by Karen Brooks
TWO
In which Sir Everard Blithman finds a treasure
Sir Everard Blithman gazed in dismay at the girl lying askew in the dirt. If he hadn’t been anxious to avoid the traffic cluttering up the Great London Road, never mind lurking highwaymen, he wouldn’t have come this way or been so sorely inconvenienced.
The coachmen tried to calm the horses as they argued over who was at fault. Sir Everard shut out their noise and with some difficulty, using his walking stick for leverage, knelt beside the unconscious girl. Pushing aside her hair, he felt for a pulse at her throat and saw her bosom rising and falling. A sleeve had ridden up her arm. He frowned and, reaching over, pulled up her other sleeve, before laying her hand upon her stomach. While her dress was crude, comprising a simple skirt, plain bodice and petticoats that had been mended numerous times and could do with a laundress’s touch, her feet were not accustomed to being unshod. It was evident from the raw scrapes her toes had suffered in her dash upon this God-forsaken road. Yet there was no sign of shoes or stockings. Her skirt was torn and any cap or coif she had been wearing had blown away in the wind which, even as he bent over her, was increasing in strength and heat. Her hair was so very long and unruly. Though it could do with a wash, the colour was so eye-catching, so uncommon. It reminded him of…
Pulling a kerchief from his jacket, he wiped his brow, pushing it up under the band of his hat, which also served to hold his periwig tight to his scalp. Damn this heat. Damn his whim to take what was supposed to be a shortcut.
Whoever this young woman was, once you saw beyond the patina of dirt, she was really quite striking. Perhaps that was why the rogues were chasing her, for he’d no doubt that’s what they’d interrupted: some country yokels seeking to make sport of a pretty maid. She didn’t look like a servant, though her reddened hands bespoke labour, as did her clothes. There was a quality about her, even as she lay there with a nasty gash upon her temple, that suggested she was more than she seemed. Most likely it was the brave manner in which she’d stood before his frantic steeds, neither screaming nor fainting, but trying to work out how to rescue herself that appealed to him and set his mind racing. She was clearly possessed of both a stout character and courage; something lacking in so many of his acquaintances these days.
Then, there was the uncanny resemblance. The more he stared, the more apparent it became.
Most extraordinary.
Who was she? Squinting, his faded blue eyes scanned the crossroads ahead and the river beyond before once more considering the girl at his feet. He let out an exasperated sigh. It was tempting to simply leave her. There was not a soul in sight and no-one would ever know he’d been there. Apart from the hired men, the only witnesses were two mangy-looking crows and a thin cow. The rogues who’d pursued her had made themselves scarce the moment she fell and were hardly going to admit to anything.
A gust threatened to snatch his hat away, forcing him to half-rise and clutch it to his head. What if those same villains returned to finish what they started? What if news he’d effectively left an injured chit in the road reached London? There’d be hell to pay — something he could ill afford in light of recent developments. He couldn’t risk it.
And there was the remarkable likeness. Was God having a lark or offering something else?
Mopping his forehead, he turned to the man waiting patiently behind him. ‘Jacopo.’ He gestured for him to come forward.
Jacopo gazed upon the woman before a hand swiftly covered his mouth. ‘Mio Dio!’ he exclaimed. ‘She’s very like the Lady Helene —’
‘I noticed,’ said Sir Everard drily.
Jacopo continued to stare. ‘Lei è bella. Like a painting, she’s so perfect.’
‘Not quite perfect,’ said Sir Everard and, using his cane, pointed to her clothes then her head. ‘There’s the matter of her state, never mind her injuries.’
‘Allora, quite,’ said Jacopo. ‘Should I fetch a dottore?’
‘A doctor? Here, in this backwater?’ Sir Everard shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t inflict such a creature upon the poor child if we were in London. Not after what she’s been through.’
‘’Twasn’t your fault, signore, nor the coachmen’s. She ran straight towards them. How she didn’t hear —’
‘I’m not referring to the damage we exacted and which, no doubt, was the final straw,’ said Sir Everard impatiently. ‘Look here.’ Bending down, he ran a light thumb over a livid purple bruise near her elbow. Next to it, a series of mustard-coloured marks the size of large fingers could be seen; closer to her wrist, red welts from some kind of binding.
The young man squatted beside him, his fingers unconsciously wrapping around his own wrist and rubbing a few times.
With a beringed finger Sir Everard pointed to a slight discolouration upon her cheekbone. ‘We’d naught to do with this. That is old. The girl has been manhandled and not just the once. God only knows what we cannot see.’ Heaving himself upright, he sighed. ‘If there’s one thing I cannot abide, Jacopo, it’s unnecessary cruelty.’
Sir Everard deigned not to notice the expression on Jacopo’s face. Instead, he stared in the direction the girl had come from, his eyes becoming harder than the steel poniard he wore at his hip.
‘Well,’ he said, brushing the dust from his fine satin breeches and the jacquard of his coat. ‘As God is my witness, we’ve no choice. Pick her up, Jacopo, and place her in the carriage. I need to think.’
Jacopo bowed. ‘Si, signore.’ As tenderly as he could, Jacopo lifted the young woman into his arms, screwing up his nose as he caught a whiff of her odour. Once his master was seated in the carriage, he hoisted the girl inside and placed her along the padded seat opposite, rearranging the cushions so her head was supported, and setting a pomander of rose petals and violet beside her.
As he slowly withdrew his hand from the back of her neck, brushing the marks on her wrist almost reverentially, the girl groaned and her eyelids flickered.
‘Signore, she wakes.’
The girl blinked, gasped, and with a strength no-one expected, pushed Jacopo away and retreated into the cushions.
Jacopo raised his hands. ‘Va tutto bene… It’s all right, signorina,’ he said quickly. ‘I mean no harm.’
‘For God’s sake, Jacopo, move aside so the girl understands she’s not been captured by an Ethiopian.’ With a sweep of his stick, Sir Everard shoved him against the carriage wall. ‘You may yet frighten her to death.’
The girl said nothing, just stared first at him, then Jacopo, with huge dark eyes. Recognising that if she wasn’t treated with kid gloves she might bolt before he could be assured of her health, Sir Everard began speaking, all the while observing her carefully.
‘Good morning, mistress. My name is Sir Everard Blithman of London. I’m sorry to say my horses struck you down, but I’m mightily relieved to see you’re at least partly restored, despite the wound we’ve inflicted.’
She raised her hand to the spot, drawing her fingers away and rubbing the blood across the tips. Gazing at them uncertainly, she neither swooned nor fell into hysterics as Sir Everard half-anticipated. Why, she was a bold one indeed. A rare one. He wondered at the state of her clothes, her all but unwashed condition.
She took his proffered kerchief, wiped her fingers and cautiously touched her head. He waved towards a small chest at his feet. ‘Jacopo, give her some medick.’
‘Signore.’ Jacopo opened the clasps, extracted a small bottle, popped the cork and offered it to the girl. ‘Venezia treacle,’ he said. ‘Good for all ailments.’
Sir Everard bade her drink and watched as she first sniffed, then looked at Jacopo before her eyes alighted on him again. ‘Please,’ said Sir Everard. ‘I assure you, it’s the best of physick — the King himself takes it.’
Rosamund took a cautious sip, her eyes upon Jacopo, who urged her with a nod and a smile.
She used the kerchief to dab her mouth, a gesture that confirmed Sir Everard’s suspicion she was of a b
etter class than her clothes and musky scent indicated.
‘If you please, mistress, what is your name?’ asked Sir Everard.
The girl didn’t answer immediately, folding the kerchief into a small square and glancing around as if to seek an exit. At first affronted, Sir Everard quickly saw the humour in the situation. Here he was, a renowned London merchant and knight, being assessed by a country lass who couldn’t recognise a gentleman when she saw one and didn’t have the sense to watch out for carriages on the one road that ran between her home and the city. If indeed Gravesend was her home. The longer she took to answer, the more humorous the moment became. Unable to help himself, a laugh exploded. Erupting from his very middle, it filled the carriage and was answered first by a horse’s indignant bray, then a chuckle from Jacopo and finally by the girl, who joined in with a laugh so pure, so unutterably joyous, it quite took Sir Everard’s breath away. Her face, already absurdly enchanting in an unorthodox way and not merely because of the sentiments her similarities aroused, was quite transformed. Her great brown eyes twinkled in pleasure, her teeth, a row of white pearls, were exposed as her exquisite pink lips parted. Taken aback, Sir Everard ceased to laugh and his heart all but seized.
Immediately the girl’s fingers flew to her lips and the delightful noise stopped. Sir Everard felt gloom descend and, in yet another attack of imagination (two this very hour), felt as if the sun had been wiped from the skies.
‘I haven’t done that in so long, I astonished myself.’ Her voice was curiously mellow for one so young. It reminded him of honey and the creamy top of fine beer. The way she enunciated the words suggested good breeding; good breeding overlaid by a veneer of ill.
She tried to sit up, flinging her arm out as she was momentarily overcome. Jacopo leapt forward. Raising her hands, she prevented him from touching her. Instead, both men watched as she rearranged the cushions to support her back.
‘Please, forgive my rudeness,’ she said. ‘I blame the gash upon my head.’ She touched it gingerly. No blood stained the kerchief this time. ‘My name is Rosamund To— Ballister, and it’s a pleasure to meet you, Sir Everard Blithman of London, and you too, sir, I’m sure.’ She bowed her head towards Jacopo. ‘I thank you for your timely appearance. While your horses and I… er… enjoyed a rendezvous, the one awaiting me had you failed to materialise would not have brought such delightful company into my orbit.’
Jacopo gave a splutter. Sir Everard caught his eye. ‘This is Jacopo, my valet and factotum,’ he said. ‘He hails from faraway climes.’
‘I thought you must,’ said Rosamund. ‘I’ve only ever seen folk such as your good self at a distance, upon the ships that anchor at the docks in town. You’re not as dark as some, but darker than most.’ She hesitated. ‘You speak with an accent. You’re not a Hollander, perchance, are you?’
Jacopo glanced at his master in mock horror.
Sir Everard coughed into his fist. ‘He’s no swag-bellied Hollander, so you needn’t be alarmed; the language he spoke was Italian. He’s from Venice.’
Rosamund, whose colour was just starting to return, fluttered her hands. ‘Aye, of course; I can hear it now. My humblest apologies for my ill manners, my boldness in asking. It’s just, my stepfather doesn’t approve of… Hollanders.’
‘He’s not alone on that score,’ smiled Sir Everard. ‘Like the damn Frenchies and, with one or two exceptions, the Papist Spanish, they’re not to be trusted.’
‘Whatever you are, whoever, it matters not as you’ve shown me such kindness. Much more than I deserve or that my state —’ she grimaced at her dirty clothes, ‘demands.’ Nodding towards the bottle still in Jacopo’s hand, she smiled, ‘That treacle was excellent.’ She smacked her lips together, the sound an angel exhaling. ‘I detect some honey, lavender, juniper and perhaps some St John’s wort?’
Sir Everard blinked. ‘You can taste those?’
‘Aye, and many other ingredients besides which, sadly, I am unable to identify but which no doubt have contributed to my recovery.’
Jacopo stared.
‘My many thanks.’
Outside, a flock of birds screeched. Restless now, the horses stamped their hooves and the low chatter of the coachmen carried.
Sir Everard exchanged a look with Jacopo which Rosamund intercepted. ‘Forgive me. I’ve inconvenienced you both. I feel much restored. I’ll be on my way.’
Sir Everard was not ready to let this young woman go. There was a reason God arranged this encounter — he simply had to fathom what it was. He placed his fingers on her forearm. She flinched and he quickly withdrew them.
‘Soft. We’re not going anywhere until we hear your story and can assure ourselves of your ongoing safety. There were two brawny lads chasing you. It would be remiss if we did not ascertain they no longer pose a threat.’
Rosamund’s eyes flew to the door and she plucked her lip. ‘You may rest assured. They do not.’
‘Are the scoundrels known to you?’
Raising her eyes, she took a deep breath. ‘Known to me? Aye. Those lads are my brothers. Well, stepbrothers, Fear-God and Glory Ballister.’
Sir Everard prayed she didn’t see him recoil at what the names signified. If there was another thing Sir Everard couldn’t abide, it was Puritans. And where there were Puritans, there were Roundheads. Anger began to build. Jacopo wore a heavy frown.
‘They’re not like their names, good sir, Master Jacopo,’ she said swiftly. ‘They were bestowed at a different time and to signify an allegiance that’s no longer binding. Their father, my stepfather, Paul Ballister, is an avowed royalist and loyal to the King. As indeed we all are.’
But he wasn’t always, thought Sir Everard. No doubt her stepfather had her recite such a response lest anyone make the obvious assumption. Like so many Englishmen before and after Cromwell, this Ballister was a despicable turncoat, a veritable poltroon with no convictions upon which to hang his hat.
‘Your brothers, you say?’ Sir Everard frowned.
‘Aye.’
‘They saw the accident befall you and, instead of rendering aid, fled?’
Rosamund found her hands interesting. ‘Did they? Perhaps they’ve gone to report the… mishap. We only live around the corner.’
Sir Everard’s frown deepened. ‘There’s a posting inn, isn’t there?’
‘The Maiden Voyage Inn,’ Jacopo replied.
‘That’s where I live,’ said Rosamund, in a voice that would have been appropriate at a funeral.
Sir Everard had never heard of this Maiden Voyage Inn, but then, he had very little cause to come to Gravesend, his interests being met in London, Deptford, Portsmouth, Dover and beyond.
‘Well, I’d best get you home,’ he said.
‘I didn’t say it was my home,’ said Rosamund firmly, locking eyes with him. ‘I said it’s where I live.’ And let out such a wistful sigh it made Sir Everard shift in his seat, as if the cushions had become stones.
An uncomfortable silence descended. There was no help for it, he must return the girl to her family, home or no home, and be on his way no matter what his mind was whispering to him. He felt for his purse. He would give this stepfather a gold coin to compensate for her injuries, ensure she received some broth and the attention of a cursed physician if needed. He knew how tricky head injuries could be. He’d fought in enough battles, seen enough men succumb to the smallest blow to know the humours could be struck out of balance in an instant. His hand tightened on his stick. He was living proof. Still, her eyes were clear, and she made complete sense — well, to a point. To differentiate between a home and the place she lived…
‘If you feel ready to travel, then,’ said Sir Everard jovially. He must be on his way; he had business in London, urgent correspondence to deal with, and he was now very late. ‘I’ll ask my men to take us there.’
Did he imagine it or did disappointment cross her face? No, he did not. Her joyous eyes dimmed, the corners of her mouth became downturned. Sir Everard felt as
if he’d struck a puppy. Guilt rose within him. Such an unfamiliar emotion.
‘It’s not very far. I could walk the distance.’
‘I’ll not hear of it,’ said Sir Everard and was rewarded with that smile. ‘Best tell the driver to take it easy, Jacopo. I don’t want to risk our guest’s health any further, no matter how close our destination.’
Flashing one last grin at Rosamund, Jacopo leapt from the carriage and shut the door, the conveyance rocking slightly as he hoisted himself onto the driver’s box.
The carriage lurched as the horses, with the encouraging cries of the men, walked forward, the wheels jerking over the ruts and potholes.
Sir Everard and Rosamund were thrown from side to side. Sir Everard watched as the girl edged forward on the seat, one hand resting upon the window which was left unsealed. As she peered out, her mouth was slightly open, her eyes round.
‘You’ve never been in a carriage before?’ he asked and was blessed with a quick laugh. Though abrupt, it was no less magical.
‘There was a time I was no stranger to such transport.’ Her face clouded, and instead of asking the questions burning inside him, Sir Everard wasted the few precious minutes he had alone with her trying to think of something he could say, a witty observation, an inoffensive story, anything to recapture that smile, to hear that charming peal of mirth again. Its power was remarkable. Imagine what he could do if he could bottle such a thing, sell it. And when it came in such a package, one that with some tweaking bore such similitude. What an attraction; what a lure…
Before he could say anything, Rosamund sat back. ‘We’re here.’
Astonished, Sir Everard looked out just as the carriage rolled to a stop right outside a rather derelict inn with a faded sign that creaked as it blew back and forth. The carriage door opened, admitting a gust of searing air and a blast of earth stirred by the horses.