A Rose for Beauty

Chapter 6

They reached Glasbottle late in the afternoon of the third day after separating from the caravan. All of them were riding in the wagon so that they could make better time, but that didn't keep anyone from peering anxiously out of the front in an effort to catch the first glimpse of the town.

“Henry, are you certain that we're going the right way?” Thomas asked. “There was that fork we passed yesterday...”

“They told us to stay on the main track. That was barely more than a game trail,” he said without taking his eyes off of the road. “At any rate, we're still driving north.”

Thomas shook his head, scouring the passing trees with his gaze. “We haven't seen so much as a soul since yesterday.”

“And when we did, he said Glasbottle was this way,” Henry said patiently. “We must be traveling more slowly than -”

“There!” Lydia cried.

Sure enough, up ahead of them the trees began to thin. They saw pasture with sheep grazing on it, and beyond that a little farmhouse. Beyond that there seemed to be fields, and much more open space. The road was suddenly a bit wider and certainly more traveled, and the forest gave way to settled land. After days of traveling through thick, shady woods, they all drank in the sudden drenching of the afternoon sun.

Soon, the houses began to come much more frequently until they blended into what was obviously a small town. It was equally obvious that they were something of a curiosity. Heads popped out of doors and windows as they passed, and at least five children were following their wagon by the time they arrived at the only patch of paving they'd seen since Dunhollow – a square in what looked to be the center of town.

One of the children peeled off from the group and ran into a brick building off the square. It stood out from the wooden and thatch structures around it, although the signboard that swung from the front was weathered and faded.

Clara looked around, disgust plain to read on her face. “You are right, Anna. It's not as bad as I feared it would be. It's worse.”

Henry stopped the wagon and climbed down, looking awkwardly for someone to speak to. A man in a nearby shop noticed his hesitation and came outside, wiping floury hands on the apron tied around his waist.

“Can I assist you, sir?” he asked, smiling.

“Yes,” Henry said. “We're looking for Mrs. Warren at The Cat and Fiddle.”

“You must be the Hartfords then! We've been expecting you.”

“Ah.” For once, Henry looked taken aback. “Expecting . . . us?”

“Sure, sure! Mrs. Warren told us you'd be coming. We've had a time getting Briarwood Cottage ready for you. Been watching for you all this week.”

Just then a stout middle-aged woman with her dark gray-streaked hair pulled up into a bun bustled out of the brick building they had noticed earlier. She headed straight for them, tucking a sunny yellow shawl around her shoulders, and as she walked she called to them.

“Welcome to Glasbottle!”

She extended her hand and Henry took it with a smile and a bow.

“Mrs. Warren, I presume.”

At his gallantry she smiled, her plump cheeks dimpling. “And you must be Mr. Hartford.”

“Henry Hartford, at your service. These are my brothers, Thomas and William. Behind them are our sisters, Anna, Clara, and Lydia. Our father is in the wagon, but he is . . . not well.”

Mrs. Warren nodded in sympathy. “Ah, well you'll be wanting to get to your cottage before nightfall, then. I'll show you the way if you have no objection.”