“Please,” he interrupted her. “I have no idea what Miss Water looks like. Even if I did, I can scarcely think her father would allow her to speak to a constable, especially one from outside Oxford. I need you to help me. You must speak with her. You know that I can’t.”
Lucy admitted to herself this was true. Daughters of gentry were highly protected, their male acquaintances kept to a tightly confined circle, or so their fathers and brothers liked to believe. Lucy had seen enough of gentry households to know that young women managed to navigate within social strictures when they wanted to. Still, Duncan had little chance of engaging with Rhonda outright. She did not know, though, if she could get any closer. Rhonda had made it clear that she was uninterested in pursuing the inquiry, so Lucy did not know how she would react upon seeing her again.
Still, Lucy had summoned other objections. “Oxford is a half day’s journey from here. Are you proposing we walk?”
Duncan smiled. “Ah! I’ve thought of that. As it happens, I know Master Aubrey’s man, Ivan, will be making deliveries to Oxford. Let’s see, what else?” He proceeded to check off more points. “The roads should be well enough, since we’ve had no great rains recently. You’re allowed some Sundays off, right? You could do some selling in Oxford. Aubrey’s a man of sense—he’ll agree to that.”
Lucy nodded. That might be the case, although she knew she might not be allowed to sell on a Sunday. Even travelling on a Sunday was frowned upon, but Lucy knew that the king’s men would likely let harmless travelers like themselves pass easily, particularly if they carried a letter from her master. Still, she had another objection. “I don’t think it’s quite proper for me to travel with you, alone. Ivan cannot exactly serve as a”—she winced slightly—“a chaperone.” She felt silly even saying the word, since usually servants and apprentices could not avail themselves of chaperones. She still needed to preserve her reputation, though.
Duncan’s grin widened. “You can travel as my wife. No shame upon you.”
Lucy gulped, not knowing what to say.
Seeing her discomfort, he snorted. “Nay, I’m just teasing. We’ll bring Annie along—you want to come, right, Annie? We can all be cousins.” He said to Annie then, who had stepped away to examine some ribbons. “Annie, want to come to Oxford with us?’
“Of course,” she answered, looking trustingly at Lucy.
Despite some misgivings, the journey was easily settled. As Duncan had assumed, Master Aubrey had, with a surprising alacrity, even gave them the name of a fishwife he knew in Oxford. “Just give Mrs. Danforth my name. She’ll set you up nice,” he had told them, his eyes twinkling a bit. He’s expecting a good tale out of this, to be sure, Lucy thought.
Lucy had hastily scrawled a note for Will, and Master Hargrave had given his permission for Annie to accompany Lucy. “If you think this will help the constable find justice, then I am glad to spare Annie for a day or so.” Uncomfortably, she tried to forget the way his thoughtful eyes had turned upon her. “I just hope, my dear, that you think carefully about what you are doing. I trust Annie in your care, and in the care of the constable.” The weight of the magistrate’s trust in her was great, and she was worried about letting him down, about leading Annie astray. What if they arrived at Oxford after dark? What if they couldn’t find Mrs. Danforth? At this point, she was far less concerned about finding Miss Water as she was that she keep Annie and herself safe.
10
A short time later that same afternoon, Lucy found herself traveling to Oxford, tossing about in Ivan’s rickety wagon, clinging to the ropes that held his deliveries. Seated across from her, Annie was doing the same. Every time the wagon hit a rut or bump, Lucy felt sure they’d get pitched out on the muddy dirt road. Ivan’s wagon, little more than a cart, was nothing like the fine hackney coaches the magistrate would hire for long journeys back and forth to the family’s summer seat in Warwickshire. At least Ivan’s horses—Clancy and Paddy—had seemed strong enough and kept up a brisk enough pace for this first part of the journey.
Slapping away flies that buzzed about a barrel of salted fish, Lucy scowled at Duncan’s back. The constable had claimed that he thought the girls would be safer riding in the cart, but right now he looked plenty comfortable sitting up with Ivan. Instead of his characteristic red coat, he had changed to a dark wool coat that Lucy had never before seen. Even his soldier’s ramrod straight bearing seemed to have relaxed somewhat. He could have been a tradesman making his way to market.
Lucy clenched the side of the wagon tightly, watching her knuckles whiten. “Little journey,” she muttered to herself, remembering the words he had used. They were just fortunate that the roads were tolerable. There had been little enough rain, so the wheels did not get caught in muddy ruts. Except for a quick stop to relieve themselves and exchange horses at a coaching-inn in High Wycombe, they had barely rested. She was starting to feel a bit overwrought.
At that moment, they crossed a particularly big dip in the road. “Whoa!” Annie squealed.
Duncan turned to look down at them. “Alright?” he asked. He looked like he was about to laugh.
Judging from Annie’s disheveled appearance, she knew she could not look much better. “We’re fine,” she said, hoping he couldn’t hear her stomach growl. She peered anxiously at the setting sun.
Duncan’s grin faded. He watched her reposition herself on a sack of grains. “We’re almost there.”
“I hope so,” Lucy said. “It’s nearly nightfall.”
Not for the first time she wondered what had possessed her to agree to the constable’s madcap plan.
“Look, Lucy!” Annie called, interrupting her thoughts. “Oxford! I see it.”
Lucy craned her head beyond the cart, feeling excited in spite of herself. Set against the rosy sky, Oxford’s spires came into view. They were as beautiful as she’d heard tell. Maybe they’d get to see the university too. Ivan turned the wagon down High Street. Having arrived just before dusk, the sellers in the main market were starting to close up their stalls, no doubt heading to their homes for supper. Now she couldn’t help but wonder what they’d do for their evening meal. Her stomach had been complaining for hours.
As if he’d heard her rebellious stomach, Ivan whistled to the horses and pulled the wagon to a stop in front of a bustling inn. From the looks of the place, the inn must have been around for at least a hundred years. The cracked sign above the door was weather worn and difficult to read. Straining her eyes, Lucy was just able to make out the words. “The Scholar’s Head,” she read out loud.
“Named for Thomas More,” Duncan said, having overheard her. “Got himself beheaded, he did.”
Lucy nodded, remembering Master Hargrave conversing with Adam about the man. A cleric and a scholar, Thomas More had been beheaded by Henry VIII the previous century for refusing to accept the monarch as the head of the Church of England, and perhaps, even worse, for not sanctioning the King’s nuptials to his second wife, the ill-fated Anne Boleyn.
Unfastening the little door at the back of the cart, Duncan looked at them. “Fancy a bite to eat?” he asked.
Lucy felt her pocket, hidden beneath her petticoats, a bit doubtfully. The Scholar’s Head did not look too fine a place. Still, she didn’t have too many coins to spare, and she wasn’t sure how much she’d have to give to Mrs. Danforth.
Interpreting the gesture correctly, Duncan said, “Don’t trouble yourself. ’Tis my pleasure to treat you both.” He extended his hand to her.
The graciousness of the gesture confused her. Standing up, Lucy leapt neatly from the edge of the wagon, not touching his outstretched hand. She’d underestimated though, how cramped her legs had been. When she landed, she yelped softly in pain. Duncan looked at her curiously. She mustered a small smile, her face flaming. Her flush deepened when she saw him turn to Annie, who allowed him to grasp both her hands and pull her, giggling, out of the wagon.
“Shall we go in?” Lucy said blandly.
Not to
o long later, Lucy and Annie dug into their suet pudding. Duncan sat across from them, eating from a platter of meats and cheeses. Ivan was nowhere to be seen.
Her hunger abating, Lucy took a long sip from her draught. “Where did Ivan go?” Lucy asked, craning her head around the crowded inn. “I thought he would join us.”
Duncan shrugged. “Ivan gave me Mrs. Danforth’s address. We’ll walk to her home when we’re done here. He knows to meet us in the morning.”
Lucy put her hand to her mouth, trying to hide her sudden feeling of dismay. Oxford was much more crowded than she had expected. For some reason, she’d thought since Oxford was nowhere near the size of London, that it would just be a quiet town, full of men like the magistrate pouring over great tomes, speaking quietly to one another. She’d not expected this great jumble of people. Even though many of the men seated in the tavern were wearing scholars’ robes, they were as boisterous and merry as any men in any tavern back in London. Somehow, when they had been standing back in Covent Garden, it had seemed so easy.
“Constable Duncan, how do you propose we find Miss Water?” Lucy asked, setting down her fork. “Master Hargrave had said Merton College. Should we start there? He had thought a Persian scholar might live there. I know Oxford has quite a few colleges though.”
“You know, my first name is Jeb,” the constable said, taking a swig of ale from his mug. Annie glanced up at him, and then at Lucy, before sucking some marrow from a chicken bone. “You should probably know that. We’re cousins, after all.” When Lucy didn’t answer, Duncan continued more briskly, more like the soldier he was when she first met him. “We will not be allowed inside the College, not unsolicited and without a letter of reference. I think young Master Hargrave made that abundantly clear that we are unlikely to be admitted directly into Master Water’s home.”
Lucy flushed slightly, hearing the tautness in the constable’s voice when he spoke of Adam. He went on. “Besides, we don’t want to run the risk of meeting her father there, assuming what she told you of her unhappy love affair is true. We’ll have a better chance if we can catch her in a more public place.”
Duncan went on, laying out the details. “There are six churches in Oxford. Ivan assures me, however, that there is only one attended by the university scholars. ‘Dandyprats,’ he calls them. St. Mary’s. We’ll start there.”
“Unless the Waters have taken up with the Quakers,” Lucy pointed out. “You’ll never find her then.” Everyone knew that Oxford was full of nonconventicle sects, dissenters from the King’s Church of England. King Charles had promised them religious freedom, but they still encountered much strife and animosity. Having witnessed Quaker secret meetings, she knew they rarely met in the same place twice, largely to avoid trouble with the local God-fearing community who despised them.
“Do you think the Waters are Quakers?” Duncan asked, a bit deflated. Clearly that thought had never occurred to him.
Lucy thought back to her conversation with Miss Water. “No,” she said honestly. “She did not speak in thees and thous. You know that’s how the Quakers speak.” She reflected a bit more on what she knew of the woman. “Moreover, I believe her dress was too fine for ones such as they.”
“Alright then. We’ll find her at the church, get her away from her father, and convince her to tell us Darius’s last name, to bring peace to his family.”
“Sounds easy enough,” Lucy murmured, thinking the exact opposite.
Duncan shrugged. “We’ve come this far.”
During this whole exchange, Annie had been quiet, content to gnaw on a bit of lamb that the constable had left. For the first time in the entire journey did she display any curiosity. “Who’s Miss Water anyway? And why are we looking for her?”
* * *
Early the next morning, Lucy rolled off the rush matting in the cellar of Mrs. Danforth’s dwelling, being careful not to wake Annie. The poor girl needed as much sleep as she could get.
The night had not passed easily for Lucy. She’d spent many hours tossing and turning on the rush matting, while Annie snored blissfully beside her. Truth be told, it wasn’t just the hard conditions of the fishwife’s accommodations that had kept Lucy awake. Thinking about finding Miss Water, worrying about keeping herself and Annie safe, all weighed heavily on her heart. That wasn’t to say she didn’t trust the constable completely. “Maybe I trust him too much,” she muttered to herself. “Look how I’ve done everything he’s asked of me.” She wondered what Adam would think about her taking this wild trip over to Oxford. Funny enough, being with the constable reminded her a bit of being with Adam, even though the two men were so different. She wasn’t sure if she enjoyed her time with the constable exactly, but in the excitement of the journey she’d barely thought about the magistrate’s son at all.
Feeling a little prick to her leg, Lucy glanced down to see a long straw poking through her petticoat. Sighing, she brushed the straw away before pulling her Sunday dress over her head. They had contemplated not bringing their Sunday clothes with them, but Lucy thought the magistrate would expect them to look nice for church. Not that the magistrate would see them of course—and not that Lucy could not dress as she pleased, now that she was no longer in his employ—but she would always value his good opinion.
Lucy eased her way to Mrs. Danforth’s kitchen and set the pot to boiling. They had found the fishwife to be a decent sort, if a bit loud and hard of hearing from her forty years of hawking fish on the noisy streets of Oxford. She was kind enough, and they had found it reasonable when she requested that they do a bit of cleaning and scouring pots to earn their night’s keep.
Mrs. Danforth was certainly pleased when she entered the kitchen a little while later, finding Lucy hard at work preparing a bit of porridge and salted potatoes she’d found in the stores. “A blessing you are, my dears,” she’d said, inspecting the pots Lucy and Annie had scrubbed the night before. “Tell Horace Aubrey he can send you to me anytime. Why don’t you just finish up these dishes, and help me get supper on. Lord knows I could use a good supper on His day.”
An hour later, at seven, Annie and Lucy were just finishing up in Mrs. Danforth’s kitchen when the constable knocked briskly at the door. He’d obviously found comfortable accommodations elsewhere, since he was whistling a bit and looked clean-shaven. He was wearing the same dark suit as yesterday. “Ready?” he asked, looking at her apron quizzically. “I hope you don’t mind walking. I asked Ivan to meet us with the wagon later.”
“Of course not,” Lucy quickly untied her apron and handed it to Mrs. Danforth. “Let me just tidy my hair.”
She was conscious of him studying her appearance, taking in her Sunday dress. For a moment she thought he would pay her a compliment, but he didn’t. “I’ll wait for you outside.”
“He’s a handsome one, ain’t he?” Mrs. Danforth said, reaching up to straighten Lucy’s cap.
“I suppose,” Lucy said. She hoped the constable was out of earshot. He was waiting a few paces away.
“Got your hooks in him, eh, honey?” The woman elbowed Lucy in a friendly way. “I can tell.”
“Oh no, Mistress Danforth,” Lucy said, floundering a bit. She started toward the door. “You’ve got it all wrong.” She threw a mute plea to Annie, who had heard every bit of the exchange.
“Lucy’s betrothed already,” Annie said loyally. “To my master’s son. Her sweetheart’s a barrister.”
“Is that so?” the fishwife said, chuckling. “So, banns been read?”
“No,” Lucy said, suddenly feeling miserable. “It’s hard to explain—”
“No need to explain at all,” the fishwife said, waving at Duncan. To Lucy’s deep chagrin, she called out loudly, “She ain’t betrothed to that barrister, you know that?”
“I know that!” Duncan said, glancing at Lucy. What he made of the fishwife’s comments or her own mortified expression, she couldn’t tell. Thankfully, he didn’t say anything else. “Ready for church, then?”
When they reached the south entrance of St. Mary’s church a few moments later, Lucy touched the swirling columns that framed the door and porch. She’d never seen anything like them. The churches she’d been to in London only had straight Roman-style columns, and of course the one she grew up attending in Lambeth had no columns at all. The columns of St. Mary’s twisted, drawing her eyes upward. There she could see the majestic image of the Virgin Mary holding the baby Jesus in one arm, standing in a scalloped throne, looking out at Oxford. Jesus was crooking his finger in eternal blessing to all those who passed within the church. It was a blessing Cromwell hadn’t destroyed the church in his effort to rid England of all papist influences. She whispered as much to Annie.
“Ah, but see these holes there?” Duncan asked, having overheard her remark. He pointed to a pattern of gouges in the side of the church. “Cromwell’s men turned their guns on the church during the war.” He sounded disgusted. Once again, Lucy wondered what his experience in the army had been like. Now was not the time to ask.
As they passed into the church, Lucy let out an audible sigh. St. Mary’s was magnificent indeed. Immense stained-glass windows lined the walls and great arches gracefully framed the painted ceiling. The vicar had not yet climbed the small winding stairs to his pulpit. Instead, he was speaking to a small group of parishioners clustered around him.
“Let’s sit toward the back,” Duncan said, resting his hand lightly on her waist to guide her.
Stiffly, Lucy took Annie’s arm and moved the younger girl to a pew at the back of the church. Duncan followed, sliding in beside Lucy. The church was growing crowded, and latecomers had to position themselves against the walls in preparation for standing through the long service.
Glancing around, Lucy could see that Ivan had probably directed them toward the right church. She could see that St. Mary’s was full of scholars from the university, attending the service with their families. Unmarried Fellows might have attended the smaller private services connected with the different Oxford colleges. Like Merton College, Lucy sighed to herself.
From the Charred Remains (Lucy Campion Mysteries) Page 12