Travelling In Style by Rivernee Locke

Riding in Ernest’s sidecar wasn’t how Beattie had anticipated making the journey . . .

OF all the men Aunt Louisa could have chosen for her to travel with, why pick Ernest Reed? Beattie Marsh glared at the man standing on the doorstep and fought the unladylike urge to slam the door in his too-handsome face. Something about him always caused her to want to behave in completely inappropriate ways.

And now, thanks to her aunt, she was expected to endure the afternoon in his company.

“Hello, Beatrice. You’re looking delightfully fierce, as usual.”

She stiffened, her fingers digging into the door.

“Mr Reed, if we have any chance of surviving this trip to Dorset, I suggest we set down some rules.”

Ernest smiled and leaned against the doorframe.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea? I have a habit of wanting to break rules.”

She took a step backwards.

“I insist.” “Insisting and rules?” He shuddered. “I have a feeling you’re going to be a boring travelling companion.”

She refused to let him goad her into a bad mood.

“Rule number one: no talking.”

He raised both eyebrows. “None?”

“Not one word.” “That’s all right, Beattie-bat. I’ll hum instead.”

He glanced at his pocket watch and frowned.

“If you want to reach your aunt’s house before dark, you’d best get a shake on.”

Beattie resisted the urge to stick out her tongue at him as he turned and skipped down the steps.

He was the most infuriating and annoying male she had ever met. Every time they attended the same function or party, he would purposely find ways to humiliate her.

Well, she wasn’t having it.

Just because her aunt had chosen him to chauffeur her didn’t mean she had to be all sugary bonbons and sweet jam towards the man.

“Are you going to stand on the pavement with your mouth open for long?”

Beattie ignored the question. Instead, she stood staring at the monstrosity parked in the street. Or, rather, the motorcycle that sat in the space where an automobile with doors and a roof should have been.

“What is this?” she stammered.

“It’s a Clyno combination,” Ernest replied, fondly stroking the handlebars. “She’s a beauty, isn’t she?”

Beattie struggled not to run back to the house.

“Where exactly am I supposed to sit?”

Ernest grinned and unmounted, coming to stand next to her. “Here, in the sidecar.” Beattie stared at the seat, doubting the cramped space would offer any form of comfort during the two-hour journey in front of them. That was assuming they would even manage to reach their destination in such a contraption.

“You want me to sit in there?”

“You can snuggle behind me if you’d prefer . . .”

“I would not,” she replied sharply, not wanting to be any closer to the man than she had to be.

“Calm down. I’m only teasing. You’d be too much of a distraction anyway.”

“How am I supposed to get in it?”

Ernest leaned forward and opened the small door on the side.

Beattie glanced around, conscious of neighbours watching from behind parlour curtains. No doubt the gossip would run between the houses the moment they rode down the street.

Yet another scandal for her to live down because of this man.

Ernest chuckled at her hesitation and moved closer. His breath tickled her neck when he spoke.

“Live dangerously, Miss Marsh. You might enjoy it.”

“With you involved, I doubt it,” she replied, holding out the basket she carried.

She almost laughed when he took it from her and pulled a face at its weight.

“What do you have in here? Cobble stones? A dead body?”

“Just some food for Aunt Louisa.”

She stepped into the sidecar with a resigned sigh, smoothed down her skirt and lowered herself on to the seat.

She fidgeted for several moments as she tried to get comfortable in the limited space before finally settling and

straightening her hat.

“Most elegantly manoeuvred, Beattie-bat.”

Ernest shut the door, plonked the basket on her lap and waved a pair of ugly-looking goggles in her face.

“These will keep the wind and flies out of your pretty blue eyes.”

She held her breath while he fixed the goggles in place.

His closeness caused a strange sensation to move through her body. Not quite excitement, but something very close. Quite a difference from the displeasure he normally caused her to feel.

With one final check, Ernest returned her gaze.

“You look like you want to run away, sweet Bea.”

She blinked at him through the uncomfortable goggles. He had never called her that before.

“I either accept your ride to Aunt Louisa’s, or miss out on her New Year’s supper buffet. Her cooked ham is divine.

“Certainly worth the inconvenience of spending time with you.”

He smiled softly and tapped her on the nose.

“I’m pleased my company won’t ruin your appetite.”

After being this close to him, Beattie wasn’t sure.

The ride to Dorset consisted of bumps, speed and fear.

For the first hour she kept her eyes shut, convinced they would crash. Finally she opened them to watch the passing scenery as they twisted and turned through the countryside.

Despite her fears, Ernest appeared to be in control.

As they took yet another sharp bend, the engine made a strange sound.

“Is something wrong?” she yelled over the spluttering noise of the machine.

Ernest reduced their speed and headed on to the grass verge.

“No, nothing.”

She frowned.

“Are you sure?” “Absolutely,” he insisted, turning off the engine.

She glanced worriedly at the low clouds. They looked awfully like snow clouds.

“You don’t sound very certain.”

“Don’t worry,” he said, dismounting. “I’ll have it fixed in seconds.”

His confused expression as he stared at the motorcycle caused her to doubt his words. He didn’t look like a man who knew much about machinery.

He spent his days working in his father’s butcher’s shop – hardly a place to learn about motorcycles and their engines.

“You don’t know how to fix it, do you?” Beattie asked, after a piece of metal broke off in his hand when he twisted it.

His silence was all the answer she received.

“Rather silly to own something and not know how to mend it.”

Ernest glared at her, the chill in his green eyes colder than the weather.

“I think now might be a good time to practise that rule number one you mentioned earlier.”

Half an hour of fiddling and muttering passed before Ernest stood, kicked the engine and admitted he had no idea what was wrong.

His mood was so dejected, Beattie actually found herself wanting to reach out and hug him.

“Don’t blame yourself,” she said. “I’m sure the engine is very complicated. It was nice of you to offer me a ride.”

Ernest sighed and turned to her.

“Actually, Wilson was supposed to drive you.”

“Aunt Louisa’s godson?” she asked. “The one who owns a brand-new automobile and works for the police?”

“Yes, him.”

She frowned.

“Then why am I with you?”

Ernest scratched his head.

“Because I paid him to let me bring you. I understand you don’t like me very much, Beattie-bat, but despite that – and the fact you practically combust every time we are together – I rather like you.

“You make me laugh, especially when you get all mad at me and do that thing with your eyes.” “What thing?”

“Like this,” he said, taking on an expression neither attractive nor complimentary.

“I do no such thing!” she spluttered.

“You do,” he insisted. “You turn red, too. You remind me of the cherries my uncle grows on his farm.”

She glared at him. “You are a rude man.” He chuckled.

“But I do get your attention, though, don’t I?”

“You have my attention now, but I wouldn’t say I am enjoying it.”

He grinned and leaned closer.

“Best make the most of it, then.”

He kissed her before she had a chance to stop him.

Her racing heart fluttered like a frantic animal’s wing, melting away her outrage. His lips were warm and gentle as he coaxed her from surprise to kissing him back.

He retreated. Beattie, not sure what to say, opened the sidecar’s door and stepped out.

Shivering, she pulled her scarf higher around her neck and walked away.

“Beattie, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have . . .”

She stopped and spun around.

“Didn’t you want to?” Ernest moved away from the motorcycle and walked towards her, his strides long and determined.

“Yes, I did. I’ve wanted to kiss you many times.”

A delicious thrill warmed her insides. All this time she had believed he didn’t like her, when in truth he did. What strange characters men were.

“You are determined to ruin my reputation, aren’t you?” she asked. He stopped.

“I suspect you’re capable of ruining mine, Miss Marsh. A large part of my heart seriously hopes you might want to try.”

She smiled, and then gasped with delight as snowflakes started to float down from the sky.

“It’s snowing.” He nodded, searching her face. “It is.”

She lifted her hand and smiled when snowflakes fell into her palm.

After a moment, she turned and started to walk again.

“Where are you going?” Ernest asked.

She glanced over her shoulder.

“As lovely as snow is, I’d prefer to sit in front of a fire and get warm. Do you think you can push your motorcycle down the lane?”

Ernest nodded.

“Yes, but . . .”

“We can walk to Aunt Louisa’s house from here. It’s not far. Just along the lane and we will reach the back of the house.”

Ernest ran back to the motorcycle.

“Why didn’t you say before?”

She laughed.

“And miss seeing you flummoxed over how to mend the engine?

“Besides, Mother’s cake is too tasty to share with Aunt Louisa and her friends. I think we should keep it for us to enjoy. Maybe in front of a fire with a cup of hot cocoa. It will be our secret.”

Ernest left the motorcycle in the middle of the road and raced back to Beattie.

Before she could say anything, he tugged her to a stop, spun her around and kissed her again.

“I like the sound of that, sweet Bea,” he said.

“Me, too.” She smiled. “What a great way to spend the New Year. Thank goodness for snowflakes and broken engines.” ■