Park in Gloucestershire belonged to his good friend Nate Hastings, Lord Malverne, and Hawksfell Hall in Cumberland was the ancestral seat of Gabriel Holmes-Fitzgerald, the Earl of Langdale. And he would surely know Lord Malverne’s younger sister, Charlie, who was currently residing at her father’s estate, Elmstone Hall, also in Gloucestershire. As soon as he read the names of her friends—Lady Charlotte Hastings, Lady Malverne, and Lady Langdale—she’d be questioned and summarily dismissed. She hated being dishonest, but she just couldn’t afford to jeopardize her own safety.
Graitney Hall’s innkeeper had kindly informed her that the proprietor of Gretna Green’s general store also served as the village postmaster. The village was small, so it would be easy enough to find. And as the rain was holding off, Olivia reasoned the fresh air and the walk would do her good. The lump on her forehead was still sore to the touch and a horrid purple bruise had flowered, but she trusted the arrangement of her hair and her new bonnet would hide the worst of it. Not that she was vain by any means. She did, however, wish to avoid stares and any inconvenient questions from complete strangers about what had happened to her. She’d barely be able to get a word out, and there was nothing worse than being stared at as though one were a spectacle at a fair.
She gained the village in good time, and once her letters were posted—she trusted that Charlie, Sophie, and Arabella wouldn’t mind paying for the postage on their end—she decided to continue her walk. Gretna Green was famous after all.
There was the blacksmith’s forge to see, the place where so many “over the anvil” weddings took place. The Graitney Hall innkeeper, Mr. Marchbank, had also informed her that a little farther on was the hamlet of Springfield and the King’s Head Inn, where other couples sometimes opted to get married.
Indeed, the village was a hive of activity, and on one occasion, Olivia needed to step out of the way of a carriage hurtling down the main street lest she get splashed with muddy water or, worse, run over. It drew to an abrupt halt before the blacksmith’s forge, and the young couple who alighted and hastened inside was clearly eloping. There was something wholly romantic about the idea of running away with the one you loved that made Olivia’s heart ache with longing. Imagine being so in love that nothing else mattered. That you’d risk everything to be with that one person you had a perfect affinity with. That special someone you adored with your entire being and who felt exactly the same way about you.
Olivia continued her excursion, following a quieter country lane toward Springfield and the King’s Head. When Daniels had visited her sitting room to fetch Tilda, he’d mentioned that Lord Sleat had some business in the village related to organizing the carriage repairs. Olivia wondered if she might cross paths with the marquess during her walk, but so far she hadn’t seen hide or hair of him.
By the time Olivia reached the hamlet of Springfield—there were but a few cottages and the whitewashed, two-story hostelry scattered along the main street—she was dismayed to see the weather had taken a turn for the worse. A light rain started to fall, and because she’d quite foolishly neglected to bring an umbrella, she was bound to get wet. A most annoying circumstance indeed considering her new bonnet was at risk of getting ruined and she was still waiting for Graitney Hall’s laundress to return the majority of her clothes.
Dare she take shelter in the public taproom of the King’s Head until the shower passed? She had only a few coins in her purse, but she might have enough to purchase a cup of tea or a glass of small beer. There really was nowhere else to go. But it was the middle of the afternoon and surely the few patrons frequenting the establishment wouldn’t be too deep in their cups yet. She trusted that she wouldn’t be accosted by any unsavory characters and would be relatively safe.
Decision made, Olivia pushed through the heavy black oak door into the poorly lit interior. The taproom smelled of hops, woodsmoke, and something flavorsome, like a meaty soup or stew. It wasn’t at all unpleasant. In fact, it made her mouth water.
The middle-aged publican behind the bar looked her up and down as she approached him across the sticky wooden floor, as did a craggy-faced gentleman