The Duke's Agent (7 page)

At the sight of this second weapon his attackers decided to retreat. They scuttled, half bent over, into the scrub and fled down the steep bank in the direction of the river. It was too steep for the horse to follow. Reaction was setting in and Jarrett felt bone-weary. He did not even try to give chase. As the two villains dropped away from him he caught the fragment of an exchange between them.

‘What about the paper?' the smaller of the two asked.

‘What about our skins!' snarled his companion, moving clumsily as he clutched his wounded shoulder.

‘He'll not like it.'

‘Bugger him,' came the stout reply and the pair vanished into the wood.

He was alone once more. Walcheren's breath came hard and loud through flared nostrils. He soothed the animal, running a gloved hand over the satin neck. ‘Easy now, easy, old fellow.' The bay gave his black mane a fierce shake, stared out into middle distance a moment then dropped his head and began to snatch at the long grass. ‘Go to it, friend; there's nothing like a mouthful to recruit the nerves.'

He winced as he tested his leg. It throbbed with a deep, dull ache that communicated jabs of pain through the network of his bones at the slightest movement. Gingerly he inspected his thigh where the hammer had struck. The bone appeared to be whole, although under the distracting mask of pain it was hard to tell. Jarrett wiggled his toes experimentally within his boot. Lightning pain shot up the
limb but everything seemed to be functioning. His discarded pistol lay on the ground a few feet away from his hat.

‘There's nothing for it, you'd better fetch them,' he encouraged himself aloud. ‘One, two, three …'

Next time, he told himself, as he stood uncertainly on his good leg, shaking and sweating, he would remember to swing his weight to the other side when dismounting. The sudden violent exertion had set his old wound aching in counter-protest to his leg. At times like this a man might be glad there was no one to see him. He clung unashamedly to the saddle a while, drawing deep breaths as his jangled nerves settled. His stumbling progress over the few yards to collect his hat was minor torture. As he approached his pistol he half-fell, half-sat down beside it. If he could just lie back a moment. A minute or two's rest would mend him.

The sky filled his sight. At the horizon clouds gleamed like the pearly inner coating of a moonshell, their edges picked out in light against painted blue gauze. It had the luminous glow of a seventeenth-century landscape painted by the Italian Master. ‘A Claudian sky,' he heard himself remark to the peaceful air. A pale insubstantial moth dawdled about a clump of crimson poppies at the edge of his vision. It was pleasant resting there, lulled by the summer drone of the insects and the soft whisper of a breeze in the grasses. With a click of a snapping twig, a rabbit scuttered off in the undergrowth. Jarrett forced himself to sit up, giving an involuntary grunt at the effort. The mail would be near due at Greta Bridge and he must get that letter to the post. Charles must be warned. This tangle was proving more dangerous than anticipated. Loath as he was to admit it, he would welcome Charles's presence. He was beginning to be conscious of his isolation in Woolbridge.

He whistled to his horse. The bay studiously ignored him. He called again. Walcheren barely lifted his head. He even took a casual step away as he browsed. An unexpected fury
welled up in Jarrett. It propelled him to stagger towards his mount. ‘Here, damn you!' he cursed. ‘Stand, you poxy mule!' The horse sidled around, knocking the wind out of him as it slammed into his bad side. Only the strength of his upper body and sheer fury enabled him to swing himself up on to the animal's back. He lay along the neck, dizzy and sick. It was no use losing his temper with the beast. He filled his lungs with cool air. ‘I beg pardon,' he said, as calmly as he could, rubbing one soft ear. ‘It has been a distressing experience for us both.'

As he pushed himself up straight in the saddle, the animal turned to give his master an accusing look. Then, with a toss of his head and a soft snort, Walcheren condescended to set off once more on the road to Greta Bridge.

The kitchen at Longacres, the residence of Mrs Lonsdale and her niece Henrietta, was of cavernous height. The afternoon sun streamed through the tall windows infusing the grey tones of the room with a comfortable, peachy warmth. Mrs Grundy, the long-time cook-housekeeper of the family, stood before the massive central table, the ingredients of a plum cake set out before her.

Over the years Mrs Grundy had grown to suit her kitchen, much as her kitchen had been arranged to suit her. So much so that those acquainted with her would be hard put to imagine her in any situation outside its stone walls. She had a heavy, foursquare body tinted in soft shades from white to grey. The only obvious colour about her was a touch of pink in the veins of her cheeks and the pale blue of her watchful eyes.

Hannah Grundy was never seen to bustle or to be flustered. Her every action spoke of her culinary philosophy summed up in her two favourite maxims. To everything its proper place and proper time; and cleanliness is the first and leading principle of a well-run kitchen. The ingredients of her plum cake were arrayed in a neat semi-circle of bowls before her. The pound of sugar, freshly crushed and sieved by Betsy the scullery maid; the butter pat standing in its cooling dish of water; the glass of brandy to give the fruit that extra zest; the basket of smooth brown eggs, the spices and the almonds, and the flour in her favourite large blue and white mixing bowl. She was concentrated on her task, her steady hands
moving about their work with economy. Her chest was bad and her breath wheezed a steady counterpoint to the rustle of the fires in the stoves. She looked up as Black-Eyed Sal walked in from the drying yard carrying a small basket.

‘That's my day near done,' the girl said cheerfully. ‘Four baskets they left me today, and that overgrown damask cloth that's such a devil to press.' She put the basket on the table and stretched her back, her hands on her hips. She managed to bring a supple sensuality to even that every-day motion. Whether or not she was conscious of this effect was hard to tell. The ill-natured said that Sal never made a movement that was not calculated. Many others (though it had to be admitted, most of these latter were men) swore her naturalness was a considerable part of her charm.

‘And what's that great laundry room for, miss? Must you come dirtying my kitchen table?' asked the cook as Sal took a fine embroidered scarf out of the basket along with a pot of powder and a soft brush. The girl returned an affectionate, teasing smile.

‘Give over, Nan, it's only a little job and there's room enough on this great table. Betsy, girl,' she called across to the little scullery maid who stood near a window chopping vegetables, ‘how about a cup of tea? The laundry and me's all wrung out!' Sal got up restlessly and strolled, swinging her hips, to bend over the trays of currants drying before the open ovens.

Mrs Grundy was soon beside her. ‘You leave Betsy to her task and those currants alone,' she said, emphasising her words with a brisk slap on Sal's pilfering hands. Nevertheless she fetched the teapot down from the stove and poured a cup for them both. She called the scullery maid to her: ‘Pin up that hair, Betsy. I'll not have hairs dripping about my kitchen. Oh, come here, lass.' She turned the girl about and briskly pinned up the straggling strands. The maid, a thin wench of thirteen in a washed-out grey print dress, stood
submissively. ‘There. Get you to the store room and fetch me a plate of sweetmeats. The third deep drawer by the window – and mind you make sure the paper's covering those left or they'll spoil.'

Mrs Grundy returned to her mixing bowl. She looked under her brows at her lively niece. ‘You're telling me all's stowed away in the laundry?'

The girl filched an almond between tapering white fingers. Her long-lashed eyes twinkled in contrast to her assumed air of innocence. ‘Tom's cleaning the mangle for me.'

‘You're the laundry maid. That's your job, not the gardener's boy's.'

‘But he's so willing.'

‘That's as may be, but now I'll have the gardener cluttering up my kitchen fretting about how his boy's not at his tasks because he's doing yours.'

‘Gardener never frets at me.'

‘Aye. I'll be bound. It's a plain miracle how the sight of a pretty ankle can tie up a man's tongue.'

‘Yes, Nan.' Sal laid out the scarf she had brought into the kitchen. It was of fine silver lace worked in floss silk. ‘Fancy dropping this in the mud,' she commented as she sprinkled an area with fine powdered alum and brushed it clean with delicate dabs. ‘Miss Henrietta does have some nice things, for all she's so plain.' Mrs Grundy shot her a disapproving look. ‘Well, she is! I'm not saying she weren't fair enough when she were younger but, my, she's well on the shelf by now.'

Sal spoke with the unconscious arrogance of her pristine eighteen years. She smoothed the scarf, then picked it up and draped it over her raven curls with an air. ‘I'll have things like this one day. And not by thieving neither.'

Mrs Grundy tut-tutted. ‘And who'll be buying them for you? Stop dreaming, girl. We've all a place in life, and yours and mine will never lead us to wear finery like that. Now
stop your peacocking and drink your tea before you get that shawl all dirty again.'

A moment of seriousness stilled Sal's mobile face. ‘Nan, I'm not stopping here,' she said with conviction. ‘I will have things like this of my very own one day. I'll improve myself in life, you'll see.'

‘Improve yourself! That's not what folks call it. You'll improve yourself right into the river, my girl. Your wild ways do you no good. Why won't you settle?' Mrs Grundy bit back the words as she said them. She knew it did no good preaching at the likes of Sal, but she feared for her girl. ‘You're wilful, Sally Grundy, that's what you are.'

‘Aye, I know, and wild…' Sal responded with a cheeky grin. She stretched over deliberately and picked out another almond. She rolled it into her red mouth, her eyes brimming with mischief.

‘You!' Mrs Grundy's face warmed with plain affection as she jabbed at the mixture in her bowl. ‘Lord knows you'd have no trouble getting any of the unmarried men in the district if you set your mind to it,' she commented briskly.

‘Or the married ones…' added Sal. She was deliberately provoking her aunt. Her dark eyes never left the older woman's face.

Hard as she tried, Hannah Grundy's fears could not be concealed. ‘God forgive you, Sally Grundy, what mischief are you up to?'

‘None that ain't deserved!' Sal softened before the concern on her aunt's face. She put out a hand towards the woman in a gesture of reassurance. ‘Never fret, Nan, you know I'd never do nothing very wrong.'

Hannah looked full at her niece. ‘You're not fretting after that Will Roberts?' she asked. She dropped her eyes and her voice, striving to sound detached. ‘Didn't I always teach you that no man could be depended on out of sight? They're like dogs or cats; they'll go with whoever feeds 'em.'

‘I know, Nan. I'd not fret after a man. Not while I've plenty fretting after me,' Sal ended, preening herself in a deliberately comic fashion.

‘Well. You have a care, do,' insisted her aunt. ‘Not that you ever would,' she continued softly. ‘Not even as a little girl. Wild and wilful, that's what you are.' Mrs Grundy gently stroked Sal's porcelain cheek with work-roughened fingers. Then she snatched her hand back. ‘Now away!' she said, nodding towards the clock that hung over the door. ‘There's scarce an hour and a half to their dinner time and here's me but barely started!'

Sal wrapped her arms about her aunt's solid waist and hugged her. ‘I've an early start tomorrow, Nan. I've been recommended, I have – to a Lady that's taken a big grand place near Gainford. A real Lord's Lady. I'm resting at the house, there's so much to do.' The girl was vibrant with anticipation at the prospect.

The cook was suspicious. ‘You look mighty excited just for two days in a nobleman's laundry. I know you, Sal. You're not meddling with gentlemen, are you? You'd not be such a fool?'

Sal was not to be drawn. ‘Don't fret, Nan,' she repeated, her face shimmering with suppressed mischief. ‘I know my own business. I'm not such a little girl any more.' Then she gathered up her goods and danced out, pausing in the open doorway, her face bright with laughter. ‘Besides, I've to be back Wednesday night. I've mischief to attend to!' Blowing a graceful kiss to her uneasy aunt, Sal was swallowed up by the bright sunshine.

*

The George at Greta Bridge was a fine and well-known inn. It stood close beside the elegant bridge that curved gracefully over the river Greta. To many a traveller it was the last oasis of civilisation before the Roman road launched into the expanse of wild moorland that lay between the prosperity of Yorkshire and the comforts of Carlisle.

It lacked but a few minutes to four o'clock when Jarrett rode into the yard. There was a pallor under his tan and his face bore a set look from his struggle to keep control of the pain in his wounded leg. It took all his concentration to dismount with any semblance of normality. As he regained his breath he took stock of the bustle about him. The yard simmered in anticipation of the arrival of the mailcoach from Carlisle to York.

At the fringes of the crowd a group of postboys lounged in their short blue jackets, leather breeches and top-boots. One stood ready dressed to be called out, booted and spurred with his false leg strapped on to protect him from the carriage pole. Holding his pair of horses negligently with one hand, he looked into middle distance in a world-weary way, detached from the excitement of the onlookers who milled around him. The district was not so rustic that grown men and women would walk any distance to have a sight of the mailcoach passing, but several found their business happened to lie in the way of the George of an afternoon and loitered to witness the spectacle of the Change. Loud, skinny boys, burnt brown from long summer days of mischief, weaved about the sellers preparing themselves for the lightning moment of opportunity to come. A pedlar settled the strap of a tray of ginger nuts more securely about her neck. A foxy-faced boy hugged a basket to his chest as he polished the shine on the apples it contained. An old man in a battered straw hat arranged about himself an armful of nightcaps, pillows and fans to cool the face of the over-heated traveller. The journey by mailcoach was speedy but arduous and the privileged passengers were offered the purchase of an imaginative range of comforts.

Jarrett found the innkeeper putting the finishing touches
to his post list, the mailbags in a heap on the counter beside him.

‘I have a letter for York.'

The innkeeper looked up from his lists. ‘The mail's near due and my bags are all done up, sir,' he objected.

‘It is urgent,' insisted Jarrett. He felt in his pocket and drew out a coin.

The innkeeper looked him up and down. ‘You look a mite rough, sir.'

‘No matter,' Jarrett brushed his concern aside. ‘A misadventure on the road. This letter?'

The innkeeper cocked his head to look out the window and down the empty road. ‘Well, I reckon we can squeeze another in. For York, you say?'

‘Yes. For the Marquess of Earewith to await collection at the Red Lion.'

‘For the Marquess, is it?' The postmaster perked up at the name. ‘Well, now, why didn't you say so before – always a pleasure to oblige a lordship.' The innkeeper's shrewd countryman's eyes noted the stiffness with which his customer moved. ‘Trouble on the road, you say?'

‘Two ruffians attacked me on the way from Woolbridge. After my purse, I dare say, but I saw them off,' replied Jarrett briefly. ‘Do you have a pen, ink and sealing wax?'

‘You was attacked? Well, sir, that is too bad. We don't get much of that sort of trouble round here. That's bad news, that is.'

‘There is a postscript I must add before the mail comes,' prompted Jarrett, urgency giving his words a pronounced edge. He tried to add a conciliatory smile. ‘I would be most grateful.'

With a slight sigh at the difficulty of serving the gentry the innkeeper went off to fetch the necessary items.

Jarrett broke open his letter, dashed off a hurried postscript about the attack and his misgivings and resealed it
while the innkeeper carefully added the new arrival to the way-bill. The man was just refastening the York mailbag when the sounds of a coach horn were heard in the distance and everyone hurried out to watch the arrival of the mail.

The fresh horses stood prepared under the charge of ostlers. Directly opposite the inn's main entrance, the two leaders fretted, ready harnessed and coupled together. Another blast of the horn and the mail appeared bearing down the straight moor road in the grand style at full gallop. With nice judgement the coachman reined back his horses to bring them to a halt, the red body of his coach settling precisely between the two fresh wheelers lined up on the road. The ostlers leapt up to unthread the buckles and unhitch the four foam-flecked horses. The guard, in his fine scarlet jacket, sprang down from his box, the pedlars surged forward to clamour for the passengers' custom and the innkeeper pressed through the scrum to exchange his bags for the down mail. The George prided itself on performing the Change in less than the five minutes prescribed by the Post Office.

Above the confusion, the coachman sat in a heap on his box, his shape and aspect reminiscent of a comfortable and competent toad. He wore a squat beaver hat with a rakish curl to its brim, and his overflowing chins were supported by a silk handkerchief printed with bilious spots on a chocolate ground. Despite the heat of the day he wore a light overcoat thrown open sufficiently to hint at the several layers of miscellaneous coats underneath. He tied up the reins and stowed his whip in a stately fashion, while the passenger who had won the privilege of sitting by him eagerly wrestled to unbuckle the lead reins.