“What will you do with me if we reach Cornwall unscathed?”
She appeared to ponder deeply. “I don’t know yet, Owen. Perhaps with you as my hostage, your father will be more reasonable. Perhaps he will agree to sign all the papers—or whatever it is he has to do—to put me in possession of my fortune.”
“He won’t do it, Caroline.”
“Then I’ll begin to send him your body parts, Owen.”
“You mean like a finger?”
“Yes, or a toe or an ear.”
He said nothing more. He fell into a profound silence, saying after they’d skirted the town of Steepleford, “I never did want to marry you, Caroline. You’re pretty and all that, but still, you’re not what you’re supposed to be.”
“And what is that?”
“What do you mean ‘what’? It’s obvious. You weren’t crying or begging or pleading or lying there like a dead martyr, like any modest young lady would do. I had come to save you and you didn’t need me. You actually had the gall to hurt my father and he was just trying to do his manly duty.”
“Manly duty? Is that what you call rape?”
“That’s what he called it.”
“Yes, I remember now. I overheard nearly all of your conversation in the estate room. If your father hadn’t been so wily, I would have escaped, and he wouldn’t be lying naked in the stable ready to terrify a stable hand.”
“It quite alarms me to think that you will be my stepmother.”
“I won’t ever be anyone’s stepmother, Owen.”
“Yes you will. He will find you. The good Lord knows what he will do to me, but he’ll marry you, Caroline, and there’s nothing you can do about it.” He spoke with such simple confidence that for a moment she felt her blood run cold. Then she realized Owen still saw his father as would a boy, not a man. “You know, Owen, perhaps this adventure will be good for both of us. You are my prisoner, that’s true enough—don’t forget you know I’m mean and strong—but maybe when we reach my aunt, you will see that the world is quite different without your father there to tell you what to say and what to do.”
“He’ll get you,” was all that Owen said, and he sounded as fervent in his belief as a newly converted Christian. “And then you’ll be my stepmother.”
Both of them shuddered at the thought.
A thick raindrop fell on the top of Caroline’s head. “Oh dear,” she said, looking upward, “why can’t anything ever be easy?”
“It’s my father’s doing.”
4
IT RAINED HARD and cold the remainder of that night. Owen and Caroline were both miserable and soaked to the bone, but they’d kept riding throughout that first miserable night, stopping at inns to drink hot ale and dry their clothes in front of the taproom fire. It slowed them down considerably, but there was no hope for it. They stopped at the Black Hair Inn in Dorchester late the following morning to dry themselves and to sleep.
Finally, during the second evening it stopped raining. Caroline dressed quickly, walked to the small window in the bedchamber, and peered out. There were a few horses and a carriage in the yard, several men milling about, but it had stopped raining, thank the good Lord. She stretched her arms over her head. It was nearly eleven o’clock at night. She’d had a refreshing sleep and so had Owen, judging by the occasional snores that had awakened her. They had to get on their way. He was sleeping atop blankets on the floor beside her narrow bed. She lightly kicked him with her toe.
“Come on, Owen, wake up. It’s late and we must get beyond Plymouth before we can rest again. It’s stopped raining so it won’t be so bad. Come on.”
Owen rolled onto his back, opened his eyes, and stared up at her. He blinked. He moaned. She lowered the candle to see him more closely. His face was red and hot with fever.
She just stared down at him. He was ill, damn him, the sod had the nerve to be ill. “Owen, talk to me. Don’t just lie there and moan, talk to me.”
He sent her a blurry look. “I don’t like this, Caroline. I don’t feel well.”
Oh dear, he sounded awful. She knelt down on the floor beside him and laid her palm against his forehead. He was ill, indeed, he was very ill. “Let me help you up and into my bed.”
He wasn’t all that large, but he was nearly limp and she had a good deal of difficulty dragging him into her bed. She covered him with every blanket in the bedchamber, then stood there, staring down at him, wondering what the devil she was going to do.
She couldn’t leave him, but she wanted to. “Well, curse you, Owen. If I didn’t know better I’d think you were doing this on purpose.”
Owen moaned.
“Don’t you dare tell me this is your father’s doing.”
Owen went still as the bedposts.
“Oh, I believe you’re sick. You’re not deceitful enough to make it up.” She took herself downstairs of the Black Hair Inn. The stairs were dusty and narrow and there was very little light. She followed the boisterous male sounds coming from the taproom. She stuck her head in the dim, smoke-filled room and looked about for the owner. He was no taller than she was, round as a barrel, his middle covered with a huge white apron that had more ale stains on it than surely this one day could bring. He was standing near the fireplace speaking to a man who was sitting alone, his legs stretched out in front of him. She slipped into the low-ceilinged room and skirted the wooden tables, going toward the owner.
Suddenly the noise began to die away. Men were staring at her, silently at first, then she heard one fellow say, “Wot’s this, Mackie?”
“Why, ’tis a little birdie, flown in to play wit’ us. Clorie won’t mind sharing us. Little birdie, come ’ere and we’ll give ye a nice brown ale and a little tickle.”
She didn’t look at them, just kept her eyes on the owner, who was still speaking to the man.
A hand caught her dress and pulled her up short.
“’Ey, little ’oney, wot’s yer ’urry? Mackie ’ere wants to giv’ ye a drink right out o’ ’is mug. Eh?”
She turned slowly, not at all frightened, for surely they were just men, common laborers here for a night of drink and companionship, like many of the men who worked on the tenant farms at Honeymead. She gave them a friendly smile. “No thank you, Mr. Mackie. I must speak to the owner, Mr. Tewksberry.”
“Lawks, she called ye Mr. Mackie, jest like ye was somebody important.”
“I am important, ye gull-brain. So, little ’oney, ye wants to speak to old Tewksberry, uh? Ho, that’s a tale, it is, eh wot, Walt? Ye splitting yer take wi’ ’im, little ’un?”
“I don’t have a take, sir. Please let go of my gown.”
Mr. Tewksberry finally looked up.
Walt didn’t release her. She stood for an instant, uncertain, then she shrugged, gave Walt and Mackie an indulgent look, picked up a mug of ale, and drank down a goodly amount. It swirled and twisted all the way to her belly. Her eyes bugged out and she started to shake and cough. “Oh my God, what is that stuff? My insides don’t know whether to burn or to freeze.”
The men were laughing now, thumping their mugs on the tabletops. “Another fer the little birdie! ’Ey, Clorie, another fer our little friend.”
“No, thank you. That was quite enough.”
Mackie, utterly charmed by a female for the first time in a decade, pulled her down onto his lap. “I nev’r afore seen a little nit the size of ye drink down a whole pint afore. Give me a kiss, luv.”
Caroline frowned at him, seeing the dim light of befuddlement in his eyes, the tufts of hair on his jaws he’d missed shaving, smelled the odors of the stable rising from his body and clothes. “Mr. Mackie, you must let me up. Thank you for the ale, but I’ve had quite enough. Indeed it was an experience I don’t believe I care to repeat. Now, listen to me, my brother is ill and I must get a doctor for him. Won’t you help me?”
“Yer brother is that little cove wot ’as the weak chin and looks shifty?” Walt asked, leaning toward her.
“Yes, t
hat’s Owen. Where can I find a doctor? I’m dreadfully worried about him.”
Mr. Tewksberry left the gentleman and strode over to them. He did not look pleased. At last, she thought, he would assist her with these misguided men. He nearly shouted in her ear, “Miss Smith, what is this about your brother being ill? Really, missie, your brother? I never believed him anything but a young gentleman you were fleecing something shameless. Let her go, Mackie, she’s too smart for you and Walt and all the rest of you poor ignorant louts. Aye, smart she is, a strumpet who’s under my roof to conduct bad business. I wouldn’t doubt it if she hadn’t taken the poor little man upstairs for all his groats, then is just pretending he’s sick. Did you poison him, Miss Smith?”
She was utterly taken aback. He believed her a strumpet? Shameless? Her mind balked at other words.
“Don’t wet yerself, Tewks. The little one ’ere ain’t done nothing to ’urt ye or anyone else. Aye, the lad’s ’er brother. Look ye, Tewks, she’s right purty and he’s a driveling little toff. ’E’s got to be ’er brother.”
“Now, listen to me, Mackie, she’s nothing—”
“My good Tewksberry, what is all this?”
It was the gentleman who’d been sitting by himself near the fireplace. His voice was deep and calm and sounded vaguely amused. He wasn’t an affliction to the eyes.
“Excuse me, my lord. It’s this Young Person here. Claims the fellow upstairs is her brother and he’s ill. She’s—”
“Why do you disbelieve her?”
“Just look at her, my lord, sitting there on Mackie’s lap just like she belongs, like she’s quite used to doing that sort of thing. Just look at Clorinda over there, all huffy and in a great snit because this one’s trying to steal all her clients. I don’t want no trouble. Clorinda will tear her bleeding hair out and we’ll have screaming and crying and my nerves can’t abide that. Didn’t you see her toss down that ale? What lady would toss down ale like that?”
“This lady would and did,” Caroline said. “I never tasted it before and probably never shall again. It’s very strong. Is there some law I don’t know about that forbids females to taste ale?”
“Ha,” said Mr. Tewksberry.
“So,” the man who was a lordship said, “you’re a Miss Smith?”
“Not really, but it seemed wise.” She turned and smiled at Mackie. “You must let me go now, Mr. Mackie. I really must fetch a doctor for my brother. Also, I don’t want Clorinda to tear my hair out.”
“Clorie’s a tough little bird and ’er temper ain’t the nicest. Best let ’er up, Mackie.”
“We’ll git yer doctor fer ye, missie,” Mackie announced. He lifted her easily and set her on her feet. He rose then and she realized he was the tallest man she’d ever seen in her life. She smiled up at him.
“Thank you, Mr. Mackie.”
Mackie gave her a courtly bow, kissed her hand, and said, “Yer a sweet lass. Ye just stay ’ere and keep yer distance from Clorie.” He then gave her another bow, this one a bit more graceful than the first since he’d had that practice. He roared at the other men and all of them lumbered after him from the taproom, like an obedient army troop.
“Now, see here, missie, I won’t allow you to—”
“Please hold a moment, Mr. Tewksberry. I wish to speak to Miss Smith. Please fetch her a cup of tea and do tell Miss Clorinda that I will see to it that this young pigeon doesn’t migrate into her territory.” He turned to give her a vague smile. “Would you like to sit on my lap or would a chair do just as well?”
“You’re not as big as Mr. Mackie. Perhaps you will drop me. I’d best have a chair.”
He stared down at her a good long time. “You have a ready mouth,” he said at last. “I haven’t met a young lady in a very long time with such a ready mouth.”
He ushered her over to his table by the fireplace. He held back a chair for her. “Do sit, ma’am. We won’t take chances that I am too weak to hold you properly.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He sat down in his former chair and stretched out his legs toward the fireplace. He looked meditative, then he frowned. “How did you do that?”
“Do what?”
“Those men. They looked like a devil-may-care lot, well into their cups, but then this Mackie fellow is nearly on his knees to you vowing eternal devotion. How did you do it?”
“I really don’t know. I liked them, nothing more, really. They reminded me of farm laborers where I live, just men, just drinking to ease their cares. They were very kind, once they realized it was the right thing to be.”
“I daresay they aren’t all that kind at all to lone females who wander into their preserve, but they were to you. Well, then let it remain a mystery. Ah, the weather, then. The miserable night has become less miserable.”
“Yes, but I just woke up so I really wouldn’t know as of yet, but at least it’s stopped raining. I do so hate riding in the rain, and it really slowed us down.”
She clapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide on his face, looking like a loyal soldier who’s just accidentally spilled all his military secrets to the enemy.
“If your brother is ill,” he said, his voice dispassionate, “then you won’t be riding anywhere tonight.”
“We got soaked clear through all last night and this morning. I thought a good sleep would keep us healthy. Owen isn’t all that sturdy.”
“Owen has the weak chin?”
“So you heard Walt say that, did you? I suppose he does. I believe I will talk him into trying to grow a beard to cover it. What do you think?”
“I think that I must first take a long look at this weak chin before recommending hair.”
“There will be no need of that, sir. When Mr. Mackie comes back with the doctor, why, he will quack Owen with some sort of tonic and we’ll be on our way tomorrow again.”
“May I ask where you are going, ma’am?”
“To Cornwall.”
He waited, a dark brow raised in silent question.
“I would just as soon not reveal everything to you, sir. Indeed, I can’t believe I already told you so very much. You’re a complete stranger. I don’t know you. You could be dangerous. You could have accomplices waiting outside the inn for a sign from you.”
“Yes,” he said. “All of those things.”
He said nothing more, merely looked straight ahead into the glowing embers. He looked perfectly relaxed, perfectly at his ease. She had the feeling that it didn’t matter to him if she were there or not. He would have looked and acted and felt just the same. She said, “You’re alone, aren’t you? There’s no one waiting outside.”
“Yes, I’m quite alone.”
Then she heard herself say, “My name isn’t Miss Smith.”
Slowly he turned his head to look at her. “No,” he said. “You said it wasn’t.”
“It’s Jones.”
He stared at her. Then he smiled. It was a small stretching of his mouth, then it became a real smile. Then he laughed.
That laugh sounded wonderful, and she heard herself saying without hesitation, “There’s more to it than just Jones, but again, I don’t think I would be wise to tell you. I really don’t understand it. You aren’t ordering me or asking me or pleading with me to tell you anything and yet I just open my mouth and everything comes out. It’s very disconcerting. You are a dangerous man.”
“Then it is just as well we stay with Smith, although Miss Smith isn’t all that inspiring, but then again, neither is Miss Jones.”
“Who are you, sir?”
“I? Why, I’m Chilton.”
“What Chilton? What sort of Chilton? Mr. Tewksberry called you ‘my lord.”’
“Yes, he did, therefore Lord Chilton fits me quite as well as my socks. I’ve been here a good half dozen times. Tewksberry likes to have a gentleman occasionally grace his hearth. I believe he thought the strumpet on Mackie’s lap might give me a disgust of his inn. He was quite ready and eager to grab your ear and hau
l you out into the night.”
“Where are you going?”
“To London, actually. I have business matters to see to. But that can’t interest you, Miss Smith. Now, here’s your tea. Why don’t you drink it in peace and I’ll go see if your weak-chinned brother is still among the breathing.”
“Oh, no!” She jumped to her feet, oversetting the teacup. She watched the tea flow over the side of the table onto her skirt.
“I beg your pardon, Miss Smith?”
“My brother wouldn’t want to see you. You’re a stranger, please, you might frighten him and he might have a seizure or something, so please, sir, don’t—”
He sat again, looking calm and bored and really, truth be told, indifferent. “Tewksberry,” he called out, “another cup of tea, please, and a cloth. Miss Smith has been attempting to launder her gown.”
“Thank you,” she said. He merely nodded, paying her no more attention. Again, she heard herself say with no hesitation at all, “It isn’t really that my brother would have a seizure or faint at the sight of you, a strange man. It’s just that he might spit out everything and that wouldn’t be good.”
“Just as you’re spitting to me right now, Miss Smith?”
“Oh dear, perhaps I am but I don’t want to. It’s just that I must continually catch myself at the very verge of spitting. I don’t understand it.”
“Perhaps you’re Catholic and I remind you of a priest from your childhood?”
“Oh no, not at all. Every priest I’ve ever seen looked pale from being indoors too much and, well, ineffectual, I’d say, like they’re afraid to say exactly what they mean for fear of getting smashed.”
“Where are you going in Cornwall? No, don’t spit it right out, make me work for it a bit. I live in Cornwall, you see, and I was wondering if perhaps we would be neighbors one of these days.”
“Work for it, sir.”
The Nightingale Legacy Page 4