by May Burnett
He hoped she was right in that optimism. A dastardly murderer of pretty blondes might sneak into her room at night and smother her with the pillow. He would stand guard, so that nobody could get at Miss Towers. She was too sweet and precious to be abandoned to the malice of some heartless killer.
If he got his hands on that fellow, he’d take pleasure in beating him within an inch of his life. Ladies were to be cherished and protected, not threatened and attacked.
For propriety’s sake they took their dinner in the kitchen with the staff again. The footmen, maids and grooms all assured Miss Towers that not a word would ever pass their lips about her visit, or her company, but Duncan had the uneasy impression that some of the servants fancied they were abetting a secret romance and elopement.
As he had suggested, the servants had made enquiries in the nearest village, whether a suspicious Frenchmen, or other strangers, had been spotted in the vicinity. The result had been inconclusive. Nobody had stopped in the village proper, but a middle-aged stranger had been seen riding in the direction of their estate. That he had not arrived there openly cast grave doubt on his intentions.
“He looked English, quite tall, and strong,” the two witnesses who had seen this horseman had reported. “With a grey cloak, astride a large chestnut with a blaze on his chest.”
“At least we know who to look out for.” Duncan quelled his desire to ride out this moment to capture this miscreant. ”Does the description suggest anything to you, Miss Towers?”
She shook her head. For some reason each time he used the young woman’s name, some of the servants seemed close to laughter. But he had little attention to spare for their immature antics, and if she did not call them to order, it was hardly his place to do so.
It was arranged that three of their number would travel to the Blue Boar and take charge of the sick, while a maid by name of Bessemer would go with them in the berline, as the next best thing to a respectable abigail. She was a stout, horse-faced woman in her forties.
“What of your luggage, Ma’am?” Bessemer asked Miss Towers. “I realise you came on horseback and could not bring much, but it will look very odd to travel without trunks and bags. Shall I pack a few of Miss Violet’s clothes?”
“Too bad that they would not fit me,” Miss Towers said ruefully. “I barely come to her armpits.”
“Master Roger’s things might fit the Captain, however,” Mrs. Page suggested. “Who is to see what is in the trunks? At least with nightgowns and such, size matters less. We could cut down something, but if you are to leave tomorrow morning, there’s not enough time.”
“We could make a start, and I’ll finish the sewing on the road,” Bessemer offered. “I could not bring myself to serve a lady with no change of clothes to her name.”
Duncan adamantly refused to try on any of the clothes of the son of this house. It surprised him that the servants were so cavalier about disposing of their masters’ property. Clearly they knew them well enough to infer their wishes in this highly irregular situation. Could it be that not all aristocrats were selfish and callous? More likely, they showed a more benign face to those within their charmed circle, as must be the case for Miss Towers. Perhaps she was considered a possible match for this Master Roger? She was young and pretty, and the families were close. The servants might be eager to help her as their potential future mistress.
But no, in that case they would have been more distrustful of Duncan’s role in this affair. If they saw him as encroaching on their young master’s territory, they would be far less willing to look after him, feed him extra portions, and consult him regarding the horses he preferred for the first stage.
Strange as it might seem, the owners of this estate might simply be naturally pleasant and helpful. Long-term servants usually reflected the character and values of their masters, which cast a surprisingly positive light on the Ellsworthy family. Duncan would still be cautious and reserved if, or when, he were to actually meet these people. He had learned to his cost that the nobly born could be ruthless and two-faced, when you least expected it.
Chapter 7
The next day, all went well for the first few hours. They departed early, Monique and Bessemer inside the berline. Its swaying interior was still faintly redolent of the vinegar, diluted in hot water, with which it had been thoroughly scrubbed. That astringent odour, while not particularly attractive, was infinitely preferable to the vomit-sodden coach Monique had left behind at the Blue Boar. The four horses stepped with the liveliness of animals fed on oats and mash, and from the small window she could see the Captain ranging alongside on Emperor, keeping a careful eye out for her enemy.
One thing she had in her favour: Monique made a very small target. Bessemer carried three times her weight and bulk. The serving-woman was resting with her eyes closed, after spending half the night sewing by candlelight with several of the other maids. Had Monique been aware of it, she would have put her foot down, but she had been slumbering peacefully in the bed in her usual guest room, surprisingly comforted by the familiar blue tapestries and seascape on the wall. In the morning, she was told that there were two extra dresses ready, and donned one of them after sincerely thanking the attentive staff. Her own family’s servants might not have demonstrated such devotion and initiative. Though she rewarded the maids well, she knew they had not done it for the money only.
They changed horses eventually, taking leave of the stable boy who would lead the original team back, and proceeded at almost the same pace, with a hired postilion astride one of the new team. It was cooler than it had been earlier in the day, and thick grey clouds clustered in the sky.
When the first heavy drops began to fall, Monique expected the Captain to join her in the carriage. Instead, a few minutes later, the berline drew to a stop.
“We might as well have lunch here,” the Captain said, holding the door open for her. She beheld a small but respectable-looking hostelry. “With luck it will have stopped raining by the time we are done.”
They ate in the near-deserted common room, with the maid in attendance. The woman was taciturn in the Captain’s presence, but perfectly civil. The food was typical English fare, familiar to Monique from childhood, though most of her French friends would have scorned it. She nibbled on her roast beef longer than she wanted, to keep her strength up.
The Captain had chosen his seat so that he could observe the entrance of the coffee room, and kept careful watch on the comings and goings of the few other guests. Bessemer had briefly invaded the kitchens, checking that the food prepared for her mistress with the ‘delicate stomach’ contained nothing untoward. The coachman had been briefed to be on the lookout for a red horse with a blaze on the chest, and to warn them the moment such an animal, or any other suspicious stranger, was sighted.
They lingered over the sweet course and tea, but the rain, heavier now, showed no sign of letting up. “There’s no help for it,” the Captain said at last. “We cannot spend the whole afternoon sitting here. I shall join you in the carriage, but only until the weather improves.”
“I would not mind the company.” She could not help smiling at him. Bessemer might be a good maid and enthusiastic seamstress, but hardly a lively companion.
Conscious of the listening servant, she kept the conversation light. Small talk was easy, second nature to anyone who moved in exclusive circles. The Captain held his own and to her surprise included the servant now and then, although the woman did not put herself forward in any way.
They discussed the recent wedding of the young Queen to her Cousin Albert. Monique did not mention that she had been presented to Her Majesty soon after the young monarch had succeeded to the throne at eighteen. Bessemer regaled them with an account of how greatly Miss Ellsworthy was sought after in society, just as much as her cousin, Lady Verena. “You’ll meet them soon enough,” she added with a nod to the Captain. “Very pretty and gracious young ladies, both of them.”
“Indeed,” Monique said, “Violet
is also a keen horsewoman and huntress, naturally athletic. She persuaded her father to let her learn to fight with the rapier and used to train with Roger, but these days he has lost interest in weapons, and is more devoted to science.”
“Mr. Roger is very clever,” Bessemer said, as proudly as though the young man were her own son.
“I look forward to meeting them,” Captain Kinninmont said, politely but without conviction. She did not blame him. Given the difference in their circumstances, he would not be convinced that her friends were truly worth knowing until he saw for himself. If he were to stay at Amberley for a few days after their journey, he might learn that not all aristocrats were arrogant and supercilious.
Monique had given some thought to what little he had told her of his life, and was curious to know more. Why had he decided to sell out after seven years? Had something happened to precipitate his decision? He struck her as a dogged young man who would persist even in the teeth of seemingly insurmountable odds. Whatever had forced him to change the course of his life could not have been a minor event. He was not happy about it, that much was clear, but neither did he wallow in self-pity.
Should she pry into what did not after all concern her? But he already knew so much about her own circumstances – albeit with a few significant exceptions – that it would be only fair, if he were to take her into his confidence. She would give him the benefit of her best counsel, not that he would likely welcome it from someone who looked like an underfed school girl. She could not pry in the presence of Bessemer, but once they were safe at Amberley, she would enlist the Countess’s help to find out more. Perhaps there was some way she and her friends could help the young man, even as he was selflessly helping her now, with no reward in sight.
Her reflections were interrupted by a loud ratcheting noise. The berline lurched violently, and slowed so dramatically that Monique was flung at the chest of the Captain, sitting opposite her with his back towards the horses. His strong arms closed around her protectively. From the safety of this position she saw that Bessemer, who had been sitting next to her, had also been thrown at the front end of the berline. Without a male body to break her momentum she must be bruised, if not worse. The maid groaned and touched her head where it had bumped against the panels.
“Mon Dieu! What happened?” Monique gasped, removing herself from the Captain’s body with more haste than dignity, a flush climbing into her cheeks. The berline had come to rest at a lopsided angle that boded ill for their further progress. From the noises outside, the coachman and postilion were soothing the panicked horses. And had that been Emperor bumping against them? If his beloved horse was damaged, how would she ever make it up to Captain Kinninmont?
On top of all, hard rain was still pounding against the damaged coach.
“Your pistol, Miss Towers?” The Captain looked grim. “I suggest you stay in here until I have checked out the situation.”
She handed him the weapon. “Good luck.”
“We all need it,” he said, with a regretful look at the groaning servant next to her. “Keep away from the windows and the door.”
He opened the door only by half, so nobody could see inside, and slipped out sideways, so fast that she blinked. Of course if someone was waiting outside with a rifle, this would be the most dangerous moment.
Why hadn’t they thought to take some rifles of their own from Uncle James’ house? That silver-engraved piece her father had sent from Paris some years ago would have come in very handy. Too late now.
If Alain was behind this, and harmed the Captain, he would rue the day. She would exact a terrible vengeance. The guillotine was still in use for capital crimes.
How had her enemy stopped the fast-moving berline?
But she had more immediate worries. “Bessemer,” she asked, “how bad is it? Where does it hurt most?”
“My kneecap,” the woman answered between gasps of pain. “I hit it against the edge of the opposite seat. A-and my head. There will be bruises in other places too.”
Monique raised the woman’s skirts and petticoats and contemplated her stocking-clad knees. The right one was definitely swelling. If it was this bad a minute after the accident, how would it look in half an hour? Bessemer would not be in any state to continue their journey. She needed rest and care.
Two shots rang out almost simultaneously. Monique flinched, her heart overturning, while Bessemer gulped in terror.
What had happened, was the Captain hurt? Would their enemy have another weapon? The old pistol needed to be reloaded after every shot.
Bessemer was pale, her eyes wide open. “Mercy upon us, Mademoiselle, they really are after killing you! I did not believe it before this.” If she had, she probably would not have volunteered for this mission. Monique swallowed. “I did not want to believe it either,” she said in a low voice.
There was violent movement outside, a horse whinnying in fear, and the sound of galloping hooves receding in the distance. Through the rain, Monique could not tell if it was one or more animals. Behind the coach, Emperor whinnied loudly.
“Miss,” Bessemer said urgently, “if anyone should be dead out there, you must not be found anywhere near. Think of your family, your expectations!”
“I have not done anything to be ashamed of,” Monique said drily. “I am merely a victim in all this.”
“Yes, of course, but travelling with only me, and that Captain. How is it going to look? From what I understand you haven’t even been properly introduced.”
Monique said nothing. She knew the censorious bent of society better than Bessemer could. Of late, with the young Queen, the rules governing ladies’ behaviour were becoming excessively stringent. Much stricter, according to her Maman, than they used to be a generation or two ago. No matter how innocently a lady might find herself entangled in a scandal, she would no longer be received at Court, and the highest sticklers would inexorably scratch her name from their invitation lists. Like Caesar’s wife, she not only had to be innocent, but to maintain the appearance of immaculate conduct. No exceptions were allowed.
“All safe, Miss Towers.” The Captain’s voice came as a welcome interruption. He wrenched the door open from the outside, with considerable force. “I am afraid, however, that at least one attacker got away.”
Despite his advice to stay in the doubtful shelter of the wrecked carriage, Monique gingerly climbed down into the muddy, rain-sodden road. A lifeless body on the ground drew her horrified gaze. She forced herself to approach it, and scrutinized the dead man’s face. To her relief it was a total stranger, a hard-bitten man of perhaps fifty she had never seen before. He had been shot between the wide-open brown eyes. Rainwater was dripping over the face, and had already washed off any blood there might have been.
“He aimed at me the moment I came into view,” the Captain said. “There was no time for thought. I was faster with your pistol. Rifles are not ideal for such close distances.”
She firmly put aside her desire to cry, to howl, or to tremble like a leaf. “How did he make the berline stop like that?” she heard herself ask in a cool voice.
“He hid in those bushes, and thrust a rod into the wheels as we went by.”
Monique inspected the long metal rod with its wickedly sharp tip. “Rather like a lance,” she said. “So that is what we heard when we were thrown across the inside.”
“Yes, it sheared the spokes of the front wheels right off.”
The coachman and postilion had finally managed to calm the horses and were unhitching them, cursing all the time. “Miss, you had better leave before anyone comes to investigate this scene,” the coachman urged Monique, echoing the advice of Bessemer just a few minutes earlier. “You must not be connected to this dead ruffian.” He cast a significant glance at the Captain. “I reckon your horse is strong enough to carry both of you, Sir.”
Monique turned towards the back of the berline. To her relief, Emperor appeared unhurt.
“Bessemer has damaged her knee, a
nd may have a concussion. I cannot simply abandon yet another victim.”
“It’s for the best,” the coachman argued. “Another carriage may come by any moment. Don’t waste time, Miss. The master would want you well away from this mess. If you stay, you’ll be a sitting duck for the rest of these varmints. I could hear there were more of them that got away.”
The Captain frowned and shook his head. “But what would you tell the local magistrate, man? There is a dead body to account for. We cannot ride off without explanation.”
“If the Captain takes you away to Amberley on his big horse, Miss, I will claim I shot the attacker myself,” the coachman offered. “You’d have to leave the discharged pistol. The postilion and Bessemer will back me up that we were only defending ourselves, and there’s his own rifle as evidence. We were going to Amberley empty, on orders of Mr. Ellsworthy.” He turned to the postilion. “Would you go along with the tale? The lady will make it worth your while.”
The man shrugged. “Makes no difference to me. That fellow deserved to die, whoever got him in the end. The front leader is lame from this. I’d kill him myself if he weren’t already stiff.”
Monique was torn. It was true that a noble lady should not be involved in such an unsavoury situation, but fleeing the scene of a crime, and allowing the coachman to lie on her behalf, felt wrong. She was leaving a trail of wreckage in her wake, though none of it of her own making.
“While we stand here in the rain, that other fellow could sneak back and shoot at you from the trees,” the Captain said. “We cannot stay here in the open. What is it to be, Miss Towers?”
Water splashed onto the back of her neck. Her feet were wet inside her slippers, and cold. From inside the berline, Bessemer added her vote. “Go away, my lady, we’ll be all right. And we’ll not mention you or the Captain with a word. You needn’t fear any untoward gossip.”