“Lost him, did he?” asked Longfellow with a trace of scorn. “Until we found him in this little backwater. Too bad you didn’t have one of our local lads with your man in Providence, to help you track the fellow. Most are quite good at it—apparently, better even than some from England. Do you hunt, Captain?” He was gratified to see Montagu stiffen slightly.
“As most gentlemen do.”
“I’m sure you’ve followed many beasts in your time, and dispatched them. Although it’s always seemed to me there’s generally so little harm in those poor old foxes, it’s a puzzle why you’d want to dress up in a red coat and run after them, when you could be doing far more helpful things about the countryside.”
“I still don’t understand,” interjected Charlotte, hoping to at least delay the squall that blackened the Captain’s brow, “why Middleton came here to stage his disappearance in the first place. I imagine it’s likely he thought we were ‘bumpkins,’ as the Dutch say. Or possibly, small potatoes,” she added, smiling. “I know the world thinks life is slow and backward here, which is a thing that can sometimes put our people’s noses out of joint. But why Bracebridge, in particular?”
Montagu approved of the lady’s modesty and tact, as much as he felt her neighbor’s attitude rub against his nature and breeding. For Mrs. Willet, at least, he found it necessary to add a warning.
“It’s probable that Duncan Middleton came to Bracebridge because he has an accomplice here. He hasn’t taken his own horse away, nor have I heard of him buying another. And it’s a long walk from here to Boston, especially for a man crippled with gout. So, someone must have obtained one for him. As I’ve said, I’ll go after him tomorrow, and I’ll send word when we have him in custody. But until we’ve had a chance to question the man thoroughly, it might be wise to keep watch for any other unusual activities here. Middleton plays a dangerous game, and so might anyone he’s chosen to help him.”
“You think, then,” Longfellow said gravely, his barbs forgotten, “that someone among us might be planning to do more harm.”
“I really can’t say,” Montagu admitted. “But I think it would be prudent to assume that could be the case.
CONVERSATION WAS ABRUPTLY arrested by the arrival of the pigeon pastry. This time, the new dish was brought in by Mary Frye.
The girl’s tense features reminded Mrs. Willett of other matters at hand. As Richard Longfellow cut open the steaming, egg-glazed crust, and Mary gathered the previous course onto her tray, Charlotte decided it was high time to clear the name of Gabriel Fortier.
“Captain Montagu,” she began with a look of hope, “I believe we can assume the coin Peter Lynch found this morning is likely to have come from Jack Pennywort, who picked it up on the road—”
“I’ll enjoy roasting Pennywort later this evening for lying to me, after I’ve had him plucked,” Montagu assured her.
“Yes, well, then don’t you think you might tell the village that you’ve laid to rest any reason for suspecting Mr. Fortier of committing a crime? I believe he has friends who would be relieved to hear he’s no longer being sought.”
A grateful look from the serving girl was quick in coming.
“Everyone certainly seems upset when they talk about him,” Diana agreed. “In fact, I wonder if it might not still be a good idea to find him, and watch him for his own good.”
“Why, exactly, do you say that, Miss Longfellow?” Montagu asked gently, perhaps hoping to mend a fence or two.
“From what I hear, it’s more than stealing or murder that they accuse the Frenchman of now. He’s being talked about as some sort of hellish magician.”
“Where have you heard this?” her brother asked.
“From Cicero, of course. For instance, they say it’s because of Fortier that one of the local men injured his arm at the cider press this morning. It seems they were all standing around as usual, and one man’s eyes suddenly grew as big as saucers, like the dog in the children’s tale. Then he began to speak in tongues to the owner’s cat, which of course instantly became a witch’s familiar in the opinion of everyone there. After that, he knocked down several of the men like ninepins, before he fell against the gears and did himself harm.”
“I’ve heard something else quite recently, about a boy who may have disappeared …” Charlotte added quietly, as Diana continued to laugh at her own story, and Mary left by the passage door.
“They get together and drink themselves silly,” Longfellow muttered through his napkin, as he worked a stray piece of shot out of a mouthful of bird. “Then they blame anything but themselves when the inevitable happens. One would hardly think they needed magic for that.”
“What’s this about a missing boy?” Montagu asked Charlotte.
“Two men were discussing it by the gate outside … they greeted me as I came in. I didn’t think very much about it, knowing how some young men have a way of getting lost, from time to time. Now, I wonder … They asked me if I’d seen him, thinking, I suppose, that he might be with Lem Wainwright, who lives with me. Oh—the missing boy’s name is Sam Dudley.”
“Sam?” Longfellow responded, alerted as much by her tone as her words. “Where was he last seen, and when?”
“They said he went out to hunt some time before dawn. No one remembers where he planned to go, but as of four o’clock, he hadn’t returned. His family, or at least his mother, is quite worried.”
They followed Montagu’s gaze as he stared toward the steamy window. The faintly illuminated branches beyond showed that the wind was still very active, while the darkness had fallen completely. As they watched, beads of rain appeared on the glass, then flew against it as if thrown in handfuls, before racing down in gathering streams. Behind them, the fire beneath the wide chimney hissed a warning.
“It’s hardly an afternoon to stay outside, is it?” Diana ventured, a little uncertain.
“How old is this boy?” Montagu asked abruptly.
“Fifteen, or sixteen,” Charlotte answered.
While his sister returned to her portion of the pigeon pie, Longfellow leaned back with a blank look. “He’s probably found someone to visit—possibly a young lady,” he suggested at last.
“And the Frenchman’s still missing, too,” Montagu mused, pushing a piece of carrot across his plate. “If he weren’t, I’d have his hide or the truth,” he added, plainly worried about the possibilities before him.
Quite suddenly, a gust of wind blew every flame on the table sideways.
Then, as if by some form of magic, a silent form appeared in the dark mouth of the kitchen passage.
“THE FRENCHMAN WAS missing, Capitaine. Now, he is here.”
The new voice that broke the silence caused heads to swirl, and in an instant, all eyes took in the man who stood before them.
On closer inspection, there were two figures standing there, one behind the other; Gabriel Fortier stood to the front, while over the Frenchman’s shoulder, Mary Frye’s pale face could just be seen. Clearly, she had known where he was all along, and had brought him in from nearby.
“I hide no more,” Gabriel stated flatly, looking around the room at all of them, but letting his glance rest on Diana longer than on any other. He seemed to see something to address in her eyes, while she returned his look with unconcealed interest. Her evident approval, thought Charlotte, could not have been lost on anyone present.
“I have come, also,” he continued boldly, “to claim my Marie. We are in love. We would run away together, but she is bound here. I respect this … I respect Jonathan Pratt for giving her his protection. It is for this reason only that we wait—not for any fear of a tyranneau,” he said bravely, barely refraining from spitting on the floor to drive home his point in the time-honored way.
Edmund Montagu put down his fork and knife, and dabbed his lips with a damask napkin.
“I hope several questions will be answered before either of you leaves this inn tonight,” he said. But Montagu made no attempt to rise; he had se
en Gabriel’s hand go toward his belt, half hidden beneath a billowing shirt. It was not unlikely that Fortier, clearly a woodsman, carried a weapon of some sort, concealed but within easy reach.
“I may answer questions for you, Captaine, but I am protected by the rights of an Englishman. I know that you are unable to hold me without just cause. And I remind you that you have no legal body behind you, as well.”
“Is everyone here mad?” Montagu asked the company at large. “The rights of an Englishman? Who’ll claim them next—Louis Quinze?”
But Fortier went on in language that was well chosen, if delivered with a distinct accent.
“There are witnesses, you know, who will say that I was not there when the old man in the red cloak disappeared. Jack Pennywort saw no one else, as he tells everyone. On that night, I was by the river, regarding the moon. Mary and I were to meet, but I saw all the people, so I waited. Later I heard them return, calling out my name. Many of them were angry. I saw the smith, Nathan, give Mary his arm, and take her home. I only returned to the Blue Boar at midnight, through a loose window. No one saw me but for Phineas Wise. He warned me to go very early in the morning, and I followed his advice.”
Gabriel Fortier paused and glanced back at Mary, who again seemed about to faint. Silently, he took her hand and helped her to sink gently into a chair that stood against the wall. The girl looked up into the Frenchman’s passionate face. Charlotte saw with interest that Mary was still unused to such tenderness.
“There is really no need for an alibi now, Fortier—” Longfellow began.
“Did you see anyone else by the river?” Montagu interrupted.
“No—no one.”
“What did you do with yourself after that?”
“Most of the time, I watched from the woods. The next night, I slept in Mme. Willett’s laiterie—her dairy. This morning, she nearly found me. I hope she was not afraid.”
Charlotte only smiled in reply. That explained, she quickly reasoned, why Orpheus hadn’t growled last night, when she thought she saw a face at the window. The two had probably been introduced by Mary some time before.
“The Devil, you say! And no one told me?” Now it was Longfellow who interrupted, realizing that Charlotte might have been injured—at the very least, by sharp tongues of the village.
“But why do you stay, away from your family and your work, when you believe Mary is protected at the inn?” Montagu demanded.
“If Peter Lynch were to force Marie to—” Fortier swallowed hard before he summoned enough calm to continue. “If he can get her into his bed, then she will be made to marry him, even against her will. That must not happen. So, I spend my time watching him, or her. What else can I do?”
It was an answer that affected them all, and made Mary lower her eyes to hide tears that filled them. Was it love, wondered Charlotte, or shame? Or perhaps hatred, for Peter Lynch?
“It is difficult to hide, when you are poor—though the fault is not your own,” Gabriel went on practically, possibly to draw their attention away from Mary. “Even when you begin to know a place. Much of the time, one can only live like an animal in the woods. It is very difficult, with men and boys coming to hunt, or looking at the birds in the trees; even little girls arrive, picking up nuts and nearly finding you. It is not a position for anyone to admire. And it is cold at this time of year, and very wet. So I have decided to come inside again.”
“Where will you stay tonight?” asked Jonathan Pratt behind him. Gabriel turned.
“I am a free man. I do not need to answer,” the young man finally replied, reminding Charlotte of the rooster who ruled the roost of her hen house.
“I suppose not,” the innkeeper said. “I was about to offer you a place here. I had an idea that I might need some heavy chores done before winter sets in. Since my help is mostly female, I thought I could make use of another man’s hands.”
While Gabriel considered, Pratt brushed by him with the tray holding the party’s baked apples and a red custard, which he set down.
“Stay in the stable then, for now,” Jonathan continued. “It’s dry, and reasonably warm. Later, we’ll arrange for something better.”
First Gabriel, and then Mary, seemed ready to speak. But the landlord looked severely at them both.
“If you’re finished, this is a private dining room. I’ll finish serving the guests myself.”
“Two lost, one found,” Charlotte sighed softly as the relieved couple left the room, and the desserts were set upon the table. But the peaceful finale that Jonathan Pratt expected for his guests was not to be. Only moments after they had started on the fruit and the pudding, an explosion of sound came from the direction of the kitchen. It was quickly followed by Elizabeth the cook, who burst into the room with her plump arms flying.
“It’s the miller—full of rum, and come to take our Mary!” she cried.
Then, she turned around and rushed back out through the open doorway, and down the reverberating hall.
Chapter 16
BY GEORGE!” SHOUTED Jonathan Pratt, following at the large woman’s heels.
Chairs immediately scraped as all four diners rose to pursue the cook and the innkeeper down the dark passage. Because Charlotte and Longfellow knew the miller’s ways, as well as his strength, they hurried on with trepidation. Diana was only glad for some exercise to counteract the dulling effects of a large dinner. And Edmund Montagu thought, as he followed Miss Longfellow’s swinging skirts, of Tom Jones’s preposterous inn at Upton—though he suspected this situation might prove to be far more dangerous. The scene they found in the kitchen did little to allay his fears.
Elizabeth stood facing the scowling Peter Lynch with a butter churn paddle, while several feet away, Mary wielded a wickedly sharp boning knife—not, Montagu noted with interest, in the usual way of women, but low and underhand, as one who had witnessed this sort of fight before. Trapped against a table near the far wall, Fortier could only watch. So far, he alone had been unable to find a weapon. The whole scene was lit by the glow from the long fire, where meat continued to roast on an unturned spit while its attendant, the cook’s young daughter, cowered in the warming nook.
“I need no one else to tell me my business,” Peter Lynch roared, shifting away from the two women and making for the Frenchman. Gabriel picked up a bench and held it like a shield before him. He had not been carrying a gun or a knife after all, thought Montagu, while he watched Longfellow walk bravely between the miller and his intended victim.
“Since you’re careful of your own affairs, Peter,” Longfellow soon suggested in a remarkably dry tone (considering the circumstances), “you might want to consider this: Captain Montagu represents the law; in fact, he has been sent on the king’s business by Governor Bernard. Perhaps you know that the governor takes a dim view of the murder of his subjects, be they court or country … or even Frenchmen. He’s also fond of taking their persecutors to court, because it gives him a chance to make someone’s possessions his own. Or, let us say, the Commonwealth’s. This sort of thing also helps keep many lawyers busy and well exercised, which in turn keeps them out of trouble—at least as much as can be expected.
“After considering the evidence, Captain Montagu sees no reason to charge Fortier with any crime. So you can see, Peter, that it would be in your interest to stop now, turn around … and leave.”
“Leave her to lie with this?” the miller snarled, flinging an arm at the corner. “Why, for all I know he’s already—”
Abruptly, a new thought struck Peter Lynch, causing first a grimace, and then a grin. Slowly, he lowered his clenched fist, and soon a heavy chuckle could be heard coming from his straining, casklike chest.
As Lynch relaxed, Gabriel took the chance he’d been waiting for. With the scream of a panther, the smaller man raised the bench he held up into the air, rushed forward, and brought it down hard against the miller’s head. The whole thing was done with such force that the two soon found themselves lying on the
plank floor, in a tangle of limbs and boards.
At the same time, Mary bent and crawled closer, as if to better see what damaged had been done. But as she began to rise, Montagu came up behind her and clapped a hand onto her wrist. Then he took away the deadly knife. Her face in her hands, Mary fell forward and wept. Gabriel saw, and his face reflected her anguish. Peter Lynch looked, and grew a cruel, lopsided smile. Thrusting himself up and back onto bulging haunches, the miller rose to totter unsteadily on his thick boots, and finally broke into an ugly laugh.
“She’s promised to me, innkeeper, as soon as you’re done with her. And no brat of a boy is going to stand in my way! Let him follow me like a pup, and starve if he wants to. It won’t change the way things are with you or me, or with Elias Frye, either. Her father’s given me his word, and I intend to see he keeps it! Sooner or later, the girl will be mine.”
Finished with his speech, he turned to go, but Charlotte Willett’s clear voice surprised him into stopping. In fact, the ringing tones startled even her own ears.
“Remember, Peter Lynch, there’s still a matter of bearing false witness against your neighbor.”
“Why should any of us listen to a woman who hides criminals … especially one who’s being sought by the whole village?” countered Peter. “We know you sheltered the Frenchman, and it won’t soon be forgotten, I can promise you that! They burned his kind for witches, in years gone by. Remember, mistress, they hanged Quakers, too, in the town of Boston—and not so very long ago!”
“Friends,” Charlotte corrected him without rancor, while Gabriel Fortier defended her in more bitter tones.
“She knew nothing! If you do more against this lady, or mine, I swear that I will come for you, Lynch, and then I will kill you!”
The hush that fell was brought to an end by the miller’s drunken laugh.
“It could be that one of you, or all, might disappear first, one fine night. Poof!” Lynch exclaimed, exploding his bunched fingers in a startling gesture. And with another gale of scornful laughter, he slammed out of the kitchen and into the rainy night.
A Wicked Way to Burn Page 13