Brothers at Arms

by Brothers at Arms (epub)

  The following morning, after Joshua had thanked his hosts for their hospitality and said a fond farewell to Aunt Jane, he realised the significance of those cryptic words.

  The day of departure started cold, with hazy sunshine, but Joshua was suitably clad for a ride in the open air. His low-crowned beaver hat, leather-caped greatcoat and gloves might be too warm later in the day, but were exactly right for the drive to Lichfield.

  When he climbed into the chaise, Joshua imagined the splendid team of four matched chestnut horses would cover the distance in record time – but he had not accounted for the stately pace the senior groom thought fitting for such an equipage. Within minutes of meeting Wigmore, he realised the man belonged to the same school of thought as his old nanny, and irrespective of anything else, the old retainer would do things his own way – or rather, Lord Cardington’s way.

  As they set off down the long drive, Joshua checked his timepiece to calculate how long the journey would take.

  “Wigmore,” he said, politely. “How far away is Lichfield?”

  “Oh, let me think,” the man said, suiting the word to the deed. “It must be all of fifteen to twenty miles, give or take a mile or two.”

  “How long will it take us to get there?” At the present rate, Joshua could imagine them stopping for the night along the road.

  “We’ll get there when we get there, young sir,” Wigmore said, in a patronising tone.

  Joshua lapsed into exasperated silence, and then, to relieve the tedium, looked over the hedges of the enclosures. Within minutes, his eyelids drooped and he was wishing Lord Cardington had not sent the Linmore coachman home. He would not have been half so bored with people he knew. Then he started to watch the trained hands of the groom holding the reins and for a time, subconsciously mimicked the action.

  “Wigmore,” he said, “have you always worked for Lord Cardington?”

  “Indeed I have, young sir. I grew up on the Rushmore estate and was lucky enough to get a job when I left school. A better place I couldn’t hope to find.” Wigmore’s loyalty to his master was unshakable.

  That much was apparent in the number of stops made to water the horses. Although the groom politely enquired if Joshua needed sustenance, it was obvious that his first consideration was for Lord Cardington’s horses.

  Having accepted a tankard of ale with a crust of bread and cheese, Joshua wondered how he would fare travelling on his own. Intent on refreshing his memory of his travelling schedule, he opened his pocket book and to his chagrin, realised the list of instructions prepared by his father’s secretary was missing. A search through his pockets brought the same result. Where was it? Most likely he would find it in his valise when he reached Lichfield.

  Joshua knew that one part of the missing papers itemised the towns and hostelries where he would stay overnight, with payment guaranteed. The next was a neatly written letter, requesting whomsoever it concerned, to provide Mr Joshua Norbery with whatever assistance he required during his stay.

  He distinctly remembered reading it to Aunt Jane in the coach from Linmore, and had memorised the names of the towns.

  Lichfield, the first on the list was a few miles off Watling Street, an old Roman road. Market Harborough was next, then Peterborough, Wisbech and Kings Lynn. Reassured by this, Joshua decided that the loss of the paper was not a disaster. He did not need anyone to find him accommodation. He could ask if a room was booked in his name. Payment was not a problem either, for his pocket book was literally stuffed with bank notes, and Aunt Jane had given him an extra ten guineas for emergencies. What could possibly go wrong?

  CHAPTER 27

  A church clock struck three times as they turned into the stable yard of the Red Lion Inn on the outskirts of Lichfield. Wigmore hailed an ostler, and exchanged a greeting, while Joshua jumped down from the chaise and stretched before approaching the front of the half-timbered building.

  He pushed open the solid oak door, and stepped from bright sunlight into a dark interior with low oak beams. A log fire burned in an inglenook fireplace, making the atmosphere seem unbearably close. Somewhere in the background, he heard the publican speaking to another customer.

  “I’m sorry, sir, I have to keep my best room for a member of the nobility, but I can offer you the second best at a reduction.”

  “If I take it, I want my dinner free as well,” said the man.

  “I’m afraid not, sir. It’s the room or the meal, not both.”

  After a grumbling hesitation, the person agreed.

  Joshua looked around the room and found himself under the scrutiny of a sharp-featured woman, dressed in a frilled cap and black bombazine, whom he presumed to be the innkeeper’s wife.

  “Yes, sir, and what can I do for you?” Her blunt tone was the first indication to challenge his belief in a warm welcome.

  “My name is Norbery. I understand a room has been reserved for me.” Joshua quietly stated the fact, convinced his word was sufficient to prove his credentials. It worked in foreign embassies, so he anticipated no problems here. The woman glanced in the direction of her husband, and then peered doubtfully from the reception book, back to Joshua.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “We have no reservation in that name.”

  “Are you sure?” he said, but it never occurred to him to advertise his family connection with Rushmore Hall.

  He could see his question flustered the woman, but she was unyielding. “We are definitely not expecting anyone by the name of Norbery, sir.”

  Rather than make a scene by challenging her dictate, Joshua thanked the woman, and went back to the chaise. An ostler was attending the horses and the groom stood ready to take the corded travelling trunk inside the hostelry.

  As he approached, Wigmore said, “Is there a problem, Mr Norbery?”

  “There must have been a mistake with the booking. They haven’t got a room for me.” Without the letter of confirmation, Joshua was at a loss to know what to do.

  “No room,” said Wigmore, “when Lord Cardington asked for one? You let me go in and talk to them. I will sort this out.”

  Under normal circumstances, the groom’s outrage might have been amusing, but Joshua was in no mood to compromise further.

  “No, Wigmore,” he said, in a decided tone. “We will go somewhere else. Where do you suggest we look first?”

  A lifetime of obedience forced the groom to comply, but he was not happy, and his state of agitation increased when the next two hostelries returned the same negative answer. At the third, a tiny wayside inn, all but hidden away amongst the trees at the side of the main road, Joshua acquired a bed for the night, and meagre stable accommodation for the horses, but he could see from Wigmore’s look of disgust what he thought of the conditions.

  By the time the groom made things tidy to his satisfaction, and their evening meal, such as it was, was ready to eat, Wigmore had recovered his power of speech, sufficiently to catalogue the deficiencies of the half-witted lad acting as ostler. Every other sentence started with, “Lord Cardington wouldn’t approve…”

  Eventually, Joshua’s patience snapped.

  “For goodness sake, Wigmore, stop moaning,” he said. “I don’t like the situation any better than you do, but it’s only for one night. Tomorrow, you can take Lord Cardington’s precious horses back to Rushmore.”

  Immediately contrite, the groom said, “I’m ever so sorry, Mr Joshua, but those horses mean more than anything to me. Oh dear, I knew I should have gone to see my sister at the Red Lion, and made her understand about the room. Then we would have had some decent food and accommodation.”

  Joshua could not believe what he was hearing.

  “Wigmore…” he growled. “Are you saying that your sister was the landlady at the Red Lion? Why did you not tell me when we were there?” He should not blame the man. If he had looked more closely at the miserable-looking woman, he might have recognised the family likeness. It was plain to see.

  “Is it too late to
go back again, sir?” Wigmore half pleaded.

  Perversely, Joshua refused to consider the option. He had paid for a bed, and intended to use it. All he wanted was to sleep, but the colony of fleas occupying his mattress, and the cacophony of snoring emitted by Wigmore in the next room, ensured he did no more than close his eyes – and scratch.

  Apart from the company, he could have been back in Greece. As he listened to the noise, Joshua thought how he and Charlie would have laughed, then sadly realised such companionship was at an end. How he wished they could have talked and resolved their differences – and more than anything, he yearned for Sergeant Percival’s presence to sort out the difficulties.

  Eventually, with little hope of sleeping, he got up and dressed, then huddled in a rickety armchair waiting for the dawn. At some point he must have dozed, for he awoke moderately refreshed, and took a breakfast that hardly warranted the name.

  By nine o’clock, he was standing outside the inn with the Rushmore groom, watching the stagecoach approach. So relieved they would have a successful conclusion to their association, he had bestowed a handsome largesse for the groom’s services. Wigmore, seemingly eager to be on his way, was prepared to risk life and limb in his haste to stop the oncoming vehicle.

  Stepping into the roadway, the groom frantically waved his arms, but to no avail. Passengers on the roof waved and shouted warnings, as the stagecoach trundled past them, gathering speed down the slope until it disappeared around the corner at the bottom of the hill.

  Joshua looked at the groom in disbelief, and then turned towards the handyman-cum-ostler, who lounged against the inn doorway.

  “I told him last night, the stagecoaches don’t stop here,” the man said with a nod in Wigmore’s direction, which the groom ignored. “It’s not on their list.”

  From that, Joshua deduced that he meant the company schedule.

  Angered by the groom’s duplicity, he stalked back to the Rushmore chaise, and Wigmore followed, looking suspiciously cheerful.

  “I’ll take you back to Lichfield now, to wait for the next coach, sir,” he said with almost a smirk. “I’ll make sure there’s no trouble with the room this time.”

  From the thinly veiled insolence, it was obvious the man was testing Joshua’s authority. His father’s air of command was instinctive, but it was something he had yet to acquire.

  “No, Wigmore,” he said, with a touch of hauteur. “Lord Cardington would expect you to take me to Market Harborough. If you do not wish to do that, I will drive the chaise myself. Alternatively, we can return to Rushmore, to consult his lordship…”

  Red faced with outrage at the thought of anyone driving his precious horses, the groom opened his mouth to protest, and then as the significance of the threat dawned, closed his lips, and replaced Joshua’s baggage in the chaise.

  Having made his point, Joshua climbed into the passenger seat. He did not intend any such thing, but guessed that if Wigmore believed the possibility, he would behave. Secretly, he wished they had returned to Lichfield last night, but it would achieve nothing now.

  “Where do you wish to go, sir?” Formality ruled again. Wigmore had regained his composure.

  “Onwards, Wigmore, to the next picking-up point on the sacred coaching schedule. Tomorrow, when I am on the stagecoach, you may return to Rushmore and tell his lordship that all is well.”

  The journey continued in silence, at a tediously slow pace. After travelling a distance of about fifteen miles, he felt obliged to stand the expense when Wigmore pleaded the need to stable Lord Cardington’s horses, and listened to the groom’s niggling complaints about the poor quality of replacement horses all the way to Market Harborough.

  At the first hostelry Joshua entered, it became apparent that Lord Cardington’s well-meaning interference in changing his travelling plans had lost him the room booked for his use on the previous night, and he suspected that it would be the same when he reached Peterborough.

  His second enquiry also drew a blank, so he sent Wigmore to ask at another inn further down the street, and was relieved when he saw the groom’s sour expression lighting up to almost a smile. By the end of the evening, the groom had lapsed into a fretful state of uselessness, worrying about the care given to Lord Cardington’s absent horses.

  Joshua lay in bed, grumbling to himself, and hoping things would improve. Their meagre supper tasted better than it looked, but from the musty smell in the room, it was weeks since anyone changed the bedlinen. He could not even open a window to clear the air. It was nailed shut. Morning could not come too soon.

  When the grey day dawned, Joshua was already dressed, awaiting his breakfast. Wigmore went to the stables to inspect the Rushmore chaise, and returned looking pleased.

  “I’ve taken the liberty of ordering horses for the chaise, sir, and if it is all right with you, then I’ll be on my way as soon as the stagecoach arrives.”

  “How much will it cost?” Joshua said, reaching for his purse.

  Wigmore’s response rendered him speechless, for the second time in three days. “That’s all right, sir,” the man said. “His lordship always gives me money when I go out, in case of emergencies. I have plenty for the return journey.”

  Despite having paid to ride inside the coach, Joshua decided in a fit of chivalry, to give his seat to an elderly woman, and took his place on top by the driver and guard. From there, he gave a cheery wave to Wigmore as the transport set off along the road. He guessed the man would return to Lichfield, to apprise his sister of her error – but how would he explain to Lord Cardington?

  For a time, he enjoyed sitting in the fresh air, watching the rolling Leicestershire landscape unfold. All too soon, the novelty of clutching the rail and being jolted from side to side wore off, and he thought longingly of the well-sprung chaise and four of his earlier journey. Even Wigmore’s company would be better than the strange sense of isolation that gripped him amongst strangers.

  The first stop to change horses came as a relief, and Joshua watched the process with interest, but within ten minutes the coach was gathering speed again. Then the wind changed, bringing rain. Slow at first, and light, then with increasing severity. Within half an hour, his shoulder capes were drenched, and water dripped miserably off the brim of his hat.

  As if the weather was not enough to contend with, during the afternoon, one of the leading horses cast a shoe when they were two stops away from Peterborough, and the driver needed to seek a farrier. By then, the effort of sitting upright made Joshua long for a cushion, and he descended outside an unknown village inn with the gait of a man forty years older.

  The rain had ceased by the time he re-emerged, but the afternoon light was fading. As he prepared to climb back onto the box, the driver informed him that the old woman had left the coach, so he was able to regain the relative comfort of his rightful seat and doze until the vehicle reached its destination.

  The following day was another one of heavy skies and pouring rain. Joshua was thankful that he was inside the coach, and pitied the poor souls sitting on the roof that bore the brunt of the weather. Compared to them, his discomforts were insignificant. Arriving late in Peterborough the previous evening, he learned that a lone traveller had to share with a stranger, or pay extra in advance for a single room. He chose the latter, and was grateful for somewhere to lay his weary head.

  It was little more than a box room, set at the back of the inn overlooking the stables. After eating his evening meal, Joshua lay fully clothed on the truckle bed, and closed his eyes, meaning to undress later. Several times during the night, the sounds of coaches entering the stable yard disturbed him, with drivers calling to ostlers for a change of horses, and then sleep claimed him again.

  He awoke with a start, feeling dishevelled when the early call came to rise for breakfast. Removing his crumpled coat and neckcloth, he made shift to wash his face and shave using the hot water the servant brought, but his dusty boots remained unpolished. Halfway down the stairs, he remembered
hiding his wallet under the mattress, and dashed back to retrieve it.

  Beyond Peterborough, the coach entered the Fenlands, a vast area of low lying marshland with a desolate aspect that added to the tedium of travelling at a pace that was, of necessity, slower than the previous day, for fear of running off the road. Joshua was indebted to a scholarly man with a passion for history, sitting in the corner seat opposite, who enlightened his ignorance about the surrounding district.

  Listening to the man’s well-modulated voice, he crossed the centuries, hearing of the Roman-built causeway on which the road ran, and the massive drainage works undertaken by a Dutch engineer, whom the Duke of Bedford employed on his Peterborough estate in the seventeenth century.

  The drainage works project was interrupted by the Civil War, between the Royalists and Parliamentarians, and resumed when it was over. Finally, he learned that the Lord Protector of England, Oliver Cromwell, was born at Huntingdon, a few miles to the south. Joshua listened with interest, but after an hour, his eyelids became increasingly heavy, until lulled to sleep, he didn’t notice the coach stop to change horses at Wisbech. When he awoke a few miles beyond, the man had gone, but the coach rolled on, seemingly forever.

  After that, he had little to do but look around him, and observe his fellow passengers. Whilst he realised that most people, of necessity, travelled this way; some without consideration lit up a pipe and filled the coach with smoke, or took furtive swigs from hip flasks, and became argumentative. Others coughed, wheezed and belched incessantly. Women travelling alone, or those with young children, were particularly vulnerable.

  Waking from a doze, Joshua turned his head and saw a young mother in the next seat, suckling a babe in arms under the enveloping cover of a shawl, whilst another weary little soul stood clutching her knee. Looking away, he met the disapproving stare of a prim-looking female sitting opposite; though whether she was chastising him, or the woman, he did not know. Rather than argue the point, he closed his eyes again, and let his thoughts drift back to Lichfield.