Cynthia Bailey Pratt (2 page)

Behind a shed of rotten planks, the gentleman’s arm pressed across her, Jocelyn waited until he decided all was clear. Her rescuer was taller than she had first thought, so that she had to lift her head to see his face. He smelled clean, something she would not have expected from a man whose clothes were so obviously old. Muscles moved in the arm around her, and Jocelyn realized she might have misjudged his place in life. His breath in her ear was labored and rasped faintly when he inhaled.

When he let her go, she started to thank him. He stopped her with a sharp, “Nonsense! I was watching you. You’ve never committed a crime in your life. But you’d never have made him believe it. Officers are selected for their stupidity, it seems.” The man laughed shortly. “I should not have teased him with the glorious defeat of Soult. Quartermasters don’t fight.”

“I ... I wouldn’t know, sir,” she said. “I do thank you for your assistance. It would have been terrible to be taken up for stealing.”

Too late Jocelyn remembered her voice. She coughed and said, much more deeply, “My mother wouldn’t have liked it.”

A gleam of sunlight from overhead caught the man’s face, and she saw a slight smile come and go on his lips, though the brim of his hat shaded his eyes. She glimpsed only a liquid gleam throwing back the sunlight.

“I’ll be off then, sir,” she said, unnerved by the unseen eyes.

“No, I think not,” he said. “Such men very rarely let an offense pass so easily. He’ll probably report you to the constabulary. You’d better lie low for a bit.”

He paused, while the silver head of his cane, no poor man’s, massaged the jaw of his lean face. She could feel his hidden eyes studying her, and a blush leapt into her cheeks. She noticed that he kept his other hand hidden inside his coat against his left side, like in the engravings she’d seen of Napoleon before his exile to Elba. The stranger expelled his breath in a long sigh. “Have I done you a good turn, do you think?”

“Yes, sir. I’m very grateful.”

“I wonder if I could ask you to return it so soon. I think I have a use for a likely lad, such as yourself.”

Was there or was there not the slightest hesitation in his voice as he claimed her as a male? Jocelyn could not quite tell but knew it was best to be wary. His eyes seemed to take in more than those of ordinary men. Perhaps he might be some sort of criminal.

No matter what his station, it would be basest ingratitude to refuse to do him some small favor. He had, after all, extricated her from a charge of theft that would have led to a worse charge. Her hand still tingled from the vegetable marrow’s contact with the constable’s head. It would have been impossible to free herself from gaol without calling in her aunt and uncle and revealing her shameful costume and behavior. Her reputation would be worthless if word of today’s escapade got out. The stranger had saved her from all these consequences.

Jocelyn said manfully, “I’ll do whatever I can for you, sir, of course.”

His long fingers rested on her shoulder for an instant, as if gauging her moral strength. “Good,” he said, nodding as if he approved of what he found. “Come with me.”

As they emerged into a wider street with more light, Jocelyn inspected him still more closely. Despite the elegant touch of the beautiful ebony and silver cane, Jocelyn now noticed that his coat was so old it no longer looked black, but rusty brown. He wore knee breeches quite out of style and baggy at the knees. The points of his collar drooped above a ragged cravat.

He noticed the unfavorable impression his clothing made and smiled with cheerful unconcern, revealing white, well-formed teeth. “We seem to make a matched pair, you and I. Neither of us can be said to be in the first stare of fashion. By the by, do you know where we are?”

Jocelyn looked from the stranger to their surroundings. They’d emerged into a wide pleasant street that looked familiar, yet Jocelyn did not think she’d ever been in it before. Fewer people walked here than down by the river. They dressed more elegantly and strolled with pleasure as their aim, not bustling along in the interests of commerce.

Jocelyn and the man went on a few steps, and then, as she looked down another avenue, she cried out in recognition, “Yes! There’s the chemist and just beyond that is Mr. Yalter’s shop. That big gray building is the Groat and Groom.”

“That, I take it, is some sort of inn.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is it popular?”

“Yes, sir. Many people visit it of an evening.”

“Then it is not what I want. Can’t you take me someplace . . .”He looked around and then finished his sentence. “Someplace quieter?”

Now that her feet were on a road she knew, Jocelyn almost felt as if she were in her proper clothes, thinking her usual thoughts. She knew it wasn’t right for her to be alone with a strange man, although she sometimes went in mixed panics on longer walks than this. But on those excursions girls remained with girls, and the young men congregated even more closely. Then, too, on those occasions she had always been decorously dressed. Jocelyn said, “Well, sir, if I knew why—”

“If I wanted you. to know why, I would have told you already!” he snapped. At once he seemed to regret his bad temper and said more gently, “Now, please, a quiet inn where a man might rest the night undisturbed.”

Looking past him toward the top of the street, Jocelyn saw someone she knew, but she did not go to him for help. Grim Cocker, the vicar’s new manservant, seemed to be searching among the passersby, his ugly face tense. His reptilian eyes passed over her and her companion, passed over and returned. He began to come toward them. Two ladies with open parasols blocked the pavement.

Jocelyn turned casually to walk away from Cocker, the man in the old coat following her. Jocelyn shivered as though with cold. Ever since she walked home alone from church three Sundays before, her two cousins being confined at home with the grippe, Jocelyn had done her best to avoid Cocker. His bold comments on that occasion might well be repeated if she were glimpsed in a tight pair of breeches and a boy’s coat, doing the best it could to hide the feminine contours of her figure.

The stranger said, “Do you know that man?”

“What man, sir?” she said, keeping her voice low. “I’m taking you to that inn you asked for.”

She could not help looking behind her. Cocker was not yet at the opening to the alley. She knew the man she led noticed her anxiety, but he asked no more questions. Jocelyn thought that was fair of him, as he would answer none.

Jocelyn led him down Stone Alley, through Vetter Lane, and into Spenser Court. A hostelry stood there that her oldest cousin Tom and his friends condemned as “too dull.” She’d never been there, knowing only its general location. Jocelyn felt both surprise and pleasure at finding it so easily. Perhaps, she thought, I know Libermore better than I believed.

The inn was a small wooden building squeezed into a dark corner. Dilapidated balconies hung in front of the second-story windows. The buildings on either side of the alley were also old and seemed to lean over them, cutting out the sky and all save a little light. The sun seemed dimmer, and a thin wind blew down the cracks between the buildings.

“There, sir. Is this all right?”

He surveyed the inn carefully before approaching any closer. “Yes, it may serve.” He gasped suddenly and lurched as his feet slipped in the mud. When he brought out the hand that he had held to his side, Jocelyn was horrified to see a stain on the handkerchief he held between his fingers. There was too little light in the narrow alley to see the color, but Jocelyn’s eyes grew wide as she guessed what the stain was.

“Go along, boy. And thank you,” he said in a faint, gasping voice that Jocelyn did not like the sound of at all.

Though it was growing late and she felt she really ought to find her cousins and return home, Jocelyn could not make herself turn away and leave him in this dark and lonely place. “Sir? Let me help you.” She stepped nearer to him and put her white hand on his arm.

The man’s breath was more labored now than it had been after their frantic run. He nodded, accepting her help with reluctant gratitude or, she thought, as if he lacked the strength to force her to leave.

He leaned against the rough brick of the wall, saying, “If you would, go in and ask them to give me a room. It must be on the second floor, one . . . one that faces this way. Can you do that?”

She found it difficult to understand him, for now every sentence was accompanied by long sighing breaths, and the ugly rasp in his voice increased from moment to moment. Jocelyn said, “Yes, sir. Gladly.”

“Go on, then.” He slowly drew a soft wallet from his breast pocket and handed her two or three coins. “Pay my lodging for ... a week. Yes, a week.”

She took the coins and half-turned away, hesitant to leave him. Full of questions, she wetted her lips and said, “Sir . . . ?”

His clean hand darted out with the same speed that had taken the officer by surprise. He gripped her by the arm, his fingers biting with terrible strength. His dark eyes burned into hers as he whispered, “No questions.”

Jocelyn could do nothing but nod. He seemed to take her response as a promise and let go. She looked back once to where he leaned against the wall, hunched over, his eyes closed.

The landlord looked at her suspiciously and scratched at his unshaved chin as Jocelyn tried hard to imitate the brusque manners of the street boys who picked up pennies by running messages. It wasn’t easy to answer the man’s natural questions, and she wondered what lies she could tell if her stranger faltered before safely in his room. Jocelyn knew that the landlord would pitilessly turn the man out if there was the slightest chance of his dying while in the inn. At last the landlord agreed to accept the money, and Jocelyn turned to bring the man back. She regretted leaving him so long. What if he had fainted—or worse?

As she went out, Jocelyn was pushed aside by the gentleman, who swaggered in, rapped his stick on the dirty table, and loudly said, “Coming to get me, lad? Knew you were a good boy!”

She blinked to see him come in through the inn’s door as if he were a lord when ten minutes before he had been hunched over, hoarding every bit of his strength. Even his coat seemed smarter when the back that bore it was so arrogantly straight and his old hat seemed more an affectation than the possession of a man who owned no better. But Jocelyn noticed the light sweat shining on his forehead and thin cheeks and understood the effort behind this masquerade of perfect health.

He turned to the landlord, who now nodded and smiled, all his worries at an end, and said, “A glass of ale, my man. And will you join me? Can’t be sure of good drink unless the landlord drinks with me, what?” He downed the golden liquid in three long swallows and then rubbed the empty tankard between his hands with a satisfied sigh.

“That’s what I wanted. No, thank you, one’s enough for now.” His eye fell on Jocelyn. “Are you thirsty, boy?”

“No, sir. Thank you.”

“No?” She could see his surprise at this refusal of a street boy to drink free ale. “Then a meal perhaps. You’re too thin for your height. Isn’t he, landlord?”

The landlord obviously had never before considered the question of a ragamuffin’s stomach. However, he saw that the gentleman was willing to pay for a meal, so he agreed heartily.

“No, truthfully, sir,” Jocelyn protested. “I’m not the least bit hungry.” He couldn’t be a criminal, she reasoned. Why should a bad man care for another’s hunger? For that matter, why would he have helped her in the first place? Surely a wicked man would be happy to see an innocent person suffering.

The gentleman shrugged and only Jocelyn saw the look of pain cross his face. He said, “Thank you for your help, boy.” He put his thumb and forefinger into his breast pocket and brought out a half crown, weighing it with a glance at Jocelyn.

With a change of mind he said, “No, I may need you again.” He spun it in the air, a golden glitter in the dark taproom, caught it, and restored it to his pocket in what seemed a single motion. He smiled at the landlord. “Show me up, if you please.”

Jocelyn and the landlord followed him as he bounded up the narrow stairs two at a time. She watched while he poked vigorously into all the corners of the small chamber and peered out the thick glass in the heavily leaded windows. A streamer of late-afternoon sun struggling to enter was the only light in the room.

“Perfection, my dear sir. I could not ask for a more salubrious site!” He thumped the landlord heartily on his broad back and told him a wicked story. Jocelyn sniggered at it obligingly, after a glance from her stranger, though she did not really understand it.

However, when the landlord had gone, rejoicing that God at last had sent a generous man to his inn, the laughing face and overwhelming manner faded. The gentleman felt behind him for the bed, misjudging the distance. Only a hasty grab at the solid bedpost saved him from sliding to the floor.

He swore in a jagged whisper. “Damn Frenchies,” Jocelyn heard him mutter. “Never do clean their knives.” She saw his eyelids flutter and remembered the time she saw her cousin Tom’s arm broken by a kick from the pregnant mare.

Jocelyn was just in time to catch the stranger as he slumped over, his silver cane tumbling. She staggered on the uneven floor. He was heavier than he looked. Her arms seemed to lengthen from the effort of supporting him. However, she managed to maneuver him so he lay more or less on the bed, though his arm insisted on flopping over the edge. She walked around the bed and covered him with the half of the blanket he did not lie on. Only the rising and falling of his chest reassured her that he lived.

The muddy soles of his boots peeked out, but Jocelyn decided against removing them. She thought, I’ve done all I think I need to. I’d better go. The boys will be wondering where I am. In truth, Arnold was probably so angry at being tricked out of a journey to Australia that Granville had not yet had time from defending himself to think of her.

Jocelyn looked at the man on the bed. His thin, brown face looked younger, relaxed, and unaware. She noticed the deep, bruise-colored circles beneath his eyes and the way his nose seemed sharp as a peak above the hollows of his cheeks. It came to her suddenly that this man had not eaten very well of late. Without knowing why she did it, Jocelyn reached out to brush the lank black hair
off
his damp forehead.