by Deryn Lake
Wonderful eyes with flecks of green and brown in them, clear as a brook and almost transparent, were staring into his, and John became tremendously aware of a small heart-shaped face, hair the rich bright shade of amber, and finely curved eyebrows sweeping up over eyelids pale as moonstones. Stuck in the doorway as he was, the Apothecary made a low bow and hit his head on the jamb as he straightened up. The girl smiled and held out her hand.
‘Henrietta Tireman.’
John fought for dignity. ‘John Rawlings, Madam.’ He kissed the outstretched fingers, then was forced to sit down hurriedly by the arrival of the Squire, who pushed him unceremoniously from the rear. Sir Ambrose hurled himself within, then stopped and gaped at the newcomer.
‘Well, I’ll be damned. If it ain’t Henrietta. What are you doing here, my dear?’
‘Why, Sir Ambrose. What a surprise,’ Miss Tireman replied, her voice just the slightest bit clipped. ‘I have been visiting an aunt in town and was to have returned home last night had there not been an accident with the stagecoach.’
John opened his mouth to offer the Squire his seat, since he and the lady were acquainted, but a sudden pressure from Miss Tireman’s leg, hardly proper but for all that very pleasant, made the Apothecary shoot her a covert glance. A slight roll of her eye told him everything, so he remained studiously silent.
‘Stagecoach’s loss, our gain,’ answered Sir Ambrose, leering a little.
‘Indeed,’ called Dr Hensey from the back. ‘It seems we two must sit together, Sir. I shall probably join you in a snooze.’
‘You may do as you please,’ answered Squire ungraciously. He took his seat.
‘Thank you,’ breathed Miss Tireman as the postillions cracked their whips and the new team of horses headed off into deepest Kent.
‘Not your ideal travelling companion, I take it?’ asked John, the clatter of the wheels drowning the sound of his voice.
‘I find the man has all the charm of a haystack,’ came the forthright reply. ‘We are neighbours, alas. Part of the social life of Winchelsea, such as it is. I come across him at every gathering and am running out of excuses to escape the amorous advances of the old wretch.’
John stared at her. ‘Do you live there as well?’
Henrietta’s crystal eyes once more looked directly into his. ‘Yes. Why ask?’
‘Because I am also on my way to Winchelsea.’
‘What a strange coincidence. Whom are you going to see?’
‘That’s just the point, I’m not really sure.’
She gazed at him blankly and suddenly, and for no reason, John found himself recounting the whole story of the woman who had bumped into him in the fog, how he had answered the summons to help the Voice from the Past.
Henrietta Tireman’s attractive lips parted slightly, vividly reminding John of a child listening to a fairy tale.
‘How thrilling!’ she said eventually. ‘I would never have thought Mrs Rose to have had an exciting history. Particularly one that involved a man as young as yourself.’
‘Mrs Rose?’ the Apothecary repeated, ignoring the innuendo. ‘Do you know her?’
‘You said the mystery woman lived in Petronilla’s Platt, didn’t you?’ John nodded his head. ‘Well, then it must be her. She comes to church every Sunday and is one of my father’s parishioners. He is the Reverend Richard Tireman, Rector of St Thomas the Martyr, by the way.’
‘I look forward to meeting him. So what does this Mrs Rose look like?’
‘The name clearly means nothing to you?’
‘No, it doesn’t. The Voice from the Past must be using a pseudonym.’
‘Better and better!’
Henrietta was looking more like a delicious child with every passing moment, and John found himself most attracted, not only because of her looks but also her enthusiasm.
‘Well, she’s no young beauty, that’s for sure. In fact I would imagine she has seen fifty at the very least. And yet there is a beauty about her, a kind of faded charm, like a sampler that has been left too long in the sun.’
A thought pierced the Apothecary’s mind. ‘Is her hair silver and does she wear face enamel? My apprentice described such a woman visiting my shop.’
‘Yes, that’s her. So you do know who it is.’
‘I think perhaps I might.’
‘Well that,’ said Miss Tireman, ‘is a very satisfactory conclusion.’
The weather worsened as they proceeded, for now not only was there a downpour but a howling wind to hamper the horses further. Staring through the window at the miserably hunched postillions, whose very backs spoke volumes about their extreme discomfort, John’s heart went out to them, and he determined to speak to his fellow passengers about a good tip when they finally reached their destination.
The flying coach had arrived at Sevenoaks, where there had been another change of horses, almost an hour later than planned, still before them another seventeen miles and a full three hours’ run to the village of Lamberhurst, where they were scheduled to dine. Sir Ambrose had wanted to stop for refreshments but had been outvoted by his fellow passengers, a fact which had left him much disgruntled and determined to grumble throughout the next leg of the journey.
‘Damned if I’ll see my bed tonight. What is the world coming to? They shouldn’t advertise as flying coaches if they go slow as the common stage.’
‘Come now, Sir Ambrose,’ Dr Hensey had said soothingly. ‘Nobody can control the weather. The poor devils are going as fast as they can without tipping us into the ditch. Have a little patience, I beg you.’
‘Patience be blowed! I expect service for my money. Besides, my man Withers is meeting me at The Swan in Hastings with the carriage at half past six.’
‘Well, he can wait surely.’
‘Of course he can,’ put in Miss Tireman firmly. ‘He’s a very patient soul. He has to be working for him,’ she added in an undertone. In her normal voice, she said, ‘In that case may I crave a ride with you, Sir Ambrose? I’m afraid Papa needed our conveyance for parish visits. He told me to hire a man and a trap when I got to Hastings.’
From the back, Sir Ambrose could be heard taking snuff, then sneezing. ‘Of course you can join me, my dear. It would be a pleasure,’ he said through the folds of his handkerchief.
‘And I trust you will extend the same kindness to Mr Rawlings. He too is bound for Winchelsea.’
There was a harrumphing sound which the resourceful Miss Tireman took to be an affirmative answer. ‘Oh, thank you,’ she gushed, nudging John in the ribs, another unladylike gesture but one which he enjoyed enormously. In fact, he thought, it was most delightful sitting next to her in the gloom like this, smelling her perfume and seeing her enchanting profile etched against the glow of the carriage lamps, lit early because of the wretchedness of the day. And then, unbidden, into the Apothecary’s mind came a picture of Coralie Clive’s dark beauty, of the flash of her emerald green eyes, and he sighed that even though they hardly saw one another, the actress should still have the power to haunt him.
‘Not much further,’ said Henrietta.
‘We’re very late though.’
‘We should have arrived to dine at just after one o’clock. Now it’s nearly three. However, I’m more concerned with my stomach than with the hour. I’m simply longing for something to eat. It seems a very long time since breakfast.’
‘It does indeed,’ answered John with feeling.
Half an hour later they rattled over the cobbles of The Chequers, an inn famous for welcoming travellers since the 1400s, set in the remote Kentish village of Lamberhurst. With great relief, the party descended from their carriage and made for the dining parlour, where all of them, including Miss Tireman, partook of a hearty repast. And it was there, just as the Squire was downing port as if it were the last drink he would ever have in his mortal life, the Apothecary and the doctor joining him, though somewhat more abstemiously, that news of further mishaps on the road reached their ears. One of the postillions,
having asked permission to join them at their table, informed them that trees had been blown down all along the route and that he was forced to take a diversion through Tenterden.
‘And how do you know this?’ asked Dr Hensey.
‘The coachmen and postillions eat together in their special parlour, Sir. The man on the up journey, as it were, has just told me he has had to go miles out of his way.’
‘This is very inconvenient. I have to see a patient in Hastings tomorrow.’
‘An appointment you’ll keep, Sir. If we work our way over the Romney Marsh to Winchelsea, we can drop the other passengers off then creep round the coast road to Hastings.’
‘But whatever time will we get there, man?’
‘That I can’t guarantee, Sir. But get there you will.’
‘And what about my man Withers?’ asked Sir Ambrose, genial again after downing port.
‘We can give him a message when we drop off the doctor.’
The Squire rubbed his hands. ‘Well, we may see our beds tonight after all.’
Henrietta gave a little shiver. ‘It will be dark soon.’
John turned to her. ‘Does that worry you?’
‘Not really. It’s just that I don’t relish the thought of driving over the Marsh in the blackness. It’s a bleak, desolate place at the best of times.’ She turned to the postillion. ‘Is there no other way?’
‘I’m afraid not, Miss. It’s the Marsh or nothing. The other road is impassable. I couldn’t risk the horses taking a tumble over some fallen tree trunk, d’ye see.’
‘Yes, I do. Very well, then.’ She got to her feet. ‘Gentlemen, if you will excuse me. I’ll go and refresh myself for the rest of the journey.’
‘Lovely girl,’ said Sir Ambrose, watching Miss Tireman’s departing back. ‘I’ve known her since she was a child. Not so lovely as her sister Rosalind, mark you. Now she really is a sensational beauty. And got herself a great match as a result.’
‘Really?’ John was only half listening, still enchanted by the recent presence of Henrietta.
‘Yes, damme. Daughter of a country parson marrying the Marquis of Rye. Have you ever heard the like?’ He did not wait for an answer, raising his glass on high. ‘Well, here’s to the rest of the journey, my friends. May we cross the marshland without mishap.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Dr Hensey, mopping his brow anxiously.
The Apothecary returned to earth. ‘So will I. To the Romney Marsh.’
‘And all its mysteries,’ added the Squire with a chuckle, and drew off the remains of his glass.
Chapter Three
They left The Chequers in a sea of spray, and plunged into the early dusk created by the lowering cloud cover. Staring through the window, John saw that the rain was finally beginning to ease off and the wind die down, so that now the wayside trees no longer bent and groaned over the road but stood straight and somehow menacingly still. Mist began to rise from the fields and swirl eerily about. It was the sort of evening that would make even the most foolhardy think twice about going out, and the superstitious firmly lock their doors and remain within.
‘Hobgoblin time,’ said Henrietta Tireman.
John looked at her. The outrageously feathered hat and the charming elfin face beneath looked vulnerable in the coach’s dimly lit interior, and it was as much as he could do not to take her small gloved hand and hold it in his.
‘Surely you don’t believe in such things,’ he answered.
‘No, of course not. Not during the hours of daylight, anyway. But on several occasions when I have been returning home late, I have crossed the Romney Marsh after nightfall and felt afraid of things unseen.’
‘And of things seen too, I should imagine. Wasn’t the place rife with smugglers at one time?’
‘Very much so. They used to export sheep or fleeces, quite illegally of course, and bring back French brandy, tea, silks, all sorts of things. The whole black trade had been going on for years.’
John looked thoughtful. ‘We’re both speaking in the past tense. So I presume the trials and executions of seven years ago really did put a stop to smuggling for good and all. Or am I being naïf?’
Henrietta gave him a smile like quicksilver. ‘My dear Mr Rawlings, one will never put a stop to anything in which there lies a profit. Indeed, for a while, relative peace and calm descended but now I have heard that the past tense has yet again become the present. A certain Dick Jarvis, bastard son of the infamous Kit, alias Gabriel Tompkins, leader of the Mayfield Gang and involved in God knows what other mischief to boot, has returned to emulate his scoundrelly sire and is working the Marsh once more.’
John laughed aloud at her turn of phrase. ‘Is he, by God! Well, let’s hope we don’t run into him.’
Henrietta laughed too, though not quite so heartily. ‘I believe that despite his many other faults, Dick’s father was not known for his cruelty. Let us hope his son takes after him.’
‘But surely the outbreak of war will put a stop to the fellow’s schemes. He’s not going to find it so easy to get his wool over to France with the French and English navies baring their teeth at one another across the Channel.’
‘On the contrary, I expect his trade will increase.’
‘Why do you say that?’ asked John, astonished.
‘Because he will be seen as a useful form of transport for both spies and their secret correspondence. If letters go direct there is no fear of them being intercepted.’
The Apothecary frowned. ‘That’s the second time this week that someone has mentioned spies to me.’
‘No doubt you’ll hear the word frequently from now on. In times of hostility all the secret agents come crawling out of the woodwork, do they not?’
‘Yes, I suppose you’re right.’
John and Henrietta sat in silence for a moment, thinking about the times that lay ahead, wondering how and when the savagery of war would end. And thus with their thoughts miles away were startled when the postillion riding the second team turned and tapped on the window with his whip.
‘Are you gentlemen armed?’ he called through the glass.
‘I am,’ John answered, ‘but I don’t know about the others.’
He moved in his seat, pulling back the curtain which separated the two places, drawn earlier by the Squire when he decided to have yet another doze and consequently cutting Dr Hensey off from his other companions.
‘Are you both armed?’ he called into the dimness.
His fellow travellers woke up abruptly, the doctor giving a small snug snore which he disguised with a cough, Sir Ambrose bellowing, ‘Who’s there, dammit? What?’
‘It’s John Rawlings,’ the Apothecary answered quickly before the Squire leaped to his feet in alarm. ‘The postillion has just asked if we are carrying weapons.’
‘I am not,’ answered Dr Hensey firmly. ‘It is my vocation to heal not to harm.’
‘Well, I’m armed to the teeth,’ Sir Ambrose rejoindered with satisfaction. ‘Always travel with a pair of pistols, to say nothing of a sword. Why does he want to know?’
John turned back. ‘Yes, we are. Why?’ he called through the glass.
‘Just heading through Tenterden, Sir. Rum place. Used to be a haunt of smugglers and there’s word amongst the carriers that they’re coming back. A stagecoach was stopped here a few nights ago, and it wasn’t by highwaymen.’
‘Tally ho,’ said Sir Ambrose, leaning forward so that his face appeared between John and Miss Tireman. ‘Let the bastards just try, that’s all I ask. Shoot their heads clean orff, so I will.’
In the dimness John felt rather than saw Henrietta’s grin and would have laughed had not every effort gone into keeping upright on his seat as, with a crack of whips, the two riders urged the horses to a frenzied pace as they charged through the small town, determined to stop for nothing.
‘Oh, my goodness, I’m sorry!’ exclaimed Miss Tireman, as she was hurled against him, displacing the Squire who went sprawling on t
o the floor.
‘My pleasure entirely,’ said John, and used the excuse to hold on to her tightly as the flying coach lived up to its name and crashed over the main track between the dwellings.
For a few frantic minutes, the occupants of the post chaise were thrown about like toys in a box, then the pace slowed and there was a cry of triumph from the two postillions.
‘We’re through! But keep your weapons handy, gentlemen.’
‘Where are we going now?’ called John.
‘We’ll pick our way round Shirley Moor, then on to Appledore, Sir,’ the postillion answered over his shoulder.
‘Will somebody help me up?’ said Sir Ambrose plaintively, and for the first time since they met the Apothecary felt sorry for him, quite unable to get his balance and rolling round the carriage floor like an upturned beetle.
Dr Hensey recovered his equilibrium. ‘My dear Sir, pray allow me to give you a hand. You have sustained no injury I trust.’
‘M’leg feels a bit the worse for wear. I think I cracked my knee as I went down.’
Somewhat reluctantly, his better nature winning the day, the Apothecary released his hold on Miss Tireman and went to the Squire’s rescue, somehow heaving him up and back on to his seat, all the while travelling at a lively pace across the rough terrain of the marshlands.
‘Permit me to examine the injured limb,’ said the doctor, which the Squire, with a great deal of grunting, allowed him to do.
Henrietta looked up at her companion. ‘Mr Rawlings, if we drive over bumpy ways again, may I trouble you to hold me as you did before. I am quite certain it was your strong arm that prevented me ending up alongside Squire Ffloote. A fate I would not prefer,’ she added in a whisper.
‘I should be delighted,’ answered the Apothecary enthusiastically, and made a concerted effort to send Coralie Clive packing to the deepest recesses of his memory. Looking over the back of his seat, he saw that the doctor was now applying some lotion to Sir Ambrose’s knee, prior to swathing it in a bandage. Meanwhile, the Squire was groaning a great deal and taking nips of brandy from a hip flask.