by Cindy Anstey
“Let us perform for you, good sir,” another male voice called. “I am Saint George. Ignore my craggy crown; I just had a nasty encounter with a most vicious shrubbery.”
“Some other time, perhaps.” Niven sounded delightfully irritated.
“Making a delivery?”
“Indeed.” There was a shift as if Niven had lifted the reins. “Make way!”
“No, kind sir. The Yuletide season is all about charity and compassion to those less fortunate. And we are most unfortunate, are we not, Dr. Quack? We shall perform for you, gentlemen, and you will offer us a few worthless coins.”
“I have none,” Niven said, even as Rolland snickered.
“Ah, then you will be generous with a libation. No, no, Mr. Niven, it will not do. Lay your reins aside and enjoy. Ten minutes of your time, fifteen at most. And then you will share a taste of your wine with us—it need not be your finest. We will be quite content with your worst. And now … hold the horses, Ned … I mean, Father Christmas. Might as well make yourself useful.”
There was a scuffling sound, a few cleared throats, and Rolland whispered, presumably to Niven, “Might as well let them perform. It would look far worse to drive off—it would garner too much attention.”
Niven’s answer was inarticulate, but he did not sound pleased.
And even as the mummers prepared for their presentation, Kate continued to tap Matt’s foot—with great enthusiasm. It was almost as if she were trying to send him a message, but about what he had no idea.
* * *
IF KATE COULD have jumped for joy, she would have. That voice! She recognized it … him! The raspy voice of the dragon could be none other than Jeremy Bulfinchwiggins, one of her brother Merle’s closest friends. Jeremy used to be a terrible torment when she was growing up, and yet now Kate was overjoyed to think that he stood only a few feet away.
She needed to get Jeremy’s attention. She needed him to look under the canvas of the wagon. As soon as he saw her trussed and gagged—well, that would be the end of that. And yet try as she might, Kate could not scream or shout past her gag. The sound she produced was no more than a weak moan, lost in the conversation and now in the opening words of the Fool. As the characters were introduced, Kate bided her time.
“IN COMES SAINT GEORGE / THE NOBLE CHAMPION BOLD
WITH BRIGHT SWORD AND BUCKLE AT HIS SIDE / HE WON THREE CROWNS OF GOLD.”
The play was often improvised, and there was no doubting the embellishment of this amateur troupe, for Saint George, in this version, challenged the dragon, not the Turkish knight.
And as they fought, Kate could hear the thud of a blunt sword and pounding steps as they leapt and danced around the wagon. Panting breath came near, raising Kate’s hopes, and then faded away again. Twice more, Kate thought the players close enough to hear her moaning, but they were too intent on their own purpose, too caught up in the drama, to notice anything untoward in the wagon. And then the tragedy—Saint George, not the dragon, was slain. A great shout of horror resounded throughout the troupe … overriding Niven’s sigh of impatience.
“Excellent, well done. We will be go—”
“Wait, Mr. Niven. We can hope for a miracle to restore poor Saint George to life,” Father Christmas said … or was it the Fool? Kate could no longer tell; they were all moving about too quickly. “Let us call for a doctor. Dr. Quack, are you here?”
“I am here,” a voice called from nearby. It sounded as if the man was standing at the back of the wagon.
Kate kicked out and shouted—moaned—again. She felt the wagon shaking as Matt joined her, and yet no one noticed. The play went on without any hesitation until the doctor, the wonderful Dr. Quack, improvised a tiny bit more.
“LAY HIM ON THIS ROLLING BED / FOR IT NEVER SHOULD BE SAID,
THAT I WORKED UPON THE GROUND / TO RAISE A MAN FROM THE DEAD.”
And with those words, Kate felt the wonderful burden of a weight added to her discomfort. This time she undulated and braced herself on the ring, pulling her legs up—batting at the weight. She could feel Matt doing the same.
“Ack! What is that?”
“Get off my wagon!” Niven shouted, no doubt realizing the danger of discovery. “I have a wild cat under there.”
“That’s no cat!” Saint George shouted, miraculously recovered without the aid of Dr. Quack. “It’s too big.”
Kate could feel scrambling movement, and she tried to kick out again, following it as best she could.
“Ack, it did it again!” the voice shouted. “John, what is that?”
There was a rattling sound at the edge of the canvas, and Kate held her breath. At last, at last rescue was at hand.
“Stand away!” Niven shouted.
The rattling abated and then ceased. In a last-ditch effort, Kate raised her legs and shouted as loud as she could. The sound she produced was still an inarticulate moan, but when Matt joined his moan with hers, it reverberated loudly in the silence. And there was nothing catlike about it.
“I think we need to know what you are carrying, Mr. Niven. There is something havey-cavey going on here.”
“Nothing that need concern you. This is none of your business. I will be on my way. Move, Father Christmas, or you will be trampled.” There was a snap of reins, and the wagon jerked forward, but that was all—only a roll of a few feet and then it stopped again.
“Grab the leathers, Ned,” a voice said. “I have the horses’ heads.”
“Now, that is rather pointless, Mr. Niven,” another voice said, sounding eerily calm. “Put the pistol down, sir. You know as well as we do that those things are dreadfully inaccurate and there are five of us to your two—oh, where is…? It would seem that your companion has left you, Mr. Niven. It is now five to one. Well done, Jeremy.”
Kate heard and felt a scuffle as the wagon rocked from side to side. Niven shouted in rage, and then there was a loud thud.
“Oh, bother,” the raspy voice of Jeremy said. “I hit him a bit harder than I intended.”
“Well, there is no doubt he will have a headache when he awakes, but who’s to say he didn’t deserve it?”
The scratching at the back of the wagon returned and then the canvas was lifted; a lantern was thrust forward. Squinting in the sudden light, Kate stared at the three painted faces. The ash-darkened face of Saint George with his crown askew, the red and yellow stripes of the Fool with a tricorner hat decorated with jingle bells, and the green face of a frowning dragon, Jeremy Bulfinchwiggins.
Kate smiled despite her gag.
“Miss Kate!” Jeremy engendered her name with horror, then grabbed her by the boot, trying to pull her free, not realizing that she was—“She’s been tied to the bloody wagon. The rotter! Give him a kick, Ned, while you are standing over him!”
Kate saw Saint George glance aside and subtly negate Jeremy’s order with a shake of his head. Then Matt moved, drawing all eyes to the wagon once more.
“What is going on?!” The Fool jumped and Saint George threw the canvas back farther, exposing Matt, trussed and gagged and sporting a grin as goofy as Kate’s.
Their eyes met, and Matt winked. Kate laughed soundlessly and laid her head back on the hard wooden floor of the wagon. Exhausted, aware that her trussing ropes were being cut, Kate hardly moved until helping hands pulled the gag from her mouth and slid her to the tailboard. Someone offered her water, which she gulped greedily until, at last, her mouth felt less like a sandpit. And yet when she tried to speak, the sound was more of a croak. Matt beside her was undergoing the same ministrations, and he, too, croaked a thank-you.
Turning toward him, with every intention of saying something ridiculous to lighten the mood, Kate met Matt’s gaze and was rendered mute. The tenderness, the caring, the relief, and the regard in his eyes were palpable. Kate smiled and promptly burst into tears.
Matt lifted his arm, offering Kate his shoulder. She slid next to him, turning her face into his coat, and proceeded to vent her pent-up anxiety
. The colorful faces around them stepped away, affording them a modicum of privacy. From the corner of her eye, Kate could see that Niven was soon trussed with his own rope. Three members of the troupe stood at the edge of the lanterns’ glow, staring into the night, and declared that “the other one” got away.
* * *
MATT MARVELED AT Miss Kate Darby. Her clear thinking had saved the day. Batting at Saint George with their legs had done the job. Matt was certain they would never have succeeded in attracting the attention of the mummers otherwise. That this wonderful girl, so determined, so full of spirit, and so charming, could keep fear at bay until all was well left Matt in awe.
He gently kissed the top of her head, felt her grip tighten on his lapel, and decided that he wanted nothing more than to stay exactly as he was. Yes, the wagon was hard, the air bitterly cold, and he was tired beyond reason, but holding Kate in his arms was as near to heaven as he had ever been, and he would be happy if it never ended.
“We should probably explain,” Kate said, finally lifting her head—effectively ending their heavenly embrace.
Wiping the tears from her face, Matt sighed and leaned in, kissing her forehead. Had there been no one else around, even if they were studiously looking the other way, Matt would have chosen her lips instead. But the last thing Kate needed was to lose her reputation, and they were already treading the line, sitting as close as they were. Most would understand him consoling Kate after an ordeal such as this … when it was explained.
And so Matt did the honors with Kate tucked against his side, watching calmly, no longer visibly upset, no longer crying.
The men were suitably outraged—Saint George had to restrain the dragon, who shouted in fury and wanted to have at Niven again. However, order prevailed and the villain was tossed into the wagon, where Matt had been not twenty minutes earlier. Matt and Kate were helped onto the driver’s bench, where they could huddle—supposedly against the cold—while Jeremy took up the reins. With two in front and two at the back, the costumed men accompanied and guarded the wagon as it was turned around. They rode back into Tishdale and then out the east road to Hendred, the squire’s manor.
And as the wagon rattled down the road, Matt allowed his thoughts to return to the very question that had plunged them into danger.
Where was Johnny?
chapter 16
In which Kate tries to listen through good solid oak—to no avail
“This is most grievous,” Lord Bobbington said, shaking his head after the tale was told. He took Kate’s empty teacup from her, placing it on the trolley. Turning his gaze to the study’s busy Bokhara carpet, he frowned and shook his head and then frowned again. When he looked up, meeting Kate’s questioning gaze, he continued, “It would seem that we have our villains, or at least know who they are. I am sorry that you have had to pay such a cost … but I can assure you that I will not rest until we have Belcher and Rolland confined. Niven has been locked in the storage shed for now, and the groom standing guard has been instructed to ignore his claims of innocence, bribery, and threats … for I understand all three have been tried.”
“And Johnny?” she asked, almost afraid of the answer.
“I pray that it’s not true, but it does not look good for the young footman. We will search, of course. I’m sure Squire Fleming can find us some scent dogs.” He glanced in the old gentleman’s direction.
They were clustered in the mahogany-lined study of Hendred Manor and, being that it was not an overly large room, only Kate and Squire Fleming were seated. Lord Bobbington paced in front of the window while Matt leaned heavily against the desk across from the fireplace.
The mummers had departed almost as soon as they had delivered Matt and Kate to safety. They hadn’t even offered to perform their drama, citing a sudden need to return to their homes. Squire Fleming had sent them away with fruitcake and mince pies to reward their valor, but the men seemed dazed. Were they upset about devilry in their midst, or had they come to realize that they had saved two people’s lives? Kate would have to ask Jeremy—one day.
“Yes, of course, scent dogs,” the squire said. “Though it will have to wait until morning.” When Kate gasped, he reached out and patted her hand. “It cannot be helped, my dear. The moon is not out to help us. But we shall start at first light at the Bidford farm. Those poor folks—in their eighties, you know. They have become reclusive as they’ve aged. I am certain they had no idea what was going on in their barn. Cruel to be used thus.” And then he blinked as if pulling himself back into the present. “Yes, scent dogs can be arranged to go after Rolland, as well.”
“Indeed.” Bobbington nodded. “We can’t let him get away!”
“But scent dogs need a scent.” The squire sat up straighter and looked toward Matt. “A coat—hose, perhaps. Even a cap would do.”
Matt drew in a ragged breath and nodded as he did so. “I’m sure I can find something in Johnny’s room.”
“Excellent, excellent.” The squire leaned toward the wall and yanked on the bellpull. “I’ll have my driver take you back to Shackleford Park in my coach.”
“Call for mine,” Lord Bobbington said as he looked toward the door. “I’ll explain to the Beeswangers.” And then he glanced at Kate with a mouth lifted at the corners—not really a smile, for there was more than a hint of tension in his eyes. “You will have been missed, and I hope my presence will mitigate the consequences. I am so very sorry that you were subject to such uncalled-for behavior—such abominable treatment.” He sighed, shook his head at a private thought, and then straightened his shoulders. “I will take the opportunity to enlist some assistance while I am there. We will need as many men as possible combing the woods in the morning—three search parties.”
Kate glanced at Matt, noting the red marks where the gag had rubbed across his cheeks; she likely sported the same. And then there were their wrists—raw and covered in dried blood. It was unlikely that the Beeswangers or Steeples would send them packing without being given an opportunity to explain. The marks of imprisonment were too blatant.
Still, she greatly appreciated the company of Lord Bobbington. To be sent home in a coach was more than a kindness. It was a sign of respect, and to be accompanied by a baron at the same time increased the honor tenfold.
Handed into the closed coach, with a warm brick at her feet and a blanket across her knees, Kate marveled at the comfort. Matt sat beside her, cossetted in a like manner. She nodded her appreciation to Lord Bobbington as they headed south along the main road through Tishdale. The coach dipped as it hit a particularly large rut, causing the carriage to bounce with excess enthusiasm. Matt grunted in discomfort.
“Problem?” Lord Bobbington inquired with a frown.
“Bruised ribs, my lord. Another gift from Rolland.”
Lord Bobbington shook his head, curled his mouth in undisguised disgust, and turned his eyes to the dark window.
Kate smiled up at Matt, offering him wordless sympathy, but her effort was lost when he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it gently. Kate was transfixed, forgetting to breathe for a moment. Her heart thrummed; her ears buzzed, and she swallowed with difficulty. Forcing her eyes away, Kate glanced at Lord Bobbington. She was relieved to see that he was still staring out at the night. But then, when she shifted her gaze to the window, she met the gentleman’s eyes in the mirrorlike surface, and she knew that he had seen Matt kiss her hand and noted her reaction.
Lord Bobbington was smiling—a broad grin that stretched from ear to ear.
* * *
WHEN THE LARGE coach emblazoned with the Bobbington coat of arms came to a halt at the overly illuminated Shackleford Park, it did so at the undistinguished servants’ entrance, not the regal front doors. Before the accompanying footmen had jumped to the ground, said door flew open and staff streamed outside wearing neither coats nor scarves.
Kate, watching from the carriage, marveled at the number of lanterns set up in the yard and the clusters of candles si
tting on the windowsills of what was normally a dark corner of the manor after dusk. The crowd parted as Mrs. Lundy stepped forward with a most disconcerting frown, tremendous worry in her eyes. Quickly unlatching the window, Kate dropped the glass and waved until the movement caught the housekeeper’s gaze. Mrs. Lundy raced to the side of the carriage, tears in her eyes.
“Oh, my dear, my dear. I have been so worried. Thank heavens you are well—but what is this?” she said, reaching up to touch Kate’s cheek. Her frown re-formed, and she looked past Kate toward where Matt waited beside her. “And Mr. Harlow, you as well. Have you had an unpleasant adventure?”
“Most unpleasant, Mrs. Lundy. I will explain all in a moment,” Kate said softly.
The steps were lowered and the coach door opened to reveal the tall, lanky form of Lord Bobbington. Those gathered shifted back to allow the baron room to descend.
Leaning out, Kate squeezed Mrs. Lundy’s hand in reassurance, but in doing so she unintentionally increased the poor woman’s anxiety.
“Your … your wrist, dearest Kate. It looks … well, I won’t say what it looks like because it cannot be. You were not bound, were you?”
With a heavy sigh, Kate nodded ever so slightly and watched as tears formed once again in Mrs. Lundy’s eyes. “We are fine, Mrs. Lundy. Please don’t be distressed.”
The woman nodded silently.
“Away, away! Out of the way!” Walker shouted. He elbowed and pushed to the front of those gathered and then bowed before Lord Bobbington. “Welcome, my lord. I—”
“I need to speak with Mr. Beeswanger, Wooker.” Lord Bobbington turned to offer Kate a hand out of the carriage, and a wink of conspiracy.
“Walker, my lord.”
Lord Bobbington pivoted. “If you say so.” And with that he led the procession into the manor, waited until Kate and Matt were comfortably ensconced in the housekeeper’s sitting room, and then followed the butler to the front of the house.
MONDAY, DECEMBER 22, 1817