Mandy

by Claudy Conn

  “Mandy, I am grateful, grateful that you are my sister, but in this matter—just think that the duke is right about you gallivanting about, you shouldn’t. Never know who you might run into. The duke is a knowing sort of fellow and we don’t need Sir Owen sticking his nose into our business. The duke will handle it all right and tight,” Ned said unwisely and watched as his sister seemed to turn into a fury of movement.

  She stomped her foot and paced in a circle. Hands went to her hips. “Will he? Will he indeed? And yet, where is he?”

  “Probably chasing down a lead, I’d say,” put in Chauncey frowning thoughtfully as he looked at her. “Chaffed are ye that he isn’t here?” Chauncey and Mandy’s gaze met and she felt a blush heat up her cheeks. A knowing smile lifted his lips and he said, “Aye, so that is the way of it, is it? I wondered.”

  “I am speaking of Sir Owen. Do you want to know what he had to tell me or not?” she returned.

  “We do,” said Chauncey lifting his hand to stop her brother from speaking.

  “He told me that he had received information that Elly Bonner had been seen in York, and that she is expected to return there.”

  “York? Return? Why?” asked her brother.

  “I’m not clear on that…wondered about it myself,” Mandy sighed. “But Sir Owen seemed to think that she would be returning for supplies.”

  Ned jumped to his feet. “Come on Chauncey, if we head out now, we can reach York, put up somewhere where we wouldn’t be noticed and have a search ourselves first thing in the morning. Didn’t that friend of yours say something about Hawkins frequenting the Black Bull Tavern in York?”

  Chauncey flicked his nose as he gave this some thought. He got to his feet and turned to Mandy, “His young lordship is right. If we head out now and put up at an inn, we’ll have the whole day to search tomorrow, unless ye be worried about being alone here at night?”

  “No, no…go. I only wish I could go with you,” Mandy sighed.

  “Aye, but no one would take ye for a boy by daylight, missy, ye must see that?” Chauncey said in way of apology.

  She followed them outside and Chauncey cast his eyes upward. A bright full moon was glowing in the night sky and he grunted with approval. “MacFarlane’s Lantern,” he said, “It bodes well.”

  “Eh?” Ned turned a puzzled look at him, “Whose lantern?”

  “Macfarlane’s. Haven’t I never told ye about it?”

  Both Ned and Mandy shook their heads and waited as Chauncey grinned wide and with his hands moving across the night air, lowered his voice, “’Twas the Clan MacFarlane that rode the Highlands. Aye, but ‘twas glorious. When the moon be so lit, ‘tis said they would ride on their excursions and at no other time…well after they were dead.”

  Ned whistled low, Mandy chuckled, “Of course they did.”

  “Aye, but then if the clan is with us, we are bound to succeed,” said Ned jovially. “Let’s ride.”

  “Right, but ye know, yer thieves cant leaves much to be desired. When it comes to talking to these coveys tonight, leave that to me.”

  “What shall I do?” Ned objected.

  “Look dumb, make no moves, say nothing,” returned Chauncey on a bark of a laugh.

  Ned’s jaw dropped but he put up his chin and grumbled something incoherent as he bid his sister get back inside and be safe.

  She watched them mount and ride off with a heavy sigh. She didn’t feel very much like sitting alone in her chamber. The night was not so very advanced. There could be no harm in a short walk near the abbey?

  After thirty minutes of this and another thirty minutes of sitting by herself, full with her restlessness, she got up and strode toward the barn. To her way of thinking, her brother and Chauncey may have been correct that she couldn’t be seen in public with them, but she felt abandoned, alone and annoyed at being left out of everything all the time.

  This way of thinking stirred up her cauldron of impetuosity and got the better of her. It didn’t take long before she had her horse saddled and rode him slowly across the glen.

  Truth was, sleeping alone at the abbey, would have been impossible. She had never been alone all night there before. York wasn’t so very far away and by now there was no doubt in her mind that the two were having a rollicking good time at the tavern, while she twiddled her thumbs alone. It was most annoying.

  A light mist had seeped into the atmosphere and hung low across the tall dry pasture. However, Mandy had not lived on the moors all her life without coming across this eerie scene before. The vision before her was one where an active imagination might begin to see all sorts of creatures crawling through the low hanging mist, but Mandy was made of sterner stuff.

  She attached no unearthly significance to the light gray tentacles at her horse’s hocks. She continued to make her way across Bolton Glen to the main pike, taking this eastward for a short stretch before crossing it and turning onto a path that etched its way through the viscount’s property.

  It was a trail that was rarely used.

  The fact that the branches of the trees hung over the path making grotesque shadows did not deter her. She knew the woods well and thought nothing of guiding her horse through its dark, winding overgrowths. Perhaps a long ride was what she needed so that she could sleep when she returned to the abbey?

  She saw the light of the moon up and ahead in the clearing and smiled because it was not an easy thing to pick her way through the deer path in the dim light of the woods. A breeze brought the scent of heather and it filled her nostrils and she sighed, pleased that she was out and about instead of stuck in a dank room all by herself.

  She had never been over the stretch of land ahead at night. It was known as Witch’s Elbow and was avoided even during the day because of the tales told concerning this parcel of glen.

  She drew in breath. She did not believe in such things, and yet…one could never be too careful, especially when one was alone in the dark of night.

  Gently, she urged her horse onto its treacherous ground when she heard it, stopped all movement, and listened and heard it again.

  Sobbing!

  A woman sobbing…indeed, a woman…and she was sobbing, yet…was it a woman, or was it something unearthly?

  Uncertain…but, there was no denying the strength of the tone. The sobbing seemed to echo, but how was that possible? She shuddered and remembered how Chauncey had warned them to stay away from Witch’s Elbow when they were young.

  He had told them roundly, “Tis the spirits of evil caught beneath the ground—make no mistake. They cry for release they do, especially when the moon is full.”

  Well, here was the truth to his words.

  She and Ned were only eleven or twelve when he warned them away from this place and told them about Old Saltergash who had an inn nearby. The witches played their tricks on all his patrons who dared to travel their land. They would use their magic to lure them into the bog.

  Precaution put a stop to her plans. Perhaps she had ridden long enough. She had still the ride back to the ruins.

  Best to turn about and get back to the safety of the abbey.

  “Yes, but I don’t believe in witches,” she said out loud. However, I do believe in bogs and there could be any number of them along that stretch!

  Rationalization came to her rescue and she turned her horse around. She made for Wharfdale Manor road which bordered Skippendon’s preserve. She could take this route quite directly and safely toward the Abbey trail.

  Quite suddenly the breeze picked up again. It brought the scent of the damp woods and the sound of human conversation. It was low, hurried and very near. She could hear someone speaking.

  She pulled her horse to a stop and tried not to make a sound as she listened, worried about being seen. She slipped quietly off her horse and went to his nose, holding the reins and leading him quietly out of sight and into the shadows.

  The voices seemed to get louder and sounded strangely familiar. Curiously, she wondered who it was o
n Skippy’s preserve. Poachers? No—too odd an hour for poachers.

  She picked through the evergreen bush and peered through the hidden light of the moon. She could not see anyone, but she heard most clearly.

  “My dearest, this cannot continue. I won’t have you riding out in the midst of the night, alone just for a few stolen moments…” It was a desperate male voice, and it was well known to Mandy, for it belonged to the Viscount Skippendon.

  A soft, sweet-sounding female voice answered in a loving tone and Mandy heard an accent there—Irish?

  “But they are precious moments, m’darling’. Don’t take on so…’tis only a wee bit more we shall have to deal with. Soon we will be able to…”

  Skip then annoyed Mandy because he cut her off and did not allow Mandy to learn what they soon would be able to do.

  “No. My only love, it must stop, now. That is, unless you feel we can…” he said and Mandy thought he sounded miserable.

  “M’own sweet John. Darlin’ ye will not deny me our time together. ‘Tis yer right to claim so much more, but I canna give it yet…though ‘tis m’wish to do so.”

  “But why? This is torture, Kathleen…”

  Now she cut him off, “But ye know why, have always known, though ye never really understood. I know that. Whist there, darlin’, never mind.”

  As silence ensued, Mandy imagined that they were no doubt locked in an embrace. What was she doing spying on Skip?

  All she wanted then was to hurry off. As quietly as she could, she picked her way out of the brush and took her horse in hand as she mounted and hurriedly urged him away from the scene.

  Why was Skippy meeting this woman clandestinely? What the deuce was going on here? The woman was unknown to her, but she was sure she was gentry. Right, so why would she be sneaking off to meet the viscount? He was a nobleman, he was rich, and he was a gentleman in every imaginable way…so this did not make sense.

  Sir Owen had said that Skip was seeing someone and had not wanted her to know about his relationship with Celia. So here it was the truth of the matter…?

  Sir Owen had said Skip could be the father of Celia’s unborn child. No…that wasn’t like Skip at all. She refused to think this.

  What to do? What to do?

  With her jumbled thoughts scurrying about in her head, she scarcely looked where she was going. She neither saw nor heard the figure on horseback coming directly at her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  THE DUKE’S HORSE had not looked particularly pleased to see him, as he had been comfortably munching on his hay. The duke laughed and said, “No ‘ole boy, I shan’t bother you again. He’d had a busy day and there was one thing left for him to do. He told his tired steed, “I’ll take Skip’s horse now, how is that?”

  A few moments later and without disturbing the groom who was in his quarters settled in with dinner, he tacked Skips’ favorite gelding, mounted and made his way down the drive to the main pike.

  Ten minutes took him to the edge of the village and another five saw him handing over his steed to the livery boy of the Cock Pit.

  The tavern was now inundated with gentlemen bent on having an exceptional time, and he strode through the hearty bunch, doffed his hat to a buxom wench who gave him a wink and asked her, “Can you direct me to Fowler’s room?”

  “Aye, that I can, sir—unless you have a change of ‘eart and want to join me in m’own back room?”

  He grinned boyishly and said lightly, “Perhaps another time, pretty lady, but for now, Fowler if you please.”

  She sighed, “Aye, first room at the top of the stairs.”

  He took hold of the wooden railing and managed the steps two at a time, until he reached the landing and Mr. Fowler’s door, where he knocked.

  “’Tis open. Come in if ye have a mind,” said the voice on the other side.

  The duke opened the door wide and inclined his uncovered head for his hat was dangling from his fingers. “Mr. Fowler, I wonder if I might intrude on you.”

  “Aye, Yer Grace. Back are ye? Well, come in and be seated and tell me what it is ye have on yer mind, for I’d wager it isn’t selling yer friend’s land,” said Fowler knowingly.

  The duke took up a wooden chair and sat. “Right then, I believe in playing with a full deck, sir, so I shall come right to the point. You are not on holiday and you are not looking to buy some land,” the duke said, one brow arched.

  “No? Then what am I doing?” Mr. Fowler asked cautiously.

  “Ah, Mr. Fowler, I am not a green lad, now am I? You are a Bow Street Runner,” the duke picked up a small black book labeled ‘occurrence ledger’ and looked at it pointedly, before dropping it back down on the table that reposed between himself and the runner. “You are in Yorkshire looking for the fifty thousand pounds in gold that was stolen six weeks ago!”

  Joe Fowler heaved a long sigh and scanned the duke’s uncompromising face. “Well now, ain’t ye a knowing one. Aye, not green at all, are ye?” He snorted, rubbed his chin and sighed again before saying, “It’s a queer fetch—no denying that, but what a flash covey sech as yerself wants in it is more than I can prig.”

  “I have my reasons for wanting to lend you my assistance,” the duke replied quietly.

  “Aye, I daresay ye do, seeing as ye be guardian to that Sherborne lad.”

  The duke was surprised by this but gave the runner a rueful smile, “So, you know about his lordship’s trouble?”

  “I ain’t here on that particular setout. Lor’ bless ye.” He shook his head. “Don’t mean to tangle wit more than I can handle and the way I hear tell, yer locals won’t believe he had anything to do with that poor girl’s murder.”

  “Now tell me, what ever came of the guards and the drivers?”

  “I can tell ye that we know that one of them guards had to be in on it. He spoke peculie-like to his misses before he left that night, and I take it as a sure sign he was part of it. Never found coach, nor guards and I’m guessing even the insider guard be good and dead by now.”

  “Did it ever occur to you that the two incidents, Celia Brinley’s murder and the theft of this gold could be related?” the duke asked even as he studied the runner for a reaction.

  Fowler frowned, “Ye have a reason for thinking so, I suppose?”

  “I do, but it is more gut, than fact. I am still looking for the facts,” the duke replied.

  “Rawlings—you know, it was his bank that was twigged.”

  “I know, what about him?”

  “Well, he says that there was some exchange of paper currency for the newly minted gold.”

  “Ah, and before it could be delivered to the Manchester Branch, they were waylaid,” the duke said as much to himself as to the runner. “Yes, I read as much.”

  “Aye, queer how coach, drivers, guards…all poof…vanished,” said the runner. “With no one about the wiser, that is.” He shook his head, “Then I got up here and got m’mind wrapped up about the lay of the land, and the river. Heard tell how there might be limestone canyons hidden from sight in these parts. Could be the coach was sunk in the deepest part of the river afterward…could be those poor coveys were buried with the coach.” He shrugged and then added thoughtfully, “Here is the thing, Yer Grace. It ain’t nothing I can sink m’teeth into, yet I gleamed something this afternoon.”

  “Did you?” the duke encouraged him to share.

  “Well, ye be a duke n’all, but I don’t have leave to be telling ye sech things,” Fowler answered.

  “Your instincts, Fowler, trust your instincts. Together we may piece the puzzle. There isn’t a soul in the area that doesn’t know you are runner. They all know. You’ll never learn anything from the locals about his robbery, but I just might.”

  Fowler eyed him measuringly, “Aye, I don’t doubt that. Well then, well mayhap the two of us can come up with something that makes sense and also clears your lad.”

  “Good man. Now what do you know?”

  “This afternoon, I met wit
h Rawlings again and this time he let it slip that he told Mrs. Brinley about the shipment—sparing no details when they had lunch some weeks ago. He only meant to entertain her, as he seems to have a…well, he seems to like the woman. He was afraid to mention this before, afraid to lose his position at the bank and he didn’t think it made a difference. But I’m thinking it does. There is no telling who she might have told…is there?”

  “Right then, Joe Fowler, right then. It all fits. They are connected, don’t you see? Let’s just find out who Agatha Brinley repeated this choice piece of gossip too.”

  “Eh?”

  “Now,” said the duke, not bothering to explain right then. “Now, just exactly what was the route, the time of day, the names involved that were taking this shipment?”

  * * *

  Suddenly, Mandy saw a dark shape coming toward her and knew she had been spotted.

  A darkly clad large figure of a man rode his horse directly toward her. Everything about him seemed intent on reaching her.

  Who could it be? What should she do?

  In the moonlight, she could make out the breath of his shoulders, and the excellence of his seat, and suddenly she knew who he was. She knew.

  This was dreadful.

  He would think her an idiot, roaming about at night like this. Anyone could have come across her—anyone did. My, she thought ruefully, the night and woods were busy!

  She felt ashamed and defiant all in one as she gathered up her defense. She wanted to race off so that he could not be certain it was she. But, she stopped her horse and waited for the abuse he was bound to ring over her stupid, stupid head.

  “Damnation, girl! What the devil are you doing out here alone at night? And where the deuce have you been, coming from that direction?”

  She was near enough now to see his face. He looked furious, concerned, and yet, something about him, made her want to just dive into his arms. If they were not on horseback, she believed that was what she would have done. She lifted her eyes to his, in no mood for a fight, sick of being forever on her own, without the comforts of her home, and forever worried about Ned.