by Joan Vincent
Deathly pale, André exclaimed, “Leora!” then slipped and slid down through the branches of the oak.
Hadleigh, with longer legs and arms, passed him. “They’ll keep after the horse,” he shouted. “They won’t go near her.”
De la Croix frantically continued his dangerous descent.
On the ground first, Tarrant raced through the trees. He checked his progress at the edge of the clearing where they had left Leora. She still slept beneath the plane tree.
Loud “yips” drew Hadleigh’s eyes to the right. He froze when two huge mix breed dogs entered the clearing.
André’s pounding steps turned him. Hadleigh caught him when he tried to run past and clamped a hand over his mouth.
André went limp with a false passivity.
Hadleigh kept his hold on the smaller lad and threw a quick glance over his shoulder. His stomach lurched when the dogs sniffed the air in the direction of Leora. “Go through the trees to the left. I will draw the dogs off. When they follow me, get Leora and head for—for the stables. That’s the closest buildings. Understand?”
André nodded.
Hadleigh released him. Before he knew what happened André turned and raced toward the dogs. He waved his hands and screamed in French. For a moment Tarrant stood stupefied.
Then Leora started to cry. The dogs looked from her to André. One of them stepped toward the little girl. The other lowered his head and growled at the charging lad.
Fear propelled Hadleigh. He tore off his shirt as he ran after his ‘cousin.’ He waved it, shouting a verse of “Soldiers of Christ, Arise.” When he reached André, he shoved him towards Leora.
Praying that his friend would go to his sister, Hadleigh raced towards the waiting dogs. Despite his harsh singing, silence engulfed him as he came closer to the snarling animals.
Suddenly the dogs raised their heads. They whirled about and dashed to the right of Hadleigh. The blast of a musket rang out followed closely by a second.
Hadleigh slid to halt and grabbed hold of a tree to keep from falling. For a moment he stood there. As he heaved ragged breaths, the last words of the hymn filled his mind: “That, having all things done, and all your conflicts past, ye may obtain through Christ alone, a crown of joy at last.” He looked and saw a grinning André with Leora balanced against one hip.
The dream faded when a glass pressed against his lips. A cool liquid slid down Hadleigh’s parched throat. But the music had ended. A fearsome pain filled the void.
Hadleigh dreamed Letu and George stood over him. André appeared. When Gano came behind his friend, Hadleigh tried to scream but couldn’t. Gano flung a garrotte wire over André’s head. Letu swivelled. A dagger flashed in his hand.
Caught in the nightmare, Hadleigh flung himself upward.
Sarah threw her body atop the writhing man, clutched him to her. She pressed a cheek against his, murmured reassurances. Then she remembered his earlier response to the hymn.
With a gulp Sarah began. Her voice cracked on the first words. “Stand then in His great might.” It steadied. “With all His strength endued, and take to arm you for the fight, the panoply of God.”
As the man relaxed, Sarah brushed back a shock of his damp white-flecked black hair.
“From strength to strength go on, wrestle and fight and pray; tread all the powers of darkness down, and win the well-fought day.”
Chapter Five
Lewes, Sussex April 17, 1809 Monday
André Ribeymon reined in his spirited mare after a hard gallop across Winterbourne Green in the early afternoon. Settling his horse into a canter toward the squire’s, he tamped down burgeoning frustration.
After fruitless searches around Levant, Horsham, and Rye, de la Croix had followed Tretain’s advice. After a futile visit with the magistrate on Saturday, he had all but decided to return to London to check with Castlereagh about Hadleigh.
That evening, however, de la Croix had ventured into Lewes’s less salubrious pubs to search for any hint of bullion thieves. He overheard a conversation that revealed Squire Buckley had been even less revealing than he had thought.
“Al Sommers, didna think ta see ye in Lewes this night. Thought ye were goin’ walkin’ wit the Massey wench,” a stout labourer greeted another in the small pub.
“Her mistress would’na let her go out,” the other replied disgustedly, with a friendly pat on the bench beside him. “Mrs. Anscom still believes there are bogey bears about.”
“Thought the Squire put an end to such fancies. Heard he clapped Jed Anths into the County gaol fer talkin’ ‘bout it.”
“Squire’s a heavy handed old fool,” he sneered. “Bet he was right put out with Lady Edgerton.”
“Lor, she’s a one for goin her own way ain’t she—though mind, I won’t hear a word ag’in her. Cured me mam last winter.”
“‘Tis a foolish thing though—takin’ in a stranger.”
A shouted greeting turned both and they caught sight of the stranger near them and fell silent.
* * *
The grounds about the squire’s red tiled walls and steep roofed home bespoke a solid if stolid worth. De la Croix tossed the reins to a footman and strode up the steps.
Buckley had ill-concealed dislike of his dandyism on his last visit. André did not want to put him off further. He left his quizzing glass behind and wore his plainest shirt and waistcoat. He had placed in the centre of his exquisitely-tied white cravat the ornate emerald filigree stickpin that the Tretains had given him on his twenty-first birthday.
The baron hoped his buff riding breeches that showed his athletic legs would overcome the foppishness of his ornately styled bottle green coat. Wishing to strike a balance between youthful naiveté and the deference the squire thought his due, he greeted Buckley with a humble apology for disturbing him.
Squire Buckley had fallen asleep behind the centre page of the London Gazette. He tried to curb his temper at this interruption because this French popinjay claimed to be a relative of the Earl of Tretain, a man of some power in London.
“I thought you meant to return to City.” He made clear his displeasure by not asking his guest to be seated.
“I shall shortly,” de la Croix assured him. “But something has come to my attention that I hope you will clarify.”
“Happy to do so,” blustered the Squire. “What is it?”
De la Croix raised a slender finger to his lips. “Lady Edgerton.”
Biting back an oath, Buckley clamped his lips together and narrowed his eyes in distaste. Someone had disobeyed his stricture for silence. But, he thought, this French fop would have called on Lady Edgerton if he knew it all.
Another fortune hunter with hopes for an introduction. He means to get on her soft side with his tale of a missing friend. His story is a faulkner’s tale. I bet he’s no kin to Tretain. The squire sank heavily into a chair and motioned his guest to do likewise. He grimaced a smile.
The hard look in the magistrate’s eyes warned de la Croix that Buckley’s dislike had turned into repugnance. “Lady Edgerton nurses a stranger,” he said baldly. “What do you know of the man?”
“But is that why you have returned?” the squire asked with a derisive chortle. “‘Tis nothing to do with your friend.
“You told me he was a young man. What? Five and twenty. Tall, thin, dark haired.” At the baron’s nod Buckley continued, “This man was found among his murdered fellows. A falling out between thieves, nothing more. He is short, light haired, and middle-aged,” he lied without compunction.
“You say he was found among thieves?”
“‘Tis but a guess,” Buckley said. “They were local troublemakers. Nothing of interest to you.” He stood. “The fellow is to be moved to the County gaol in Lewes tomorrow,” the squire said and dismissed him.
When André entered the White Hart he pondered whether to seek Lady Edgerton or to wait until the morrow to speak with the man after he was brought to Lewes. The description was far from Hadleigh but Tretai
n and Cavilon had taught thoroughness. Something about the matter urged caution.
“My lord de la Croix,” the clerk hurried to him. He gave a slight bow and held out a sealed missive. “This came an hour since. The messenger awaits you in the coffee room.”
“Merci.” André turned toward that room while he broke the seal. He snapped open the single sheet and recognized the earl’s writing despite the script’s unusual sprawl.
April 14th
André,
Michelle died this evening.
Come home if you can.
Tretain
All considerations were drowned by the sorrow that wrenched André at the loss of one he considered a sister. The search for Hadleigh would have to wait. He looked up and recognized the groom the earl had sent. “We leave at once.”
* * *
Edgerton Manor April 17th Monday
Sarah drew back the glass of thinned gruel. She wiped the man’s lips, then his thin moustache and neatly trimmed stubble of a beard. She nodded at Cauley to lower their patient.
“How long do you think he’ll go on like this?” he asked.
“His fever is lower,” Sarah ruminated. “The pneumonia is somewhat improved. His breathing is far less laboured than it was but two nights past. The muscle spasms are nearly gone. His left foot has all the signs that it will heal without too much permanent damage. But I do not like the look of the right.” She met the big man’s patient but expectant gaze. “It is as if his mind is elsewhere. As if he refuses to come to the present time.”
Cauley nodded uneasily. “I’ve seen it afore with bad wounds. Men’s minds break rather than ‘member what happened. But he’s a fighter. He’s proven that by gettin’ this far. I’ll lay odds he’s a heart as good as it is stout. Just keep singing thet hymn he likes. You’ll tease him back.”
“If only we knew his name,” Sarah sighed. “His family must be frantic.”
“They probably aren’t expecting to hear from him. You know how young bucks—” Cauley coughed. He took the empty glass and set in on a tray. “I’ll take this back to the kitchen and get a bite. Should I send Miss Molly to sit with him?”
“No, stretch your legs after you eat.” She smiled. “You can even use the time to make your peace with her.”
Cauley shook his head. Many times during the past eleven days he had wished his major had had such a dedicated nurse. Lady Edgerton’s abigail was another matter. If only such could be said about that gilflurt, Molly, he thought irritably wondering why the woman’s attitude bothered him so much. She’s a thorn growing in me side. All because she couldna take a jest.
* * *
Sarah gazed at the hollow-cheeked man. She wondered yet again about his life before Peterson House. He was young but there could be a wife and children. Certainly a mother and father, brothers and sisters. She disliked the idea that there was no one in the world who cared if he lived or died.
Taking his lean hand in hers, Sarah fingered the knuckles, traced the outline of the bruises on the wrist. The scraps and cuts from the manacles were also healing. The comfrey paste and comfrey ointment ensured there would be little scarring.
Hadleigh stirred.
Sarah hummed the hymn that always quieted him, thankful she had stumbled onto something that meant something to him. Something that might call him back to the world.
Cauley had suggested she send a description of the man to the Times or Gazette in London to inquire if anyone knew of such a missing person. A few days more and I will do it.
At sharp yips and low growls in the corridor Sarah’s patient stirred, his hand jerked. The barks became louder. His agitation increased.
Hadleigh Tarrant was aware of gentleness. A part of him wondered if it was the dwarf, then Letu came to mind. He imagined the razor sharp blade, heard it whisper over the whetstone.
The soothing hymn calmed the fear that gnawed at the edge of Hadleigh’s consciousness. The song lulled him and he was about to slip back into total unconsciousness when he heard dogs. Staccato barks and heated voices nudged him to the edge of awareness.
In a sudden cathartic flash the combination of hymn and barks crashed Hadleigh back into the world. Once again he was that young boy who raced toward the dogs that menaced Leora. He tried to shout, “Christian soldiers, arise.”
Hadleigh’s throat protested and distorted the words into croaked caricatures. Paws pressed into his left arm. He feebly pushed at the animal and opened his eyes.
A large black and white coally dog pushed a snout full of long wicked teeth at him. Hadleigh tried to move away from it and was amazed at being caught, not by sharp teeth, but by a wet gravel rough tongue across his cheek.
He saw a hand reach across him and cuff the dog. From near the foot of his bed, someone shrieked. Hadleigh saw a large woman clutch a small fur muff to her chest. Her shrill shouts made no sense.
“Down. I said down, Magnus,” a familiar voice commanded.
“What’s goin’ on here?” demanded Cauley.
The deep male voice drew Hadleigh’s eyes to the doorway. A huge bearded man picked up the screeching woman and thrust her aside. Anger emanated from him as he lunged at the bed.
Hadleigh instinctively heaved his legs up and kicked at the man. One foot struck the footboard. The intense surge of pain jerked Hadleigh’s knees towards his chest and twisted his body into a foetal curve before he sagged into a limp faint.
Cauley grabbed hold of the black dog’s collar and jerked him away from the bed. It whimpered and sank down on its haunches. He released him. “Get out.” The coally dog ran from the room. “And the same to you,” he swore at the gaping woman.
Elminda, livid at the treatment of her dogs and startled by the consequences of her intrusion, clutched the yapping fawn Skye terrier to her breast. She stared at the unconscious man.
“Silence thet cur if you don’t want its neck twisted.”
Stuttering at this impudence, Elminda stiffened. She opened her mouth to launch a condemning harangue when her sister-in-law’s unexpected and unusual harshness stopped her.
“Elminda, you will leave this room at once.” Sarah looked across the supine figure on the bed, her anger razor-sharp. “Take your dogs away. Go home and stay there.”
As Elminda withdrew Sarah walked around the bed. “Let’s move him further up on the bed before we try to turn him. Yes, that is it. Good.”
“M’lady, what sort a madwoman was thet?” the batman asked.
Sarah undid the wrappings around the left foot. “My sister-in-law, Miss Elminda Edgerton. The guardian of my reputation and consequence,” Sarah said, forgetting that she spoke with a servant. “She usually is not so lost to common sense. I should have called on her and told her about him.”
“She expected you to visit?” Cauley snorted. “If you’ll pardon my bein’ blunt, m’lady, but there’s no sense wasting time on such a caper wit as brings a pack of dogs to a sick room.”
Sarah pulled the garlic and sphagnum moss dressing away from the foot. “No harm done here,” she told the batman. “I shall have to apologize and thank her. I think the dogs are what roused our patient.”
“You mean we shoulda been making a din ‘stead of creepin’ about like old women?” Cauley scoffed.
“I do not know,” she answered with a rueful smile. “But just now he must have thought he had awakened in a mad house.”
“He thought I meant t’ harm him,” Cauley told her.
“I suppose he could think little else.” Sarah removed the pad and poultice on the sole of the right foot. She wrinkled her nose at the off odour. “This is worse.”
A noise at the door drew her attention. “Molly, I am glad you came. Please tell Darton to send for Mr. Crandall. Then fetch the vial of hartshorne from the stillroom and bring the box of fresh wrappings we rolled yesterday.”
“Yes, my lady,” Molly answered, an enquiring look bent on Cauley. When he ignored her, she strode out.
Sarah made a minute ins
pection of the mangled right sole. “Something is wrong. It has to be more than the cuts.” She pushed against a bulge in the ball of the foot. She pulled her hand back and motioned Cauley to come.
“Look at the left foot. The colour is much better. It has clearly begun to heal. But the right—”
“I didn’t notice thet swelling afore,” Cauley said. He pressed lightly against the bulge. “Nor thet odour. ‘Tis rottin’.”
“Then I pray he is not too weak for surgery.”
“Aye,” Cauley agreed.
Sarah motioned to the returning abigail. “Bring the box here.” She took one of the larger pieces of rolled cotton sheeting and laid it over the bared feet. “Thank you. After you put the box of dressings on the table, please take the old wrappings away.
“Cauley, if you would take hold of his shoulders.” She uncorked the vial and held it beneath their patient’s nose.
The pungent sharpness of ammonia invaded Hadleigh’s senses. He tried to turn away from the offensive fumes, but could not. They drew him more fully into consciousness with each breath. A coughing spasm wracked him and the ammonia left.
“Good eve, sir. I am Sarah, Lady Edgerton.”
Hadleigh drew a painful breath. The words were but another illusion. He refused to grant them the idiocy of recognition.
“Let me.”
Hadleigh heard a deeper voice. A hand grabbed his chin and the ammonia returned. He struggled but the man was stronger.
“Open your eyes, sir. ‘Tis time ta get ta yer work,” Cauley told him. “Lady Edgerton ben worried about you. Be a gentlem’n. Bid her good eve.”
Tarrant forced open his eyes. The offensive hartshorne left. A low phlegm-filled rattle deep in his lungs interrupted his effort to bring the room into focus. The next moment someone raised him and a hand massaged his back.
“Drink this. It will ease your chest,” a familiar feminine voice urged when he was laid back down.
Hadleigh swallowed the cool liquid. His vision cleared as he was lowered onto his pillows. Her face was full-cheeked with a patrician nose. A crimped curl dangled at the edge of a very determined jaw. Gold-flecked brown eyes, wide with wonder and worry reflected Hadleigh’s pain; offered a haven.