A bang resounded through the small room as the school door shot back on its hinges and slammed against the wall. Harriet jumped and then stood as a small boy fell in through the door, gasping.
“It’s Jack,” Joseph cried. He pushed the small desk away and kneeled by the little boy. “It looks like he has run all the way from home.”
Harriet moved quickly to the boy’s side. Jack panted rapidly. Putting a hand on his back, she patted him gently until his breathing slowed.
“It’s Da,” he said, gulping at the air. “We need your help. He’s hurt.”
“Tommy’s had an accident?”
Jack nodded slowly, his breathing almost back to normal.
Harriet looked back at the chalkboard. The lesson was nearly over anyway. “Where is he?”
“At your cottage with Miss Agatha.”
“Alright Jack, I’m coming.” Harriet picked her duffel bag from the floor and quickly packed the papers in the bag. As the children chatted excitedly, she raised her voice. “Rehearsals start again next week. You may all go early today.”
The children pushed back the desks with alacrity. Taking Jack by the hand, Harriet stepped into the blazing sunlight. “We’ll take Isabelle and the cart, we’ll get there more quickly.”
Jack gave her a watery smile. The children loved the old pony that Harriet left every day to crop grass behind the school house. It was the work of the moment to hitch Isabelle to the cart and set her off down the hill into Brambridge.
The door to the small whitewashed cottage that she shared with her aunt stood partially open. A hubbub of voices emanated from within. Leaving Isabelle hitched to the cart, Harriet swung Jack to the ground and hurried up the small garden path to the open door. The door opened further as she stepped under the thatch.
“Thank goodness you came quickly.” Agatha stood back to let her in. “Janey won’t allow anybody else to touch Tommy. And I cannot get Peggy to stop crying.”
Harriet stepped further into the room that served as their kitchen, parlor, dining room and morning room. Tommy lay by the fire that had been stoked into roaring flames. His jerkin and short fishermen’s trousers were wet through. Peggy, his wife, sat in a low chair by the fire, sniffing. Janey, Harriet’s friend, and Peggy and Tommy’s daughter, knelt at her father’s side holding a piece of cloth to his shoulder.
“What happened?” Harriet said in her best calm, schoolteacher voice above the sniffing as she fixed her gaze on Tommy. Bright red drops of blood dripped from his shoulder onto the floor.
“Sword gash.” Bill Standish, the village blacksmith, stopped peering through the low window at the kitchen sink and turned his massive form to face her. Glancing back through the window, he reached up and twitched the lace curtains close together.
“There aren’t many people with swords in Brambridge,” Agatha said calmly, looking at Tommy crumpled in a heap on the floor.
“No.”
Still weeping, Peggy caught hold of Harriet’s hand. “He was on the Rocket. He says they took boarders. He says he was in a fight.”
Harriet blinked. Janey hadn’t mentioned that the Rocket was sailing again. Harriet had thought it all had stopped when James disappeared.
I always come back for you. No, he didn’t, he hadn’t.
“Why did you come here?” She pulled back her hand and stared at Bill.
“Because Rebecca Denys, the only woman who can treat him, is too far away.” Bill pointed a thumb at Janey. “And she said you would know what to do.”
Janey nodded. “You were telling me the other day about su…su—“
“Suppurating wounds.” Harriet shook her head, resisting the urge to wring her hands. “I’ve only read about this in the circulars,” she protested.
Bill carried on as if he hadn’t heard. “I need him sewn up. I need it to look as good as new so that he won’t soak through his shirt.” He rolled his massive shoulders as he stared at her.
“I can’t do that!” Harriet stepped back towards the door. “He’s not a piece of cloth.” Didn’t they know she was terrible at sewing?
“If you don’t do it, he’ll be taken away.”
“What? Why?”
“Because someone told old Lord Stanton before he died that the Rocket was operating again, and he set a custom’s man onto our tail.”
Agatha’s face paled. “You mean that a riding officer may come here?”
Bill shrugged and looked out of the window again as his jaw hardened. “I don’t know who saw us. Half the village probably.” He pointed his thumb at Tommy. “He’s the worst hurt. Someone in the village told the riding officer about the Rocket. Our boarders were custom’s men, every last one of them, despite their ragged clothes.”
Harriet gulped. Reaching over the low chair by the fire, she opened her aunt’s sewing box. Inside, a range of needles and threads were jumbled onto a pin cushion, flanked by a roll of hessian. She lifted the hessian out and unrolled it, letting a long piece of embroidery drop out. A long shiny needle, scissors and a silver knife pushed into woven parts of the hessian remained. She pulled the long needle out, and with trembling hands, unthreaded the white thread that hung from its tip, and dropped the needle into the ashes of the fire. “Have you any brandy?” She stared at Bill.
“Barrels of the stuff.”
“Get us some now.”
He was back within minutes with a small glass bottle that held an amber liquid that he waved between Agatha and Harriet. “Cask strength. The Frenchies have added caramel to give it color.”
Agatha made no move to take it. “Are you sure you want to do this, Harriet?” she asked, worry filling her voice. Harriet stepped to the sink and washed her hands slowly in the bowl of fresh water.
Bill swung the bottle back to Harriet. “Come on, I did a good deal for it, the Frogs will do anything for British wares at the moment.”
Harriet paused and dried her hands. “What would you do if you were me?” she asked Agatha. Her aunt had the most to lose if they were found.
Agatha glanced at a letter sitting on the kitchen table. “I would continue,” she said quietly.
Conscious of the time, Harriet let go of her towel and reached out and gripped the bottle by its neck. Bill waited, his expression impassive. She took a deep breath. Her arms felt like jelly and every time she tried to focus on the needle in the fire, she could barely pick it out. How could she do this if she couldn’t see or sew straight?
“Have confidence, Harriet,” Agatha murmured.
A core of panic boiled in Harriet’s stomach. The only time she felt completely confident was when she was acting. Then she could be anyone she wanted to be. What would Kean, her hero, do? She shook her head. It wasn’t a case of what the famous London actor would do. It was about what the character would do. Her eyes focused on the needle as a strength surged into her fingers. She gently pushed Peggy out of the way and pulled Agatha in.
“You take his head, Aunt.” She pointed to Bill. “And you, foul blacksmith, take you his arm.” A crash of thunder resounded outside. A small smile crossed her lips—a spring storm, even the elements were conspiring to help her. Bill stared at her and didn’t move. Harriet sighed. Some people just didn’t appreciate theatre. “Bill, grab his arm please.”
She knelt on the floor and eyed the bottle of brandy. Without pausing to think, she dashed half onto Tommy’s shoulder. The injured man writhed and woke with a loud scream.
Agatha tightened her grip as Bill stopped Tommy’s head from thrashing from side to side.
“What are you doing to him?” Peggy began a fresh bout of weeping.
“Apparently it prevents infection.” Harriet gingerly removed the needle from the fire, wincing as the hot steel burned her hand. She pulled a wind of black thread from the sewing box and rethreaded the quickly cooling needle.
Harriet pulled back the ragged shirt around Tommy’s shoulders and brandy dripped from the wound revealing the sliced edges. The sabre must have been sharp. As the f
ull extent of the wound was revealed, Peggy’s weeping intensified, and Tommy struggled awake.
“What’s the matter with her? Why is she crying?” he asked.
“Shhh.” Bringing the bottle of brandy to his lips, she poured a generous slug into Tommy’s mouth before she handed it to Peggy. Her sobs were beginning to get on Harriet’s nerves.
“If you don’t stop crying, I’m going to have to ask you to step outside into the dark and the wet.” Harriet stretched her fingers; the strength lent by the theatrical spirit was ebbing away from her. Peggy lifted her apron to her face and stifled her cries. Janey patted her mother on the shoulder and shushed her gently.
“Thank you.” Biting her tongue between her teeth, Harriet assessed the wound again. She would start at the collarbone and work towards the armpit where the gash gaped the most. Risking a quick look at Agatha and Bill, who both stared steadfastly at Tommy, she took a deep breath and, pinching together the skin, readied her needle.
It was like stitching a sail cloth, a spongy sail cloth. There was resistance at first until the needle entered the skin, then a short free slide, until resistance again as the needle came back out through the skin on the other side. Twenty times her needle entered and then came out, creating ten small uneven black cross shapes marching across Tommy’s shoulder. On the last stitch, she fumbled at the hessian material that lay on the floor beside her with her free hand and withdrew the small silver knife.
Peggy gave a small scream. “What are you going to do to him now?”
“I’m just going to cut the cotton, and then that will be the last stitch.”
Clenching her teeth, Harriet doubled over the cotton and pulled the blade through the strands. It only took one cut. The knife cut through like butter.
Her knife dropped to the floor with a clatter. With a wince, she rose slowly; she had knelt on the cold floor for so long her feet had gone to sleep.
“Thanks, lass.” Tommy rolled his head to one side and gazed blearily at her. Peggy clucked around him as they pulled the wounded man to his feet. He touched his shoulder in wonderment. “You should bring her with you, Bill,” he said weakly. “We could do with someone like her when we sail.”
“Over my dead body.” Agatha got to her feet. She picked up the small bottle of brandy that still contained a few drops of amber liquid and pushed it into Bill’s hand. “Now go, before anyone catches you.”
“What can we do to thank you?” Tommy’s voice was weak.
Harriet gazed at Bill as he towered over the smaller, more grizzled outline of the old sailor. Light-headedness rushed through her and her lips twitched with a sudden urge to giggle.
They would both be perfect.
“What can you do for me? Be at the village school on Wednesday afternoon at four o’clock.” Harriet turned and rummaged in the heavy bag that she had brought home from the school earlier. Selecting two leaflets from the sheaf of papers, she handed one to Bill and the other to Tommy, who took it in his good hand. “And wear something courtly.”
Bill stared down at the leaflet. “Mercutio enters stage right?” He looked back up at Harriet. “Surely you jest?”
Harriet folded her arms and narrowed her eyes. “That is what you can do for me, otherwise…”
“We’ll do it,” Tommy said leaning his head on Bill’s shoulder. “I’ve always wanted to be a count.” He smiled weakly at Harriet, and patted his sniffing wife gently on the back.
Bill said nothing, but tipped his head towards Harriet. Swinging Tommy’s unwounded arm over his massive shoulder, he supported the man through the door and into the gale.
Harriet’s urge to laugh left her as quickly as it had arrived. She ran to the door. “Wait… Bill. Is he coming back?”
Bill stopped in the lee of the front door and turned his head as Tommy leaned on him. “James, you mean? Because of—”
“Yes.”
Bill grinned. “He’s already back. Been in Brambridge two days I hear.” The door banged as he turned back into the gale and drew a limp Tommy out into the pouring rain.
Gracious. Harriet brought a hand to her mouth.
The man on the horse. Her hand fell to her side in a clenched fist. Turning on her heel, she faced the closed door that shut out the darkness outside. Her eyes flicked guiltily to an oblong item that sat on the floor by her feet and then resolutely back to the door. Without hesitation, she opened the door and strode into the night. There were a few choice words she had to say to that man. She had waited two years.
CHAPTER 2
As he did in every new place that he visited, Lord James Aloysius Oswald Stanton searched the night sky for the position of the stars. It was merely habit; here he knew the landscape like the back of his hand, every lush field and every overgrown track. He did not need to know which way was east or west. Sat high on his horse, he was no longer hiding in a haystack in the unforgiving arid land of the Portuguese peninsular, nor wading through deep rivers to avoid detection. James was back in Brambridge and had been for two long and boring days.
His hand crept to his waistband where two letters were tucked in a pouch. There was no point in pulling them out and reading them again. He knew their essence by heart.
Your last mission is to find out who is disrupting the spy routes through Brambridge, yours, Hawk.
We regret to inform that your father has died. As the new Lord Stanton we ask that you join us for the reading of the will at Brambridge Manor. Yours sincerely, Edward Granger.
James flexed his fingers and picked up the reins again. Scorpius, the large black stallion, snickered softly and stamped a great hoof. He had found Scorpius, red-eyed and foaming, on the battlefield at Badajoz, his rider dead, hanging from the saddle. He had had no time to retrieve the man’s body. Instead he had unhooked the soldier from the stirrups and left him among the dead.
James patted Scorpius’ flank absently. Any human feeling James had had was fleeting, and had been so since the day he left Brambridge.
Damn the Hawk and damn his father.
He stared at the shadowy fields around him but saw nothing. He had been happy enough to return to England, to London at the end of the war. His friend Freddie, Lord Lassiter, had given him a room to stay in. He had filled his days visiting the Greenwich observatory and attending meetings of the Astronomical Society. But after a few weeks, even the gentle pull of the stars could not change the indefinable knowledge that something was missing. The danger that had gone out of his life.
James focused on the horizon. A small light blinked out in Longman’s Cove, breaking the darkness. It danced briefly, and then all was dark again. He shook his head and let out a breath.
Squeezing his knees, he pushed Scorpius into a trot down the dark lane. That had been the good news, his father dying, although he was intrigued as to why he had been summoned to Brambridge Manor. At least his last mission had coincided nicely with it. And that was what it was. His last mission. If the Hawk asked him to do anything more again he would refuse.
James’ hands tightened on the reins and his stomach tightened. On the morrow the will would be read. And then he would be free. Free to burn the family portraits and paint his blasted father’s study a disgusting shade of yellow. Only then he would turn his full attention to Hawk’s request.
Scorpius pulled gently at his bit as James set him down the hill of Fountain Vale that led into Brambridge village. Two days he had been in Brambridge and he had not visited the Manor. He had not corresponded with his mother or sister since the night he had left. The Fountain Inn provided him with the hospitality that he needed; there would be time enough to see them in the morning.
James straightened in his saddle and kicked Scorpius into a canter. After another hundred yards, he arrived at the outskirts of Brambridge. A row of cottages led down to the Fountain Inn, and then further down the hill was a church with an enormous clock tower, a farm, blacksmiths, bakery, vicarage, and another inn, the Prince of Wales.
In contrast to the
cottages that nestled into the landscape, the Fountain Inn hunkered down on the hillside, glowering with a hat of thatch and small eyes made of windows. Tethering Scorpius to the rail at the front, he made sure that he had plenty of water in the horse trough. Giving the great horse a last rub behind the ear, he looked up at the Inn. Gods he needed his bed.
But a clear, well-modulated voice rang round the yard as James strode to the door.
“Two days, and you have yet to visit us at the school house, Lord Stanton.”
Twisting round and down into a crouch, James searched the yard for the owner of the voice. “To whom am I addressing myself?” he asked, flicking his gaze from the stable to the outhouse.
A small figure as straight as a rake stepped from the shadows, a cloak around its shoulders, hair pinned back in a neat bun. “The mistress of Brambridge School.”
Straightening, James cleared his throat. She provided no threat. “Let me assure you that I take my responsibilities very carefully Miss… eh, Miss…”
But the shadowy figure did not supply her name.
“I understand you to have been in Brambridge for at least two days. What can have been more important than the well-being of your villagers?” Her tone was starchy.
James had had enough of this buttoned up madam. It was none of her business what he had been doing. Turning his back, he began to walk back towards the door.
Suddenly his boot caught; his other foot flailed in the air mid-step. For a few moments he teetered on his heel and then fell to the ground, landing hard on the seat of his breeches.
“You said you would come back for me!” The former imperious tones were now shot with frustration.
A shadow crossed the ground where he lay. He was still trying to catch his breath when another sharp pain skewered his shins.
“Ow, ow, ow.”
The small shadow jigged up and down, coming to a stop by the horse trough.
James clutched at his leg. Bloody pikes and pennants. Surely he was the one that should have been doing all the exclaiming?
“Oooh.” The muttering continued. “Should have known that Mr. High and Mighty Stanton would be wearing armored boots. Why didn’t I stop to put on my own boots? Damn these buckle shoes.”
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