by William Hunt
A coin was pressed into the informant’s hand, and just as rapidly as he had arrived, he disappeared. Toby nodded to Rupert.
“Why, it seems we are close. Let’s put nose to scent Rupert old chum.”
Nearby the maids stood before a bird seller’s stall. Captive linnets and gold finches fluttered haplessly inside their wicker cages uttering plaintive weeps, whilst jays and magpies sulked, fluffed up and motionless on their perches.
The stall-keeper in his efforts to hold the attention of prospective customers sought to beguile them with an intriguing puzzle.
“Take the ring from the shoes my dears and you can have a pretty bird in a cage for a few coppers less,” he invited.
Melody held the puzzling device in her hands: a pair of horseshoes hung together by two chains at their points. And dangling in the middle of the two chains was a small brass ring.
Both the maids wore frowns and were so engrossed in solving the riddle, but in truth, they were hopelessly baffled.
“Good evening to you both.” Toby ushered in their presence.
“Oh!” both started at the sound of his voice and then stood respectfully still and silent.
“Why, It’s Melody, is it not?” Toby enquired innocently, as though on unfamiliar ground.
“That it is so, Master Toby,” she replied, somewhat peeved that he needed to be reminded.
Toby unabashed proceeded to introduce the two maids to Rupert, who raised his hat and briefly bowed in their direction.
“I’m pleased to make both your acquaintances once again.”
But now Toby’s attention was drawn to the device in Melody’s hand. “What have you there?” He enquired. “Oh, the bird man gave it to tease us,” said Melody.
“We have to take the ring from the horseshoes,” explained Charlotte. Toby took charge.
“Here let me see,” he demanded.
Melody obediently handed over the vexatious instruments of puzzlement. Toby held up the metallic contrivance to Rupert.
“Have you seen the like?” Toby enquired.
Rupert confessed he had not. "So, you want the ring free of the shoes? Is that it? Toby enquired of the vendor.
“That’s it,” the man replied, “And a pretty bird in a cage can be yours for a few coppers less if you do.”
“Well, let’s see, shall we?”
Toby played with the horseshoes for a few moments, before turning his back on the company. Out of sight, he made great play of wrestling with the objects. Then with a flourish he turned in triumph.
“Ah-Ha!”
Toby held up his two outstretched arms. In one hand: the brass ring. In the other: the two horseshoes.
“Oh, Toby! How clever you are!” Melody cried, all propriety forgotten. Even Charlotte was moved to smile.
“How did you do that?” Melody grabbed the horseshoes from Toby and examined them closely. Toby politely returned the ring to Charlotte, who likewise took great care to look for any tell-tale breaks.
“But now we must return the ring to the shoes before the magic wears off”, Toby grandly announced, and taking back the items from the wondering maids, repeated the show but in reverse order.
Once more the ring ran along the chains. Toby’s performance was met with rapturous applause from the maids, and some tarrying bystanders
“Well done, sir,” enthused the vendor. “Perhaps a songbird for the young missy?”
“May I?” interjected Rupert, who finding himself in the somewhat novel situation of being upstaged, sought to make up lost ground.
Casting his eye over the birds, Rupert selected a pair of linnets in a little wicker cage, “I’ll take these,” he said, and after recompensing the bird seller… handed on the gift to Melody.
Melody held the cage in both hands and looked at them.
“Once they’re settled, they’ll sing well enough for you, miss,” the bird seller encouragingly advised.
Melody looked directly at Rupert and sweetly smiled, “Thank you so much, Master Rupert sir.”
“Uh… My pleasure indeed,” Rupert responded faintly.
“Ah, but all’s fair at the fair,” interjected Toby. “What’s sauce for the goose? We cannot let the other go home empty handed,” and turning to Charlotte, he gestured toward the bird stall.
“Please choose.”
Charlotte was now greatly ill at ease at the growing intimacy of the encounter.
“Why, I would rather not, Master Toby.”
Toby raised his eyes. “A gift from one to another. What’s wrong with that?”
“But it is not proper,” Charlotte blurted out.
“Oh! And why is that so?” Toby Portlock was most intrigued.
“You walk out with another, sir. Yet you make free with your fancies to me,” she bluntly replied.
“What does she mean, Toby?” Rupert enquired with puzzlement.
Toby caught Melody’s eye with a complicit glance.
“I’m sure I don’t know, old chum,” he replied with a smiling air of baffled amusement.
Charlotte would stay no longer. After a hurriedly excusing herself… she reminded Melody that the wagoner would soon blow his horn to signal departure. Miss it, and there was a long walk home. Then Charlotte was gone.
“Why your friend seems out of countenance,” commiserated Rupert.
“Oh, she’s Scripture read and God-fearing Master Rupert, sir,” replied Melody by way of an explanation.
“Unlike you my worldly maid”, thought Toby with a wry smile on his lips. “Well, perhaps we should take in the sights forthwith before you are called away,” suggested Rupert. Melody readily acquiesced.
“As you so wish, sir.”
And to the great astonishment (and much scandalized gaze) of the fairground crowds. Melody strode out carelessly swinging her birdcage. All the time closely escorted by her two attentive and distinguished consorts.
Unaware of the sensation his daughter was causing at the other end of the fairground, George Bell thirstily eyed the Three Horseshoes Alehouse. Basket sales were all but done, and with young Jack Rastall left in charge of the handcart, George Bell and Peter Rastall pushed through the crowds for a well-earned drink.
Sat down in a comer of the bar room on rough-hewn chairs and tables, with wood shavings sprinkled over the alehouse floor, the two men fell into conversation with a Romany Tinker who’d done some business with them earlier.
The cider loosened their tongues, and George Bell became curious about the stranger. How did he make a living throughout the year? The Gloucestershire labourer wished to know. The Romany was straightforward enough.
Why, he followed the fairs, buying and selling as he went along. For instance, the baskets he’d just bought from them would be re-sold at a higher price elsewhere. In between times, he worked the land when crops were in season. There were all sorts of ways to make a living and to emphasise this point he cited a recent example.
Of late he’d come up from the Michaelmas sheep fair at Salisbury. He told them of a bird as “big as a turkey” that lived on the open plains thereabouts. Some people trained fast dogs to take the bird whilst it was on the ground.
“They fetch a good price on market days,” he informed his listeners.
“Well, that’s easy done,” said Peter Rastall dismissively. “Any dog can take a bird that can’t fly.”
“Oh no, it flies well enough,” insisted the Romany. The trick was to get the dog close enough, so the bird could be run down before it took wing.
Both Peter Rastall and George Bell were agog. They’d never heard the like before.
“As big as a turkey you say?” George Bell asked with wondering envy.
The Romany nodded.
“Ah what we could do with a running dog. Eh! Twilight?” Exclaimed George Bell greedily wiping his mouth against his smock sleeve.
“I thought you didn’t hold with such notions?” Peter Rastall reminded him.
“Well, the farm pay don’t go far. And wi
th the withies gone, it’s a long wait for the elvers,” George Bell ruefully lamented.
The Romany – listening intently all this time – leaned forward and came up with a tempting proposition. “I might just be able to put you in the way of a fast dog,” he spoke confidentially.
“Come and see for yourself,” he urged in low tones.
The Romany nodded conspiratorially towards the pub door and promptly went outside. Peter Rastall and George Bell looked on blankly, before they hastily drank up, and (rather unsteadily) set off in pursuit.
The three men slipped away behind the fairground crowds, into the dark shadows of the caravans and tethered ponies. Arriving at a particular caravan, the Romany made his way up the wooden steps, and after briefly fumbling with the door, beckoned the other two inside.
Inside was a riot of paraphernalia and bric-a-brac. Pausing to light a candle from the embers of a small wood burning stove, the Romany then knelt down in a comer, undid a tether and unceremoniously dragged a small wire-haired lurcher into view.
The dog cowered and bristled-its tail between its legs-glaring affrightedly up at the company stood over it. The Romany commenced with the sales pitch.
“He’s a young un’ still… and not so big… so he won’t need much feedin’ either.”
Without commenting, Peter Rastall and George Bell took turns to handle the dog that trembled to their touch.
“He’s run down rabbits too.” The Romany picked up and displayed a fur pelt as evidence of the dog’s prowess.
“What about a hare?” enquired Peter Rastall. The Romany spoke candidly.
“Never put one up yet. But he’s fast off the mark. I don’t see why not.” The glittering eyes of the prospective buyers met. Sparked up from a combination of drink and covetous desire, they were in full accord.
“We’ll take him.”
Melody had sharp hearing. Over the noise of the throng she caught the distant toot of the wagoner’s horn warning of imminent departure.
“I must go now,” she urgently announced to her attentive consort’s.
“May we not escort you?” offered Rupert. Melody was apologetic.
“I dare not tarry… Good night to you both.”
With a polite bow of her head, she turned and set briskly off towards the pickup point. To his own astonishment, Rupert heard himself call out loudly and dash after her. In a moment he was at her side.
“Melody there is so much I wished to speak of…!”
“What is it, sir?” She asked breathlessly.
“I must see you again. We must talk alone.”
“Oh! I don’t –” began the maid.
“Ah, please do me the honour and say you’ll meet with me Melody!” Rupert urgently insisted.
Melody’s mind whirred over the options.
“Very well… The lych-gate at St Mary’s Church?” she proposed to Rupert who eagerly assented.
“Yes, yes! But when is it to be, Melody? When?”
“Tomorrow at seven of the clock,” she swiftly concluded.
“Why, of course.”
Melody flushed with excitement, quickly squeezed his hand.
“Until then,” she murmured, and with linnets in tow, the maid swept away into the wondering crowds.
Rupert was stood rooted to the spot when Toby joined him.
“Well, that seemed like desperate talk to me,” Toby jokingly observed. Receiving no reply, the Portlock boy (for once) began to harbour vague misgivings as to where the business might be leading.
“I say. She’s only a village lass, Rupert… That’s all.”
It was quite dark by now, and although the early October evenings were mild, nothing could stop the shortening of the days. Lanterns were slung from the tents and caravans, throwing an irregular twinkling of light over the thinning crowds.
Rupert’s manner became distant and preoccupied. “I think it is time we departed”.
“As you wish, dear friend.”
“Oh! And Toby… With regard to the matter that is currently exciting your curiosity…”
“Yes?”
“I forbid all further discussion as to what transpired here tonight,” Toby smiled and then replied with mock solemnity.
“Your wishes compel my immediate and unreserved compliance.” Subsequently an enforced silence followed which lasted all the way to Manor Farm. Then bidding Toby a terse “Goodnight”, Rupert rode off at a steady canter to Hardcourt Hall.
Toby listened to the sound of Rupert’s departing horse and wondered what had passed between him and the maid.
And as he did so, these latest turn of events gave Toby pause for further reflection. Up until that evening, the inept Rupert with his ridiculously misplaced affections for the village wench had been a source of amusement to him.
But now, as he perceived momentum building between the two, a cautionary murmur played on his psyche. For all his cavalier joviality, Toby’s instincts told him the game was up. A summer of fun midst the haystacks was one thing, but that time had long since passed.
Wisely Toby decided to withdraw from any further dalliance with the maid and leave the Honourable Rupert Valans in sole possession of the chase.
Scandal
The following morning whilst Charlotte slumbered on, Melody rose from their bed at ‘Home Farm’ to start the New Year hire. As she stepped lightly to the window combing her black tresses, Hardcourt Hall came into view, high on hill, bathed in yellow autumnal sunlight.
Her spirits soared; it was a portent of happiness to come… surely. Momentarily, her pretty face clouded over at the recollection of her past liaisons with Toby.
Still, what did that matter? Soon all would be well, and after tonight, her new love would transport her beyond reach of a mere Squire’s son…
Beyond everyone in fact.
And events augured well for the evening to come. Mr Amos expressed disapproval of caged birds at ‘Home Farm’. So, at day’s end, Melody was given leave of absence to visit her family and present the linnets for safekeeping. And, in anticipation of family expectations, she would contribute her share towards the rent as well.
Afterwards, she would be perfectly placed for her tryst with Rupert Valans at St Mary’s Church. Excitedly, Melody contemplated the forthcoming adventure, and furthermore decided (as befitting such a special occasion) to wear her Sunday best frock and bonnet once more.
But if the wayward milkmaid saw a rosy future for herself, others viewed the events of the previous night in a completely different hue. News of Melody’s scandalous impropriety had set the neighbourhood alight.
Everybody knew all about it… Except (of course), those of her own kin. That morning George Bell and Peter Rastall walked towards Home Farm carrying their flails over their shoulders.
As the year closed and the labours of the field ceased, the threshing, winnowing and bagging up the corn gave the farm hands precious work through the dark months.
Oblivious to all else, both men were fully preoccupied with the handiwork of their own wondrous derring-do. Between them they now possessed a running dog. The animal (for the moment kennelled with Peter Rastall) had been smuggled out of the fairground in an unsold wicker basket.
“How’s the Flyer?” (For he was so named) enquired George Bell eagerly.
“I give him some woodpigeon scraps, with a few pieces of bread.”
“Ah! Making himself at home, is he Twilight?” chortled George Bell gleefully.
“He is, but the sooner he’s put to work the better. We’ll give him a run out tomorrow… at first light.”
“So be it,” George Bell concurred with an emphatic nod.
In the grain barn, teams of men spread the sheaves of wheat across the floor and beat the grain from the husks. As the dust from the chaff rose in the air, men tied scarves across their faces to avoid choking.
But with the passing of time, it became apparent that something was amiss. The frosty reception handed out to George Bell by all and sundry made
that all too obvious.
Finally, matters came to a head. Whilst resting from their labours, the charged atmosphere became too much. George Bell could take no more and in a loud voice he brought matters to a head.
“Come on then. Out with it!” he challenged. “What’s up?”
The men shuffled uncomfortably. Signals of disapproval radiated forth from the company all that morning. But now invited to speak their minds, nobody wanted the responsibility.
Old un’ as usual, took up the reins.
“George, I don’t want to tell no tales but it ain’t proper that’s all.”
“What ain’t proper?” demanded George Bell. “That daughter of yours.”
“Our Melody?”
“Ah! Last night George…’Her was a strutting about the fair with the Portlock boy and Rupert Valans himself. Like two puppy dogs at her side they were.”
George Bell heard the news with consternation. Peter Rastall sat stony faced. Belatedly, he recalled his son’s revelations during the harvest a few weeks earlier. Now with the ‘Flyer’ kennelled up at Moorend… This was ill tidings indeed.
Once all was out in the open; others were quick to put in their ‘five penneth’.
“And Master Rupert bought her a pair of songbirds in a cage too,” someone blurted out. “What’s the girl a playin’ at, George?”
George Bell was confounded. All he could do was mutter a few words about taking his daughter to task when he saw her next. Work resumed in an uneasy atmosphere, until the days threshing was over.
Afterwards, George Bell and Peter Rastall took solace at the ‘Forge Inn’ but barely had the drink passed their lips when Jeb Musselwhite, hot from the smithy in his leather apron, caught sight of them.
Purposefully, he strode over.
“George, there’s something you should know.”
More bad news was to come. It so happened that within the last hour, a stable groom had brought Rupert Valans’s horse to be shod at the Forge Inn.
“But Hardcourt Hall has its own smithy,” voiced a mightily puzzled George Bell.
“Ah, that’s just it,” replied the blacksmith and drew closer to impart some unsettling news to the pair. It was not good listening.
The groom acting on strict instructions from Rupert Valans brought the horse clandestinely from Hardcourt stables for shoeing. The groom further informed Jeb Musslewhite that his master was preparing to ride out later that evening for an assignation. And consequently, he wished his excursion to be kept secret from those at Hardcourt Hall.
