Emma blinked and leaned her head backwards as a hand appeared before her nose, waving vigorously.
“Are you all right?” asked Milli. “You’ve been acting very peculiarly since yesterday.” She then stopped suddenly and shrugged, her glove halfway on. “More so than usual, mind.”
“And you,” said Emma, glancing down at her watch, “are behindhand, my dear, more so than usual. Come along.” She herded her sister out the door and down towards the waiting chaise where they dutifully kissed their guardians farewell.
Milli beamed at the driver as he shut the door behind her. “An avant!” she cried and then kissed her hand to her aunt and uncle as the horses were roused to action. Their uncle shook his head as they sped off.
The hiring of post-chaises were for those that preferred the convenience of a journey disembarrassed by strangers, or worse, the bourgeoisie; it was only the wealthy that could afford to indulge such inclinations. The sisters, however, could ill afford it, and they’d have ended up going by post had it not been for Victoria’s generosity. Traveling to Whitby by the diligence would have been a harrowing prospect indeed, for the stagecoaches were usually very uncomfortable, unsafe, and overcrowded. No, they were very fortunate in Victoria’s intervention on their behalf.
Their private chaise was to make the entire journey in under thirty hours, without an overnight stop, and that was, in actuality, to her preference. She was sure that sleeping in the carriage was far more agreeable to risking the bedbugs that one was sure to find in the inns along the way. A more leisurely drive, no hurried stops, and better vittles—yes, she could well get used to private travel.
The thunder of the iron tires, the powerful, clamoring hooves of the four-in-hand, and the jingle of the little bells on the harnesses soon lulled Milli into slumber as they finally left London and were whisked along the old Roman thoroughfare, Ermine Street. Even Boudicca, curled up on Milli’s lap, was fast asleep. Emma was once more left to her thoughts.
Aside from bedbugs, the only peril she considered with any real fear, as the scenery transformed from city buildings to open fields, was the danger posed by highwaymen and footpads, and she wondered if the two postilions were carrying pistols or blunderbusses like the stagecoach guards were known to do. Whilst she ruminated over these morbid thoughts, the coach flew past a gibbet, from which were hung three lonely bodies. Emma shuddered, turning away from the carrion eaters picking at their easy fare.
She drew the window blinds against the gallows and kept them drawn as the morning sun flooded the Great North Road in harsh light and heat. With the sunlight barred, Emma soon found herself transferred from Pasithea’s arms into those of the winged daemon, Morpheus, where thoughts of wicked viscounts and vanishing libraries could plague her no more.
It was hours later when she awoke again, owing to the chaise slowing to a halt so that the horses could be changed. Realizing that they were already in Royston, Emma wondered how many other stages they’d stopped at. To have slept through all the staging stops between here and London, for they would have stopped every fifteen miles, was very unlike her. She was usually a light sleeper, or had been before coming to London.
They partook of a light tiffin at the inn in Royston but did not linger and were soon underway again. Milli was garrulous after filling her belly and interrupted Emma’s reading again and again with postulations about the Solstice Ball, all aflutter at the possibility of seeing Mr. Valko again. When she had tired herself out, she joined her napping cat who was now stretched out on a pillow like an empress.
Twilight crept in over the changing landscape, forcing Emma to abandon her book. By midnight, just outside of Doncaster, a dense fog began to quicken amongst the forest along the causeway, and the postilions were forced to slow their pace considerably thenceforward. While Milli slept on (it was remarkable how much the girl could sleep), Emma peered into the misty gloom where the coach lamp lights barely reached the hedgerows and woodland that stretched alongside the road.
They had taken some supper and changed horses at the Red Lion Inn in Barnby Moor, but from Doncaster onwards, although newly horsed, their progress was no more than a brisk walk. By morning the pace was not much improved. She had looked forward to a leisurely drive, but this…?
The grey dawn light that percolated through the trees and fog revealed little, if any, of the Yorkshire landscape, and it was well-nigh midmorning when they reached York. They crossed the River Ouse, a heavy brume floating along its banks, and finally alighted at the York Tavern.
There they had ample time to rid themselves of travel grime, for it was not till dusk that they were met with an impressive, black barouche that Emma recognized immediately. “Vitam Aeternam,” she said under her breath, remarking the distinctive crest and its motto. Life Eternal.
The Winterly coachman sat atop the bench like a somber shadow cloaked beneath his habitual wide brim, watching silently as servants hurried to transfer the traps to the barouche. The horses were as funereal as their driver, large black beasts that glared at the ostlers as though they might bite them if they dared come any closer. Emma and Milli were quickly ushered into the black coach by the wary innkeeper as soon as the last trunk was secured.
At the crack of the whip, the four black steppers surged into motion. Emma shifted the curtain aside, hoping to see York Minster, even from a distance, but the cityscape was already filled with shadows. Light seeped steadily from the western sky as they left the city, throwing the limestone hills and hay barns and bog plants into darkness.
It struck her as odd that, between the fifty miles that separated York from Whitby, they did not refresh the horses even once.
“Would that we had stopped in New Malton,” said Milli, looking uncomfortable. “Apply to the driver to stop at the next village.”
“You speak to him if you wish to stop,” said Emma, whispering, though she too needed to visit the water closet. “I am sure we shall break our necks if he continues this confounded pace.” By some tacit agreement, the sisters had been conversing in whispers ever since they’d left the tavern. Emma could not say why she did so, but she imagined the gloom of the night and the dreary coachman had something to do with their subdued moods. Or perhaps they were just overtired by the journey. Either way, it was plain that neither sister was inclined to draw the attention of their coachman.
“The faster the better, I say.” Milli shifted in her seat, looking longingly out the window.
Emma was sure that Winterthurse could not be much further and she peered keenly into the night, eager for her first sight of it. Steam rolled off the backs of the horses, their glistening coats catching the lamplights, as they pounded through the mist. Emma fancied she could see brimstone belching from their nostrils as the road curved. She was so hypnotized with watching the beasts that she did not at first notice the shadowed edifice materializing beneath the half light of the moon.
“There it is!” cried Milli suddenly.
Emma jumped. There it was, indeed. Winterthurse loomed like a slumbering dragon in the distance, its midnight buttresses like arching wings and it spires like great horns piercing the heavens. The windows were aglow with a watchful red. A trick of the light, perhaps?
Emma fell back against her seat, her mouth agape.
“What is it?” Milli considered her sister with a frown as she too sat back. “What’s wrong?”