by Sara Reinke
* * * *
They waited in the stables for hours. They had ducked into a stall where Charlotte’s roan was boarded, and squatted together in the fragrant hay, sheltered by the shadow of the gate. The more time that passed, the more aggravated Una grew.
“We should leave, Charlotte,” she kept whispering, the furrow cleaving her brow growing deeper and deeper.
“Not yet,” Charlotte kept whispering back.
At last, their patience paid off, as they heard the men’s voices drawing near, entering the stable. “It is agreed, then?” Charlotte heard James say. To her surprise, and Una’s horror, the voices drew startlingly close to them, as the four men stood directly beyond the stall gate to wait for grooms to fetch their horses.
“Beech Hill, nine-thirty?” James asked, and Charlotte heard the low rumbling sounds of Cheadle and Julian murmuring together in concurrence.
“I still say it is too risky,” Camden Iden whispered, his tone fretful. “It is too soon, Roding. We should—”
Charlotte heard Camden yelp, followed by a sharp, scuffling sound. The stall gate before her shuddered violently as something heavy plowed into it, cracking the wood. Charlotte and Una shrank into the shadows, both of them wide-eyed with bright alarm.
“Shut your mouth and muster some mettle,” Cheadle said. Charlotte looked up, breathless with fright and saw the back of Camden’s tailed wig leaning precariously over the top of the gate. Cheadle had shoved him forcefully against it and held him pinned there with one large fist.
“Get your hands off me!” Camden gasped breathlessly; apparently, Cheadle had seized hold of his cravat and shirt collar, nearly throttling him.
“You will hold your peace and do your part, Hallingbury, do you hear?” James snapped. Charlotte pressed herself against the gate as she saw shadows move; James drew near Camden, leaning toward him as he offered thinly veiled threat. “That is the plan, you simpering, witless bastard. We are all agreed to it.”
Julian laughed. “Here now, lads, do not rough him too badly,” he crowed. “Hallingbury is a lover, not a fighter. Just ask my sister! He plowed between her thighs often enough.”
“If you muck this up for me, Hallingbury, by my breath, I will see you face-down in the Thames,” James seethed, his voice floating with icy malice through the gate’s taxed wooden planks. Charlotte shivered at the sound of it; she had never heard such undisguised malevolence in all of her life.
“I… I will not muck it up,” Camden bleated breathlessly.
“You are damn right you will not,” Cheadle told him. His voice was remarkably calm, nearly a purr, but at the same time filled with ominous inference. Charlotte pressed herself even more against the stall gate. She was trembling; she shook uncontrollably, her breath hiccupping silently.
She heard the shuffling of hoofbeats in straw as stable hands delivered their horses. The four men exchange mumbled farewells with one another. Their steeds snuffled and stomped their feet, their hooves plodding noisily against the ground as they each in turn took their leave.
Charlotte and Una remained motionless for a long time after the sounds had faded, to be eclipsed again by dim fiddle melodies and drunken, boisterous song from within the pub. At last, Una closed her hand against Charlotte’s, and Charlotte turned to her. They locked gazes and both heaved, letting out breaths they had been pained to turn loose before now.
“I think you were right, lamb,” Una whispered. Her face was as ashen with fright as Charlotte’s felt and her fingers were like ice against Charlotte’s skin. “Something is going on.”