Of Dubious Intent

by J. A. Sutherland

  “No, miss, ask away.”

  Emma spoke slowly, obviously concentrating on her accent. “The cottage next door — what is its story?”

  The innkeeper frowned. “The cottage?” He shrugged, his large shoulders heaving. “No story t’speak of. It’s ourn — me and the missus. Widow Tibbet had the rent of it, but she went to live with her daughter — couldn’t move so good no more. Let it go, a might, she did. That all, miss?”

  Emma nodded. “Thank you.”

  “Why did you ask that?” Cat asked after the innkeeper was gone.

  Emma shrugged. “It just seemed sad.”

  Chapter 33

  The next morning dawned clear and crisp. Not too cold yet, but the air held a sharpness that told of real cold not too many days away.

  Cat slipped a penny into the stableboy’s hand before circling around and climbing up into the cart’s seat beside Emma. The boy grinned at her and stepped back from the horse, fist clutched tightly around the coin. She shook the reins and the horses leaned into the harness, pulling the cart into motion, out of the inn’s yard and onto the road.

  Emma had helped load their bags into the back of the cart. She’d been silent most of the morning, merely accepting Cat’s suggestions that she dress, get some bread and cheese from the inn’s cook, and take her seat in the cart.

  “You’re quiet this morning,” Cat said, once they were clear of the inn and any others who might overhear.

  Emma nodded. She looked back at the village as they left it.

  Cat looked back too. It didn’t take long, it was a small village as she’d noted on their arrival. An inn, a store, a blacksmith for the surrounding farms. One or two other shops she hadn’t seen the details of and a handful of homes for those who didn’t live over their shops. It was the sort of place that catered to the surrounding farmers, the occasional traveler, and where no one would stop at by choice nor look twice at as they didn’t.

  There was no bustle in the market square, and only a market at all but once a week. No fishmongers calling their wares nor carters with heavy loads. Even the inn brewed its own beer, so there were no draymen plying the single road and rutted lanes.

  It was as boring a place as Cat had ever seen, really.

  Emma sighed.

  “What is it?” Cat asked.

  Emma shrugged.

  “’Twas a peaceful place,” Emma said, finally, as they passed the first real farm outside the village.

  Cat frowned and glanced at the girl. Emma looked as pensive as Cat had ever seen. Melancholy, even.

  “We’ll be in Leeds soon,” Cat said. “I’ve heard it’s growing — factories and engines abound. It might be the perfect place for us to settle. With so many newcomers, two more girls will hardly be noticed.”

  Emma looked to the roadside and the passing pastures. She nodded.

  Cat stared forward, silent. The horses’ haunches moved steadily as they pulled the wagon, like a metronome, ticking away the steps from the village to the city.

  Emma had never lived in a city, and hadn’t liked the ones they’d traveled through. Too crowded, too dirty, too fast — she preferred a quieter place, with fewer people.

  Cat looked at Emma for a moment, trying to imagine the girl in Leeds. They’d live in rented rooms, with others above and below them and on all sides. The day would start with a fishmonger’s call outside their window, not birdsong. A step outside their door would put them into the bustle of the street, dodging carts and wagons, instead of the peace of a well-tended garden. Their funds didn’t extend to luxury, so there’d be no private kitchen for Emma to prepare their meals, only a small hearth, and that fired by coal instead of wood, so the soot would get into the food.

  “Did you note the little cottage as we arrived yesterday, Emma?” Cat asked quietly. “The one with the overgrown yard?”

  “Y’know I did,” Emma murmured.

  “Quite in disrepair,” Cat said.

  “Needs a loving hand, sure. Someone t’care fer it and keep it straight.”

  Cat looked away, her eyes and heart filling. It was one of the things she loved most about Emma, this way she saw the world. Most would look at the cottage and see all that was wrong with it. The overgrown garden, the brambles in the ditch that would have to be cleared, the fencing in disrepair, the roof thatch all in need of replacing … Emma thought of what the cottage needed for itself, as though it were a living thing.

  And what it might give in return, if it received that love.

  For some reason, she thought of the merchant who’d tried to have her robbed, left dead in his bedclothes, his bullyboys, left white and purple in the alley, and of Brandt’s blood covering her hand.

  Souls can fill with brambles, too.

  What could she repair of herself, with Emma’s loving hand? And what could she give in return?

  The wagon jerked as one wheel fell into a rut.

  Cat stopped her reverie and turned to look back at the village.

  They were perhaps a mile down the road now. She’d set the stage well enough last night in the inn’s common room. Their story had been accepted. Orphaned sisters traveling to family who were none too thrilled at the prospect of their arrival. How could that be changed?

  She reined in the horse and stopped the cart. There was no one about on the road yet and no farmhouse in sight.

  “Why’re we stopping?” Emma asked.

  Cat secured the reins and hopped down. She dug through the packs to find some tools and took a rough file to the cart’s front corner.

  “Cat?” Emma said.

  The file wasn’t a saw — it was meant for metal, but it would do. The wheel’s spokes yielded to it quickly, bits of wood flying as she carved the first spoke nearly all the way through.

  “Cat! What’re y’doing? The cart!”

  “Ssshhh!” Cat hissed. She started on the next spoke. “And keep an eye out so no one sees. We need an excuse to return.”

  “What d’ye mean?”

  Cat moved on to the next spoke. Just enough so that they’d break easily, but not so much that the tooling would be clear.

  “We need an excuse to return to the inn,” Cat said, “and to stay a few days.”

  “Why?”

  “Time enough for a letter to our ‘relatives,’ informing them of the delay. And a letter in return rescinding our invitation — I haven’t figured the why of it yet, but I will.”

  Emma frowned. “Why’d y’want to do that? I thought we was to tell all the story of why we’re passing through?”

  She nearly had the spokes done. The wheel was wobbling a bit, but held in place — it would never make much way down the road, but it didn’t have to.

  “To explain why we’re not passing through,” Cat said, “as we’ll have nowhere else to go.”

  Emma’s eyes widened as realized what Cat was saying.

  “We’ll stay?”

  Cat set the file to the last spoke.

  “We’ll stay.”

  Emma was off the cart in an instant, bowling Cat over into the dirt of the road and raining kisses on her face and neck.

  “You mean it?” Emma asked.

  Cat laughed. The warm weight of the girl on top of her took away the morning chill and more.

  “I do,” she said.

  More kisses and Emma’s arms wrapped her so tight it forced a bit of breath from her.

  Emma pulled her face back and stared into Cat’s eyes.

  “I love you.”

  The cart wrecked much as Cat planned it.

  She left Emma standing in the road, got the horses up to a decent pace, then tossed a hefty branch into the wheel spokes.

  The spokes shattered as the wheel spun and the cart lurched to a stop.

  Cat climbed down and inspected her work.

  A suspicious man might find the tool marks, she thought, but not a casual one. And why would anyone in the village be suspicious?

  She took another branch to bash at some of the more o
bvious marks, though, dulling them, and collected some of the spoke bits from the roadway. Those she thought might be too obvious she packed away in their things for disposal in the inn’s fireplace.

  The cart was obviously going nowhere far for some time. They could likely get it back to the village with the help of some others, but their journey was done until they could have a new wheel fitted. There’d be an expense to that. The expense and the delay being the cause to write to their “family” while staying at the inn for a response.

  It lacked but one more thing.

  “Cor!” Emma exclaimed rushing up to the cart. “Y’did a proper job on that!”

  Cat had to admit she had. The wheel itself, now spokeless, had rolled some way down the road and the cart tipped precariously anytime weight was put to the wheelless corner.

  “We’ll unhitch the horses and walk them back,” Cat said. “But first —”

  She drew her belt knife and checked its edge, then lifted her hair away from her forehead. She rapped herself sharply there with the knife’s hilt, then again.

  “Cat!”

  “I need to look injured,” Cat said. She tapped her brow again, blinking away the tears the sharp pain brought. “Will it bruise, do you think?”

  Emma examined her brow.

  “There’s a bit already.”

  “Good.”

  Cat rapped herself twice more, to be sure, then drew the blade swiftly across the same area.

  “Cat!”

  “I’m fine, it’s only for show,” Cat said, holding her head back to let the blood run down her face. She’d have to sacrifice some of the Parson’s Niece garb for this, but could always purchase more.

  The head wound bled freely and she let it flow down her face and onto her clothes for a few moments.

  “How do I look?”

  “A fright,” Emma said. “I’d think you near dead, if I’d not seen you do it!”

  “Good.”

  Cat clambered into the cart and let a good bit of blood flow and spatter about the bench area, leaving it in such a state that anyone coming along before the cart was retrieved would likely think its occupants had been murdered by highwaymen and the bodies devoured by wild beasts.

  She and Emma hung all their baggage on the horses, then turned them back down the road toward the village and began the walk, Cat now holding a bit of cloth to her head to staunch the blood.

  Chapter 34

  Our Dear Uncle,

  It is with much Sorrow and Trepidation that we write to you in order to inform you of Our further Travails.

  In as much as we thought to see you in only Three Days’ Time, and have Longed for the Embrace of Family after our so recent Bereavement, we find that Fortune has turned Her Frown upon our family once more.

  No sooner had we left our Inn this morning, but we did meet with Foul Providence upon the road, causing untold Damage to our Transport, which has lost a Wheel, all entirely!

  I, Catherine, was injured most Grievously in the Event and may not be able to travel for some days. Take no Fear from this, as the injury will heal with time, but I require Rest and Solitude to become once more Myself.

  Emma is unhurt in body, but the Fright and Effort of the Crash and bringing me to Safety has quite Overwhelmed her.

  I fear that neither of us may be fit for Travel, even by such means as the Postal Coach, for some time.

  Please do not seek to Trouble yourself on our account. We are Safe and Snug and remarkably well cared for by the fine people of this village, and shall continue our Journey to your Loving Bosom when we are Able.

  We shall remain here, at this lovely Inn which has become our Haven in the face of such Adversity, until such time as our transport is repaired and both Emma and I have recovered Ourselves.

  Your Loving Nieces,

  Catherine and Emma

  Cat eased herself back in the bed. Their room at the inn was more comfortable than the first. The innkeeper and his wife nearly going into fits when Emma staggered into the courtyard under the weight of Cat’s half-dragged and fully-bloodied form.

  Once the story was out and Cat examined to determine that she wouldn’t die of the “Grievous Injury,” the two girls were ensconced in the inn’s best — Cat neatly tucked into a feather bed, rather than the straw tick of a common travelers’ room, and the fire built up so she wouldn’t take a chill.

  Emma curled up beside her and listened as Cat read the letter to their “uncle” aloud.

  “What do you think?” Cat asked.

  Emma pursed her lips. “Seems all flowered an’ such.”

  “Speech, Emma, if we’re to be safe here, you must play your part.”

  “It seems quite flowery,” Emma said distinctly.

  “Yes, well, the Orphaned Daughters would be a bit flowery, wouldn’t they? Raised to be able to take the next step up in society if they found a decent match, I think.”

  “If you say so.” Emma frowned. “Still, why must you write it if there’s no one to receive it?”

  “Verisimilitude, Emma,” Cat said. “No matter that it will never be delivered, if someone here were to see it before the Post comes, it must be believable. It also helps me to compose the reply.”

  “An’ how’ll the reply come?” Emma asked.

  Cat pinched the girl in the side, eliciting a giggle and then a heavy sigh.

  “And how will the reply come?”

  “That,” Cat said, “is for tonight and why you must let no one in these rooms while I’m gone — I’ll be two days, perhaps more. Tell them the excitement of the crash and my injury have me unable to see anyone and that I must rest.”

  Emma nodded.

  “If they begin making noise about payment, there’s money in our bags. Hand over half a crown and don’t dicker, then say you must rush back to my side — let them feel guilty about the asking and they’ll leave you be. And be sure you eat some from both meals they bring up — lightly from mine and say my appetite has not yet returned.”

  “Should I stir the chamber pots, as well?” Emma asked with a chuckle. “So, it’ll seem there’s two of us?”

  “Yes,” Cat said, her face serious. “In fact, use the pots exclusively, but walk out to the privy from time to time, as well. That way there’ll be no questions in that regard.”

  “Cat —”

  “It’s the little things, Emma, that draw suspicion. Some little thing, not quite right, and it’s remarked on — we’re remarkable enough here as it is, there’s no need to make it more so.”

  Cat slipped out the inn’s window as soon as the night was far enough along that those still in the pub weren’t making regular trips to the privy.

  She hung from the window’s sill and arched her back enough to swing a bit away from the building, then dropped to the ground with a muffled thump.

  Their room’s window was on the back side of the inn, with nothing but the privy between Cat and a copse of trees that extended away and eventually met the curving road out of town.

  She paused, hunched in the shadows, and waited for any sign of movement or that her drop had been heard, then moved swiftly for the trees. She was dressed as the Serving Girl — hardworking, honest, something that would pass here in the country or in the larger city where she was bound. Not so poor as to make people wary, nor so grand as to cause them to take notice. Just a serving girl, moving from one place to another. She did have the Merchant’s Daughter in the sack slung over her shoulder, though, along with some of their coin and a bit of bread and cheese.

  Through the woods, swiftly and silently, to the road far enough from town that she’d not be seen by any up and about early.

  She wasn’t worried about farm folk seeing her. Few of them had been into town to have made note of her and Emma at the inn, and, besides, Serving Girl looked nothing at all like Orphaned Daughter — they were entirely different people.

  Once at the road, she settled into an easy run, which warmed her against the cold night air. The rutted lane
was no poorer footing than the ill-kept tiles and slate of a late-night roof run, so she was able to keep the pace for some time.

  She made the crossroads she sought before dawn, though it was a bit of a squint in the darkness to be sure of the sign, and made the turn. It was near enough to the sun’s rise then that she simply walked.

  The sun was barely a hint on the horizon, not yet warming things even a bit, when farm carts began to pass her. Cat waved and smiled as they went by, for Serving Girl was a friendly lass, quick with a grin and good-humored — though she waved off the offers of a ride toward the city until one was made from a cart with the farmer’s wife along, for Serving Girl was not naive.

  They rolled into the outskirts of Leeds and Cat hopped down with a thank you, another smile, and her wish the farmer do well in his bargaining.

  The city was already bustling, with its many factories and workshops starting work early in the morning or even running all night. Cat merely wandered for a time, familiarizing herself with the place and gaining a feel for the neighborhoods she walked. She was looking for a particular place — a particular sort of man, in truth.

  It was nearly noon before she found some answer to her veiled queries and a name.

  Chadbyrne Jessel - Solicitor

  The sign on the door was worn and shabby, much like the man who answered the door, looked Cat over with an appraising eye, and ushered her inside.

  The office was likewise, adding cluttered and dusty to the mix, and the furnishings contributed battered.

  Altogether, Cat was certain it was the right sort of place.

  Jessel hurriedly pulled a chair away from his desk, swiped a hand over the seat, and gestured grandly for Cat to make herself at home.

  “What can I do for you today, Miss —?” Jessel asked, making his way to his own chair.

  “Moseley,” Cat said, giving the name she and Emma were using. “Catherine Moseley, sir. I have some business with which I require assistance. Discreet assistance.”

  “Of course,” Jessel said. “Discretion is, after all, the very bedrock of a solicitor’s practice, is it not?”