The Riddle of the Deplorable Dandy

by Patricia Veryan

  Elspeth said agitatedly, “We cannot just abandon him!”

  “I think we have no choice. He’s a grown man and has at least a particle of common sense. He’ll likely hide and come up with us later. Lord knows, I warned the cloth-head!” His lips tightened into a thin, hard line. He called harshly, “Spring ’em, Marcel!”

  Gathering speed, the coach rattled and jolted through the gathering dusk. Riding beside it, fuming, Valerian glanced back frequently. There was no sign of Herbert, but distantly a fugitive ray of sunlight shone on breastplates. “Here they come,” he groaned. “Curse you for a ramshackle court-card, Herbert Turner! Do you never do anything right?”

  The staccato bark of gunshots reached his ears. He swore bitterly and, reining his horse around, tore at a headlong gallop back towards the inn.

  18

  All too soon Valerian could see the flashes of another burst of gunfire, but strain his eyes as he might he could discern no sign of a rider. Furthermore, the shots seemed to be off to his right instead of straight ahead. He realised then that the dragoons had left the Le Havre road and turned inland. He grinned in appreciation. Herbert was leading them in the wrong direction! “Bravo, coz!” he muttered, and reined around to head them off.

  Cutting across country was risky business in the half-light of early evening, and twice he had to gather his mount together so as to make a last-minute leap; once over a fallen tree trunk, and once a barely completed jump across a fast-running stream, culminating in a wild scramble up the far bank. He patted the neck of his hired mare and told her she was “a jolly good girl!”

  The dragoons, undoubtedly mounted on heavier steeds than his sleek mare, were riding cautiously, but when he judged them to be less than a mile away he still could not distinguish another rider ahead of him. He leaned forward in the saddle, his eyes straining to pierce the gathering darkness. A solitary farmhouse loomed up, and by the faint candlelight from a downstairs window he glimpsed the silhouette of his cousin at last. Small wonder the dragoons had located their target whereas he had been unable to do so: he’d been looking for a horseman; Herbert was on foot, limping badly and looking to be far spent. He lurched around as Valerian galloped towards him and stood swaying, as though acknowledging that he was trapped.

  “Hi!” Valerian reined to a sliding halt. “Why resort to shank’s mare, chawbacon?”

  “Praise … God!” gasped Herbert. “Horse shot out … from under me! You shouldn’t have come—”

  As if to echo his words, another shot rang out and they heard the hum of the musket ball.

  “Very true,” agreed Valerian, reaching down with his good arm. “And they’re getting too close, so I’ll retreat posthaste. Can you mount up behind me? For Lord’s sake don’t stand there chewing your teeth! Placate your conscience with the knowledge that with you at my back if they shoot straight they’ll hit you, not me!”

  Herbert stuffed something into the capacious pocket of his cloak, took his cousin’s hand, put one foot over Valerian’s in the stirrup and swung up behind him.

  The mare sidled nervously but took the added weight and steadied herself.

  Touching his spurs to the mare’s side, Valerian heard a muffled groan. “Winged you, did they?” he shouted.

  “Just—my leg,” replied Herbert, gasping as the animal plunged forward.

  “Hang on tight, lad! Our mount is a prime little lady. I’m going to pop into that copse ahead and then, with luck, we’ll leave these clods to search the trees while we get back to the road.”

  Once they were in amongst the trees it was very dark, but luck was with them. Valerian turned the mare in the direction of the road and let her choose her own path, and she picked her way unerringly through the roots and underbrush. Behind them arose crashings, tramplings and grumbling curses that fortunately drowned the sounds of their own progress. Very soon they left the dragoons behind and as the uproar faded Valerian heard another sound. He tilted his head, listening, then exclaimed a delighted “You found her!”

  “Aye,” said Herbert, his voice thready. “She was chasing … a mouse in the stable. I had … I had to put her in my pocket, but she’s … quite all right.”

  “Which is more than one could say for you,” muttered Valerian, narrowing his eyes as he searched for the road.

  “I’ll do,” said Herbert. “You don’t sound to be in—in prime trig, yourself. It was—truly splendid of you to—to come back for me.”

  “It was indeed. I cannot think why I go to so much trouble. But you’d best save your thanks. We’re not out of the—Yes we are, by Jove! There’s the Le Havre road! Hang on, Herbert! I’ll be surprised has Marcel not ignored my instructions and slowed, waiting for us!”

  At that same instant Elspeth was leaning from the carriage window calling an inquiry to Skye.

  “No, I cannot see them,” he responded tersely. “Yet. But ’tis too dark now to be able to distinguish clearly for any distance. I wish to God we’d another hack! I’d ride back and look for them! The next stable we come to I’m of a mind to do just that!”

  “And leave my sister defenceless?” protested Vance. “My predatory relatives may yet be hunting us, and I’d be of scant use were they to—”

  Skye interrupted with an excited demand that Marcel halt the team.

  “What is it?” cried Elspeth, leaning from the window again as the coach lurched to a stop. “Do you see them, Joel?”

  “I see … someone…” he answered uncertainly. “But—I’m afraid there is but one horseman, so perhaps…”

  “No! It is!” squealed Elspeth.

  Her brother grabbed her skirt. “Have a care, Ellie! You’ll fall out! Are you sure?”

  “Yes, yes! ’Tis Gervaise! I’d know him anywhere! But—he’s riding as if—”

  Skye yelled, “Herbert’s up on the mare behind him!”

  “Praise God!” exclaimed Vance fervently. “Cheer up, Ellie! If that isn’t just like a woman! Don’t weep now, you ninny! They’re safe!”

  “I’m just—so grateful,” she sniffed, dabbing a handkerchief at her eyes.

  Her earlier remark still echoed in her brother’s mind. “I’d know him anywhere…” His suspicions deepening, he frowned but said nothing.

  Valerian and Herbert were greeted with an impromptu cheer when they rode up to the coach. Wan, bloodstained and exhausted, Herbert had to be all but carried inside and was hailed as a hero when he released an indignant Pixie from his pocket. The musket ball had struck him just above the knee and he had bled copiously. Valerian prepared to dress his wound, and Freda, recoiling from the sight of blood, hastily volunteered to sit on the box with Marcel so as to leave more room in the coach. Elspeth offered to help, but her brother said he hoped he was not completely useless and commanded that she avert her eyes while they cut away Herbert’s breeches. Her vehement protest that she was a capable nurse with a deal of experience was ignored, Valerian pointing out that his unfortunate cousin was shy and would shrivel with embarrassment did a lady set eyes on his naked limb. “Until he grows up,” he added, this deliberate provocation drawing an amused scold from Elspeth, a chuckle from Vance and a predictable if faint objection from Herbert.

  Skye mounted Valerian’s mare, Marcel whipped up his team and they were off on the final leg of their journey.

  It was not easy to tend Herbert’s wound in the rocking carriage and Valerian’s inability to use his right hand hampered his efforts, but between them, he and Clayton managed. Their patient endured bravely but fainted away when the final bandage was being tied.

  “He did well,” said Valerian. “Fortunately, it is a clean wound and the ball went on through. He’s a healthy fellow and should heal nicely.”

  Elspeth, who had peeped several times, said, “You have all my admiration, gentlemen! But what now, Gervaise? Herbert and Vance, and you also—though I know you will not own it—need rest. Dare we stop at Madame Bossuet’s pension?”

  “I think we must, no?” said Clayton. “Herb
ert can’t walk onto the quay wearing these shredded breeches.”

  Valerian nodded. “True. And he’ll likely find it difficult to walk at all. We shall have to find him a cane. But our stay must be very brief. I’ve no doubt the dragoons are hard after us!”

  Their stay was brief indeed. Initially welcoming Valerian with coy smiles, Madame Bossuet began to flutter when he tried to rent a room, and Herbert’s gory appearance did little to reassure her. She was sorry, she twittered nervously, but after the last time … not that she held it against them, of course … but trouble followed them, and … perhaps an inn closer to the city would be more … Her protests faded when Skye started to count louis d’or onto her desk, and she reluctantly agreed that they might use the best bedchamber and parlour … “For one hour only!”

  Valerian helped his cousin limp painfully into the pension, while Skye unloaded the Bath chair and wheeled “Mrs. Newell” inside. Madame Bossuet’s parlour maid lost all her colour and fled before them, her horrified eyes saying clearly that she too remembered “the last time.” Elspeth and Freda left the carriage gratefully and Madame drew “Nurse” aside and murmured that she was indeed sorry to see that the surgeon had been unable to help the old lady. “Poor Madame Newell! She looks thinner than when first you came,” she remarked sympathetically. “And now two of the young gentleman have met with an accident! Tiens but you have a deal of misfortune on your hands, Nurse! I shall send medical supplies and hot water to you at once!”

  She was as good as her word, and two steaming ewers, bandages, lint and salves were soon delivered, together with an offer of hot coffee or wine. They all chose the coffee, and Elspeth and Freda were banished to the parlour with one of the ewers while the men tended to Herbert and helped him change clothes in the bedchamber.

  It was a luxury to be able to wash and repair wind-blown hair after what seemed interminable hours of travelling, but Elspeth and Freda had barely finished restoring themselves than Valerian was calling to them to make haste.

  Elspeth hurried into the bedchamber and scanned the occupants searchingly. Herbert gave her a cheerful smile; he was pale but looking much improved now that he was clad in a clean coat and breeches. Vance’s wig had been brushed and his skirts tidied so that with Pixie ensconced on her lap “Mrs. Newell” presented a neat and believable appearance.

  Elspeth was troubled by the flush on Valerian’s drawn face. “There surely is time for me to bathe your arm,” she said firmly.

  “Plenty of time,” he agreed. “Once we’re aboard the packet! No, don’t accuse me of needless stoicism, Nurse Muslin. I promise you that under normal circumstances I’m a coward par excellence, but these are not normal circumstances and we risk arrest each moment we delay here. Those dragoons were much too close for my liking, and no less than your brother would I dislike being conveyed back to Monsieur le Comte’s chateau!”

  It was a telling point, and she bit her lip and looked to Vance questioningly.

  He nodded in agreement. “It’s truth, Ellie. Skye is galloping even now to arrange passage for us on the first vessel sailing for England.”

  “Which leaves you saddled with three cripples, I’m afraid,” said Valerian. “We’re a sorry rescue party, I own, but I promise you will very soon see the cliffs of Dover again. Meanwhile, Madame Bossuet has been good enough to sell us a sturdy cane for Herbert, and I’ll lend him a hand. Can you manage to wheel Mrs. Newell to the coach? In view of our various impostures I hesitate to ask Beck to do so.”

  Bowing to this common sense, Elspeth said that she would have no difficulty in managing the Bath chair, but that the instant they were aboard ship she must tend his injured arm.

  Valerian smiled and swung the door wide, and Madame Bossuet came to see them off and call her good wishes.

  Supporting his cousin to the waiting carriage, Valerian murmured, “How relieved she looks, poor lady. I fear we will not be remembered as her favourite guests.”

  “Especially,” said Herbert, “do those dragoons come thundering to her door the moment we’ve gone!”

  Freda called, “I’ll ride on the box, sir. You look ready to drop!”

  Valerian thanked her but declined the offer and climbed up beside Marcel, where he imparted a breathless order that the coachman drive as fast as he dared on the dark roads.

  Marcel sent his whip cracking out over the heads of his leaders and, leaning to Valerian’s ear, said, “I see you’ve your pistol ready, monsieur. You expect perhaps that the soldiers they come after us?”

  “If they do,” answered Valerian grimly, “I’ll attempt to dissuade them!”

  “Mon Dieu!” groaned Marcel. “I have aided Milady Elmira Bottesdale many of the times, but never a time like this one! I think I must retire and grow cabbages!”

  Valerian laughed. “You old fraud! What would you do for excitement?”

  There were, the coachman advised, many avenues a man could take to find excitement, adding demurely, “As I am assured you know well, monsieur!”

  Valerian was silent.

  The moon was beginning to find a path through the clouds, and peering at his companion, Marcel saw an odd expression on the handsome features. He had seen this man preparing eagerly for violent action, overcome by mirth, sneeringly cynical or punctiliously polite. This was the first time he had glimpsed a look of wistful sadness. ‘So-ho!’ thought Marcel, and, like all Frenchmen wise in the ways of l’amour, he grinned as he cracked the whip again, urging his horses to greater speed. As a result of their reckless pace he was often unable to discern potholes in time to avoid them, causing the coach to lurch alarmingly, but his expertise enabled him to right the vehicle without overturning them.

  Valerian’s constant scanning of the road to Rouen revealed occasional gleams as of moonlight on breastplates. The relentless pursuit was unnerving, but as the miles slipped away and the dragoons did not gain ground his hopes rose that he could keep the promise he had made to bring Elspeth to Le Havre and thence safely back to England.

  The moon was bright when they reached the outskirts of the city, and despite the lateness of the hour, the port was bustling. Joel Skye rode to meet them as they drove towards the docks, where countless torches, ships’ lanterns and flambeaux blazed, reflecting on the dark water and wet roads. He announced triumphantly that he’d managed to secure passage on a fishing vessel but was indignant at the exorbitant fee he’d been obliged to pay to persuade the captain to delay sailing until they arrived.

  “Well done!” said Valerian.

  “Which way?” called Marcel.

  Skye led them to a less crowded quay where a large fishing boat rocked to the pull of the tide. It was a far cry from the packet that had carried them here. Climbing stiffly from the box, Valerian flung open the door and handed Elspeth from the coach. “I fear you will not enjoy luxurious accommodations on this vessel, ma’am,” he said. “But we are lucky to—”

  “Ah, but it is the friend of the Duc de Belle-Isle!”

  Stiffening as the cheery hail rang out behind him, he saw Elspeth start. He turned lazily and beheld youth and a splendid and familiar uniform. “’Pon m’soul,” he drawled with a smile, “but you’re a conscientious fellow, sir! Do you never rest?”

  “Seldom, monsieur,” answered the young officer lightly. “But what is this? You have an injury, I perceive!” His eyes flashed to Herbert. “And your friend also. Not an accident, I trust?”

  “Better it had been,” said Valerian. “We were attacked by thieves, sir.”

  “Disgraceful! In behalf of La Belle France, I make you my apologies, gentlemen!” The Frenchman’s gaze drifted to Elspeth and he smiled warmly. Becoming aware that Valerian had not responded, he glanced at him, encountered ice and said hastily, “You reported the matter to the authorities, of course?”

  “To the local agent, who assured us he would track down the criminals.”

  The officer gave a fatalistic shrug and remarked sadly that today’s breed of rogues were of an impudence
past believing. “And your lady,” he said, “your aunt, as I recollect—she is unharmed, I trust?”

  “Fortunately.” Lowering his voice and stepping away from the coach, Velerian said, “Unhappily, the physician we consulted was able to do little for her.”

  “Alas! That, it is very sad.” Peering into the coach, he said, “Ah, yes. I see that the poor lady does not look at all improved. But it is well that she still has her little cat with the white blaze on the tail! You are returning to England on this ship, monsieur? Scarcely a suitable craft for people of Quality. I most strongly advise that you wait for the packet which sails at eight o’clock in the morning. This I can arrange for you.” He saw Valerian frown and his eyes sharpened. He said silkily, “Unless, of course, you have some reason for haste?”

  Valerian sighed. “It is my aunt, monsieur.” He added more or less truthfully, “It seems that it is only a matter of time. You will comprehend.”

  Repentant, the Frenchman said that he understood perfectly and, in an attempt to make amends for his insensitivity, asked, “May we offer assistance in lifting the unfortunate lady from the coach?”

  Skye came up at this point, wheeling the Bath chair. Valerian thanked the now sympathetic young official for his kindness, was wished a pleasant journey and drew a relieved breath as Marcel led a porter to them, who piled their luggage onto his barrow and trundled off to the fishing boat.

  Elspeth, able to breathe again, took the handles of the Bath chair and murmured that she pitied the lady who would become Mrs. Gervaise Valerian. “Her prospective husband is so expert at twisting the truth that she will never know when she is being gulled!”

  “Really, Nurse!” he scolded, laughter glinting in his eyes. “Such naughty expressions you do use! You had best guard your tongue else you’re not likely to become Mrs. Anybody!”