Free The Second Lady Southvale by Sandra Heath

congestion at a crossroads, and the ponycart had to halt for a few minutes. She heard a group of men talking on the corner nearby. They were discussing the loss of the Queen of Falmouth , for news of the sighting of the longboat had already spread through the town, as always happened when a ship was missing or lost.
    The Black Horse was a large hostelry in the very heart of the town, and was obviously an important establishment, judging by the stagecoaches and general bustle in its vicinity. It was a tall building, with a galleried courtyard in the middle, which the ponycart had to wait to enter because a stagecoach was just departing.
    Rosalind stared up at the stagecoach in utter amazement, for there were at least eight outside passengers clinging to their seats on the top. There were four inside passengers as well, and the vehicle swayed alarmingly as it negotiated the turn into the steep road that led up out of the town. Several small dogs barked excitedly, dashing after the coach until the coachman’s whip flicked in their direction, and they fell back.
    The old man urged the ponycart into the crowded yard, where two more stagecoaches were waiting. There was no sunlight because the inn was so tall all around, and Rosalind looked up at the galleries. A maid was hanging sheets out over one of the rails and a waiter was shouting down an order to one of his fellows by the tap-room door. A bell rang as the ticket clerk leaned out of his little wooden office to announce theimminent departure of the Bodmin stage, and the team of the vehicle concerned tossed their heads expectantly as the passengers began to climb on board.
    A fine private carriage drove in as the ponycart drew to a standstill in a relatively quiet corner, and a fashionable lady and gentleman alighted, for the Black Horse was considered to be suitable for all walks of life. The old man called to two porters to assist him with Hetty and the luggage, and Rosalind followed them through a low doorway that led into a whitewashed entrance hall with a gleaming red-tiled floor. Hetty was placed on a high-backed settle against the wall, and Rosalind sat with her, watching the lady and gentleman who’d just arrived. They were talking to a tall, white-aproned man whose confident demeanor suggested that in all probability he was Daniel Penruthin.
    The trunks and valises were placed beside the settle, and Rosalind gave the old man some coins for his trouble. They were American coins, for she hadn’t had time to change them, but he didn’t seem to mind, for it was simple enough to go to the customhouse.
    When he’d gone, Rosalind looked around again, waiting for the landlord to finish speaking to the lady and gentleman. The entrance hall was long, and a number of doors opened off it, one of them into the dining-room, from where an endless stream of waiters passed to and fro. A staircase rose at the far end of the hall, and she could just make out a paneled landing on the floor above. The smell of cooking hung in the warm air, and a fire crackled in the hearth opposite the settle. Next to the fire there were several tables on which stood jugs of clean hot water, bowls, and piles of freshly laundered towels, for the use of guests arriving after long journeys.
    A boy who cleaned boots hurried past, and then a barber went quickly to the staircase, followed by his assistant with a bowl of hot water and a razor. Porters struggled in with other people’s luggage, and a departing gentleman grumbled underhis breath that the place was becoming far too noisy for one to hear one’s own thoughts. Rosalind almost had to agree with him, for somewhere on one of the floors above a woman was singing. She had a beautiful trained voice and was going through her scales, but it wasn’t long before the sound became tiresome.
    It was all quite chaotic, and very alien to one who was used to the peace and quiet of a vast Washington mansion. She suddenly felt very lonely and far away from home,