Caught in Time

by Julie McElwain

  Aldridge cast a rueful glance at his gleaming black boots. “Yes, well, it can’t be helped. If I had known we would be walking, I would have worn my older boots. As it is, they’re at Monksgrey, along with the staff.”

  A day before they’d left Aldridge Castle, the senior staff, including the butler, Mr. Harding, the housekeeper, Mrs. Danbury, and the Duke’s temperamental French chef, Monsieur Anton, had departed for Monksgrey to assist the skeleton staff that lived at the manor year-round to prepare for the Duke’s arrival. At this moment, Kendra imagined Mrs. Danbury was whipping everyone into shape, sort of like a drill sergeant during basic training. Even though they traveled with a lady’s maid and valet, several trunks of clothing, and their own bed linens and necessities for staying in the public hostelries en route, Kendra was aware that this was actually considered traveling light by aristocratic standards. She’d never get used to it.

  “’Ere. Ye can carry a lantern, Mr. Wilson.” Before the valet could protest, Benjamin thrust a lamp into his gloved hands. Kendra caught the thin smile on the coachman’s face as he turned away from Wilson to march back to the horses. The rivalries and petty jealousies between the upper and lower servants cut both ways.

  They formed a ragged procession as they moved forward. Despite the lanterns, the fog was at times so thick that Kendra could barely make out the landscape ten feet in front of her. It created a strange sort of isolation, as if they were the last survivors in an apocalyptic world. Even the sounds—the rumble of wooden carriage wheels, the clomping of the horses’ hooves, the jingling of bridles as the beasts periodically shook their heads and snorted, and the shuffling of human feet—were strangely muted.

  Kendra had to strain to hear noises beyond their immediate group. It took a moment, but eventually she made out the whispering grass from the surrounding moorlands. The shriek of a bird circling high above them broke through the odd atmospheric bubble they were in.

  “’Ow long will it be till we meet other folks?” Molly asked nervously. She was walking so close to Kendra that their skirts brushed. “’May’ap this place is cursed.”

  “There are no such things as curses, my dear,” the Duke said. “Do not fall prey to superstitious nonsense. Fog is a natural phenomenon produced by moisture in the air. You’ve seen it often enough at Aldridge Castle. Quite frankly, I find this fog preferable to the miserable brown muck in London.”

  “Oi’ve never seen anythin’ like this, yer Grace,” Molly whispered.

  Kendra swiped at the cold moisture forming on her face. “Why don’t you go back in the carriage, Molly? I can hear your teeth chattering. You can keep warm if you cover yourself with all the blankets.”

  “Are ye goin’ inside, miss?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then Oi’ll walk for a bit too.”

  Kendra wanted to insist, but she knew that it wouldn’t do any good. She decided to give herself another fifteen minutes, then she’d go inside the carriage, for the girl’s sake. Everyone fell silent again, seemingly disinclined to talk in this peculiar gray world.

  After about twenty minutes, Benjamin broke the oppressive silence. “We’re losin’ daylight, sir.”

  “We only need to keep to the road,” Aldridge said, forcing a note of joviality into his voice. The Duke considered himself a man of science—a natural philosopher—but Kendra suspected the atmosphere was getting to him too. “We ought to be in the village soon enough. And the inn. I must say, I am famished. I am imagining a nice bowl of leek soup, and a warm brandy or hot buttered rum to take the chill out of my bones. What say you, Miss Donovan?”

  “I wouldn’t mind a hot drink,” Kendra agreed.

  “Ooh, do ye think they ’ave pigeon pie?” Molly wondered wistfully.

  “I am certain they do. Any innkeeper worth their salt—” The Duke broke off abruptly, and came to a halt.

  Kendra stopped, as well, which caused Molly to plow into her. “W’ot?” Molly demanded, straightening the bonnet that had slipped over her eyes.

  The procession had stopped, their gazes transfixed by the shadows flickering in the gray fog ahead. Like shapeshifters from ancient tales, the images seemed to twist and lengthen until they took human form.

  Molly shrieked, and grabbed Kendra’s coat.

  Kendra ignored the maid, keeping her gaze focused on the apparitions ahead. Her ears picked up the sound of running feet just before the men burst through the mist. There were at least a dozen in rough clothes, their faces blackened by what looked to be soot. Clutched in their hands were axes and sledgehammers.

  “’Old on ter the ’orses!” Benjamin shouted at Stanley and Dylan, as the beasts began to sidle nervously. “Keep their ’eads down!”

  Grim-faced, the coachman yanked out his blunderbuss, and held it at the ready as the men ran toward them. Kendra’s own pulse leaped in her throat, but her hand was steady as she lifted the muff pistol. She shook off the cowering Molly, and grabbed the Duke’s arm, shoving him behind her.

  “Get into the carriage,” Kendra hissed.

  “’Ere now, w’ot’s you lot about?” Benjamin cried out at the men.

  Kendra braced herself, her finger curling around the trigger of the elegant gun. If it wasn’t for the smeared faces and the air of violence that clung to the mob, the men would have reminded Kendra of marathon runners, their expressions intent on some finish line that only they could see. The lead runner, a burly man carrying a pickaxe, his blue eyes startlingly pale against his blackened face, saw them. He didn’t stop, or even slow. But as she watched, he veered off the road. The rest of the men followed his lead—and one by one, they were swallowed up by the dense fog, vanishing into the countryside. For a few seconds, the sound of their feet could be heard thundering across the moor. Then that, too, faded away, and the only thing that pierced the silence was a bird’s plaintive caw high above them.

  “Holy crap,” Kendra breathed. Her heart thumped against her chest. Carefully, she eased her finger off the trigger, and lowered the muff pistol. She glanced around. Only then did she realize that the Duke hadn’t retreated into the safety of the carriage, but had taken up a defensive position beside her. She decided not to waste her breath on a lecture.

  “What the hell was that?” she asked. “Some sort of militia?”

  The Duke shook his head. Even in the diminished light, Kendra could see the uneasy expression in his eyes. “Not exactly,” he said. “But let us make haste to the village. These roads are more treacherous than I realized.”

  2

  By the time they reached the outskirts of the village thirty-five minutes later, darkness had fallen completely, the lanterns barely penetrating the vapor pressing against them. Kendra didn’t realize how tense she’d become until she saw the blurred glow from the lampposts, which marked the boundary of the village, and released a sigh.

  “At last,” Kendra heard the Duke breathe softly. He glanced at her, relief softening his mouth into a smile. “You ought to be able to put away your weapon now, my dear.”

  Kendra hesitated, but then shrugged and slid the muff pistol back into the pouch that dangled from her wrist. She knew the Duke was concerned about her reputation. A wasted worry, as far as she was concerned. Her reputation had been damaged beyond repair a month ago, when she’d scandalized London while saving Alec from a murder charge.

  “Blessed be—’tis a lovely ’ostelry, it is,” Molly cried, staring at the large building looming ahead.

  The inn was, smartly, located near the public road. The structure had a cobbled-together appearance, with the main building a half-timbered Tudor style that most likely dated back to the fifteen or sixteenth century. Two wings of red brick had apparently been added on during a later period, and bespoke a certain prosperity. The roof was steeply pitched and thatched. The windows were set back, small and perfectly square. A good many were dark, but a few flickered with a warm, buttery light.

  Oil lamps hung on poles outside, casting a soft amber glow across the cour
tyard. Off to the right was a stable yard. The eerie atmosphere created by the cocoon of fog was suddenly broken by normal activities. A handful of stable hands were busy brushing and feeding the horses, vigorously shoveling up the dung their four-legged guests left behind.

  The youths abandoned their work as soon as they noticed the newcomers, rushing forward to assist Benjamin and the others as they guided the team of horses into the courtyard. Kendra had a feeling that their enthusiastic greeting had a lot to do with the Duke’s crest on the carriage door rather than being particularly happy to have more work to do on a bleak night.

  Leaving Benjamin to deal with the stable hands, Aldridge ushered Kendra to the inn’s entrance. Molly and Wilson followed.

  “Let us pray no other travelers have been stranded by the fog, making rooms scarce,” murmured Aldridge as he opened the door.

  Inside, the foyer appeared smaller than it really was because of the low ceiling, which was bisected by ancient, gnarled beams. The walls had been painted white, a stark contrast from the dark wood floor and staircase. Voices drew Kendra to the open doorway on the right. It was a public dining room, families and single men occupying half the tables. No lone women, Kendra observed. But she knew that even married ladies and widows, who had more independence in this era, would balk at dining alone in public.

  More voices—low and obviously male—came from the door on the left, which opened to the tavern. A quick glance revealed men crowded around sturdy wood tables and lined up along the tap, smoking pipes and drinking. Kendra noticed a few of the men were well-dressed, probably guests of the inn. The rest, she assumed, were locals. Given their work attire, she thought this was a familiar routine, the men ending their day with a few pints, catching up on whatever passed as news in the village. The orange-yellow light from the fire in the stone hearth and lanterns on the walls limned the men’s faces, young and old. The only woman in the room was a dark-haired barmaid, her hands nimble as she pulled the taps, replenishing the mugs and laughing with easy camaraderie as she moved around the bar.

  “Good evening. Good evening!”

  Kendra turned around to see an older man trotting down the hall toward them, smiling. She judged him to be in his late sixties or early seventies, but still robust, with a florid, round face framed by bushy gray side whiskers that were only slightly darker than the thinning strands on top of his head.

  His blue eyes were bright, and quick to size up the cut and quality of the Duke and Kendra’s clothes. “Welcome ter the Green Maiden.” He bowed, and his smile widened. “I am the proprietor here, Mr. Bolton. How may I serve ye, good sir?”

  “Good evening,” Aldridge returned. “I am the Duke of Aldridge, and this is my ward, Miss Donovan. We are journeying to my estate in Lancashire, but unfortunately the fog has forced us to seek shelter for the evening. Do you have rooms available . . . and a meal, preferably served in a private parlor?”

  Mr. Bolton’s eyes gleamed at the mention of the Duke’s title. Kendra had a feeling that even if all the rooms were taken, Mr. Bolton would have evicted someone in favor of having a duke as a guest.

  The innkeeper bowed again. “Of course, yer Grace. ’Tis an honor ter serve ye! Rest easy, we shall prepare two of our best rooms for ye and yer ward. The servants will even change the linens for ye, if ye want. The Green Maiden boasts the highest standards of cleanliness.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bolton, but we have brought our own linens. Our servants will see to preparing our rooms.”

  “Certainly, sir,” Bolton said, nodding. It was common practice for the gentry to supply their own linens, so he didn’t view it as an insult. He glanced over his shoulder at a woman hurrying down the hall toward them. “Madam wife, we have guests—the Duke of Aldridge and his ward, Miss Donovan.”

  Mrs. Bolton was probably near her husband’s age. Years had carved lines into her face and softened her jawline, but Kendra imagined she’d been beautiful in her youth, given her excellent bone structure. A mop cap covered her head, allowing only the smallest glimpse of hair, which in the dim light could have been an ash blonde, but Kendra imagined was a silvery-gray in the strong light of day. Her eyes were a dark gray. Her figure was petite, barely hitting the five-foot mark, and spritely. She had no difficulty dipping into a deep curtsy for the Duke.

  “Oh, this is indeed an honor, your Grace,” she said, her speech surprisingly cultured. “Pray tell, what brings you to East Dingleford, sir?”

  Aldridge said, “Wicked weather, I fear.”

  “The Duke was travelin’ ter his estate in Lancashire, but the fog has waylaid him,” the innkeeper told his wife.

  She clucked her tongue in sympathy. “Yorkshire has the most unpredictable weather in all the kingdom, I fancy.”

  “We must see ter our guests’ comfort,” Bolton said, and looked at the Duke. “Mrs. Bolton will take ye ter our private parlor. Ye can warm yerself by the fire and have a glass of sherry or brandy—my wife makes an excellent apricot brandy . . .” His gaze traveled to Molly and Wilson. “Yer servants can ready yer bedchambers, and are welcome in the kitchen for a meal there or in the public rooms. I caught a couple of hares this very day, so we have fresh meat on hand. Our cook, Mrs. Platt, makes a most excellent rabbit stew.”

  Kendra didn’t know what was worse, eating rabbit or pigeon, but the tantalizing aromas wafting out of the public dining room were beginning to make her stomach growl.

  “Thank you. You are a most gracious host.” The Duke hesitated, then asked, “If I may inquire, do you happen to have a textile mill in the near vicinity?”

  The innkeeper’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Aye, that we do. Bancroft Mills. ’Tis a cotton mill owned by the Lord Bancroft—Lord Nathan Bancroft—the Earl of Langfrey. His lordship’s estate, Falcon Court, is nearby. Why do ye ask?”

  Aldridge pursed his lips. The uneasiness returned to his eyes. “I think I shall need to have words with the village magistrate and constable.”

  “Our magistrate and constable?” Mrs. Bolton’s gray eyes widened. “Good heavens. Whatever for?”

  “I’m afraid there has been mischief tonight.” The Duke looked like he was going to say something more, but then reconsidered. “Miss Donovan and I shall await the magistrate and constable’s arrival in the parlor.”

  It was almost twenty minutes before the innkeeper escorted two men, their hats in their hands, into the private parlor. Kendra and the Duke were sitting in front of the fireplace, sipping from glasses filled with Mrs. Bolton’s apricot brandy as they waited for their dinner to be served.

  Mr. Bolton introduced Constable Jameson, a tall, barrel-chested, brawny man in his mid-thirties. His hair was dark, with a hint of red, and curly, and he wore it a little longer than was fashionable. He had thick brows that formed a ledge over deep-set brown eyes. Kendra was a little disconcerted to learn during the introductions that Jameson had a full-time job as one of the village’s three blacksmiths, although that explained the leather apron she noticed beneath his tattered wool outer coat. Apparently, there was more of a need in East Dingleford for blacksmiths than constables.

  The other man was Mr. Oliver Matthews, the son of the local squire, who was also the village’s magistrate. According to the innkeeper, Squire Matthews was laid up with a terrible case of gout, and had sent his son to act as magistrate in his stead.

  Matthews looked to be the same age as the constable, but that was the only thing the two men had in common. The squire’s son was the opposite of the burly Jameson in every way. He was short—barely five-foot-five, Kendra estimated—and as thin as a stalk of wheat. His face was pale, and his flaxen hair was cut into the fashionable Brutus style popular among gentlemen, though his hair was too thin and his hairline too receded to really carry it off. Unlike the constable, he was dressed fashionably in a dark umber multi-caped greatcoat layered over a well-cut, bottle-green coat, ivory embroidered waistcoat, and snug tan trousers tucked into gleaming boots. The points of his shirt were sharp and high, his cravat ex
quisitely tied. Since arriving, he’d pulled out a lace-trimmed hanky, which he clutched like some sort of talisman.

  Matthews’s watery blue eyes were fixed on the Duke, listening as he told them about their encounter with the band of men on the road, but the constable was the first to react.

  “Luddites!” There was no mistaking the anger in Jameson’s voice. “By God, they’re the scourge of England!”

  “Are you absolutely certain, your Grace?” Matthews asked, in such a way that Kendra felt like he was hoping the Duke would change his story. “The fog has a tendency to play tricks on one’s eyes, you know.”

  Aldridge shook his head. “This was no illusion, sir. I’d say there were about a dozen men. Miss Donovan, what do you say?”

  “Yes. They were carrying axes and hammers,” she added. “Their faces had been blackened in an attempt to disguise themselves.”

  The Duke said, “I have read newspaper accounts about your troubles here in the north with men calling themselves Luddites.”

  “Aye,” Constable Jameson acknowledged with a scowl. “But we ain’t had any of those troubles in East Dingleford.”

  “There’s always a first time,” Kendra murmured. Both men shot her a brief look before turning back to the Duke.

  Jameson scraped a beefy palm across his chin. “I suppose it’d be wise ter gather a couple of men and go take a look around the mill, see if any damage has been done.”

  “The earl ought to be informed.” Matthews lifted his handkerchief to his nose, a worried frown creasing his brow. “And Mr. Stone, of course. They’ll not be pleased.”

  “Nay. And why would they, eh?” Jameson’s mouth curled at the other man. “Havin’ their fine new machines smashed. No sense botherin’ his lordship or Mr. Stone until after we look around the mill first, ter see if there’s anything damaged.” He looked at the Duke again. “Thank you, your Grace, for bringin’ the matter ter our attention.” He didn’t look particularly thankful.