Miss Peterson & The Colonel

by Fenella J Miller

  She started at every sound, hesitated in places that were as familiar to her as her own bedchamber. It must be the storm: the wind howling round the house, the rain beating against the windowpanes, that was unsettling her.

  Over the past seven years she'd made many journeys in the dead of night to attend to the horses. However on those occasions she was dressed in breeches and boots. Descending the twisting staircase whilst holding on to her skirts with one hand, and a candlestick in the other was decidedly difficult. How the servants managed carrying brimming slop buckets without mishap was nothing short of a marvel. It was high time they used some of their savings to install plumbing.

  Squire Bentley had already got a newfangled bathing room. It was the talk of the neighbourhood. The next time his wife invited them to dine she would accept so that she could see this wonder for herself.

  Her mouth curved. Why ever was she thinking about drains and plumbing at a time like this? She'd do far better to concentrate on the matter in hand. If she trod on her hem she might fall and break her neck.

  This part of the house was unfamiliar to her in the dark. An icy blast blew out her candle; now she would have to reach her destination by touching the panels. The entrance to the apartment was not far ahead, so she inched her way along the passage until she felt the wall give beneath her fingers.

  Thank goodness, there was a lamp burning in the dressing room. Not liking to call out in case she disturbed Westcott, she crept to the bedchamber door and pushed it open.

  The hair on the back of her neck stood up. Sam was stretched out on the carpet. Unless he was insensible from drink, someone had attacked him. There was nothing she could do; she had no weapon. She must slip away and rouse David. He could go to the gun room and arm himself.

  As she was sliding backward, a man spoke. She recognized the voice and cold sweat trickled between her shoulder blades. The voice was that of one of the men who'd accosted her earlier. He must have followed the diligence and come in by the French doors. Why hadn't she thought to pull the shutters?

  'We'll wake him up. Tip that jug of water over his head. He'll tell us where it is if we threaten to burn the house down. Soldiers will be here first thing; it'll be too late then to recover it. If we want rich pickings, we got to find it tonight.'

  She couldn't let them do this – if the colonel were drenched in cold water it might prove fatal. What could she do to save him?

  There was a candlestick – could she burst in and disable one of the men?

  No, that would be too dangerous. They would overcome her as well.

  She sent up a fervent prayer, asking for guidance.

  When she opened her eyes she knew what she must do. She grabbed a white sheet from the linen shelf, then snatched up the candlestick and an enamel basin. Moving the oil lamp to the far end of the room she placed it on the floor. The flickering light was exactly what she needed if her scheme was to be successful.

  Her heart was pounding; she feared they would hear it in the bedchamber. There was not a minute to lose. Tossing the sheet over her head, she drew a deep breath and stepped out into the bedchamber. She screamed and howled like an inmate of Bedlam whilst hammering the candlestick against the base of the bowl. Her sudden appearance was too much for the intruders. They dropped the jug on the floor and fled as if the hounds of hell were behind them.

  Tearing the sheet free, she ran to the windows and slammed them shut banging the shutters closed as well. She dropped the bar across and slumped to the floor. The racket must have been heard throughout the hall; all she had to do was remain here quietly until David came to take charge.

  Then, in the darkness, there was the unmistakable sound of someone moving. Sick with dread, she crouched down, too petrified to stir. There had been a third man in the room. He was locked inside with her and the colonel. However hard she tried, she could not prevent a sob escaping.

  Chapter Seven

  Simon was wrenched from his deep sleep by a hideous cacophony. Completely disoriented, for a second he believed he was in Hades. The unearthly screaming, the banging and the sound of pounding footsteps added to his confusion. Where was he? What was that painful din?

  The noise stopped abruptly and blessed silence followed. He'd been having a nightmare; he must have imagined the racket. Then lighter feet ran past and the double slam of the windows and shutters echoed through the room. He blinked to clear his eyes. A faint glow came from a dressing room, enough to see that Sam was unconscious on the carpet. He heard the unmistakable sound of a person by the window and then quiet again.

  Forcing himself to his elbows, he waited to see if his head would spin. Good – it ached abominably, but otherwise he was compos mentis. He breathed silently, not wishing to alert whoever it was on the far side of the room.

  Good God! It was Miss Peterson. She was crying. He could see her crouching against the shutters. His inclination was to go to her side and offer her comfort. But enough rules had been broken by her entering his bedchamber, far better to remain where he was and encourage her by voice alone. What could have possessed her to come in like this?

  'My dear Miss Peterson, can you raise yourself? Sam is in need of your help.'

  She scrambled to her feet. 'Thank goodness! I'd no idea you were conscious, sir, I am so relieved. I thought I had shut a third villain in here with us.'

  'Villain? What the devil are you talking about?'

  'Did you not hear them? The two ruffians who accosted me earlier were in here threatening to hurt you. That's why I pretended to be a ghost.'

  Poor girl; no wonder she had been scared witless. 'I'm impressed by your courage, my dear. I could do with a dozen like you in my brigade. Can you light some candles? I shall remain where I am, but I should be able to judge how bad my man's injuries are when the room is brighter.'

  'I shall do so at once. How remiss of me to ignore his plight. There's an oil lamp I can use to do this, I don't believe my hands are sufficiently steady to use the tinderbox.' She appeared, holding a lit candle, and moments later he was able to peer down at Sam. Lydia smiled at him, her head tilted to one side, her amazing green eyes sparkling. 'You have made a remarkable recovery. We thought you at death's door. Well, Doctor Andrew certainly did.'

  'I was fatigued; no more than that. Apart from a thumping headache, I'm fully restored.'

  'Then you can help me…' Even in the half light, he saw her cheeks turn scarlet.

  'Exactly so, my dear. Far better I remain where I am.'

  She dropped to her knees, placing her forefingers against Smith's neck. 'His pulse is steady; I think he'll be coming round soon. I'm afraid that he has a lump the size of pigeon's egg on the back of his head but there is little blood, thank God.'

  'Leave him where he is, Miss Peterson. You must rouse the house; it's imperative that I speak to your brother. Our lives might well depend on it.'

  *

  Lydia's stomach clenched. 'But I have barred the door? Surely that's enough?'

  Then she recalled the intruders had been looking for something specific, intending to force the colonel to reveal its whereabouts. No common footpad would follow a quarry to their home and break in.

  'I shall ring the bell in a moment, but first I demand that you tell me what all this is about. I do not wish to be excluded, and as soon as David arrives I shall have to leave. He is going to think it most improper that I'm here in the first place.'

  His eyes narrowed and he stared at her before nodding. 'Very well, I shall give you a brief synopsis. Arthur was struck down by a book, not a stone. This volume is of paramount importance to the government but even more so to the traitors who are plotting to rescue Bonaparte from Elba.'

  'I knew it. I have seen the book they seek. Good grief! It's still in the pocket of the riding habit I was wearing, I'd quite forgotten I'd put it there. I told my maid to throw the garment into the ragbag. I shall go at once and retrieve it.'

  He didn't detain her, but continued to watch her in the most disconc
erting way. Her cheeks coloured for a second time under his scrutiny. What was it about this man that so unsettled her? She was tugging at the bell strap when she froze.

  'Colonel, there's something you do not know. Jenkins brought the prisoners back here. They're locked in a cellar under the clock tower on the other side of the yard. The two men who were in here might find and release them. I must warn…'

  Ignoring her sensibilities, he cursed volubly. Then to her horror, he threw the covers aside and leapt out of bed. She flinched in horror; she'd never seen a gentleman's knees before.

  'Go away, Miss Peterson. I must get dressed.'

  He had no need to tell her a second time.

  She fled from the room, exiting the apartment through the double doors that led into the main part of the house. Why was nobody up? Had she not made sufficient noise to rouse the dead? They needed to barricade themselves in before there were six men trying to enter and steal the precious volume. There was one way she could be certain everyone the household would get up.

  Gathering the skirts of her wrap she raced to the entrance hall. Taking the beater, she hammered on the brass gong and the noise reverberated throughout the house. She was more than ready to hand over responsibility to her brother and the colonel.

  David appeared on the stairs, still tucking his nightshirt into his breeches, barefoot with his boots held precariously under one arm. 'What is it? Has the colonel died?'

  'No, he's fully recovered. But his man has been hit on the head by two of the footpads that waylaid us earlier. You'll be relieved to know that I was able to scare them away. Far worse than that, David, soon there will be six men trying to get in to recover a secret code book. It's imperative that they don't get their hands on it.'

  He didn't ask her how she knew this or what she was doing in the entrance hall in her night attire. He was as coolheaded and brave as she. 'You take the chambers on the right. I'll take those on the left. Check that the shutters are securely barred.'

  He hopped away, dragging his boots on, not waiting to see if she followed his instructions. She should have thought of that herself. However, the sight of the colonel in his nightshirt had quite discommoded her.

  By the time she'd rushed from room to room and returned to the entrance hall, the whole house was awake. She shivered. The desperate men outside must also be aware of this.

  The colonel looked every inch a soldier. He was barking commands to Jenkins, Fred, Billy and two other stable hands. They were responding with enthusiasm. David was holding his pistols. He was an expert shot – they both were – but seeing weapons drawn inside her house was deeply shocking.

  The colonel saw her first. From commanding officer he turned instantly to a charming gentleman. His smile softened his features, and made her feel secure and loved.

  Where had that nonsensical idea sprang from?

  The candlestick slipped from her fingers to land painfully on her toe. He was at her side in an instant.

  'My dear girl, let me see. I hope you haven't broken anything.'

  David arrived at her side. 'I think not, Colonel Westcott. Our housekeeper shall attend to my sister. She should not be down here. None of the women should be involved in this matter.'

  Tension flickered between the two men. Then the colonel rose smoothly to his feet and nodded. 'I beg your pardon, Miss Peterson. You have done magnificently tonight. I believe I owe my life to you for a second time. But your part is done. Peterson is quite right; you must remain upstairs. Lock yourself into your bedchamber and remain there until this matter is brought to a conclusion.'

  Lydia wasn't sure with whom she was more cross. There was no future in arguing the point. Both men were waiting for her to remove herself. She pinned on a false smile. 'Of course, you're both correct. Dorcas, let me take your arm. We are in the way down here.'

  The housekeeper, two parlourmaids, two chambermaids and Martha accompanied her into her apartment. No sooner was the door closed behind them than she turned to her maid. 'Help me get dressed. I shall put on my work clothes; breeches and boots are needed tonight, not gowns.'

  'But your foot, Miss Peterson? Is it not badly damaged? That candlestick was brass, it could have broken a bone.'

  Lydia held up her foot for inspection. 'See? It's bruised but no more than that. I've suffered far worse when a horse trod on me. Martha, have you taken my riding habit away?'

  'No, ma'am, it's still in the linen basket. I reckon there's enough material can be salvaged to make something else. But it needs laundering first.'

  Not wishing to explain why her question was so urgent, Lydia hurried into the dressing room to find the garment. Reaching into the pocket, she was relieved to find the missing book where she'd left it. She hid it in her sleeve just as Martha joined her. The matter was secret. Better no one else in the household was aware of its importance.

  Assuming a nonchalant air, she smiled. 'Yes, you're quite right. There's ample material to make me a spencer and a matching muff.'

  She returned to her bedchamber, hastily tucking the small volume under her pillow as she removed her night clothes.

  *

  Simon watched as Lydia limped away. When all this was sorted, he'd ask Peterson's permission to pay his addresses. In spite of the seriousness of the situation, he was obliged to restrain the urge to clap the young man on the back, to embrace him and call him brother. It was imperative he pushed such feelings to one side and concentrate on the matter in hand.

  But it was hard. He'd never been in love before. His jaw dropped. In love? How could that have happened? Until this moment he thought himself immune to such emotions. From now on he must be vigilant, not just for himself, but for Lydia, the young woman who had become the most precious person in his life.

  'Colonel Wescott – Colonel Wescott are you feeling unwell?'

  Simon was jerked back to his duties by Peterson's anxious inquiry. 'I am perfectly well. Has everything been done as I ordered?'

  'We now have seven able-bodied men inside with us, all fully armed. The house is barricaded. There's no way to gain entry from the outside. We have sufficient food and water to maintain a siege for two weeks.'

  'Good grief, man, it shall not come to that. If it were not for the ladies, I should take the fight to them. Reinforcements will arrive as soon as the storm abates. All we have to do is remain vigilant until then.'

  'There are still two stable hands in the yard. I could not leave our horses unattended. They have strict instructions to keep away from the house and remain hidden from the traitors.'

  'Excellent. It will take some time for them to release the prisoners. This heavy rain might well be to our benefit in the end. I doubt even the hardiest man would wish to remain outside in the downpour when there's a snug billet to be had nearby.'

  Simon frowned. Thinking about Lydia had made him forget about the most important matter; he'd yet to recover the codebook. Peterson must speak to his sister and discover where it was hidden. To his annoyance, he saw the girl at the head of the stairs. She was dressed in men's attire, her glorious hair hidden under a soft cap and her womanly shape disguised under a loose frockcoat. He almost did not recognize her.

  *

  Lydia nearly laughed out loud at the colonel's expression. Braving his anger was worth it just to see him disconcerted. 'I have what you seek here, Colonel Wescott. I believe it should be in your safekeeping, not with us upstairs.'

  His expression icy, the colonel held out his hand and she placed the book in it. 'Thank you, Miss Peterson. I would like to speak to you privately, kindly come with me.'

  She glanced at David, but he shrugged and gestured for her to follow the colonel into the drawing room. Oh well, it was better to be given a bear garden jaw in private than in full view of the stable hands and grooms. Her heart was beating rapidly; it was hard to breathe. Why did this man cause her to lose her courage? This would not do.

  She stiffened her spine, tossing her head and unaware that her cap had slipped askew. S
he would not be put off by his anger; she had as much right as anyone to be in the midst of the action. She could handle a gun as well as any man and was quite capable of putting a bullet in a traitor if the safety of her country should depend upon it.

  She marched into the drawing room to discover him standing, feet slightly apart, hands clasped behind him and his jaw clenched. Her bravado evaporated as she was pierced by his basilisk stare. She would not be browbeaten, he had no right to dictate her actions.

  Was she not a woman of independent means, running one of the most successful stud farms in the country?

  Did not they supply horses to dozens of aristocratic families?

  This man had no right to stare at her as if she were a common foot soldier under his command. Halting two yards from him, she glared right back.

  Something flickered in his eyes and the rigidity in his jaw released. Surely it was not amusement she detected in his expression? Her knees threatened to give way and she flopped into a dilapidated armchair. He grabbed a chair, swinging it round to straddle it, then folding his arms across the back he rested his chin on his hands and sighed.

  'You are impossible, my dear. I've never met anyone like you. There is no other of my acquaintance who would think to disobey my orders.' He sounded more resigned than angry.

  'I do beg your pardon, Colonel Wescott. However, I am no green girl, and, as you must be quite aware, have been running this household since my father's demise five years ago.' She paused, staring at him suspiciously. If he dared to laugh at her she would hit him. 'I have also been running the business with my brother since that time. Although legally I have no rights, in fact it is I who am in command here. Edward is nominally the head of the household but he does not interfere.'