by Sandra Heath
* * *
The square in Temford was still quiet as Cristoval’s chaise arrived from London. Tomorrow, Monday, the market would be in full swing, but today all was quiet. The horses’ hooves clattered and the wheels rattled as the tired postboy urged the team along the final yards to the yawning archway into the inn’s yard, where he reined them in for the last time. Ostlers and grooms emerged reluctantly to attend to the newcomers, but for whose presence the Sunday morning idleness would have continued.
The Royal Oak’s fine new red brick assembly room rose splendidly on the site of a former orchard. Its impressive main entrance was approached directly from the inn yard up a flight of three wide steps, and its windows were high on the walls to prevent outsiders from looking in.
Beyond it, where the cleared orchard had yet to be developed, an immense bonfire was abuilding, in readiness for the fireworks display that would take place during the opening evening. The finishing touches were still being put to the interior of the ballroom, where three men were having difficulty hauling up one of the three chandeliers that had been delivered from London the day before.
As Cristoval and Manco alighted from the carriage, all eyes turned sharply toward the Indian as he once again commenced his display of thanksgiving for a safe journey’s end. Everyone gaped as he swayed and turned in his stately way, and a buzz of astonished conversation broke out as he began to sing as well, spreading his arms and hands to the square of sky above the yard.
Cristoval tried to look normal and dignified as he waited by the entrance to the taproom. He always squirmed when Manco claimed so much attention, for it was a little like being a sideshow at a fair. The Indian was a novel enough sight even in great cities like London and Bristol, but in a small Shropshire market town he came as a very great shock indeed to the local populace.
The landlord, Mr. Porter, came out to see what was causing the stir. He was a tall, thin man, who wore a leather apron over his neat brown coat and fawn breeches, and a nosegay of Michaelmas daisies adorning his lapel buttonhole. He was wiping his hands on a towel, having just repaired the tap on an ale barrel, and he too halted in amazement as he saw the strange sight in the yard.
“By all the powers ...” he breathed, tipping his low-crowned hat back.
Cristoval turned to him. “You must forgive Manco, sir, but it is his custom to give thanks to the gods for having seen him safely to journey’s end.”
“Journey’s end?” the landlord repeated warily, preferring such noisy exhibitions to pass on through.
“Yes, indeed. We hope to stay here, for the time being at least.” Cristoval inclined his head and introduced himself. “Don Cristoval de Soto, your servant, sir.”
“Sir.” The landlord nodded. “Well, Don Cristoval, what else might I expect your servant to do, if I let you both stay here?”
“I will see that he behaves,” Cristoval said reassuringly, his fingers crossed in the pocket of his fine new greatcoat. “As to how long we may stay, well, that depends. Maybe only one night, maybe more.”
“I see.” Mr. Porter eyed Manco’s antics again. “Right, Don Cristoval, you and your friend may stay, but only if he conducts himself in a proper manner.”
“Yes, of course.” Proper manner? Manco? That would be the day, Cristoval thought.
Half an hour later found Manco and his master in a suite of handsome third-floor rooms facing over the square. Their accommodation consisted of two bedrooms joined by a parlor in between, and in the parlor the newly lit fire had smoked considerably, obliging the maid to leave the window open to clear the air. Being on the third floor, it was possible to see over the yew hedge into the castle grounds.
As Cristoval and Manco looked out at the residence of Jack’s villainous cousin, a groom wearing white breeches and a mustard-colored jacket led a glossy black thoroughbred around to the front of the barbican. The horse was a large animal, and willful, tossing its head and capering impatiently as it fought the groom’s hold. Then two gentlemen emerged from the castle, one Cristoval did not know, but the other was Sir Quentin Brockhampton.
Cristoval pointed him out to Manco. “There is my informative lawyer friend, so I think the gentleman about to mount the horse must be Sir Rafe Warrender. Mark him well, my friend, for he is a devil. Definitely a Pizarro fellow,” Cristoval advised.
The Indian gazed at Rafe, who took his leave of Sir Quentin and urged the horse toward the gates, which swung open in readiness. Manco’s face didn’t alter at all as he calmly took his sling and a pebble from his purse. Cristoval didn’t notice, for he was too intent upon the rider who now emerged from the castle grounds into the square. Manco stepped back, whirled the sling, then expertly aimed and released the pebble through the open window. It flew through the air and struck Rafe’s top hat, knocking it clean from his head.
Cristoval gave a start. “Madre de dios!” he gasped, only then realizing what the Indian had done. In a second he’d grabbed Manco and hauled him safely back out of sight, then he peeped around the edge of the curtain to see that Rafe had reined sharply in and was glancing furiously around for the culprit. There had been some boys standing outside a closed cobbler’s shop, but they had fled the moment the hat went flying.
Rafe struggled to bring the restive horse under control, then quickly dismounted to retrieve the hat, but Manco was poised to strike again, although not with his sling this time. Instead, he thrust his hand into his purse, drew it out again, and flicked his fingers. Rafe’s hat rolled from his outstretched hand. Rafe cursed and moved after it. Manco’s fingers flicked yet again, and the hat rolled farther.
Cristoval shook the Indian’s arm furiously. “Stop it! Do you hear me?”
“Manco teach devil lesson.”
“Manco is supposed to be behaving!” Cristoval reminded him.
“Hmm.” The Indian closed his purse and left the hat alone.
Rafe immediately grabbed it, then examined it closely, as if fearing it had acquired little wheels. Then, satisfied that it was indeed just a normal top hat, he dusted it with his glove and donned it again. He looked around suspiciously a last time before remounting and urging the horse away toward the broad street that led down to the bridge over the River Teme.
Only when he had vanished from sight did Cristoval release Manco, whom he immediately berated. “Dios, you fool, you might easily have been seen!”
The Inca was bewildered. “But Pizarro fellow did not see, Capac!” He was a little insulted, for he prided himself on remaining invisible to any prey, human, or animal.
“Maybe, but don’t do anything like that again, do you hear? I am obliged to be responsible for you beneath this roof, so behave, damn you!”
“Manco be good,” the Inca promised solemnly.
“Right.” Cristoval exhaled slowly, wishing they were both safely back in Lima, where the likes of Manco were nothing out of the ordinary.
The Indian went into his bedroom to sling his hammock—made of netted vicuna wool—between the posts of the bed, for nothing would induce him to sleep on a mattress. “Manco not understand. A little magic, and devil die.”
“That sort of magic counts as murder in England,” Cristoval pointed out.
“All right. No magic. Use bow and arrow instead. One arrow, devil die,” Manco said then.
“It would still be murder here,” Cristoval said from the doorway behind him. “So not only would the devil die, but you would too—on a gallows tree.” Cristoval drew an expressive finger across his throat.
The Indian was scornful. “Manco not caught,” he said firmly.
“Just keep your magic, your arrows, and everything else, to yourself, my friend.”
Manco knotted the hammock ropes deftly for a moment, then paused. “If devil die, we go home?” he inquired.
“That’s enough. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Capac Cristoval,” the Indian replied meekly. Too meekly. Cristoval looked suspiciously at him, but the Indian’s face gave nothing away, and after a
moment Cristoval changed the subject.
“I must get a message to Fairfield Hall, in the hope that Jack is there.”
“Manco take message.”
“No, thank you all the same, but I think I’ll just send a local boy,” Cristoval said quickly. “I’ll write a note now, asking Jack to come here.”
As the door closed behind him, Manco sniffed. “Magic work well. All over quickly,” he muttered. “Then Manco go home.”
Chapter 20
Peter felt as if his grandmother’s French lesson had been going on forever. He was tired of irregular verbs, and of contorting his throat in order to chant Gallic vowels over and over again, his face grimacing as he tried not to sound painfully English. He was tired too of trying to remember where certain cities were to be found on the blank map she had drawn on a piece of paper. Who cared where Nantes was, or Lyons? As for the towns along the Loire, he simply wasn’t interested! Not when he was forced to learn about them, anyway. Left to his own devices, he’d have pored over a map for hours, committing as much to memory as he could, but when Grandmama was lecturing him like this, he hated it.
He was seated at the table in the long gallery, where his father’s painting things still lay, and his pen scratched and blobbed as he struck some work through and began again. How on earth, he wondered, did the French say “he wouldn’t have done even if he could?”
Oh, what did it matter anyway? Britain and France had been at war nearly all his life, so he wasn’t likely to go to France to find out how they said anything. His attention wandered, and he began to count the leads in one of the windows.
Cora strolled idly up and down, addressing him in French all the time. “Very well, sir, since you are more interested in the windows than your lessons, I will make you chant your vowels again. Begin.”
“Please, not the vowels again!” he groaned.
“Begin,” she repeated in her irritating way.
Peter’s visage became mutinous, and he said his vowels, but in as exaggerated an English way as possible. “Ay, ee, eye, oh, yew.”
Cora was cross, but as she was about to tick him off in no uncertain way, something outside caught her attention. “Good heavens, your mama is returning from the ride, and there is no sign of Mr. Lincoln! Oh dear, I hope nothing is wrong!”
Peter’s chair scraped, and he hurried to join her. Sure enough, his mother was riding back toward the Hall on her own, but she didn’t seem in all that much of a hurry.
“She’s only cantering, Grandmama, so I don’t think anything can have befallen Mr. Lincoln.”
“Then where is he?”
“I don’t know.” Then another movement caught Peter’s attention, and he glanced along the drive to see Rafe riding toward the Hall as well. He pointed. “Look, Sir Rafe!”
Cora sighed. “This is most tiresome,” she muttered.
Peter looked curiously at her. "Tiresome?”
“I was hoping Sir Rafe would have been and gone before she returned,” Cora explained.
“You mean, you knew he was coming today?”
“Yes, I confess I did. That is why I bundled your mama off with Mr. Lincoln.”
Peter grinned. “Well done, Grandmama!”
“Well, it would have been, if only it had worked,” she pointed out with some accuracy.
Peter looked at Rafe again. “I don’t want to see him at all, so please can I go out now, Grandmama?”
“Yes, I see no reason why not, but I expect you to be more helpful at your next lesson.”
“Yes, Grandmama.”
“I mean it, young man!”
Peter gave her a sudden hug. “So do I!” Then he ran toward the staircase and disappeared.
Cora watched the approaching riders again, especially her daughter. Why wasn’t Jack Lincoln with her? she wondered. Clearly he hadn’t met with an accident, or as Peter had pointed out, Emily would have been riding at a gallop to bring help.
So why else would he not be accompanying her? A thoughtful look came over Cora’s eyes. Well, it would be easy enough to find out, for Emily would arrive back at the Hall before Rafe, whom she had now seen. As Emily quickened her mount accordingly, Cora gathered up her skirts and left the long gallery.
Emily hastened into the hall just as Cora reached the bottom of the staircase. “Mama, Sir Rafe is coming here!”
“I know, dear,” Cora replied, taking full shrewd note of her daughter’s flushed face and bright eyes, which she could tell were not entirely due to the exercise of riding—or to the dubious thrill of Sir Rafe Warrender’s imminent arrival.
“You do not seem surprised he’s coming,” Emily said then.
Confession was good for the soul, Cora thought, and gave an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid it slipped my mind earlier that this was delivered from the castle.” She produced the note from her bodice.
Emily read it hastily, then looked accusingly at her mother. “It was addressed to me, yet I notice you have broken the seal and presumed to read it.”
“It fell on the floor, and I trod on it by mistake,” Cora fibbed.
“Really? I think I will take that with a pinch of salt. This is too bad of you, Mama. The note must have come well before Mr. Lincoln and I set out on our ride.”
“Yes, it did. Before breakfast, actually. My memory is so unreliable these days. No doubt it is my age.”
“There isn’t anything wrong with your memory. You deliberately omitted to mention it, then you contrived to send me out with Mr. Lincoln in order to be sure I was out of the house when Sir Rafe called!”
“Oh, Emily, my dear, do you really think I would stoop so ignobly?”
“Yes, I do,” Emily replied crushingly. “Well, you have been hoist with your own scheming petard, for I am here anyway.”
“More is the pity,” Cora muttered.
Emily was incensed. “Mama, you know how important this match is if I am to keep the Hall, yet you seem intent upon undermining my efforts.”
“This Warrender marriage is an abomination, Emily Fairfield, and the sooner you realize it the better!” Cora quickly changed the subject. “Anyway, where is Mr. Lincoln?”
The color on Emily’s cheeks deepened. “Somewhere in the park. I neither know nor care exactly where.”
“My dear, how can you speak in such a way?”
“Because Mr. Lincoln is not a gentleman after all!”
Cora’s lips parted. “Emily, are you saying that he ... ?”
“Made improper advances? Yes, Mama, I am.” But Emily had to avoid her mother’s eyes, for that had not been quite how it happened.
But Cora was too wily a bird to be so easily taken in. “Forgive me, my dear, but I find it hard to believe that he would act so without any encouragement.”
Emily’s breath caught indignantly. “Mama, are you suggesting that I led him on?”
“Did you?”
“Certainly not!” But Emily’s eyes slid away again, and the bloom on her cheeks told another tale.
“Methinks this lady doth protest too much, and that if anything it was six of one and half a dozen of the other,” Cora murmured.
Emily searched her mother’s eyes. “Why are you so prepared to think leniently of him?”
“Leniently? My dear, I don’t know what you mean ...”
“Yes, you do. What’s going on, Mama? I can tell when you are up to something.”
Cora spread her hands in a gesture of angelic innocence. “I have no idea what you mean,” she said in an infuriatingly bland tone.
Emily would have quizzed her more, but Rafe’s horse was heard in the courtyard. She glanced uneasily back, then whispered urgently to Cora, “Please, Mama, right now it doesn’t matter who was to blame. I have informed Mr. Lincoln that he is to leave the Hall without further ado, and that is the end of it.”
“Oh, Emily, you surely do not mean it!” Cora cried.
“I most certainly do mean it. In the meantime, I would prefer it if Sir Rafe knew nothing about him, and
to that end I shall see that we walk in the topiary garden, so there is no chance at all of us encountering Mr. Lincoln before he leaves.”
“Emily—”
“Mama, I wish to wipe this particular slate clean, do you understand? So let it seem that I went out to ride alone. What Sir Rafe doesn’t know will not cause him concern.”
“I will observe your wishes regarding not saying anything to your odious future lord, my dear, but as to Mr. Lincoln being thrown out in such a summary way, I’m afraid I cannot allow it.”
“Mama!”
“No, my dear. He came here to see me, and he is therefore my guest. I will not hear of him being sent away.”
“Even though he behaved monstrously toward me?” Emily was outraged.
Cora’s expression was wry. “My dear Emily, that monstrous behavior has made you glow! Don’t try to gull me with your talk of unwelcome advances, for I know you. Mr. Lincoln has brought you to life again, so I intend to keep him here come rain or shine.”
Emily was nonplussed, for it had never crossed her mind that her mother would not back her. But there was no time to say anything more because Rafe strode through the open door behind them.
“Ah, ladies,” he declared, and bowed dashingly over their hands.
Emily was still a little rattled by her mother’s attitude, and only managed a weak smile of greeting. “Why, Rafe, how good it is to see you again,” she said untruthfully, for right now she wished to have it out with dear Mama!
“You sound as if you were not expecting me.” His brows drew together slightly.
Cora gave a tinkle of laughter. “Oh, la, Sir Rafe, it is just that you have caught her before she was quite ready. She meant to have returned from her ride and changed into a pretty gown before you arrived.”