The lady, whose face bore a few freckles which she was at no pains to conceal, replied, “I fear Jane will not recall me, as I have not seen her since she was three or four years of age.”
Strangely, she did seem somehow familiar. She was neither beautiful nor conventionally pretty, having a rather long, thin face, and with freckles, too. In fact, everything about her was long and thin, or tall and slender to put it more kindly, and she had long, graceful hands. Jane, relinquishing truthfulness—for it had become all but impossible since her uncle’s death—said, “I believe I do remember you a little, ma’am. Thank you for inviting me to stay with you.”
Her stepmother attempted to prolong their stay by offering refreshments, but the Lattimers, seconded by Jane’s father, succeeded in making their adieus and carrying Jane off to their coach. As it rolled away from the door, Jane wondered if she would have an opportunity in private to ask Mr. Lattimer several pressing questions.
Anticipating her thought, he said, “I apologize for the story that was published. There had been some discussion of how best to lay to rest the rumors about your culpability and clear your name, but nothing had been decided. Someone”—his voice chilled—“took it upon himself to act without further consultation, feeling our hand was forced by a malicious letter which was published. I did not know the someone had acted until I saw the article in the Evening Post. It’s true the tale was the best anyone had suggested, but I…the group considering the matter hoped to find one less sensational. The rejected-suitor explanation did have the advantage of being titillating enough to capture the public’s imagination. Young men who persecute young ladies who do not reciprocate their sentiments are not unknown.”
“Oh! I see. While it was a little awkward, I confess I was worried after that letter appeared in the newspaper. I suppose this must seem outrageous to you, ma’am,” she added.
With a look of pure merriment, Mrs. Lattimer raised her eyebrows. “No, Mistress Jane. My standard for the outrageous is rather high.”
“Of necessity, my wife is fully aware of the underlying matter,” Mr. Lattimer said.
“That is a great relief to me. I was not brought up to deceive people—except socially, I mean.”
For some reason, Mrs. Lattimer found that funny, to judge by her quirking lips. Mr. Lattimer kept his face admirably bland.
“I am hopeful you will not have to remain in concealment very long, Mistress Jane. With luck, the matter will be speedily settled, or at the least, Charles Pleasaunce and his associates will be too busy to bother further about you. I should mention that the ‘Friend of Justice’ who reignited the question of Markham’s death is being investigated as a possible conspirator. Pleasaunce likely set him on to discredit anything you might say about him or about conspiracies.”
The property to which the Lattimers took her was a small one, on the outskirts of a village some twenty or twenty-five miles from London. It seemed even more distant, well removed from any of the main roads into the city. The house, like something a prosperous farmer might occupy, enchanted her. It was of mellow brick, with many small-paned windows, and half a dozen dormer windows that made odd humps in the thatched roof. It sat a little back from the road, with the prettiest garden she had ever seen. It was not laid out in orderly beds, and included honeysuckle, cornflowers, lily of the valley, roses, snapdragons, hollyhocks, and a host of flowers she could not identify.
“The owner lives in Town for the most part, but sometimes lets friends stay here,” Mr. Lattimer said. “The servants are accustomed to guests, and you may repose complete trust in Cheddle, the butler. No…ah…smugglers need worry you here.”
She had understood she was going to the Lattimers’ country home.
“If you leave the grounds, I ask that you take a maid and one of the outdoor servants with you.”
“Certainly, sir.”
“There is one other thing. I trust you will not mind being known by another name while you are here? For the duration of your stay, the staff will know you as Evelyn Ashton. I hope you do not dislike the name, for there was not time to ask your preference. The servants will ask no questions of you. If you should be asked by anyone else—if you go into the village, for example—you will say you are related to Lionel Ashton, the owner, and have come to stay until you secure another post as a governess.” Lattimer added with a twinkle, “I’m sure you know how to discourage the impertinent from asking more than that.”
“I believe I can do so. But if I am to be Evelyn Ashton here, if my father should send a letter to me addressed to my own name, will it not cause confusion?”
“I was guilty of a little deception there, Mistress Jane. I told your father you were to be our guest and gave him the direction of our manor, which is some distance away. If he or anyone else sends you a letter, one of my servants will bring it here within a cover addressed to your nom de guerre. And if you must write to your family, Cheddle will make sure ’tis dispatched discreetly.”
Clearly, Mr. Lattimer possessed a devious mind and some experience in misdirection. She found herself exceedingly curious about how he had come by it.
She and the Lattimers passed a pleasant evening playing cards and retired to bed at an unfashionably early hour, by London standards. She fell asleep easily, tired by travel and lulled by the quaint little room with its slanting, beamed ceiling, simple old furniture, and patchwork counterpane. By the time the Lattimers left in the morning to go to their own manor, Jane felt quite at home. No, better, except she wondered how she would occupy herself without her ordinary chores. The house was well staffed, with enough servants, gardeners, and stable hands to serve a family, but with no family in residence. The servants took care of everything, with no need of direction. She feared her days would be boring without her usual tasks, until she discovered the fascinating activities of country life. There was a vegetable and herb garden to explore, fruit trees, chickens, a pig or two, and a cow to admire. Jane watched the dairymaid milk the cow and make cheese and clotted cream and butter. She helped the cook pickle green walnuts which Jane herself had helped gather.
Her own family did not own a country property. Papa usually rented a house in Bath or at one of the other spas in the hottest part of the summer, though this year they had stayed in Town. He had not explained his decision, and Elvira had not questioned it, at least in Jane’s hearing, which suggested that Rupert or possibly Matthew had run up debts which made it impracticable to spend the money. The season had been wet in London, eliminating the heat, stenches, and dust which were the usual reasons for abandoning Town in summer, and as her father had observed, it might well be rainy wherever they went.
For evenings and damp days, there was a well-stocked library containing works on geography, history, foreign dictionaries, and a good many less easily classified works, even recent novels. Jane suppressed a feeling of guilt at such a temptation and steeled her heart to enjoy herself.
She was cutting flowers in the garden when Cheddle himself, rather than the footman, brought her a letter.
“Mistress,” he said with a deprecating throat-clearing sound.
“For me?” She was surprised. Surely it was too soon for mail to have come from her family. Unless it was some domestic emergency. Heaven forbid Elvira or her father had offended Mrs. Merry, causing her to give notice. Or mayhap it was from Mr. Lattimer, with news of Alex?
“Please take these into the house. I’ll arrange them as soon as I’ve read the message.” She held out her hand, and the butler said, “Mistress…this was brought by a stranger. Not someone who should bring the mail. It’s not directed to Mistress Evelyn Ashton.”
It took her a moment to understand. Mr. Lattimer had said that if a letter came to his home for her, it would be sent on with one of his servants, under separate cover addressed to Evelyn Ashton. She glanced at Cheddle. He was looking very directly at her with a most unbutler-like expression. He was correctly garbed and deferential and ran the household to perfection—better than
her own family’s Wilson did, in fact. Yet there was something different about Cheddle; it was not his size, for he was not conspicuously taller or broader than most male servants. He might have begun as a footman. They were expected to be well set up. Cheddle might have spent a great deal of time outdoors, doing something energetic; it was in his weathered face, his nose obviously broken at some time, his large, strong-looking hands, and his brisk movements. And he had very sharp, watchful gray eyes.
Taking her pause for incomprehension, he said, “I’m charged by my employer to keep you safe. Please open it, Mistress Evelyn. I must know who sent this, and what it says.”
Did the staff here know who she really was? They called her Mistress Evelyn, and Anthony Lattimer had not said whether they knew her real name, but Cheddle had had no doubt the letter addressed to Jane Stowe was meant for her. She sat down on the rustic bench beside a damask rose bush, now bare of blooms, and broke the seal.
Your presence is required in London with some urgency to give Testimony in a matter related to the Death of your uncle, Roger Markham. I confidently Expect that this will complete the investigation and Result in your absolute exoneration. I will send a Coach within the next day to fetch you.
Sir Thomas de Veil
Magistrate
Bow Street Magistrate’s Court
That was good news. Jane wondered why she was a little disappointed. She wished it had been word of Alex’s—Mr. Gordon’s—safety. Though once she was back in London, she could ask Mr. Lattimer if he had heard anything. She must tell the maid to pack her trunks.
“Cheddle, I’m summoned back to Town to give evidence at Bow Street. Sir Thomas de Veil is sending a coach for me. I don’t know whether I will be returning or not, but I can discuss that with Mr. Lattimer. If you’ll have my trunks brought to my room—”
“Begging your pardon for interrupting you, mistress, but how would Sir Thomas know you was here?”
“Why, I suppose Mr. Lattimer told him. Surely he would trust a magistrate? Sir Thomas de Veil has been investigating a…a suspicious death of—of someone I knew.” Why would Mr. Lattimer tell him? Or how would Sir Thomas know to inquire of him? They might have a connection through the government, of course. Clearly, Mr. Lattimer held some sort of office, and in addition to his duties as a magistrate, de Veil was now hunting out Jacobites.
“It would still have come by the usual method, mistress. Are you familiar with Sir Thomas’s hand?”
“No, I’ve never seen a specimen of his handwriting,” she admitted.
“It’s easy enough to sign any name you please to a letter. Mr. Lattimer wanted you safe out of London at present. I’m responsible for you.”
Cheddle’s clipped words and ramrod posture were almost military at times…and this was one of them. Not an officer, but perhaps a sergeant?
Cheddle went on, “The letter did not come by the usual means. It was delivered direct, to your true name. Someone knows you are here, apart from those who should know.”
“Then ’tis a trick?”
The butler inclined his head slightly.
“Then should we not send a message to ask for instructions, by the fastest possible means?”
“I do not think we have time to receive an answer before someone comes to take you away. And I am reluctant to send any of the menservants. They may be needed here. I will apprise the appropriate gentleman, and he will no doubt ascertain whether the message did somehow come from Sir Thomas. In the meantime, we must move you to a new refuge. If Sir Thomas did send for you, which I do not apprehend, we will produce you.”
“And if there is someone watching, will he not follow if I leave here?”
“He will not see you leave, mistress.”
****
The farm cart bumped over the road, and Jane bumped with it. The groom driving it commented occasionally to the horse and sometimes to her. There was a large barrel with a broken stave in the back of the cart, to make it plain that they were on their way to the nearest cooper.
Jane, wearing a maid’s plain gown, with a plain round-eared cap and wide-brimmed straw hat, sat with a basket on her lap, a servant on her way to make some purchase. At the cottage, the gown’s owner, wearing Jane’s third-best gown, was sitting by a front window. She would also flit past other windows from time to time so any watcher would have plenty of opportunity to conclude Jane was present. The ease with which Cheddle had organized the ruse was disquieting. One would think such things were commonplace in Lionel Ashton’s country cottage. If there were a Lionel Ashton. It must be all right because Mr. Lattimer had arranged her visit and she trusted him. He had been her uncle’s friend. Or so he said. He knew Alex, and that was certainly true because Alex’s message had directed her to Mr. Lattimer. But what do I know of Mr. Gordon except that he has eyes that crinkle at the corners when he smiles and a sense of humor? And a lean, strong body? as she had deduced from walking arm in arm with him. His arm was reassuringly hard.
Still, it appeared Alex and Mr. Lattimer were not Charles Pleasaunce’s allies. Alex—Mr. Gordon! She should not be thinking of him so familiarly, or the next time she saw him, it might slip out—had sought her out to tell her not to fear and had gone north to try to save Rupert. How kind, how good he was! Though his and Mr. Lattimer’s ability to arrange things, like preventing her arrest, obtaining money and transport, and fabricating tales to clear her name, were a trifle puzzling. How had they managed such feats? She would not think further about it.
Yet her mind kept returning to it. Given the political situation, and Rupert and Mr. Gordon having gone to Scotland, it was obvious the smuggled muskets were destined to assist a Jacobite rebellion. Mr. Lattimer (and Alex) were attempting to stop it. Which must mean they represented the government, a theory supported by Sir Thomas de Veil’s involvement in preventing her prosecution for murder. But if they were government agents, had Alex been acting only on the government’s behalf in assisting Rupert? Perhaps even not to protect Rupert from the consequences of his actions but to arrest him when he had incriminated himself beyond hope by delivering the payment?
Remembering his evident enjoyment of her company, his approval, the light banter, she could not bear to think it intended only to gain her trust. He was utterly unlike Charles Pleasaunce, whose cool compliments might have come directly from a book on how to woo a lady. She had had years to study Elvira’s methods for gaining her own ends: the flattery and flirtation, the feigned helplessness that invited others to take care of her, the fits of vapors, the subtle use of guilt. Jane was immune.
Or was she? Her stepmother had never tried to manipulate her. Elvira’s targets were generally male. She was far more likely to criticize Jane than to praise. Or Mr. Gordon might simply be more skillful than Elvira. She was unaccustomed to receiving admiration. Might it have swayed her judgment?
She sighed. Oh, yes. The attention of an attractive man would affect her as easily as it would any spinster. How lowering to realize her previously unrecognized craving for appreciation could blind her.
She uttered “Phoo!” startling the groom.
“Mistress?”
“Nothing, Jack. I only had a vexing thought.”
Jack nodded and clucked to the horse.
These thoughts (and worry about Alex in spite of her new suspicion) occupied her mind until Jack Ridgley drew in a harsh breath. All the bucolic good humor had vanished from his face, and his lips were set in a thin line. A coach approached, driven at a brisk pace.
When it had passed and the sound of its progress was no longer audible, he urged their own horse to a faster pace. “Mayhap it’s nothing,” Jack muttered. But he did not permit the mare to slow until they had turned into a rutted lane marked by a fingerpost with the paint worn illegible.
“A stranger would find that sign of little assistance,” Jane remarked, squinting at it doubtfully.
Jack gave her a sidelong look. “Ay, none at all, unless someone gave him directions.”
“A
ll to our benefit, no doubt.” If Jack feared the coach was the one sent to fetch her. “It’s fortunate it’s not readable.”
“Ay. Some magistrates are particular about keeping the fingerposts in repair and some aren’t. When it’s only a bit of a village that’s not on the way to some important town, there’s no urgency about it.”
Littlefield certainly qualified as “a bit of a village,” with no more than the cooperage, a small public house, and a shop in the front room of one of a handful of cottages.
“I’ll walk you to the shop when I’m done here.” Very softly he added, “Recall that you are Susan.”
She waited while he unloaded the barrel and talked quietly at some length to the grizzled cooper.
They stopped in at the little shop that sold the things the country folk hereabout might need most urgently, and Jane purchased a paper of pins, as Cheddle had instructed her, and added them to her basket.
“New maid at Hawthorn Cottage?” the woman asked Jack.
“Ah, nay. Susan is a cousin of Cook’s, on her way to service.”
“Well, I hope you’ll like the place you’re going, Susan.”
Jane gave a little smile and bobbed a curtsey.
“She’s shy, is Susan,” Jack said. Cheddle had found Jane had no ability to mimic lower-class speech or any regional accent for more than a word or two.
When they came out, the cooper was standing in front of his workshop, smoking a clay pipe. He nodded a greeting at Jack and gazed at the sky. Business must not be brisk.
Jack led her into the yard behind the cooperage, where a cart loaded with several casks and firkins stood. A hatchet-faced woman, wisps of grizzled hair poking out from under her linen cap, was at the horse’s head. Her short gown, worn over a brown petticoat, had faded to the color of cooked celery, and her stockings were blue. She gave the animal a pat on its shoulder and approached.
“Susan, this is Alice. She’ll take you to my auntie’s to stay for a bit. ’Til things are sorted out, like.”
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