Fairchild Read Online Free Page B

Fairchild’s traveling coaches.  
    When the passing scenery lost its charm, Sophy brought out Mrs. Wilkes’s book. She shut it in disgust after the first tale. ‘The Princess and the Pea’ was not a real fairy story. It had no magic, only a nameless girl whose quality was evident in her easy bruises. Offended by the absurdity of the Queen’s test, Sophy slammed the book shut and sank into memories of her mother’s stories: corsairs and sorcerers and houses of gingerbread. Her mysterious father had figured in many of these, always a hero, taken from his family by duty or tragic death.  
    Sophy glared out the window, her throat tight. Her mother’s stories were rubbish, all of them. Her father was a lecher, not a valiant, who had sent her mother away and never troubled to find her.  
    It was a bewildering journey, the anticipated three days lasting an age. Sophy asked no questions, merely watching the succession of villages, rivers, fields, and towns. Tom Coachman, despite his friendly smile, gave Liza a wide berth whenever they stopped, and so hardly exchanged a word with Sophy. The inns where they rested were noisy and frightening, and Sophy derived no comfort from Liza, sleeping noisily on the nearby trundle bed. Though she denied herself the refuge of remembering her mother’s stories, each night Sophy fell into dreams of dark forests, lumbering bears, and twinkling fairy lights.  
    At last the land stretched out broad and flat. Sophy had counted seventeen windmills when Liza announced they were only two miles from Cordell Hall.
    They stopped a short time later. “Is this it?” Sophy asked, scowling to hide her fear. She could only see one small house through the window. It didn’t look anything like the hall she had imagined.  
    Liza’s lip curled. “This is the lodge.”
    The keeper stepped outside, swinging aside a wide iron gate and waving them on their way. Driving down an avenue lined with giant trees, Sophy saw a lake and spreading lawns. The park, she thought. The carriage swung around sharply, and Sophy saw the house.  
    She had never seen such a large edifice. Two wings of warm, weathered brick receded on either side, each boasting a tower that stretched above the chimneys standing like soldiers along the steeply slanted roof. Though it was too late to hide her amazement, Sophy snapped her mouth shut.  
    The carriage stopped. Quaking, Sophy leaned back into the velvet cushions as the crunch of feet on gravel drew near. The door opened and a white-gloved hand materialized in front of her.
    “Go on,” Liza said.  
    Taking the hand, Sophy stumbled down the coach steps, which today seemed absurdly high above the ground. She had removed her bonnet in the carriage; now, she squinted in the bright sunlight. Glancing up from the gloved hand in her own, she saw the man’s face was expressionless as a carving of a saint. He wore a pristine powdered wig and a long blue coat trimmed with gold. Could this be him?
    Spinning smartly on his heel, he marched up the steps into the house.
    “Why are you waiting?” Liza hissed. “Go!”

CHAPTER FOUR
Mind Your Manners

    The hall inside was dim and bigger than the chapel back in Bottom End. Sophy’s footsteps echoed on the shining tiles. Another man, dressed identically to the first, silently closed the door. They were alike as a pair of bookends. Clearly neither was Lord Fairchild. She followed the first up a wide stairway and along a gallery lined with looming paintings and towering doors. The man opened one and led Sophy into the room, halting four paces inside.  
    “Miss Prescott,” he announced and withdrew.
    Eyes fastened on the carpet, Sophy sagged into a curtsy, willing her legs to straighten again instead of crumpling under her as they seemed likely to do. She succeeded and rose. Fighting the urge to flee, she glanced up.
    A man, long and thin, his shock of red hair tamed with moderate success, sat in a huge armchair, his fingers steepled before