The Hourglass

by Barbara Metzger

  Now Willeford sat up straighten “So you admit to having knowledge of pagan ways.”

  “I have knowledge of many things. I did not know that learning was a sin. Either way, I do not know what this is, manufactured or manroot, or how it works. Who knows? No matter. Are you willing to bet your life against its power?”

  Willeford eyed the inch-long desiccated bit. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that if you take the field tomorrow morning, I will use this amulet to lay a curse on you. You will suffer a long, painful life—death would be too merciful, I think.” He picked up the relic again. “Yes, small pieces of your person will fall off. An ear, a nose, your toes, your prick. One at a time.”

  “You cannot do that!”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  Willeford jumped to his feet, ready to dash out of the room. Ardeth laid a hand on his sleeve, just lightly, but Willeford sank back in his chair.

  “I do not believe you,” he said, his tone not quite as confident as his words. “It is all claptrap.”

  “What do you call these, then?”

  From another pocket Ardeth took out a stack of gambling chits, all with Willeford’s initials on them.

  Where Willeford was red-faced before, now he went deathly pale. “Where did you get those?”

  “From your creditors, of course. I do not gamble myself, you know. I might bargain, but I seldom wager. Most of those you owe were happy to accept my terms of payment. It seems they feared they would never see any of their money otherwise. You’ve been below hatches for years.” He fanned the vouchers out, like playing cards. “Hmm, it appears that you are as poor a gambler as you are an officer.”

  The sum was considerable, far more than Willeford could pay, and they both knew that. Willeford hoped Ardeth did not know of the other debts, to the cents-per-centers and his wife’s family. “I can get the blunt from my relations. You said yourself, kin look out for one another.”

  “Your family is tired of paying your way. Your wife’s family have closed their purses to you. In fact, I believe one of these vowels is from your brother-in-law himself. He had no compunctions about selling them to me, or the devil. No, you have no resources, and I am calling in the chits. Now.”

  “But a month is the usual time between gentle—” He paused.

  Ardeth nodded. “That is right. I am not a gentleman. Neither are you, it seems, for most of these are far older than a month.”

  Willeford licked his dry lips. His eyes shifted to the door, to his friends, to the IOUs on the table next to that menacing white piece of the-devil-knew-what. A fox with its foot in a trap could not feel more desperate. “What do you want?”

  “That is easy. I want you to call off the duel.”

  “But then people will think I am a coward.”

  “You are a coward.”

  Those words stirred the dregs of Willeford’s pride, once he was sure the others had not heard. “Here, now, you cannot—”

  “You sent your men to face the cannons alone.”

  “An officer needs to stay behind the lines to direct the fighting, to issue orders, to sound retreat or advance.”

  “I believe the word you used was ‘claptrap.’ And then there is the way you spoke about me behind my back. What is that if not cowardice?”

  “Everyone knows you do not fight.”

  “So you picked on Cormack, a peace-loving civilian with a young family. One you are so confident you can defeat that you do not bother resting or keeping a clear head. I call that cowardice, too.”

  “It was not like that. I had too much to drink, I told you.” His voice took on a whine when he added, “You know how that can be.”

  “No, I do not know how a man who calls himself an officer and a gentleman can stoop so low.”

  “Well, I ain’t a saint like you. I can’t cure sickness and I don’t consort with the lower classes.” He looked at the gaming chits. “And I don’t have the brass to give to charity, even if I wanted, which I don’t. Let the poor blighters find work like the rest of us. They could join the army instead of begging in the streets.”

  Ardeth did not bother mentioning that Willeford’s commission was purchased, not earned. “Perhaps I was wrong and you are a brave man. You seem to have no fears about dying.”

  “Of course I am afraid of sticking my spoon in the wall. What man ain’t? I don’t want to get sliced apart in battle.” He eyed the Devil’s charm. “Or die by inches.”

  “Then leave.”

  Willeford started to get up.

  “No, leave London.”

  “Right, I can go on a repairing lease. Haven’t visited my sister in Cornwall in ages.”

  “No, again. I mean leave England altogether. I know of a ship weighing anchor for Jamaica with the morning tide. Be on it and you can have these back.” He neatened the pile of gambling chits.

  Willeford laughed. “Jamaica? Why would I want to go somewhere hot and sticky?”

  If he thought Jamaica was hot, Ardeth thought, wait until the dastard got to Hell. Aloud he said, “You want to go to Jamaica because the army has an outpost there, and I own a sugar plantation nearby.” He owned property on every continent, just in case. “I will trade the Jamaican estate for your London town house. The property turns a tidy annual profit. The local British society, I understand, is as stuffy as London’s, and you can lord it over them all, if I put in a word with the commandant there.”

  Willeford considered the offer, then shook his head. “My wife would never leave town. She loves being in the thick of the ton, shopping all day, gossiping all night.”

  “I doubt she will enjoy debtors’ prison. Do not for an instant think that I am merely threatening you. I can have the bailiffs at your door in an hour.” He laid a writ of seizure on top of the gambling debts.

  “Oh, God.”

  “I doubt Himself can be bothered with a sinner like you, but pray if you think it might help. I will not change my mind.”

  “If I go, then the curse won’t work, right?”

  Ardeth smiled and tossed the Devil’s charm in the air before putting it back in his pocket. “Who knows?” He placed an arm over Willeford’s shoulder to lead him from the club, for all the world like convivial acquaintances, not a huntsman and his cornered prey. “Oh, did I forget to mention that the plantation employs freemen only, so you will be denied the dubious honor of becoming a slaveholder? There are lovely flowers, however.”

  —

  Ardeth could not go home until all the arrangements had been made. He had to roust up the bank owner—it had been an expensive day—to give Willeford and his wife traveling funds. He dragged his solicitor from bed to notarize an exchange of deeds. So what if the man thought Ardeth was both arrogant and attics-to-let, trading a profitable plantation for a small town house in London? Ardeth thought James Vinross and Miss Hadley might take up housekeeping there shortly, or he could transform it into a home for unwed mothers.

  He hired carts and porters to pack and move the Willefords’ belongings, and another pair of guards to make certain they were ready, between the shrieks and slaps. Then Ardeth went to the docks to give more money to the captain of the ship, and further instructions to Vinross about these new travelers.

  Later still he called on Roger Macklin, Lord Cormack, and struck enough fear in that man’s heart that Roger would never make the mistake of fighting another man’s battles, especially not this man’s. He dragged Roger to various clubs to put out the word that Willeford had recanted, quit gambling, and rejoined the army abroad.

  Then he went home to Genie.

  “What do you mean, she has gone to the dueling grounds?” he asked the butler. “How could you have let her go?”

  “How could I have stopped her?” Randolph asked back.

  Ardeth rode for Hampstead Heath as if the Hounds of Hell were barking at his heels. Olive flew overhead. At least the woman had the coach and Campbell. He could not imagine what force she’d brought to his driver to
get the former sergeant to take a woman to a duel, but Campbell would look after her.

  Except… wasn’t that his own carriage tilted into the ditch at the side of the road, the wheel shattered, the horses missing?

  Olive learned new curses, not that the gremlin needed any.

  Ardeth found Campbell and the horses at the nearest inn, but not his wife.

  “Demme if she wouldn’t hire the innkeeper’s son to take her the rest of the way,” the soldier reported. “And demme if she didn’t nearly shoot my head off for arguing. Her ladyship seemed to know which end of the pistol was which, too.”

  The sun was barely rubbing its eyes when Ardeth found the lightning-singed tree, with a cart parked beside it. A boy was fast asleep in the back, the horse grazing. He tied Black Butch to the rear of the cart and walked along a well-defined path between the trees.

  Genie was wondering if she had come to the wrong place. That would be just like Lorraine to get the important details wrong. This clearing looked right for a duel, hidden from inquisitive eyes by a stand of trees, yet level and open where it mattered. But no one was coming, and here it was, almost dawn.

  Surely the seconds or the surgeon would have arrived by now, she decided, so Ardeth must have found a way to stop the duel. He’d found an honorable way, she hoped, for all of them. Otherwise Willeford would not concede, only postponing the inevitable. She prayed Ardeth’s solution was an honest one, without tricks, lest the rumors of his peculiar skills spread in a wider circle. Lud, what if he’d encountered Willeford in public and made him quack like a duck?

  She decided she would leave in ten minutes or so, but then she thought she heard footfalls. She did not want to reveal her presence yet, in case the duelists were arriving. On the other hand, she did not wish to be surprised by someone else, someone not connected to the argument, who was traveling through the woods for his own nefarious purposes. She leveled her weapon in the direction of the sound.

  “Who goes there?”

  She heard more scuffling in the brush, and the flapping of wings. “Olive! Coryn!”

  His tall form strode into the clearing, the bird overhead. He appeared so angry that Genie was surprised the leaves beneath his feet did not catch on fire. She would have been afraid, except she was so relieved to see that he was safe. She lowered her weapon and started to run toward him, but she tripped on a hidden root.

  Bang!

  Ardeth went down.

  “Ar fall. Ar fall,” Olive screeched.

  Awful? It was beyond dreadful! Genie had shot her husband.

  Chapter 21

  In her rush to Ardeth’s side, Genie dropped the gun. She shot a tree this time.

  This time? But her pistol held only the one ball. So she did not shoot Coryn, thank goodness.

  Except if she did not shoot him, someone else had. The innkeeper’s son was shouting and running, so she did not worry overmuch that someone would shoot again, not with so many witnesses, people to give chase. Just in case, she threw herself on top of Ardeth to protect him.

  Except he was already shot. He moaned.

  The crow was moaning, too. “Shut up, you sapskull.”

  “Sorry. It hurts.”

  “Not you!” she shouted, rolling off Ardeth. She pulled his cape away, then his waistcoat. No, this was not right. Ardeth never wore bright colors! There was so much blood his shirt was soaked red. “Oh, Lord.”

  She took off her own cape to press against the wound. She’d seen many bullet holes, thanks to him, and knew she had to stop the bleeding. Clean cloths were better, but her petticoats had been dragged through the damp muddy grass, and there was no time to be particular, not at the rate his life’s blood was flowing. She cradled him against her chest so she could press harder.

  He stared up at her. “This is not… how I wanted to spend the night in your arms.”

  “You mean you did not get shot on purpose so you could again avoid making love to me?”

  She thought he smiled, as she’d intended, but then his eyes drifted shut. “Don’t you dare die on me.”

  He opened his eyes again. “I cannot. My six months are not up.”

  “If you think that is a comfort, you are crazier than I thought, and you would have to travel a far piece to get there.” She was babbling but could not help it. She could hear the boy thrashing through the woods and called out to him to hurry. Meantime, to keep Ardeth’s mind—and hers—off his wound, she said, “I did not do it, you know. I thought I had, but my pistol was not the one that shot you.”

  “I never… thought it was. The shot came from behind me.”

  “It did?” She tried to lift him up, to see. More blood stained the back of his waistcoat. “Oh, my God.”

  “Not going to swoon, are you, my Genie?”

  She felt like fainting, crying, casting up her supper, and running away, all at once, but mostly crying. She would not let herself. Ardeth needed her. “No, I am not going to swoon.”

  “That’s my good wife.”

  “I think you said it was good when the pistol ball went through.”

  “Oh, excellent. As long as it did not nick the heart, lungs, or arteries on the way out.”

  “How would I know?”

  “I expect I would stop breathing.”

  “Can’t die,” Olive was moaning from atop Ardeth’s cape, pecking at the fabric in despair. “Can’t die.”

  “Now is not the time to look for candy, you greedy bird,” Genie yelled, worried that the innkeeper’s son might not be strong enough to help her get Ardeth back to the wagon.

  “No, the twit is looking for a lucky charm. Inner pocket.”

  Genie could reach the cape while still keeping Ardeth pressed against her, one hand on the wound on his chest. With her other she pulled out a small, hard, white root or something. “It looks like a dried-up turnip sprout. You say this is lucky?”

  “Only the Devil knows.”

  “Do you rub it or touch it or taste it?” She tried to put the thing in his limp hand. “What should I do?”

  “Pray. That is called hedging one’s bets.”

  Somehow they got Ardeth out of the clearing and onto the inn’s wagon. Halfway back, they met Campbell coming with the earl’s newly repaired coach. He drove on, following the boy’s directions, to fetch a surgeon.

  Back at the inn, the surgeon announced that yes, the ball was out. Of course he had to dig around some to make sure, causing Ardeth excruciating pain, from his curses.

  “Most men would have passed out by now,” the surgeon muttered as he started to stitch one wound, then the other. “ ‘Tain’t proper, your lady wife here and all.”

  Genie had insisted on staying, along with Campbell and the innkeeper. Now she told them all to ignore his lordship’s vocabulary. She did not understand half the words, anyway, and doubted that Ardeth was aware of what he was saying. If swearing made him feel less pain, then she would curse, too.

  The surgeon stitched, Ardeth swore, Genie held back her tears and her fears, and the innkeeper sweated. “Will he live, do you think?” he asked. Dead earls were not good for business, not good at all.

  “I expect if he was strong enough to survive that other injury, he can get through this,” the surgeon answered. “Barring fevers and infections, of course.”

  “He will live,” Genie insisted. “He promised. What other wound?”

  The surgeon pulled the sheet lower from the upper chest he was working on. Genie could see a wide expanse of angry-looking, puckered red flesh. She tried not to gag at the sight.

  “Too jagged for a sword thrust,” Campbell, the former soldier, stated. “Too wide for a bullet. Might be a piece of cannonball shrapnel. Or a spear. His lordship did say how he’d fought in foreign wars.”

  “Not even stitched, looks like,” the surgeon told them. “See how ragged the edges are? Just healed up on its own, all higgledy-piggledy.”

  “But, but isn’t that right over where his heart is?”

  “In eve
ry body I’ve ever seen.”

  The innkeeper thought the earl must have been wearing some kind of armor, to take the brunt of the thrust.

  The surgeon directed Campbell to lift the patient again so they could see his back, and a corresponding scar. “How’d it go through armor? Better question is, how’d he live? I’ve never seen the like. “

  Now Campbell was swearing. The innkeeper was drinking the brandy intended to deaden Ardeth’s pain. Genie finally fainted.

  —

  The following day, Ardeth was in terrible agony, despite the laudanum he had permitted Genie to pour for him. He tossed and turned, half-aware, tearing open three of the stitches. He had no fever, thank goodness, but he was weak and trembling with the pain.

  “Go to sleep, dash it,” Genie yelled at him, hoping he could hear from whatever hell he was in. “Sleep can heal you. That’s what you told the soldiers.”

  Glassy-eyed and dry-mouthed, he whispered, “Need to figure it out.”

  Genie wiped his forehead with a cool cloth. “No, you can rest. There is no mystery to unravel. It was Willeford, of course.”

  He wanted to talk about it, though, to warn her. He struggled to raise his head, despite the searing pain. “No, can’t be. I saw him on a ship myself.”

  Genie hurried to prop a pillow behind him, then held up a cup of lemonade for him to drink, to ease his parched throat. “Very well, he hired someone to do his dirty work. That would be just like the miserable dastard.”

  He swallowed, then said, “No. Willeford does not want me dead. I made sure.” He tried to smile, but grimaced instead. “I gave back his gambling debts, but I also promised to pay him a yearly competence to stay gone, every year of my life. Great joke, eh? He thinks he will be collecting checks for forty years.” The six months, now more like four if Ardeth lived through the week, stayed unspoken.

  Genie did not see the humor. “You paid him to leave?”

  “That seemed the easiest way to be rid of the vermin. You could regain some of the investment by selling his house if you run out of cash. It comes to you in my will.”