by Don Jacobson
“We may make Winters drink it, but nobody else,” he quipped.
He turned to a spirit lamp over which a small kettle slowly steamed. He carefully lifted the vessel and poured a full measure into a clean ceramic teapot. Then he reached into a tail pocket on his dress tunic for a small vial in which a half-inch of clear liquor sloshed. He uncorked it and gently tipped it over the hot milk. Stirring it in with a silver spoon, he placed the lid back on the pot.
“Remind Miss Reynolds to let the milk cool lest I overheated it.”
Wilson returned the tray to the little table outside of Margaret’s room and knocked. Annie opened the door as Fitzwilliam exited the Blue Suite. He fixed her with a stare, stopped for a moment and simply said, “Now we must play out our hand.”
Chapter XXI
Cecil House had its own rhythm dictated by the desires of its master and mistress. Lord Tom and Lady Mary Cecil were quite modern in their outlook. Unless they were entertaining, they tended to keep country hours—either at Larchmont or in Town. Tonight was no different. With the planned removal to the Burghley House only two days away, there were few remaining social commitments to be returned…and so, no outside guests. The dinner, festive as it was, was for just the three couples. Once Kitty had retired, and Richard had disappeared with the excuse that he had an assignment from the Duke, the Cecils and the Poldarks followed their regular convention and did not separate. They gathered for a few hands of whist in the parlor before they ascended the Great Staircase to their respective suites.
Lady’s maids then moved in their hushed ballet up and down the stairs bearing jugs of warm water for quick toilettes before bed. Valets tended to their masters, learning of plans for pre-breakfast gallops. Then, their freedom granted again, the last servants climbed to their cots under the eaves.
The great casement clock struck the first quarter hour after ten o’clock to a House disturbed only by the rattling of an early December wind coursing through the equally dark and quiet streets of the great capital.
Winters had whiled away the last two-plus hours puffing his pipe in the servants’ hall, trying to calm his increasingly jangled nerves. He had managed to avoid Mr. Hastings who was always ready to find a task for an obvious idler. Jonas made a show of announcing his departure for bed when the clock chimed half ten. However, he quietly secreted himself in the first floor cloakroom to bide his time.
With only 30 minutes before his rendezvous, Winters whisper-walked to the back stairs and climbed the one flight to the second level. Carefully propping open the door, he softly made his way down the hall to Miss Margaret’s chamber. Thanking the gods that he had the foresight to oil the hinges and the latching mechanism, Winters released the catch and silently pushed the panel open.
He took a quick lay of the land as he stood stock still in the doorway. One candle illuminated the room in a soft yellow glow. The child’s figure lay motionless, humping the down quilt atop the bed. Annie sat in a side chair facing away from the door, her chin on her chest as she softly snored.
Winters closed the space from the door to the maid in three quick catlike steps. He whipped out a small blade that glinted pewter in the flickering light and quickly clamped his hand over Annie’s mouth as he thrust the knife against her throat.
Her eyes flew open as her scream died in the palm of his hand. Even though she had only play-acted slumber, the speed of his assault and his willingness to show lethal force startled her. The cold steel against the softness of her throat paralyzed her fearful movements before they began. Even so, her initial surprise had led her to jump under Winters’ paw causing a small puncture wound in her throat. Blood slowly oozed out and stained the white starched collar of her uniform.
Winters hissed in her ear, his sour breath suffocating in its warmth, “ ’ush now missy. We ‘ave some bizness ta ‘tend ta. No squakin’ out, now. T’would be a shame ta ‘urt sumthin’ as pretty as ya. Ya promise ta be silent?”
All Annie could do was barely nod and hold her tongue.
Winters grunted his pleasure that she had given in so easily. Keeping the tip of his dagger near her windpipe, he relaxed his grip on her mouth. Then he continued.
“Now, ya gon’ta ‘elp me git this kid outta th’ ‘ouse. Bundle ‘er up and be quick ‘bout it. We don’ got all night.”
In a low voice, Annie declared, “I will assist you Jonas Winters. But I will carry her. She will not leave my sight even if it means I will go with you to the ends of the earth.”
“Oh, t’will not be that far, girlie. Not if Lord Tom duz whut ‘e’s tol. In fact, ya and the l’il one ‘ll be back afore everybody ‘eads up ta Nort’amptons’re in a couple ‘o days time,” Winters elliptically replied.
“Now pick ‘er up, and we be gone.”
As Winters lowered the knife away from her neck to allow her to bend, Anne gathered Margaret and the quilt in her arms. Staying behind her, the blade now against her side, Winters prodded Anne toward the door and the hallway. So intent was he that he did not notice that one shadowed alcove behind him defied its nature by widening until it split in two. The larger half slid silently in pursuit.
A Corunna-like chill gripped the shadow’s heart when the widening crimson blotch on Annie’s collar became visible as she passed beneath a wall sconce.
The darkness ghosted its way down the hall creeping on cat’s feet all the while closing the gap to Winters, the maid and the child. The shadow paced the slow moving group until, adjacent to the Gold Suite, a meaty hand resolved itself from the darkness.
Swiftly clapped over Winters’ nose, mouth and chin, the powerful fingers jerked the other man’s head back and up until he was standing on the tips of his toes. A fraction of an inch was all that remained before the familiar crunching sound of cartilage giving way would have been heard. Rather, a Damascene dirk, its blood gutters showing the striations of its wondrous manufacture, dug through layers of cloth directly above Winters’ kidneys. Feeling the knifepoint probing into the skin of his back, Winters froze and arched away from it.
Thoughts of fortune vanished and were replaced with dejection and fear when Winters heard Wilson’s rich baritone rumble, “Seems we are at a bit of an impasse. I know that you know that I have sent dozens of French bastards to hell just this way. Sneaking up on them was a lot harder. Finishing them was equally difficult because they were tough and wiry.
“You are fat and soft. All you want is what little Miss Cecil is worth to your master.
“Care to place a bet, Winters? I wager that I can drive this knife straight through your backbone and out your greasy belly before you can even decide if you want to hurt Miss Reynolds. Or, maybe I could just snap your neck. Either way, do you want to take that action?
“Thought not.”
Winters relaxed his hand, and the knife dropped onto the lush hall runner without a sound.
“Now, let her go.”
Once Winters completed that action, Wilson pulled his knife up and slammed the pommel into the back of Winters’ head, dropping him unconscious to the floor.
“Treated better than Miss Bennet was, you turd.”
Henry scanned Anne, noting that the scratch on her neck had already clotted.
“Quickly, Miss Reynolds. We must act now before his confederate becomes concerned. Into the Gold Suite with you. Place Miss Margaret in bed with Miss Bennet. Let me drag the traitor inside behind us.”
Kitty was seated in her bed ready to play her part in the plan. But her eye still widened as the door creaked open without a warning knock. She calmed once she saw Annie with Margaret bundled in her arms. Her brows knit themselves together when she spied the blood on her maid’s collar.
Kitty flipped back the covers, making to rise until Annie gave a firm shake of her head.
“Please, Miss Bennet. Do not move. I am fine. T’is a small cut, nothing more. We need to tuck our girl in beside you. I know that Leftenant Q said that the medication we gave her was harmless, b
ut I will feel better if she is snug in bed,” Anne vowed.
As the two girls were settling the little one, Wilson dragged Winters into the chamber and bound him with sash cords pulled from the draperies. The prisoner’s arms were pinioned behind his back. He was trussed like a Christmas goose with restraints at elbows and knees as well as ankles and wrists.
Henry pulled an old neck cloth from a pocket and used it to gag Winters against his regaining consciousness and raising a ruckus. Then he straightened and looked back at the scene behind him. Kitty and Annie were softly cooing over a slumbering Margaret who was blissfully unaware of the drama that had briefly surrounded her yet again.
He crossed the room and cleared his throat. Annie straightened and turned to face him. His heart clenched when he saw the small gash on Annie’s neck. He reached up without thinking and touched the wound with his fingers. She did not flinch, but rather gently stroked the back of his hand.
“Do not be troubled, Henry” she breathed, “T’is not deep, just messy. It should convince our audience that I am an unwilling participant.”
Again, she has spoken my Christian name!
He looked down into those pools of caramel and noticed how flecks of gold caught the chamber’s light. They flashed up at him with a warmth that melted his insides. Her light brows rose and her pupils dilated as she caught his emotion and experienced her own. She inhaled quickly between parted lips, rosy with her need. Her cheeks flushed with a delicate stain unattainable even by Mr. Wedgewood’s greatest artists.
Wilson gulped and pulled back before he lost himself. Stepping off, he rechecked Winters to be sure he was unable to escape. Then he turned to his partner saying, “Time for the next step.”
Kitty smiled softly down at Margaret’s brown curls as the door closed behind the pair and whispered, “I may be minus in one eye, but even I can see the future with those two.”
Chapter XXII
Annie moved down the hallway adjusting her grip on her burden, now not a lively seven-year old but rather a bushel bag of pearled barley.[xl] Henry looked over her shoulder as they descended the back stairs and passed into the kitchen. They had spent a fair part of yesterday’s library session with the General trying to determine how they could fool the spy and thus avoid endangering the little girl.
As the night aged, Annie had listened to the two men debating what had to be done. Finally, shaking her head and laughing, she interrupted them.
“It is obvious that neither of you two gentlemen has ever carried children, especially sleeping ones. They are mostly dead weight and are not remotely involved in their carriage.
“Wrapped pillows and towels may appear to have the bulk of a wee one. However, at best they would weigh a half stone.[xli]
“I doubt I could convince anyone I was carrying a girl who weighs between three and four stone if I was holding pillows wrapped in a quilt. I imagine it would be a fatal mistake to underestimate the mental faculties of an agent who has avoided capture by Britain’s secret services now under your command, General, especially in the face of your motivation to avenge Miss Bennet. I doubt if we should a dullard like Winters as the rule.”
She then jumped to her feet and held out her arms.
“Mr. Wilson: please go to the bookshelves and bring back ten good-sized volumes…the thicker the better.
“Then, would you kindly place them in my arms one at a time?
“General: please observe how my posture changes as the weight increases.”
Henry puzzled for a moment, but shrugged and quickly collected the ten books as ordered. He stacked them on the low table in front of Annie who stood empty-handed as she faced Fitzwilliam.
“You know these will be quite heavy. Are you certain you can manage them?” Richard quizzed.
Annie started to giggle. “My Lord…please…who do you think hauls the buckets of hot water up three flights of stairs for your post-ride bath if someone like Mr. Wilson is otherwise occupied?
“Each bucket weighs over two stone—and I always carry two.”
Fitzwilliam leaned back in his chair and rested his chin on one fist. He felt ashamed for his blindness of the situation of persons not of his station. In the six months since he had last been on the frontline, the image of private soldiers and subalterns marching into the clouds of smoke that billowed across the modern battlefield had faded to a degree. These men, some there by choice, others forced into uniform by magistrates seeking to rid their neighborhoods of poachers and impoverished workingmen, battled not for glory, but rather to survive and return home to their sweethearts, wives and children. Honors were heaped upon the shoulders of generals. The common man hoped for a bottle of vin ordinaire shared with his comrades and a hot meal with more than wormy salt beef as the main course.
Yet, without fighting men imbued with spirit like Annie and strength like Wilson, he, General Sir Richard Fitzwilliam, KCB, first Baron St. Jean, would be nothing more than an earl’s second son, dependent upon his parents and older brother for a roof, food and funds. These unknown, almost faceless people were the strength of Britain.
Am I so conceited as to believe they were fighting to preserve my privilege?
The arrogance of the men—and women—in my class to style themselves as better than the millions who grow their food, toil in their homes, or man the ships that transport trade goods that make their lives so much easier. Why, we even consider those who are at least as well educated as us—and often wealthier—but earn their keep as merchants, bankers or barristers rather than collecting rents, as lesser and tainted by the stench of trade.
We British aristocrats had better learn the lesson of the Roman patricians who were shocked—shocked—to learn that their army was made up of plebeians, men who would lay down their swords and shields and walk out of the city to camp on the Fields of Mars if they were not accorded a measure of respect.[xlii] We can be swamped by modernity like our foolish French counterparts back in ‘89.
He closely observed Annie as Wilson began piling books into the cradle of her arms. He could not perceive any difference after the first three or four. Then, however, he caught a subtle change in the position of her hips as she began to shift her weight to her left leg. She leaned back ever so slightly. With each tome added, the alterations became more pronounced as one leg bent at the knee while the other straightened. There was a pronounced tilt as her pelvis tipped to allow her leg muscles to take on the transferred weight from her torso. He also caught the increasing tension in her arms, remarking to himself about how the tendons in the backs of her hands rose, creating distinct triangular shadows from her knuckles back to her wrists.
Richard called halt when she began to lift her chin to allow Wilson to pile the eighth book on the stack.
“Enough, Sergeant. I think I fully understand the point Miss Reynolds was making. We cannot hope to deceive our foe with a bustle of blankets and padding.
“Now I must ask you, Miss Reynolds, what would you suggest as a device that would offer sufficient weight but also be malleable enough to mold around your arms as you seek to carry it out of the house? We cannot expect you to lug a stack of books draped in a blanket; now can we?”
Henry relieved Annie of the books, and she sat back on the sofa. She sucked her lips against her teeth as she sorted through her impressions of the inventory of Cecil House. She took a deep breath after about two minutes, and a brilliant smile spread across her young face.
Annie looked at the two men and quietly said, “T’is fortunate that I have been crawling through every nook and cranny of this house since I was a small girl. There was a whisper of something against my memory, and it took a bit of digging.
“I recalled when Monsieur François was installed at Larchmont before moving into Town to help Lady Mary. He used to make a surprisingly good soup when winter chanterelles were in season. He would send all of the children out to forage. Monsieur would sort and clean them to make sure we did not poison the family and staff.
“It was a rich potage, creamy, brown and full of delectable mushrooms floating above a base of pearled barley.
“We used to keep a bushel bag of pearled barley in the Larchmont pantry against a desire for chanterelle soup. I wager that Monsieur, out of habit, has one in stock today even though those mushrooms are much more difficult to come by here in Town.”
Chapter XXIII
The kitchen clock began to toll eleven as Henry and Annie crossed the room to stand by the back door leading out to the mews. Henry moved the oil lamp to the end of the great preparation table so that it threw all of its light onto the doorway.
Gathering themselves before stepping out, they paused and looked at each other, their eyes fraught with the deepest emotions. Annie would have stayed silent to avoid the impropriety of expressing her feelings even though—as she was now certain—her affections were fully engaged. Then she paused and reconsidered.
T’is foolish for me to stand on the rules of society with Henry. We have already been through so much with even more to come. True, we have not spoken the words, but there have been unmistakable looks and touches. What would Papa think if I threw myself at this man like some trollop?
