Sweet Swindle

Chapter II: Exceptionally late

I will walk where my own
Nature would be leading.

Emily Brontë

Oh, how she had miscalculated the depths of her capabilities. The indefinite appointment with her employer, whose name she had learned from a footman was Gideon Lucian Nightingale, Duke of Langford Hall in Ebonstead, had gotten the better of her. Angelique had failed miserably at making herself look presentable. Her unruly curly hair was to blame: attempting to fashion it into something graceful was out of the question.

She rehearsed some small talk in her mind, a set of words they might exchange because she was desperate to keep this job. Since around seven o'clock, she had been standing outside her excuse of a home with clattering teeth. Meanwhile, her left leg had grown numb from leaning against the other one. Time passed infuriatingly slowly to the point that she feared her temper couldn't take it anymore. Dreary from the waiting, her eyes sprang open with alertness when the noise of clattering hooves filled her ears.

Horses. Carriages. Fetching. Estate. Mr. Nightingale? Her thoughts were fragments of vague memory. Before her stood a stallion of great magnitude with a coat as black as ink, gleaming in the morning light. Though Angelique found horses magnificent, she feared them more than she liked to admit. Their size and unpredictability could easily become something wild and dangerous. She had seen it happen once, and that thought brought up unwanted memories of the helpless shrieks of little children and the dumbfounded, doleful stare of the horse's owner.

The dark stallion seemed to have moved, for when Angelique opened her eyes, the beast stood a few more feet away than it had before. Perhaps it had felt a mutual understanding to keep its distance. She awaited the moment of truth when someone would step out of the carriage to invite her in and escort her to their destination. But it never came. So when she warily walked towards the carriage, it came as a surprise to see no one sitting inside. Was the duke playing a cruel joke on her? Well, she would refuse to partake. She would walk the damned way. To further complicate things, a few strands of hair sprang out and slightly blocked her sight. It felt uncharacteristic to care for such frivolities. However, considering how a polished appearance was only one requirement of a secretary's role, she smoothed out the defiant little hairs that stuck out and tightly pulled them behind her ears. She pushed away the sudden dip in mood and made her first steps towards her destination. How she would arrive was not a priority.

After a fruitless period of roaming around the village, asking locals for directions, and being met with bewildered stares, she more or less found the way towards Langford Hall. Her spleen complained the entirety of her journey. Today she felt as if she had traveled more than she had in half a year's time. Hours had passed, and Angelique decided it was best to take a rest and fill her grumbling stomach. It would certainly make for an awkward revelation if, during conversation, her body started complaining loudly. In states of hunger and distress, she had the habit of becoming somewhat irritable, or 'turning into a bad-tempered shrew' as someone had informed her. When she stopped by a small bakery that seemed trustworthy enough, she let herself slump into one of the available chairs in a very unladylike manner. Any disapproving glares wouldn't bother her at the moment.

A person seated in a chair in front of her caught her by surprise. She'd thought the shop empty. In all her fussing, she hadn't noticed any other customers except the baker's wife and the plates she was holding. It seemed the other customer's mind was also occupied. From her point of view, it wasn't easy to make out any distinct shapes, but overall she could see that it was a large man. His eye-catching pouch seemed too small for his likeness; out of proportion. She concluded that anything would look out of proportion on him. The notion brought a faint blush to her cheeks.