Page 23 of The Colonist’s Petition (Heirs & Heroes #2)

Seventeen

I f one enjoyed silence, broken only by the click-click of knitting needles, there was little to complain about during the ride to Yorkshire.

Grandfather’s carriage was comfortable and well sprung.

The late fall weather gave way to misting rain that did little to hinder travel.

However, if one, like George, was given to the chatter and confidences of her sisters, the lack of conversation became unbearable only ten miles from home.

George had very little to entertain herself with.

She had not, as Mrs. Brown pointed out, brought needlework, nor was she proficient enough to borrow a spare set of knitting needles to knit a scarf of her own.

Although on the second and third days of travel she produced two lopsided scarves, only to later pull them apart.

If she had thought to bring a book, it would have been impossible to read while facing backwards.

Nausea plagued Mrs. Brown if she rode in the back facing seat so George took her seated position there.

For most of the journey, George contented herself with forming letters in her head, as an inkwell was completely out of the question.

However, on the third night of her journey she was able to write a portion of the words composed in her mind.

The large inn where they stayed boasted a ladies’ parlor where George could sit and write without Mrs. Brown looking over her shoulder.

Dearest Jane?—

Our journey has been uneventful. While I do not wish for highwaymen to accost us, it would have given me something of greater interest upon which to write about than Mrs. Brown’s incessant knitting.

I believe she has finished at least a shawl, two scarves, and enough stockings for half of the parish.

She only speaks to chide me for not bringing along something to occupy my time.

Can you imagine how ill my embroidery would look if I attempted it in a carriage?

Still, she is correct. Although I am at a loss for anything I could have brought.

My attempt at knitting was as terrible as you are imagining.

Each night, we have slept in the same bed.

It is not the comfortable sleep we have shared our entire lives.

Her snoring has kept me up, and she has extremely cold feet.

It follows that I spend much of my days looking out the window or dozing as the countryside rolls by.

I would have written sooner, however, Mrs. Brown insists on retiring immediately after we dine for the evening and has no patience for me to even have one candle.

I do not write this to complain of my situation, but to point out how much I miss you and my dear sisters.

Mrs. Brown is far from the worst traveling companion I could have.

She is committed in her care to look after me and even returned a meal to the kitchen saying the meat was bad.

(The meat was a sickening blue-green color.) She has no cause to chase off any man who seems enamored of me, as you have read in some of your novels.

However, I am certain she would if it became necessary.

It rained most of the day today, which made the carriage ride quite chilly.

I must admit, I am jealous of the knitted scarves.

Tomorrow we shall reach our Aunt Hale’s.

I am growing nervous. The landscape has changed markedly.

I saw more sheep and cattle today than I normally see in weeks.

I hoped to help with plans for planting, but I fear it will differ greatly from what I have learned.

Could that be true when I am still in England?

Our American cousin has farming methods very similar to ours. Perhaps I am worrying about nothing…

George wrote until the paper was full detailing a twisted tree, the livestock, and any other details she could recall from the many letters she had composed in her mind.

Since the hour was not yet late, and there were still mothers and daughters in the parlor, George started a second letter.

Mr. Whittaker,

I am writing this in anticipation of you writing me.

I cannot send this first as it would break one of those societal rules of which we Englanders are so fond.

I hope someone has adequately explained this to you lest you think me rude.

Although it may be the same in the colonies.

I doubt we should be writing at all as it could appear that

George scratched out the last part of the sentence, as it must end in the word “engaged,” something they were not. They were cousins, writing one another to learn more about the other. There was not the depth of feeling needed to be engaged.

As we travel north, it seems to me as if the days are shorter, as if fall is slipping into winter more quickly, but I cannot be sure.

Perhaps it is that I check the time so often.

The road north is well-traveled and in good repair.

I have seen several castles from a distance, which I itch to explore, perhaps some other time.

Farms have given way to pastures filled with livestock.

A subject, despite my time spent with pigs, I am not adequately knowledgeable about.

I hoped to be of some use to my aunt with my experience and knowledge of agriculture.

However, given the difference in the land use, mostly pastures, I’m afraid I’ll be of little use.

Of all the tedious letters George had ever written—which were few, even with a handful of good ones—this was by far the worst. None of the thoughts that filled her mind during the hours of admiring the countryside flowed from her pen.

Yes, she thought of asking him what he knew of raising sheep and how the shearing of them would go.

His reactions she could not imagine beyond his smile because she had no knowledge of her own to help her.

The vast number of questions she had about America had also gone unanswered in her imagination.

Asking questions about home construction, churches, (how did they differ from the Church of England?), and fashion (she had been extremely bored when she saw a farmer’s wife and wondered) did not seem the questions she could pose now.

The coachman discovered a box Mr. Sprout, our gardener, packed for me. It is full of seed packets and cuttings wrapped in moss. I am unsure what to do with some of them as I do not know if I shall have them all planted before I go to Town for the Season.

It turns out that the Lightwood Manor is not on the coast of Yorkshire as I supposed, but on the edge of the moor.

I remember so little about my visit and nothing of the sea, so I do not know where I got such an idea from.

Mrs. Brown says the moors are lovely in the spring.

They are a bit like the sea as they are such a vast area of dried grasses that one can see nothing else.

I imagine the sea is the same way. I have never visited–

As the other ladies in the retiring room took their leave, George knew she must also seek out her room for the night. While Mrs. Brown’s snoring echoed through the door to their room, George wished—not for the first time—for a bit of cotton to soften the noise.

The following morning proved damp and grey, much like George’s spirits, especially since Mrs. Brown pulled off the blankets on her side during the night. George tucked the coach blanket around her legs and stared out into the grey morning. Soon, the city gave way to the countryside.

The lunch stop was unremarkable. The coaching inn offered bread and cheese, neither of which was fresh, nor stale. George regretted finishing Cook’s delicacies in the first two days. If she had been wise, she would have saved them. But who could resist an apple tart?

They passed through little village after little village, finally, the coachman turned on a short lane and stopped at a Tudor-style home—much larger than a cottage, but easily less than half the size of Kellmore Manor.

She should not have been surprised that Lightwood Manor’s name was larger than the structure.

Rain fell in a soft mist adding to the greyness of the house.

Leaving Mrs. Brown in the carriage, George, accompanied by a footman, approached the door. A boy of about seven or eight years answered the footman’s knock.

“Is Mrs. Hale at home?” asked George.

The boy shut the door in their faces leaving George and the bewildered footman standing in the barely sheltered alcove.

A moment later, the door opened only far enough for a woman with her hair tucked under a mob cap to stare out at them. “May I help you?”

“I am Miss Georgiana Lightwood. I’m looking for my aunt, Mrs. Hale?”

“I am she.” The woman’s eyes narrowed as did the gap in the door.

Much less than the welcome she expected. It never occurred to George that she might not be admitted at all. “My father has sent me in answer to your request for help.”

For a long moment her aunt pondered before shaking her head and stepping back to open the door wide. “Trust Felton for that. Come in, out of the rain, you and your party. It will not be said that I am inhospitable. Timothy, ask Nettie to put on the tea, please.”

The entry was dark but clean. George removed her bonnet.

Her aunt held out her hand. “I am sorry, I have no butler to take your things.” She turned to the footman. “There is a stable round back. You’ll find it empty, as I keep no horses. It will provide shelter, but no fodder for your animals. Had I been expecting?—”

The sentence faded as the footman took his leave. Mrs. Brown replaced him in the doorway. George introduced her traveling companion.

Aunt Hale ushered them into a tidy parlor. Lace doilies covered worn spots in the furnishings. The boy returned and stood next to aunt. “This is Timothy, your cousin.”

George dropped a curtsy to the boy who would inherit her father’s title. “Pleased to meet you. I am Georgiana, although my sisters call me George.”