept his leer on Juneclaire, hoping to catch a glimpse of ankle when she clambered down from the box without assistance. Mrs. Coglin turned her back on Juneclaire with a flick of her ermine tippet and demanded a private parlor, instantly. Mr. Josiah Coglin looked back at Juneclaire with a shrug of regret, either for his wife’s manners or for missing a pretty sight.
    Juneclaire brought her satchel, thinking she might take the opportunity to freshen up, but the innkeeper’s harried wife was quick to direct her toward the kitchens, where the help ate.
    “I am not a servant,” Juneclaire stated. “Not yet, at any rate.” And she vowed never to accept employment with such jumped-up mushrooms. She took a seat at a window table in the common room so she could see when the carriage was ready to leave. Mrs. Coglin might just forget her guest the same way she forgot to invite her to share the early nuncheon her strident voice was