“Begging your pardon, sir,” put in Thomas, who up to this point had listened in slack-jawed silence, “but it don’t seem to make much difference.”
“There you have me,” Pickett conceded. “But her family had an estate somewhere in Ireland. It would have become forfeit to the Crown once her father was convicted of treason, but if it’s still standing empty, it might make a convenient bolt-hole for anyone hiding from the law.”
“Do you know where it is?” Jamie asked.
Pickett shook his head. “No idea. I suppose it must be somewhere near Carrickfergus, since that’s where the uprising took place, but beyond that—” He broke off, shrugging.
“You might not know, but someone in Mountjoy Square might,” declared Jamie, pushing back his chair. “If we leave now, we should be able to reach Bristol by midnight. We can get an early start tomorrow and reach Holyhead in two days, then take the packet across the channel to Dublin.”
“Two days?” echoed Pickett, white-faced and desperate. “Anything could have happened to her in that time!”
“I’m afraid it can’t be helped,” Jamie said, albeit not without sympathy. “I suppose we might try to hire a boat in Bristol—provided the seas are not too rough, travel over water might be swifter than making the same journey over land—but anyone with a craft capable of making the trip would almost certainly require payment up front, and I don’t have sufficient money on me at present.”
This observation led, not unnaturally, to all four men emptying their pockets and dumping the contents of their coin purses out onto the table. Granted, Pickett was no sailor; his one venture out to sea in a fishing boat off the coast of Scotland had ended with his losing his breakfast into the Irish Sea. Still, if he could reach Julia even one minute sooner via water than might be accomplished over land, he would consider it well worth any discomfort. But when their communal bank was tallied, the general consensus was that, although they might find a sailor sufficiently needful of funds to take them to Dublin for such a sum, it would be foolhardy in the extreme to be decanted upon the docks of Dublin without so much as a farthing left between them.
“Once we reach Bristol, we’ll stop at the nearest posting-house and ask if they have two rooms vacant,” Jamie said, his mind already leaping ahead to meet the next obstacle. “We may have to make shift with one, but if not, John and I will share one, and Carson and Thomas can take the other.”
Thomas looked up at the mention of his name. “But I thought I would be putting up with the stable hands, like I am here.”
“We can get in and out much more quickly if we’re all together—under the same roof, if not in the same room.”
“Looks like you just got promoted,” Carson told the valet. He raised his tankard in a toast. “Or conscripted, I’m not sure which. Either way, we’re all a part of Major Pennington’s irregulars.”
“Not mine,” Jamie protested, lifting his tankard all the same. “Gentlemen, I give you Pickett’s Irregulars.”
“Pickett’s Irregulars,” chorused the others, and succeeded in dragging a shadow of a smile from the little band’s namesake. If he had to endure this waking nightmare, at least he had men around him whom he could trust.
Having determined on a course of action, Pickett dispatched Thomas upstairs to fetch their bags while he settled up with the Cock and Boar. Nancy was much inclined to bemoan the loss of her swain, but upon being commanded by Jamie (whom she mentally dismissed as an unfeeling brute without a romantic bone in his body) to cease caterwauling, she kissed Harry goodbye and left her post long enough to step outside, where she stood waving her handkerchief at the departing carriage until it disappeared around the bend.
THE HOURS THAT FOLLOWED seemed to Pickett like a nightmare from which he could not awaken. The lamps mounted on the outside of the post-chaise only served to make the darkness beyond seem even darker by comparison, meaning he could find no distraction in the unfamiliar scenery they passed along the way. About an hour into their journey, Carson conceived the happy notion of whiling away the time in singing, at the top of his lungs (or so it seemed to Pickett), a selection of bawdy tunes of the sort most frequently heard in London’s less discriminating public houses. He was possessed of a fine, if untrained, tenor voice, to which Thomas very readily contributed his own baritone. Jamie soon added his own voice to the mix, and finally, Pickett himself joined in, albeit halfheartedly; it was easier than resisting Carson’s constant urging, or deflecting his insistence that there was, after all, nothing Pickett could do for his wife at the moment—a fact of which he was all too painfully aware. To his surprise, it actually helped, as much as anything could; it was, after all, difficult to form horrifying theories as to what torments Julia might be suffering when he was trying to recall the words to the next stanza of “The Jug of Punch” or “Drink Old England Dry.”
At last they reached Bristol and soon located a posting-house, where Jamie sent his companions inside to procure a couple of rooms while he gave instructions for a vehicle and fresh horses to be ready for their departure at dawn the following morning. It was quite late by this time, and the innkeeper was not pleased to be rousted from his bed at such an hour, but was forced to comply nonetheless; unlike the village of Dunbury with its one inn, Bristol was a city of considerable size, and if he were disinclined to oblige the latecomers, they would have no difficulty in locating a more welcoming establishment.
Entering the quiet chamber which he was to share his brother-in-law, Pickett noted that it appeared to be clean, and was somewhat roomier than the lodgings provided by the Cock and Boar. Not that it appeared to matter much to Jamie either way, Pickett noticed with a pang of envy; having spent more than a dozen years in the army, the major had acquired the ability to sleep anywhere. Soon the stillness was interrupted only by the rhythmic sounds of his breathing.
Alas, with nothing else to distract him, the demons Pickett had previously held at bay came rushing back to torment him. But now, instead of wondering where Julia was at that moment and what was happening to her, his thoughts drifted back to the last night before he’d left for Dunbury, and their farewells at dawn the following morning. She’d teased him about making her a formal offer of marriage, but he could tell that she was speaking only half in jest. Why hadn’t he done it? Partly—mostly, perhaps—because he didn’t know how to put in words the depth of his love for her. But surely she would have recognized his dilemma, and given him credit for trying. It would have made her happy, and would have cost him nothing. Oh, he might have felt a little foolish, going down on one knee to offer marriage to a woman who was already his wife—a lady, moreover, who was already four months gone with his child—but there would have been no one else to see. Even if there had been, if Rogers or Thomas had entered the room unexpectedly and caught him in the act, well, it wasn’t as if he’d never made a fool of himself before.
He might have missed that opportunity to please her, but there was another awaiting him in London. He could accept the position offered by the Prince of Wales. Granted, he did not look forward to the loss of autonomy the position would entail, but surely restoring Julia to something approaching the station in life that should have been hers would make the sacrifice worthwhile. At least, he reasoned, it was unlikely that anyone would be able enter Carlton House and snatch her away; he supposed it would constitute part of his duty to the prince to see that the royal residence was secure. Surely the peace of mind would more than compensate for whatever indignities he might suffer.
Oh Julia, he thought, shifting to find a better position in which to entice the sleep he knew would not come, just be safe and unharmed, and anything you want is yours.
11
In Which Julia Makes Plans of Her Own
Julia shifted, vaguely conscious that the mattress beneath her was much firmer than it should have been. She stretched out an arm to ascertain from her husband if he were aware of this curious circumstance, or if (as was more likely the case) he had already arisen and
departed for Bow Street. Her hand met only smooth wood, lightly dusted with a gritty layer of dirt. As her brain struggled to make sense of this discovery, she realized that the hard surface beneath her was not stationary, but shuddered with the bouncing, lurching movements of a poorly-sprung carriage.
She was not in bed at all, then, but in a moving carriage. But why was she lying on the floor, instead of sitting on the seat? She opened her eyes, and found herself staring at the scuffed toes of a pair of boots so close to her face that to focus her gaze upon them rendered her cross-eyed. She had not realized her husband’s footwear was in such shabby condition; she would urge him to see Hoby about measuring him for new ones. Although, she reflected, rubbing a sore spot on the back of her head, any man so ungallant as to allow his wife to tumble off the seat without lifting a finger to stop her no doubt deserved to go about with holes in the toe. And so she would tell him, the moment they reached—wherever it was they were going. She couldn’t remember.
“Ah, so you’re awake then, are you?”
The voice, though friendly enough, was definitely not that of her husband. John’s speech comprised a veneer of gentility carefully spread over the Cockney vowels of his youth, which still had a tendency to manifest themselves in times of great emotion. This voice, though less genteel than John’s best efforts, was nevertheless soft and lilting, almost musical. And yet the sound of it filled her with a nameless dread. Why?
She turned her head in order to look up at the speaker. A man sat on the rear-facing seat, a man of about thirty with ginger hair and bright blue eyes. His green tailcoat, plum-colored waistcoat, and buff breeches were shabby imitations of the current fashion, and on the seat beside him lay a stout wooden cudgel. At the sight of it, her memory came rushing back: the disastrous tea party; Rogers lying insensible on the floor as blood trickled down his hair and onto the polished marble; and this man, standing over her fallen butler with this same weapon in his hand . . .
“Who are you?” she demanded, trying her best to sound indignant rather than terrified. “Where are you taking me?”
“I’ll be tellin’ you all in good time, Mrs. Pickett. In the meantime, I don’t doubt you’ll feel much more comfortable in the seat. If you’ll allow me?”
He offered his hand, but Julia was not inclined to take it. Instead, she pushed herself upright to a sitting position, then braced her hands on the edge of the forward-facing seat and climbed onto it.
“Your voice,” she said, placing it with some surprise. “You’re Irish.”
“Aye, that I am,” he said, sounding gratified. “Born and bred there. Éire go Brách,” he added, and it seemed to Julia that there was an edge to his voice that had not been there before.
She was almost certain that she’d heard the phrase before, but she could not recall where, or in what context. In fact, she could think of only two acquaintances who hailed from the land which the poet William Drennan had dubbed “the Emerald Isle”: a charming albeit impoverished young man whom she had once considered taking as a lover, since it had appeared at the time that she could never have the man she truly wanted—good heavens! What had she been thinking?—and an older woman, recently deceased.
“What does it mean?” she asked, her brow puckered as she tried to think under what circumstances either one of these acquaintances might have uttered the phrase. “The words you just spoke, that is.”
“ ‘Ireland forever’ captures the meanin’, although ‘Ireland to eternity’ is perhaps a more literal translation of the Gaelic. It is the heartfelt cry of all those who crave Irish independence from Britain—aye, crave it to the point that we’re willin’ to fight, even to die, in order to achieve it.”
“Is that what this is all about, then?” Julia asked. Any sense of relief she might have felt at this explanation was quickly overwhelmed by an equal portion of despair: however valid their grievances against the English, she put the likelihood of the Crown’s agreeing to grant Ireland its independence somewhere between slim and none. Her captor might be less than pleased by this statement of fact; what, then, might he do to her in an effort to assuage his disappointment? “If that is the case, then I fear you have made a tactical error. It is true that my first husband was a person of some importance at Court, but any influence I might once have exerted has died with him. I’m afraid there is nothing I can do to aid your cause.”
She had spoken in cosseting tones, but these apparently fell on deaf ears.
“I think you underestimate yourself, Mrs. Pickett,” her captor assured her. “We—my compatriots and I—don’t expect you to work miracles. My purpose in takin’ you from your home is not to procure Irish independence—at least, not directly—but to assist one of our number in avengin’ an old wrong. He is not an Irishman himself, you understand, but he supports our cause out of devotion to his Irish wife.”
“Oh?” His words stirred a chord of memory, but the situation he seemed to suggest was impossible—wasn’t it?
“Oh, aye. As a young lass, she was mistreated by a group of English soldiers—I’ll be sparin’ you the details, as they’re not fit for a lady’s ears.”
“I see,” she said slowly. “One hears of such things, although they are abhorrent to any person of feeling, no matter the nationality of the perpetrators or their unfortunate victim. Still, if you are speaking of the man I think you are, I can’t understand what you hope to gain by abducting me. The event you describe took place before I was ever born, and the lady herself is dead—may she rest in peace,” Julia added in an effort to soften the blunt statement.
“Aye, she’s dead—at the hands of an Englishman, who shot her in cold blood.”
“I fear you have been misinformed, Mr.—” Too late, she realized she didn’t know the man’s name. As he made no effort to enlighten her ignorance, she was obliged to continue without it. “It is true that she was shot, but her death was a—a tragic accident, the result of two men fighting for possession of the same weapon. Furthermore, the man for whom you are attempting to seek vengeance is in prison.”
The man on the seat opposite shook his head. “Much as it pains me to contradict a lady, I’m obliged to say that he’s no such thing.”
“He—he’s not in prison, you say?” She wished her head didn’t ache so. The pain made it difficult to think, and she had a feeling she would need all her faculties to function at peak capacity if she hoped to extricate herself from her present dilemma. “But he was found guilty of high treason!”
“One man’s treason is another man’s patriotism,” her captor observed, and although he gave a careless shrug, Julia was once again aware of the hint of steel underlying his words. “I’ll not be denyin’ that he was convicted at the Carlisle assizes, but my countrymen and I were able to save him.”
“You helped him to escape.” Somehow saying the words aloud made them sound more real, and more terrifying.
“As you say,” he agreed, inclining his head. “And only just in time. They would be after stretchin’ his neck the very next day. A week ago, that was.”
“And where has he gone to ground in the meantime? Not to his estate in the Lake District, surely?”
“Ah, but that would be tellin’.” He winked at her, as if they were discussing nothing more than a prank by a mischievous child. “Suffice it to say you’ll be findin’ out soon enough.”
And that, Julia reflected, was exactly what she was afraid of.
Julia could not tell how long she had been insensible on the carriage floor, and thus had no way of knowing how long they had been on the road, or how far they had traveled. Nor did she have any very clear idea of where they were, although by tracing the sun’s path across the sky, she had determined that they were heading roughly northwestward; it appeared they were headed for the Lake District, after all. And when they reached it—what then?
She was not inclined to linger in this ruffian’s company long enough to find out. At one point, she noticed his eyes had drooped closed and his head l
olled back against the wall of the carriage. Did she dare open the door and jump? She had leaped from a moving carriage once before; granted, on that occasion the vehicle had not yet left the yard of the posting-house, and therefore was traveling at a much slower rate of speed. Then, too, John had been present to catch her. There would be no one to do so this time, and no way to break her fall. She had no doubt her captor could outrun her, so she would have only as much time to make good her escape as it took for him to realize she was gone and order the driver to bring the carriage to a stop. There was a farmhouse some distance ahead on the left, where she might be able to plead for help. Perhaps if she were to make her move just as they drew abreast of it . . .
She eased herself forward onto the edge of the seat, then reached for the door handle. One . . . two . . .
She glanced at the man seated opposite. He had not moved a muscle, but his eyes were open, watching.
She let out a long breath, released her grip on the door handle, and sank back on the seat.
“Very wise of you, Mrs. Pickett,” said her captor, and closed his eyes again.
Julia, however daunted, was not yet defeated. Even the most determined abductor must eventually call a halt, however brief, to change horses, or to partake of a meal, or simply to answer the call of nature. Until then, she resolved to bide her time.
After what seemed an eternity, Julia felt the movement of the carriage begin to slow, and a moment later they turned off the road and into the bustling yard of an inn. As it lurched to a stop, she rose somewhat stiffly from her seat. Immediately, her companion stretched out his leg to block her access to the door.
“And just where might you be goin’?” he asked, and although his voice was pleasant enough, there was an undeniable menace undergirding it.
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