like a slammed door.
To the devil with both of them! Miriam thought, refusing to make use of the arm Isaac offered to help her into the carriage. For England’s sake she would do what she could to smooth their path to Spain but she’d die before she tried to make friends with them.
Isaac, his amour-propre bolstered by his minor triumph over Roworth, had caught the momentary flash of hurt in her eyes. He felt a pang of remorse. For the first time he questioned whether it was fair to blame a woman of seven-and-twenty for the deeds of a heedless girl of eighteen. No doubt she had changed since that dreadful day in 1802. He certainly had.
It dawned on him that if she didn’t realize who he was, she must be thoroughly puzzled by his antagonism.
His musing was interrupted by Roworth’s sarcastic “Coming?” The last horse had been harnessed and it was time for him to try his hand at driving a team of four. He’d never noticed before how large the horses were.
The offside wheeler, a black-maned sorrel, rolled its eye at him with a derisive snort. He frowned at it sternly and moved to join Roworth on the box.
“Stop! Take the reins before you come up, so that you have control at all times, and mind you don’t tug on them, or the team will start off without you. No, dammit, that’s not how to hold them. Did you not observe how I do it? The first and second fingers of your left hand go between the reins, with the left rein lying over the knuckle of your forefinger.”
The stream of scornful instructions continued until at last Isaac had the proper grasp. Gingerly he stepped up to the box, careful not to pull the reins taut, and sat down, his legs stretched out with his feet against the dashboard.
“You are sitting quite wrong. Your feet should be a little farther back than your knees. What the devil are you doing with the whip? Clutch it like that and you’ll have to drop it when you need to use your right hand on the reins.”
His left arm was positioned wrong, his wrist bent at the wrong angle. How he managed to drive out from the yard onto the highway he had no idea. He thanked God for a miracle.
Unfortunately the world seemed to have woken up from its noonday rest. Carts and wagons, private carriages, riders and pedestrians thronged the road. Well, Isaac had to admit that it wasn’t exactly crowded, but there was a great deal too much traffic for his liking. He was glad that his mentor didn’t appear to trust him to drive at a trot.
The reprieve was temporary. After a quarter of a mile, Roworth said, “They are working together as a team now. You can pick up the pace, gradually.”
Somewhat to Isaac’s surprise, the horses obeyed his directions--even the insolent sorrel. Soon they were rolling along the road at a fine pace. He was beginning to feel almost competent when they rounded a bend and found themselves stuck behind a lumbering diligence.
The leaders and the near-side wheeler automatically slowed, but the sorrel decided to overtake. Isaac hadn’t the least notion what to do.
“Good gad, do you want them stepping over the traces?” Roworth leaned across and pulled on one of the reins, looking smugly superior as the sorrel fell back into line. “We must overtake,” he added impatiently. “We shall never reach Spain if we get stuck behind every slow-moving vehicle. I’d best take over.”
“No, I can do it,” said Isaac with grim determination. “We’ll never reach Spain if you have to drive all the way. Just tell me what to do.”
“For a start, wait until that carriage coming the other way is past.”
His condescension was infuriating. Keeping a tight rein on his own temper, Isaac listened carefully to the instructions. When the road was clear, Roworth repeated each step at the appropriate moment. A dozen times during the manoeuvre Isaac wanted to close his eyes and pray but he resisted the temptation and drove on.
As the leaders drew up neck-and-neck with the diligence’s team,
To the devil with both of them! Miriam thought, refusing to make use of the arm Isaac offered to help her into the carriage. For England’s sake she would do what she could to smooth their path to Spain but she’d die before she tried to make friends with them.
Isaac, his amour-propre bolstered by his minor triumph over Roworth, had caught the momentary flash of hurt in her eyes. He felt a pang of remorse. For the first time he questioned whether it was fair to blame a woman of seven-and-twenty for the deeds of a heedless girl of eighteen. No doubt she had changed since that dreadful day in 1802. He certainly had.
It dawned on him that if she didn’t realize who he was, she must be thoroughly puzzled by his antagonism.
His musing was interrupted by Roworth’s sarcastic “Coming?” The last horse had been harnessed and it was time for him to try his hand at driving a team of four. He’d never noticed before how large the horses were.
The offside wheeler, a black-maned sorrel, rolled its eye at him with a derisive snort. He frowned at it sternly and moved to join Roworth on the box.
“Stop! Take the reins before you come up, so that you have control at all times, and mind you don’t tug on them, or the team will start off without you. No, dammit, that’s not how to hold them. Did you not observe how I do it? The first and second fingers of your left hand go between the reins, with the left rein lying over the knuckle of your forefinger.”
The stream of scornful instructions continued until at last Isaac had the proper grasp. Gingerly he stepped up to the box, careful not to pull the reins taut, and sat down, his legs stretched out with his feet against the dashboard.
“You are sitting quite wrong. Your feet should be a little farther back than your knees. What the devil are you doing with the whip? Clutch it like that and you’ll have to drop it when you need to use your right hand on the reins.”
His left arm was positioned wrong, his wrist bent at the wrong angle. How he managed to drive out from the yard onto the highway he had no idea. He thanked God for a miracle.
Unfortunately the world seemed to have woken up from its noonday rest. Carts and wagons, private carriages, riders and pedestrians thronged the road. Well, Isaac had to admit that it wasn’t exactly crowded, but there was a great deal too much traffic for his liking. He was glad that his mentor didn’t appear to trust him to drive at a trot.
The reprieve was temporary. After a quarter of a mile, Roworth said, “They are working together as a team now. You can pick up the pace, gradually.”
Somewhat to Isaac’s surprise, the horses obeyed his directions--even the insolent sorrel. Soon they were rolling along the road at a fine pace. He was beginning to feel almost competent when they rounded a bend and found themselves stuck behind a lumbering diligence.
The leaders and the near-side wheeler automatically slowed, but the sorrel decided to overtake. Isaac hadn’t the least notion what to do.
“Good gad, do you want them stepping over the traces?” Roworth leaned across and pulled on one of the reins, looking smugly superior as the sorrel fell back into line. “We must overtake,” he added impatiently. “We shall never reach Spain if we get stuck behind every slow-moving vehicle. I’d best take over.”
“No, I can do it,” said Isaac with grim determination. “We’ll never reach Spain if you have to drive all the way. Just tell me what to do.”
“For a start, wait until that carriage coming the other way is past.”
His condescension was infuriating. Keeping a tight rein on his own temper, Isaac listened carefully to the instructions. When the road was clear, Roworth repeated each step at the appropriate moment. A dozen times during the manoeuvre Isaac wanted to close his eyes and pray but he resisted the temptation and drove on.
As the leaders drew up neck-and-neck with the diligence’s team,
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