Free Tarleton's Wife by Blair Bancroft

only with some difficulty that the solicitor restrained a triumphant smile.
    * * * * *
     
    “He’s a bad ’un, missus, I can tell,” declared Meg O’Callaghan as soon as they were out of the building. “Me pa taught me about men like ’im. Smooth as glass they be and’ll have y’r money off ya quick as cat c’n lick ’is ear.”
    In spite of her name, Meg O’Callaghan was a product of the streets of London, her father’s opinions of solicitors not unnaturally colored by his frequent brushes with the law. Other than a natural pixie-like beauty, her qualifications for the post of lady’s maid consisted of quick wit, a quicker tongue and a willingness to learn. Julia, who had never before enjoyed the services of any but an occasional housemaid, coped with the problem of training Meg in her usual direct fashion. Her priorities were perhaps not those recommended by London’s more elite employment registeries. During the voyage from Spain she had begun to teach Meg O’Callaghan to read. She had also attempted to improve her speech. Reading was progressing remarkably well. Speech was not.
    “Aye, she’s right, missus,” Daniel agreed. “Woodworthy’s not so worthy, I’m thinkin’.”
    “I can’t help but agree,” Julia sighed, “but what we can do about it I can’t imagine. We’re fortunate he didn’t find some devious way to turn us out into the street. We shall have to go softly with Mr. Woodworthy. Though it goes much against the grain, he holds our lives in his hands. Or mine at least. You are both free to make your lives elsewhere.”
    “As if I ever would!” Meg cried. “You’ve treated me like a real person. And to live in a ’ouse in t’ country and ’av a chance fer to be a lady’s maid. Oh, missus, y’ll not send me away!”
    The maid’s vehemence brought a thin smile to Julia’s lips. “Of course I won’t send you away, goose. I merely wanted you to know you were not bound, as I am, by Ebadiah Woodworthy’s edicts. Daniel?”
    “If you think for one minute I’d leave you, missus, you’re far less of a woman than I took you to be,” Daniel declared stoutly.
    In the middle of the narrow walkway Julia halted, taking each of her stalwart companions by the hand. “Thank you,” she choked, eyes blurring. “It’s a pact then. We’ll face the wilds of Lincolnshire together.”
    Embarrassed, Daniel ducked his head, mumbling, “They do say it be the most quiet corner of England, missus. Doubt you’ll be needing us at all.”
    * * * * *
     
    The Bell and Candle was a coaching inn of some respectability on The Great North Road. The sign over the broad entrance to its cobbled courtyard creaked in the February wind as the weary trio sloshed through the remains of a wet snowfall and entered the inn. Earlier that day they had left the rest of their meager luggage in care of the ostler, though the canvas bag that held Julia’s tattered brown gown, heavy with coins, and the major’s money pouch, rode in a pack on Daniel’s back. The inn’s main door gave directly onto a large common room, redolent with ale, roast meat, wood smoke and unwashed bodies.
    Since the ostler had assured them there were plenty of rooms available, the weary travelers were disconcerted to find the common room, which was also the taproom, packed to capacity, every chair, bench and settle filled with men attacking great platters of mutton and tankards of local brew. The travelers paused just inside the doorway, achingly aware of how they must appear. Two women wrapped in the tattered remnants of the cloaks they had worn in Spain, Daniel equally shabby in his torn and faded uniform.
    A burly red-faced man erupted from the crowd and bore down on them in a manner not dissimilar to the charge of a bull Julia had once seen at a corrida in Spain. “Out!” he bellowed. “This is a respectable house. We don’t serve beggars. Out, out!”
    “A fine way to speak to a lady!” Meg O’Callaghan roared right