An Ideal Companion. ANNE ASHLEY

the sharp-featured little lawyer or the attractive widow who had been among the group who had pooled their resources in order to hire an innkeeper and his conveyance to take them on the first leg of their journey. And as for the young sprig who had been stupid enough to attempt tooling a light sporting carriage in a snowstorm...? That beggared belief! Ruth decided. The only other male guest, of course, was the Colonel.

      She had to own that she had attained a deal of pleasure in that tall gentleman’s company. Perhaps it was because he possessed many of those qualities she admired. For instance, he had gone out of his way to be as obliging as possible, suggesting that one of his fellow stranded travellers share the blue bedchamber with him, thereby revealing he was anything but a selfish person. He had also proved himself a leader—a gentleman born to command. Moreover, there was an imperturbable quality about him that seemed to permeate others. Amazingly, he had even managed to reconcile Lady Beatrice to housing all the hapless wayfarers with a good grace.

      Yes, she did rather like that tall gentleman, she reiterated silently. Given the opportunity, she would have very much enjoyed becoming better acquainted with him. That pleasure, she very much suspected now, would be denied her. It had ceased snowing completely late in the afternoon. If a substantial thaw set in overnight— and there was no reason to suppose it would not now the wind had changed course and was coming from the more usual south-westerly direction—the Colonel would undoubtedly wish to be on his way at daybreak and she would be unlikely ever to see him again. Not only that, there had been nothing in his demeanour to suggest he was interested in her in the least. He had been polite and friendly, offering what assistance he could in an attempt to minimise the extra work the household staff would be obliged to undertake. But by no word, look or gesture had he conveyed his interest in her personally was anything other than lukewarm, a casual meeting of strangers, destined to be brief and so easily forgotten. And maybe it was destined to be that way, she told herself.

      The sound of a tinkling bell from the adjoining room obliged her not to dwell on the unsatisfactory conclusion of her reverie, and she went into Lady Beatrice’s bedchamber to discover that lady seated before her dressing-table mirror, rummaging through her jewellery box, whilst Agatha stood behind, adding the finishing touches to her mistress’s coiffure.

      Although having received no professional training, Agatha Whitton had proved herself to be a most competent lady’s maid, with an innate gift for arranging hair. She had even succeeded in teasing Lady Beatrice’s somewhat lacklustre, greying locks into an attractive style.

      ‘You wanted me, my lady?’ Ruth enquired, thereby drawing the widow’s attention to her presence.

      ‘Yes, my dear. Do come over and help me choose something to wear this evening. I cannot decide between my pearls and the amethyst set.’ She then turned to the maid. ‘You may go, Whitton, and attend me later. No doubt I shall be retiring at a more advanced hour than usual. But, in the circumstances, it cannot be helped. I can hardly seek my bed, and leave my guests to their own devices, without attempting to entertain them for at least part of the evening, forced upon me though they all were.’

      Ruth acknowledged Agatha’s knowing look with one of her own, before the maid whisked herself from the room. She knew precisely what her confidante-cum-friend had been attempting to convey—that she, too, suspected that, although sounding slightly disgruntled at the unforeseen invasion of her home, Lady Beatrice Lindley was secretly enjoying the prospect of presiding over a dinner table with more company than had been under her roof at any one time for many a long year.

      ‘I think either would go well with the lavender-coloured gown you’ve chosen to wear, ma’am,’ Ruth responded, after staring, with a touch of envy, at the dazzling array of sparkling gems contained in the wooden casket. She herself had had no such difficulty in choosing her own adornment. The simple gold locket, once belonging to her mother, was the only necklace she possessed.

      World-weary grey eyes regarded her through the dressing-table mirror, staring in particular at the gold chain encircling a slender throat. ‘Perhaps you would care to choose something from my box yourself, child?’

      Although moved by the offer, Ruth didn’t hesitate to decline. ‘It’s kind of you, my lady, but this old gown would do no justice to any fine gem. My mama’s simple trinket is more in keeping. Besides...’ she shrugged ‘...I’ve no desire to make an impression on anyone.’

      The response appeared momentarily to please the widow, before one thin brow was raised in a distinctly questioning arch. ‘Do I infer correctly from that that there are no handsome young blades among our unlooked-for company?’

      Ruth slanted a mocking glance. ‘Well, you met the Colonel yourself, ma’am. One would scarce describe him as an Adonis, though at the same time it would do him a grave injustice to call him unappealing. I believe you are acquainted with another of the wayfarers—Lady Fitznorton’s great-nephew, Mr Tristram Boothroyd. Apparently he’s been sent down from Oxford for committing some misdemeanour or other. In disgrace, he’s doing penance by suffering several weeks enforced rustication with his great-aunt.’

      Lady Beatrice appeared to consider for a moment. ‘Yes, I do seem to recall meeting him once, some years ago. He was little more than a boy at the time.’

      ‘He isn’t so very old now, ma’am, not yet two-and-twenty, I shouldn’t have thought. He seems pleasant enough and handsome in a boyish sort of way. But one might question his intelligence. Somewhat irresponsible to take out a curricle and pair at the height of a snowstorm, wouldn’t you agree? If he had no regard for himself, he might at least have considered his horses.’

      ‘Sadly, not all are blessed with your sound judgement and thoughtfulness, my dear Ruth, especially not many of the male sex,’ Lady Beatrice responded in her usual disparaging way. ‘I understood from Whitton there are two other gentlemen beneath my roof?’

      ‘Yes, ma’am. A doctor by name of Dent, Samuel Dent, who is travelling with his sister. She, so I understand, keeps house for him in London. I placed him with the lawyer, who was travelling with them, in the green bedchamber. The other member of their party is a Mrs Julia Adams. She’s a handsome, pleasant woman...around the same age as the Colonel, I should have supposed, or perhaps a little older. She also resides in London, I believe.’

      Lady Beatrice’s brows again rose in two fine arches this time. ‘My, my! So many travelling in our part of the world at this time of year. How unusual!’

      ‘Not so strange, ma’am.’ Ruth countered. ‘One hardly expects snow so early. Besides which, they all seemed to have legitimate reasons for visiting the area. Colonel Prentiss, as you know, had been staying with friends, and Mr Boothroyd with his great-aunt. With the exception of Mrs Adams, who happened to be staying with her sister, the others were all putting up at the same hostelry in Lynmouth. Although I believe I’m right in thinking that it was Mrs Adams who arranged for the landlord at the inn to take them all as far as our local town in his somewhat antiquated carriage. There they hoped to travel by stages to Bristol and then on to London on the Mail.’

      ‘That’s all very reasonable, but what brought them all to the West Country in the first place?’

      ‘Business brought Mr Blunt, the lawyer, here,’ Ruth enlightened her. ‘And as for the other three—apparently they were visiting dying relatives. In the circumstances I considered it thoughtless to question them too closely, as I gained the distinct impression that both Mrs Adams and the Dents have both suffered recent bereavements.’

      ‘How very singular! It would seem I’m about to preside not over dinner but a wake!’

      Although Lady Beatrice could never have been accused of indulging in frivolity, or of possessing a sense of humour, come to that, on occasions she did seem to derive a degree of morbid delight in other people’s misfortunes.

      ‘We must hope it will not turn out to be so solemn an occasion as that, ma’am,’ Ruth responded, returning the jewellery box to its rightful place at the bottom of the wardrobe. ‘We must trust to the Colonel and young Mr Boothroyd to lighten the evening with some lively conversation.’

      Once again Ruth found herself the