by Sandra Heath
“And you think this mysterious Englishman is Lord Benjamin?”
“I know it,” Bodkin replied. “Oh, why didn’t I guess before? It was staring me in the face, but I was too stupid to realize! Now I’ve seen the ledger, it’s so obvious that he is the purchaser.”
“You still haven’t told me why you think so.”
“Because the French brownie described the scar the man had on the little finger of his left hand,” Bodkin explained, and Polly’s lips parted, for Lord Benjamin did indeed have such a scar. The brownie went on. “As soon as he makes the last payment and receives the page, he’ll make Nutmeg visible, then put her on show somewhere. He’d have done it months ago if he hadn’t been fighting off the duns. I think the cost of the page is one of the main reasons he’s now so deep in debt!”
“Then surely the wisest thing he could have done was put his purse away,” Polly pointed out sagely.
“Maybe, but he has his eye on grander things. Miss Polly. If he can stave off the duns, he’ll make a huge fortune out of Nutmeg, infinitely more than he outlaid in the first place, and much more than the unicorn, because she’s real. It’s too dreadful to even think about.” Tears welled from Bodkin’s eyes, and he wiped his nose with his arm.
“Oh, Bodkin, I don’t know what to say.” Polly was deeply saddened to think her uncle might be party to such a horrible design. All she could hope was that he didn’t actually know Lord Benjamin’s reason, although it had to be admitted that if there was money to be made, Hordwell Horditall was usually at the forefront. She tried to think of something comforting to say. “Take heart. Bodkin, for Lord Benjamin is now being hounded so much by his creditors, that I suspect he’s no longer in a position to make the last payment.”
“Unless Hordwell gives him the money,” Bodkin replied, this new realization dawning with sickening clarity. “Hordwell Horditall would do anything to ingratiate himself with the aristocracy.”
Polly lowered her eyes, for it was true. Her uncle wouldn’t provide sufficient to settle all Lord Benjamin’s debts, because such financial rescue was his lordship’s sole reason for entering the proposed marriage. He would simply dangle the Peach’s Bank carrot by agreeing to pay something. But did he know the full facts about Nutmeg? Oh, she hoped not, prayed not.
“Miss Polly, I cannot stay beneath this roof another minute! I have to go to Bath to rescue Nutmeg!”
“Please don’t be hasty. Bodkin, especially when—forgive me— you don’t seem quite yourself.”
“Nutmeg is my sweetheart, and I’m going to get her back!” The brownie’s moments of relative calm were over, and once again he was a boggart, incandescent with outrage. He grabbed a paperweight, and aimed it at Hordwell’s portrait, this time at the chin in particular. The canvas ripped, and the paperweight buried a sharp corner into the wall-paneling behind.
At this point, Polly realized the brownie was becoming a little hazy; indeed she could see through him. “Bodkin!” she cried. “Please don’t become invisible to me, for I’m your friend!”
“I’m too angry with humans, even you!” he retorted ungraciously, and then he unhooked the keys from his belt and tossed them onto the open ledger.
She heard rather than saw them land. “But I haven’t done anything wrong!” she protested indignantly as he began to march toward the door. She barred his way, desperate to calm him down somehow. “At least discuss it all with me before you do anything rash!” she implored, watching in dismay as he grew even more indistinct.
“There’s nothing to discuss,” he retorted, scowling.
“You can’t just leave. What about your bees? You are their guardian, and—”
“The bees will understand; indeed when I need them, they will come to me, no matter how far away I am! Then Hordwell and Beddem will regret what they’ve done!” he said, and pushed past her to stomp away along the passage, his tail no longer twirling, but lashing like a horsewhip.
Polly caught up her skins and ran after him. “Bodkin, you cannot mean to set the bees on Uncle Hordwell! Or on Lord Benjamin! Oh, please promise you won’t do such a thing!”
“From now on I’ll do as I please,” the boggart-brownie replied over his shoulder, becoming less visible by the second as he began to run up the back staircase to his little attic room. By the time he reached the top of the last flight of stairs, he had disappeared entirely.
Polly hurried up the stairs as well and stood in the doorway of the room, which had a sloping ceiling. She watched in alarm as a large square of red-and-white checkered cloth seemed to lay itself on the plain little bed that stood against one wall. Sunbeams danced through the open dormer window as the brownie’s belongings, which were all quite visible because only his belt and keys could not be seen, were piled on top of the cloth. They included his fork and spoon, his brush and comb, an earthenware jar of the exceedingly potent mead he made from his honey, a large pot of the honey itself, and a small tin of clove balm. His knife he tucked into his belt. The cloth was tied into a bundle and fixed upon a brush handle that happened to be propped in a comer. Then the whole thing was jerked on his invisible shoulder. Next the top drawer of the chest beneath the window was opened, a ball of sturdy cord taken out, and the strange assortment bobbed past her toward the staircase.
Polly followed him downstairs and out into the garden, where he made for his pumpkin plant. Placing his things on the grass, he cleared the leaves around the largest pumpkin of all, then took his knife again and began to hack at the stalk. Polly was bewildered. “What are you doing? Why are you cutting a pumpkin?” she asked.
“I need it for Halloween,” the boggart-brownie muttered darkly.
“Need it? Whatever for?”
“Never you mind.”
Polly stared at the pumpkin. “But it’s as wide as you’re tall! How on earth will you carry it?”
“All brownies can carry three times their own weight without any trouble,” he replied, getting up to haul the pumpkin from the bed onto the grass. Then he took some leaves to wipe it clean.
“You ... you won’t do anything really horrid with it, will you?” she inquired uneasily, for now that he was a boggart, heaven alone knew what he had in mind.
“If I do, it will be no more than they deserve,” he replied, then refused to speak again as he unraveled the ball of cord to wrap and knot it like a net so that the great orange-yellow orb was securely held. Then it, too, was fixed to the brush handle. Polly watched as the great load was heaved over his shoulder. For a moment she could tell that his little knees buckled, but then he gave a huge grunt, straightened, and set off down the garden path toward the gate just as the superior gentleman’s carriage, now very dirty indeed, returned from the ravages of Wrecker Johnson’s farmyard.
Chapter 3
After passing Horditall House the first time, the carriage containing the haughty young gentleman had driven blithely on, but on turning a sudden sharp comer, it found itself in Wrecker Johnson’s waterlogged lane, where wild clematis tumbled over the high hedgerows and gossamer drifted clammily in the air. The vehicle’s immaculate wheels were soon up to their axles in mud and deep puddles, the fine horses splashed with dirt and the dismayed coachman had no choice but to drive on. He was already in Sir Dominic Fortune’s bad books for having drunk too much ale at the inn last night, and being the cause of a fracas, so he was certain that this disaster would signal the end of his employment.
As if on cue, Sir Dominic leaned irritably out of the window. “Where in God’s name are we, Jeffries?”
“I... I fear I must have taken the wrong road back at the signpost, Sir Dominic. But I vow that this was definitely indicated as the way to Bath.”
“If this is the road to Bath, I’m a Dutchman,” Dominic replied cuttingly as he glanced down at the muddy water swirling in ruts so deep they resembled Cheddar Gorge itself.
Jeffries gazed desperately along the lane, and then his eyes brightened hopefully. “I see buildings ahead, sir. I believe it’s a
farm. We’ll be able to turn around there.”
Dominic sat back on the sumptuous brown leather upholstery. The last thing he wanted to do was go to Bath, but when inheritance of an uncle’s considerable estate depended upon marriage, what choice did a sensible nephew have but to find a wife? Not that he really needed any more wealth, for he was already ridiculously well provided for, but another handsome helping did no harm. London was clearly the best place for choice, but right now the metropolis held too many painful memories.
He’d left the capital two weeks ago, but while his luggage and saddle horse were sent to Bath, he had traveled by way of friends in Winchester. The visit over, he’d made a detour of a few hours to see the wonders of Cheddar Gorge, and now he was finally en route for England’s finest watering place. Pray God the spa was teeming with likely contenders for the title of Lady Fortune, for he wanted the matter over with as quickly as possible. It would be a loveless arrangement, because his heart was already given to a beautiful, but selfish and single-mindedly ambitious widow by the name of Lady Georgiana Mersenrie. Georgiana was the only daughter of the Duke of Lawless, and her late husband, an elderly Scottish lord of immense wealth, had left her with ample funds to make her Berkeley Square house one of the places for society to gather. She was one of London’s foremost hostesses, a lady whose invitations were as sought after as vouchers to Almack’s, but this wasn’t enough. Her avowed intention was to be a duchess, and not just any duchess, for her designs centered upon Lord Algernon Lofty, the son and heir of the Duke of Grandcastle, England’s richest and most influential nobleman.
Dominic sighed unhappily. So fixed was Georgiana upon her ambition, that she’d actually suggested he seek a wife elsewhere. This was hurtful enough, but how much worse it had been when she’d gone so far as to suggest it would be better if he removed to Bath to commence his search for a bride, leaving her to make certain of her duke-to-be. With complete disregard for anyone but herself, she’d written to her second brother, Lord Benjamin Beddem, requesting him to accommodate her unwanted lover in his house in Royal Crescent! She could not have made her wishes more clear, and so Dominic had done as she wanted. What point would there have been in standing his ground? She’d made it abundantly clear that she would never marry him, so he had to get on with his life without her. Besides, he was thirty now, and it was probably time he took a wife. Any wife.
His thoughts were suddenly and very rudely interrupted by a cacophony of squawks, squeals, and grunts. What in God’s own name—? The carriage jolted to a standstill, and he leaned out of the window again. To his horror he saw a walled farmyard even muddier than the lane. At least, he hoped it was mud. A dozen or so enormous fat pigs milled around, and chickens flapped in all directions. The smell was atrocious, and he had to put a handkerchief to his nose.
Grinning broadly. Wrecker Johnson emerged from the farmhouse in his smock, breeches, and stout boots. He was a burly red-faced man, and was barely able to prevent himself from rubbing his hands together in glee as he surveyed Dominic’s fine vehicle and elegant London clothes. “And ‘oo might you be, zur?” he asked.
“Sir Dominic Fortune.”
A title, eh? Oh, this got better by the second. Wrecker beamed at his victim. “You’ll ‘ave to ‘elp me, zur, for ‘twill take both of us to keep the pigs back while your dandy coachman turns your smart ‘quipage.”
Dominic shuddered. Help this yokel with his filthy fat pigs? Dear God above.
Wrecker strode through the quagmire and opened the carriage door. “Down you come, zur, for I can’t do it on my own, not when they’m in such a panic.”
Dominic knew the man was enjoying the situation, but could do little except bow to his wishes. With a resigned sigh, he alighted gingerly, closing his eyes for a moment as his gleaming top boots sank into the mud.
The farmer grinned. “That’s right, zur. Don’t worry now, your pretty footwear won’t be sucked off when you walks. Leastways, I don’t reckon so,” he added doubtfully, as Dominic tried to take a step, then almost lost his balance because the mud gripped so well.
Jeffries did not dare to turn his head. His dismissal loomed ever larger, and he was pondering where he might find a new position as good as this one. Dominic glanced darkly up at him. “I’ll make garters of your intestines for this, Jeffries.”
“Yes, sir,” the coachman replied resignedly.
Dominic returned the handkerchief to his nose as he addressed the farmer. “What do I have to do?” he asked, keeping an eye on the pigs, which seemed more like ferocious wild boars than domestic porkers.
“Most of ‘em seem to have settled for this corner by me, so if you just round up old April and May over there, and bring ‘em over, your flunky will be able to start turning your grand ‘quipage.”
“And what, pray, will your contribution be to the proceedings?” Dominic inquired. Playing the appreciative audience, no doubt, he thought.
“Me? Why, I’ll be keeping the rest of my grand bacon calendar quiet,” the fanner replied. “Or mayhap you ‘d like to take care of these ten, while I looks after April and May?” he offered then.
When it came to choice between ten or two pigs, the decision was easy. “You stay where you are.”
Wrecker grinned. “A wise decision, zur.”
With the handkerchief keeping only some of the stench at bay, Dominic squelched around the rear of the carriage toward April and May, who were two of the most monumental sows he had ever seen. If ever a man regretted giving in to the impulse to see Cheddar Gorge . . .
The following minutes were some of the most hilarious and entertaining of Wrecker’s waylaying career. He roared with laughter at the sight of a London swell plowing through mud in pursuit of the two recalcitrant pigs. Even Jeffries was hard put not to grin, but Dominic didn’t think it in the least funny. After falling twice and covering himself in mud—as well as ingredients less salubrious— he eventually managed to drive April and May to join their companions. Jeffries immediately began the laborious task of coaxing the nervous team into action again, and in five minutes had the carriage facing the way it had come.
Wrecker managed to control his laughter. “Don’t worry now, zur, for when the mud and sh—” He cleared his throat. “Well, you know what I mean. When it dries, it’ll come off easy enough. Leastways, it should.” Dominic gave him a look that would have stopped lesser men in their tracks, but a thin skin wasn’t one of Wrecker’s qualities. “Right then, zur, that’ll be sixpence,” he declared brazenly.
“I beg your pardon?” Dominic replied, thinking he must have misheard.
“That’ll be sixpence for the use of my yard and my services,” the farmer repeated.
“If you think I’m going to—”
“Satan? Satan! Come out ‘ere!” shouted Wrecker, and a very large, very black dog immediately emerged from the farmhouse.
As it bared its teeth and growled ominously, Dominic hastily took the necessary money from his pocket and thrust it into the man’s hand. “With such a keen sense of business, you should go far, sir,” he muttered, then clambered back into the carriage. Jeffries urged the horses forward, and the carriage jolted out of the yard back into the lane. Dominic sat on the spotless upholstery, smearing mud and mire everywhere. He stank like the proverbial dung heap, and he doubted if his own mother would recognize him. Damn all farmers, damn Somerset, damn everything!
It seemed an age before the carriage was on firm going again, allowing Jeffries to bring the bedraggled team up to a reasonable trot. As it drove through Horditall, Dominic’s attention was drawn once more to the house where the young woman in blue had been tending the garden. To his relief she was no longer there, and so would not witness the ruination of his splendor. He leaned his head back, and closed his eyes. What an unutterably appalling day this had turned out to be.
If he had continued to look out at Horditall House, he would have seen a bundle of belongings and a large pumpkin on a pole bobbing at the double down the garden pa
th, with Polly in anxious pursuit. On reaching the wall on the road, the bundle and pumpkin were flung amid the luggage at the rear of the carriage, and then there was a thud as something invisible jumped on as well. Dominic’s eyes opened momentarily, as he heard the sound, and Jeffries turned his head, but there was so much luggage that he saw nothing.
The carriage bowled on, and Bodkin made himself as comfortable as he could. Clutching the pumpkin on his lap, for fear it would roll onto the road and be lost, he glowered back at the hamlet as it faded behind. He wrinkled his nose at the farmyard smell pervading the entire vehicle. But what did a foul smell matter? He was going to rescue Nutmeg, and in the process he intended to make the lives of Hordwell Horditall and Lord Benjamin Beddem a misery. He patted the pumpkin. “You’re going to be the best jack-o’-lantern that ever was,” he muttered, envisaging the diabolical face he would carve into it.
Polly gazed unhappily after the carriage, then turned to walk thoughtfully back to the house. Unless Bodkin could somehow be prevailed upon, in his present fury he was capable of causing a great deal of trouble, not only for her uncle and Lord Benjamin, but for anyone else who got in the way. Bath might never be the same again! This last prospect made her halt in horror. Now that she had seen a boggart for the first time, she knew how awful a creature it was. Bodkin had to be stopped. But how? It was clear she had to follow him in her uncle’s second carriage, but she held out no hope of catching up with the arrogant gentleman’s vehicle, which had been moving at a very smart pace when last seen. Uncle Hordwell was too mean to pay for blood horses, so his team would stand no chance of overhauling the four grays, even supposing she was ready to leave immediately. It would be Bath itself before she could prevail upon the boggart-brownie, or indeed upon Uncle Hordwell, who had to mend the situation regarding Nutmeg.
She didn’t relish going to Lord Benjamin’s residence in Royal Crescent, but since it was bound to be Bodkin’s destination, she had no choice. It was out of the question that she should stay there, however, so no matter what her uncle might say, she would lodge at a suitable inn or hotel. She hoped the whole business would be resolved in a short time, and soon she would be back here again.