The rabbit hopped unhurriedly away when she began to search about for her cap. She found the lace-edged patch of silk hanging on a lupin and carefully restored it to her curls. At least it gave her some slight aura of respectability. She removed twigs from her shawl and draped the torn silk across her shoulders. There was a large rent in the hem of her gown and the muslin was rumpled and muddy. She tidied it as best she could and made her way back to the road.
She walked along slowly at first, then more rapidly, her mind busying itself with the invention of a plausible explanation for her plight, in case some Good Samaritan might drive by and rescue her. But she realized with a faint sense of shock at her own stupidity that she must not walk so openly beside the road. The troopers might come up behind her long before she heard them, and they’d have no doubts as to what had befallen her especially if the terrible Captain Holt was with them. A fine thing it would be if dear Quentin made good his escape and she was taken purely through carelessness! She turned off the deserted road and began to walk parallel to it, through the trees, finding the going tiresome in the extreme, her skirts catching on the undergrowth and the thin soles of her half-boots seeming to find every pebble however carefully she tried to avoid them.
On and on she trudged. The afternoon was waning, but the sun was still hot and the hooped skirts and constricting corsets she wore added to her discomfort. These miseries were felt, but relegated to a distant part of her mind, most of her concentration fixed upon Quentin and where—and how—he might be at this moment.
* * *
Quentin’s return to consciousness was as puzzling as it was painful. He was lying down and yet he could see water some distance below him, and a grey rock marked by vivid red splashes was directly beneath his gaze. He was most uncomfortable, and when he moved he discovered miserably that he seemed to be one large bruise. Not until his hand came within the field of his vision did he comprehend that he was draped ignominiously over the branch of a tree and that the slowly spreading stain on the rock was dripping from his own fingertips.
That shock brought full recollection. He must only have been unconscious a very few minutes, for he could hear soldiers grumbling and, lifting his head, saw them scrambling down the banks in search of him. He began to drag himself up, a more difficult task than he’d imagined, and one that must be accomplished as swiftly and silently as possible, if the troopers were not to discover the source of the stains on the rock. Moving with desperate caution, he managed to straddle the branch and rest his back against the tree trunk. He was enormously relieved to find that his sword had not been torn off when he’d crashed through the branches, and that the panel concealing the cypher was intact.
The troopers were coming closer. He wrapped the skirts of his coat around his hurt arm and tightened the folds, cursing with soft and anguished fluency as he tried to restrict the bleeding. He’d obviously reopened the wound when he’d zoomed through the tree, but a glance to the side told him he’d been very lucky. The stone arch that supported the approach to the bridge was scant feet away. If he’d smashed into it instead of the branches, his problems would have been permanently settled.
The troopers were investigating the wreck of the coach, which lay on its side half in and half out of the stream. They were also indulging in a low-voiced and extremely profane assessment of the probable ancestry of their Captain. Quentin was in full accord with their opinions; he was also aware that at any instant one of them might look up and see him, and he was very relieved when a noisy commotion arose in the nearby woods. Startled birds were shooting up with a great outcry, probably flushed by some wild creature, but convincing the soldiers their quarry had blundered that way. With much excited hallooing they all went tearing off.
Quentin lost no time in descending the tree and hobbling stiffly toward the east. After a while, there being no sound of pursuit, he paused beside a quiet pool and, kneeling to drink, beheld his reflected face so covered with welts and scratches that it was a miracle his eyes had escaped injury. Apart from his many bruises and the damage to his arm, a raw scrape across his left knee was his only other injury. Trifling annoyances compared to what might have befallen him. Congratulating himself on his narrow escape, he was startled to hear distant shouts and the noisy approach of horses. He made a run for it, but they gained rapidly. He plunged into the most densely overgrown areas where it would be difficult for a horseman to follow. It soon became obvious that the soldiers had also abandoned their mounts and were again closing the gap. Holt, thought Quentin, being the efficient officer that he was, had no doubt sent a man on ahead so that the net could be spread beyond the forest to snare him should he get through. His one hope was that they would expect him to aim south, whereas his way lay eastward. He dared not continue in that direction, however. Penny would certainly know his destination when she saw the name on the signpost, and he had no intention of leading this curst pack to his love.
And so he ran where they expected him to run, making no attempt now to cover his tracks, refusing to slow his pace until he was staggering with exhaustion and so light-headed that he knew he was cutting things too fine. He must change direction, or he would be too far spent to complete his mission.
He took to the trees again, struggling to quiet his sobbing breathing as they came into view; shocked because they’d been so close behind him. Again, he was spared. They ran past without a pause and the sounds of their progress faded into the distance. Down he clambered, and set off at a steadier pace towards the northeast, taking care this time that he left no telltale splotches of blood to betray him.
The sun was low in the sky and he was parched with thirst when he came to a hurrying stream. He plunged gratefully into the deliciously cold water, drinking with the restraint that experience had taught him was vital, and bathing the wound in his arm that had once more become an unremitting agony. It came to him rather dimly that he must do more. He went back onto the bank and risked the time it took to struggle out of coat and shirt. With his teeth and his left hand, he managed to tear off the left shirt sleeve. His handkerchief served for a pad, and he bound it tightly over the wound. His efforts to tie a knot sent him to his knees, but he fought off the faintness and after a short rest managed a bulky knot to keep his awkward bandage in place. Scanning the result, he was reminded of Penelope’s gentle and competent hands. “You’d take a very dim view of this botch, love,” he said wryly, then checked, his head jerking up in panic as he heard the sounds of pursuit once more.
Cursing, he struggled into his shirt and coat, then began to run. The faster he ran, the hotter and more breathless he became, and the more consuming was his dread of capture. Soon he had only two thoughts: firstly that he dare not slacken his pace, and secondly that he must keep the sun ever behind him. He ran on madly, until every breath sent a flame through his lungs and a sword into his side. He was reeling and spent and half-blind when he wavered through thinning woods in the heat of the waning afternoon. He saw blurrily that a great oak loomed against the golden skies and that there was a lightness beyond it. Drawing in great rasping gasps that seemed to tear his lungs to shreds, he staggered to the old tree and clung to it, soaked with sweat, consumed by an overwhelming need to lie down—to be done with the whole damnable business and let Jacob Holt haul him wheresoever he would.
His knees gave out under him. He crumpled and slid down the rough bark. They were all about him, but they would give him some water … surely, they would at least let him quench this hellish thirst…?
“Come on … then,” he croaked. “Damn you, Holt … come on!” And he sank to his face and sprawled there, beyond caring.
* * *
Penelope’s heart gave a leap of hope when she heard hooves approaching, but the vehicle that came into view was heading west, and of such dilapidated appearance that she would not have dared accept a ride, even had one been offered. The narrow road wound on and on. At length she turned a rather sharper bend and saw a bridge ahead, and the rippling sparkle
of sunlight on water. In anticipation of a cold wet handkerchief against her heated face, she hastened her steps, only to check, appalled. A dead horse lay beside the road, and one side of the stone bridge had been smashed away along the top. Frantic with fear she ran up the curve of the old structure and peered over the damaged wall. Below, resting half in the stream and half on the bank, lay a carriage, one wheel gone, and the water lapping softly at its crushed side.
The scene swam before Penelope’s staring eyes. She clutched the ragged stones and dazedly became aware that she was whispering “Dear God … Dear God…” over and over again. She made herself stop, and only then did she hear someone calling softly, “Miss Penny … he ain’t here. Miss Penny!”
Her heart leaping, she scanned the scene again. “Dutch…? Is that you? Where are you?”
“Down here, miss. Under the bridge.”
She ran swiftly down the far side of the bridge and clambered around the bank. Dutch Coachman, his coat and shirt lying nearby, had been attempting to bathe a deep wound across his side. With a cry of mingled relief and sympathy, she ran to grasp his outstretched hand. “Oh, I am so glad to see you! Let me help.”
“It ain’t nothing much, miss,” he said apologetically. “Just sorta knocked me sideways as yer might say.”
She could have kissed his pale, rugged face, and she made him sit down on the bank while she cleansed and bound the ugly gash, using a strip torn from one of her petticoats for a makeshift bandage, and assuring him that she herself had suffered nothing more than a few bruises. “Never mind me. Please tell me what happened to Major Chandler.”
He told her as much as he knew. “I must’ve been struck silly arter I jumped off the coach, Miss Penny. Master Quentin had begged me to go back and help you, and I thought I was going the right way till I come to the bridge. All I could think of then was to find if he was here.” His eyes slid away from hers. He went on awkwardly, “And he ain’t. Either the troopers got him, or—” He paused, biting his lip.
Staring at him, her hands stilled, she whispered, “Or—he is … dead.”
His greying, curly head ducked lower. He groaned, “Don’t ye say it, miss! Don’t even think it! I’ve knowed the Major since he was a boy. Such a mischievous, high-couraged lad he were. And growed into such a fine man. I cannot bear to think as—as…” His voice trailed off.
Still staring at him, Penelope said, “But you do think it. Why? Did you find something you’ve not told me of?”
He shook his head, not looking up.
“Dutch Coachman,” she said in a voice of remote, unnatural calm, “I must know. You see—I am the Major’s wife.”
He gave a shocked gasp and jerked his head up.
Penelope held out her hand. The coachman gazed down at the dragon ring. “Strike a blooming light,” he muttered.
Penelope finished her bandage. “I must know.”
He sighed heavily. “All right, ma’am. Just let me get a bit more respectable like.”
She waited quietly while he put on his shirt, and she helped him ease his way into his torn coat. He took her arm and guided her gently to the stream. “See here, ma’am.” He gave a quick, reluctant gesture. “On the big rock, there. I’m afraid as there—there bean’t much doubt…”
Penelope stood unmoving.
Watching her, the little man thought he had never seen so tragic a face, and nerved himself for the sobs, for the faint. But neither came.
She said in a whisper, “It—couldn’t have been from one of the horses, perhaps?”
He shook his head. “No, ma’am. One was killed up on the road—still there, poor brute. And I could see where the other three was led off. The pole musta snapped when the coach went over.”
Her wide eyes fixed on that ghastly stain, Penelope whispered, “Was there more…? L-leading off, perhaps?”
“No, ma’am. It’s—it’s the only thing what give me a bit a hope.”
Her gaze darted to his face. “Why?”
“Well, I reckoned that if the Major was killed, ma’am, or bad hurt, with him bleeding like that you’d be able ter see where they’d carried him orf. But—if he fell and hurt hisself not so bad but what he could still get up and run, why—he wouldn’t leave a trail like that there. Lead ’em right to him; and he’s been hunted, ma’am. He knows. Leastways … I thought as it might be that.”
“You mean he would bind up his hurt, so there would be no trail to follow. Yes. Yes, of course.” Her eyes bright with new hope, she asked eagerly, “Which way would he go, Dutch Coachman? Do you know?”
The desperate hope in her eyes wrung his heart. Not caring to dim it, however slight the chance that it was justified, he said that he did know. “I saw a signpost up the road a bit. Likely it’ll point our way, though I fancy the Major will try to lose they sojers ’fore he goes there.”
He helped her up the bank again, and they went along together, an unlikely pair, the short, powerfully built man, slightly stooping, and treading with careful strides, and the tall girl, limping markedly, but with her head high, her eager gaze fixed on the distant signpost.
When they were close enough to distinguish the words, Penelope halted. To the coachman’s astonishment, she broke into a quavering little peal of laughter. “Oh, yes,” she gasped. “That’s where he was going, all right. He told me I’d know, the moment I saw the sign.” And suddenly, she broke down, bowing her face into her hands and weeping for a brief, racking moment.
Slipping an arm about her slender shoulders and comforting her as best he knew how, the coachman realized his doubts must be unwarranted. If this fine young woman knew that particular trait of Master Quentin’s, she certainly must be his wife. A faint smile came into his strained eyes as again he glanced at the signpost.
One sturdy arm of that useful contrivance directed the traveller northwards to the green slopes of The Weald, and was inscribed ‘To Tunbridge Wells.’ The other arm pointed to the southeast, and upon the weathered wood some skilled hand had painted with a flourish, ‘To Little Snoring.’
XVIII
The Church of St. Francis of Assisi lifted its four-hundred-year-old Gothic tower benignly above the even more ancient village of Little Snoring. Picturesque thatched cottages lined the single street, interspersed with tiny shops and the single tavern. A few ducks foraged on the pond in the middle of the village green, and some children were making a great business of throwing pieces of stale bread and shrieking with glee when the ducks hurried noisily to snatch up their offerings.
This pleasant scene of rural peace and beauty was, however, marred by an argument. Even more incongruously, the argument was being conducted on the front steps of the church, the protagonists being the black-robed young vicar and a grim army officer whose troopers waited with faces variously glum, or bored, or impatient, until Captain Holt should have his way. Inevitably, he did. With an angry toss of his fair head, the vicar stepped aside. The Captain beckoned, the Sergeant dismounted and led the troop inside the hallowed old building.
A few villagers drifted over to watch these proceedings and, when the troopers reappeared some five minutes later, responded with bovine stupidity to the questions directed at them, and grinned as the thwarted military men mounted up again.
Holt turned his tired horse and called a warning. “If the rebel should come here, Father, I’ll remind you the penalty for sheltering a fugitive is a fearsome one. This man is wanted for high treason and anyone helping him or his lady friend will share his fate. You are duty-bound to detain him—or both of them—and send word to your nearest military post.”
A steady stare was his only response. He swung his horse around, then tossed over his shoulder, “There is a large reward for this pair, you people!”
“Is there, by gar!” exclaimed a gawking individual who appeared to be the village idiot.
“You want us to scrag the lady, ’fore we give her to ’un?” enquired another man with an innocent lift of the brows.
A laugh went u
p, and Holt flushed angrily.
“Be better’n what he’s got in store for the poor lass,” contributed a fat and scornful woman, wiping soapy hands on her apron.
A trooper came in at the gallop, and Holt turned to him eagerly.
“We got on his trail, sir,” shouted the trooper, reining up. “The men be hard arter him, and he’s running like a rabbit and bleeding like a stuck pig!”
A growl went up from the assembled villagers. Ignoring it, Holt led his men out at a canter, hoots and catcalls following.
“Bloody damned hounds,” grunted the village idiot in unexpectedly cultured accents. Then, glancing to the priest, added, “Sorry, Charles.”
Young Father Albritton, his blue eyes stormy, made a gesture of impatience. “They make me ashamed of my name,” he muttered. “Don’t waste your time apologizing, Chandler.” And he walked back into the old church, opening both doors wide as though to air out the sanctuary.
A few moments later, mounted on a sturdy donkey, Gordon Chandler also left Little Snoring and turned to the south.
Two hours later, the brief flurry of excitement was still being discussed over cottage dinner tables. The street and green were deserted now, the children had gone home, and the ducks had abandoned the water and were grouped companionably under the weeping willow tree. The hush of the warm early evening was broken as a dog barked in a desultory way and then stopped, and all was quiet once more.
* * *
Quentin opened his eyes to find the pain in his lungs had eased away, although his thirst was a raging need. The soldiers were very quiet. He frowned at a nearby snail. He was very weak now, and his mind might be playing him tricks. On the other hand, it might have played him tricks earlier. Perhaps there had been no further pursuit after he’d reached the stream. He dragged himself into a sitting position and looked about. Not a red coat in sight and all was quiet except for the distant and civilized sound of dishes rattling. He could smell delicious cooking smells, and the cooler air of early evening restored him somewhat, but his thirst must be assuaged, even if death was the price to be paid. He hauled himself to his feet and leaned against the oak tree. The lighter space beyond the oak was red now—the sunset bathing a broad meadow, dotted here and there with clumps of gorse, and ending at the railings of an old churchyard.
Practice to Deceive Page 33