The Tarrant Rose

by Veronica Heley

  “One of these days I shall decline to be bullied into dressing when I do not wish to do so,” said the Earl, “Denbigh, will you copy out this letter for me, and draft a report on the matter to my uncle? Also, if there is time before Sir John arrives, will you find out whether any of the other servants have heard of the inn we seek?”

  “I anticipated your wish,” said Chivers, “And have already made enquiries. There are two Rose and Crowns in the vicinity, three Boars of different colors, one Queen’s Head and a White Hart. There are smugglers everywhere and a witch or two, but no one has heard of the inn you seek.”

  Even before Sir John Bladen had greeted his host, the Earl had formed an unfavorable opinion of the man. It had taken Philip some time to dress, and when Sir John arrived, Mr. Denbigh had been sent to make his master’s apologies, and offer Sir John refreshments. It seemed, however, that Sir John had considered himself insulted by Mr. Denbigh’s company. As the Earl entered, he heard Sir John say that he would not demean himself to discuss matters of importance with a mere tutor. Since Mr. Denbigh was not only highly esteemed, but also loved by the Earl, Sir John’s dictum was not likely to please him, and the visitor’s subsequent conduct merely reinforced the Earl’s first impression of the man. Sir John was not tall, but he was overweight and overdressed. He fawned on the Earl and ignored Mr. Denbigh. In this Sir John proved himself to be not only insensible to Mr. Denbigh’s feelings but unaware that the Earl did not share his low opinion of his “inferiors.” Before the matter of the highwaymen was broached, the Earl had formed the opinion that Sir John was an ill-educated fool with a high opinion of himself, who despised all branches of learning save those connected with the chase and the cockfight. He had inherited a fortune and believed it entitled him to consort on equal terms with the highest in the land. Sir John did not lack a certain degree of animal cunning, but this was counterbalanced by a tendency to boastfulness. Moreover, his person was offensive to the nose, and his manners and language coarse. Philip conducted his business with despatch, and got rid of the man. Sir John Bladen, he had decided, was definitely not the man to entrust with delicate investigations into the affairs of local Jacobites, although the Earl did not think it likely that the man was one himself.

  The second day after the Earl’s arrival at Hamberley dawned misty, but with a promise of better weather to come. After a morning spent with his bailiff, the Earl called for his favorite horse to be saddled. Despite his valet’s protestations, he had discarded his fashionable clothes and periwig in favor of one of the plain but good broadcloth suits, and the neat tie-wig he liked to wear when riding about his estates at Rame. In vain Chivers protested that the Earl did not do himself justice dressed “like any Tom, Dick or Harry.” The Earl smoothed a darn in his sleeve—this was one of the coats he had worn campaigning in Flanders—and picked up his riding crop.

  “One patch,” begged Chivers. “And allow me to darken your eyebrows.”

  The Earl smiled at his valet, and walked out. He took a deep breath of farmyard air, and hastily put his handkerchief to his nose. Once more his eyes wandered over the undulating landscape and settled on the wooded hill which had attracted his attention from the parlor window. The bleak sun laid a clear wash of color over the hill. Yes, that would be a good place to build a house.

  A gig was driven into the farmyard, and the driver alighted from it. He was hatchet-faced, of mature years, and had the air of a gentleman. The new arrival swept off his hat and made a leg.

  “Good morning, sir. Carramine’s the name, from Carramine House, on the far side of the village. Have I the pleasure of addressing—?”

  “Rame, at your service.”

  Mr. Carramine’s eyes were light and lively. Philip had the impression that the newcomer was taking an inventory of everything he wore, and of every item of live and farm stock in the yard.

  “Delighted to have caught you at home, my lord. A small matter of business … extremely tiresome … no need for you to trouble yourself if you are on your way somewhere.”

  The Earl looked hard at the gig, and thought that if Mr. Carramine had been making an ordinary morning’s call, he would have ridden and not driven over.

  “No trouble at all,” he said politely. “You will take a glass of wine with me?”

  “Delighted, my lord. Some other time, perhaps? Business first, eh? I believe you have been the embarrassed recipient of some goods which were not intended for you. Local smuggling very prevalent, I’m afraid. Came to my ears—being J.P., you know—came straight over to relieve you of the contraband … if you will be so good as to tell your servants to let me have the goods?”

  “So Sir John told you about the contraband, and you came straight over to collect it? Mr. Carramine, the wind is very sharp. I insist that you have a glass of wine with me.”

  Once the footman had poured out their wine, the Earl dismissed his servant, so that he could be alone with his guest. An intelligent man, the Earl thought as he scrutinized Mr. Carramine. A man of decision, a man of action, and a man who enjoyed life. Was he also a smuggler? It seemed very possible. The Earl leaned back in his chair and put up his quizzing glass. Mr. Carramine smiled blandly at his host, and waited to hear what the Earl had to say. Now, the Earl’s quizzing glass was a weapon which he could use with deadly effect on nervous people. It seemed that Mr. Carramine had strong nerves.

  “So you are yet another of the magistrates hereabouts?” the Earl asked. “I met one of your colleagues, Sir John Bladen, yesterday. I had to ask him to take charge of the bodies of a highwayman and his unfortunate victim. You heard of the matter?”

  “It’s all over the county.”

  “Sir John was horrified that such a thing should have occurred locally. He said he could not remember any instance of highwaymen being in this part of the world before. Can you?”

  “I can’t say I can.”

  “Before he took the bodies away, I showed him the contraband we had found in the apple loft. He seemed equally horrified about that. He declared that he had never heard of such a thing, in these parts.” The Earl contrived to give the impression that although he had given Sir John the benefit of the doubt in the first matter, he believed Sir John had been lying when he had disclaimed all knowledge of smuggling locally. Mr. Carramine ironed out a smile with the ball of his thumb.

  “I formed the impression,” continued the Earl, “That Sir John was blind, deaf and dumb on certain subjects. Perhaps this is an affliction which descends on everyone around here when the word ‘smugglers’ is mentioned?”

  “It might well be.” Mr. Carramine gave a short bark of laughter.

  “I would like to make it clear that I have no interest in smuggling. I detest the Trade because it is undermining the economy—every piece of contraband is paid for with good English gold, which goes into the pockets of our enemies—but I am not here to do anything about the Free Traders.”

  “You have been asking questions about this and that. Naturally, we wondered why you had come here.”

  “I have been trying to locate an inn called the Ram and the Rose.” A blank expression settled on Mr. Carramine’s face. The Earl took another sip of wine and noted that Mr. Carramine knew more than he was prepared to divulge.

  “I know of no such inn.”

  The Earl withheld a sigh. First Chivers, and then Mr. Carramine, had denied knowledge of the existence of the place. It was a blow. He must think again about the disposal of the letter. In the meantime, Mr. Carramine was a pleasant companion; which was more than the Earl could have said about Sir John Bladen.

  “What makes a gentleman take to Free Trading?” he asked.

  “A gentleman like me, you mean?” Mr. Carramine grinned. “I suppose there are as many motives as there are gentlemen involved. For a gentleman such as myself, I suppose the answer would be the boredom of country life. I am comfortably off, my estates are in the hands of a good bailiff, my wife—God bless her—is dead, and my children married. My neighbors are on
ly interested in hunting and cockfighting and fishing. I find it difficult to converse with them, except with the aid of the Country Interpreter—the bottle! I find nothing to interest me in the fashionable pursuits of London Town. I like the country hereabouts. I’m too old to serve as a soldier. Oh yes, a gentleman like myself might find it very exciting to run a cargo now and then, to fool the Preventives. … are you sure you don’t care for brandy?”

  “Thank you, no. If I want brandy, I’ll pay duty on it. You may think it very odd of me, but there it is. You see, I have been a soldier. I fought in Flanders, and I can’t help remembering that we are still at war with France, and that your contraband is putting money into the pockets of our enemy.”

  “I hadn’t looked at it that way,” said Mr. Carramine. “Perhaps I ought to have done so.” He stood up. “You were on your way out. I will not trespass on your hospitality any longer, but perhaps you would care to dine with me one night, when we may discuss the matter more fully? Any night. Send a man over with a note. Now, if you will allow me to remove my property? The house has been uninhabited so long that they thought it safe to leave contraband here … tried to retrieve it … alarm given … have to do everything yourself, if you want it done properly.” He sent his host another shrewd glance. “Then you are down here on another business?”

  “I’m trying to run a Jacobite traitor to earth.” Mr. Carramine blinked. Yes, thought Philip, he does know something.

  “I know of no Jacobite traitors in the neighborhood,” said Mr. Carramine slowly.

  “Yet you do know something about the Ram and the Rose?”

  “That’s different. Queen Anne is dead, and so, I think, is the traitor you seek. I think your journey has been for nothing. In any other matter, I am yours to command. Your servant, my lord.”

  He bowed, and left.

  Chapter Two

  The Earl rode through the village of Hamberley at walking pace. He was stared at a good deal, and he heard one woman saying to another that the Earl must think a lot of his tutor to let him ride a good horse like that! Philip doffed his hat and smiled at the women, at which they looked confused, and bobbed a curtsey. As he passed along he heard one say to the other that she thought he had a pleasant way with him. Far from being annoyed at being mistaken for Mr. Denbigh, Philip was amused, and made a note to share the joke with his tutor. He was far from wishing to enlighten the villagers as to his identity; it suited him very well to take an afternoon’s ride without being called upon to fulfill any of the social duties of a landowner. He was beginning to wonder if Mr. Farrow, his bailiff, was a rogue or not. Mr. Farrow had had a reasonable if not lavish sum to hand to the Earl by way of rents collected, and he had accounted for the balance due by saying it had been spent on necessary repairs in the village. Rising costs, Mr. Farrow said, had been responsible for the fact that money went such a little way. Now the Earl could see for himself that several cottages in the village were in urgent need of attention, but nowhere could he see evidence of recent repairs having been done to buildings. Several houses had roofs which looked, even to a casual eye, as if they would leak as soon as it rained again, and there were broken windows here and there, either boarded over or stuffed with rags to keep out the weather.

  Here was a new problem for the Earl. Some landowners could conveniently overlook evidence that their bailiff was doing his job badly, but he was not one of them. It seemed he must exert himself to investigate Mr. Farrow’s conduct of affairs, as well as find the elusive Ram and Rose.

  He checked that Hamberley did not contain an inn of the name he sought, even while he told himself that it would have been unlike Chivers to have made a mistake. Then he trotted out of the village in the direction of the wooded hill he had seen from his parlor windows. Prince was skittish, and needed a gallop. They came to a crossroads. Which way should he go? A road, little more than a track, wound up the wooded hillside on his left. Some way up the hill he caught a glimpse of the twisted, Jacobean chimneys of a house. The view from that house, on that hill, would be pleasant. The road which led up to it was broad enough for a gallop and deserted. He turned Prince’s head and dug in his heels. He was a good horseman, but rarely had the chance of a gallop such as this … the thunder of hooves … the broad, gently winding track … dense hedges … the air whipping past … the exhilaration. …

  Something large and red dropped from nowhere onto the track just ahead of them. Prince reared, pawing the air. Philip’s face was raked by a bramble dangling from the hedge. A jerk on his bad arm, and he felt the reins burn through his fingers. Prince bolted. Philip clung on to his back. A sharp bend in the track ahead … Prince could not turn in time … they must jump … they could not jump that high … he bent lower over Prince’s neck, urging him up and over … what a sensation, floating free! A jar in mid-air, a twist of the horse’s body … they were going down. … He kicked free of his stirrups and jumped clear, putting out a hand to save himself. …

  All was quiet.

  He opened his eyes. He was lying flat on his back on the hard ground. A woman in a scarlet cloak was kneeling above him, between him and the pale blue of the sky. She was undoing the buttons of his waistcoat. He tried to sit up. The earth cartwheeled around him, and pain knifed across his shoulder and down his arm. His bad arm. He gasped.

  She pressed him back to earth. “You have broken your collarbone. Lie still.”

  His collarbone. Yes, it was broken. He tried to breathe lightly, so as not to disturb the broken bone, and in the hope that he would not be sick. He moved his other arm presently, and then his legs. He did not seem to have broken anything else, but his head ached.

  “Prince … my horse?”

  “Your horse is all right. He’s up and moving about.” Her hands were strong, larger than was ideal for a woman. She wore a plain gown of dark blue woolen stuff under her cloak, just like a farmer’s daughter, but the fragment of lace on her dark hair looked good, and she had the air of one used to command. “Can you stand a little discomfort?” she asked. “I want to get your arm out of your coat and waistcoat.”

  He sat up, to show how easily he could bear “a little discomfort,” and nearly fainted. The woman put her arm under his shoulders. He told himself he was not going to be sick in front of a woman, not for “a little discomfort.” He wondered if he were suffering from concussion. She bent his arm across his chest, and buttoned waistcoat and coat over it, holding the arm into place. At once the pain in his arm receded to manageable proportions, although he still felt dizzy.

  “Can you walk? If not, I’ll fetch someone to carry you. It’s not far.”

  He told her he could walk, but he had to lean on her to get to his feet. He had lost both wig and hat. His hand trembled as he touched the back of his head. There was mud on his fingers, and blood.

  “You’re not badly hurt,” she said. “A graze, that’s all. Nothing to make a fuss about. This way. One step, and then another. That’s a good boy.”

  “Madam, I am not a …”

  “You are doing very well. Sit on the stile while I fetch your hat and wig.”

  He sat, and looked about him. They were in a field which sloped uphill to a hedge. The stile on which he was sitting gave access to the lane up which he had galloped a short while ago. Prince stood, shivering, some yards away. The horse made a pass at a clump of grass, and began to eat. Yes, he looked all right, which was more than could be said for his master. The Earl put a hand to his aching head.

  “It serves you right, if you have a headache,” said the lady, returning with his wig. She picked strands of grass from the curls deftly setting the wig back into shape. She had strongly-marked eyebrows and deep blue eyes. She was not a beauty, but hers was a face that would stand out in a crowd. “You have no business galloping up our lane like that. You would have run me down if I hadn’t heard you in time and pressed back into the hedge. Just because you are in the service of the Earl of Rame, you think you can act as you like.”

  “I beg
your pardon?”

  “Don’t put on airs with me. This is private land, and you are a trespasser.”

  “You appeared from nowhere. You startled my horse, and he bolted.” Something dropped onto his hand. His cheek was bleeding. What a ragamuffin he must look! If it were to get out that he, the Earl of Rame, had allowed his horse to bolt and throw him into a field … how everyone would laugh!

  “I entered the lane by means of the stile at the bottom of our kitchen garden. I was on my way to the village to see Granny Grout, who is not at all well. Now, I suppose Granny will have to wait for her broth while I spend the rest of the afternoon putting you to rights.”

  He got to his feet with the intention of sweeping her a bow which would annihilate her. He found he had lost the heel of one of his riding boots. It is difficult if not impossible, to appear dignified when you have lost your wig, your hat, and can’t stand straight, but he did his best. “My apologies, madam,” he began, and bent his head to bow. The pain in his shoulder increased and he stopped.

  “There, now!” she said, setting her shoulder under his good arm, and helping him to stand upright once more. “Never mind your apologies for the moment. Let’s get you to bed first.”

  He did not protest. Indeed, he didn’t think she would have heeded him if he had. She had the uncouth strength of a farmhand, and no consideration at all for his pride. She treated him as if he were a small boy who had fallen down and hurt himself, and must be smacked and sent to bed to consider his failings. Of course, she had reason—he had been thoughtless in riding at a gallop along a private road. He was willing to admit his fault, if she would treat him as a man, and not as a child. She almost threw him over the stile, and as for the way she pressed her body close to his as she dragged him along the lane … he preferred not to think about that. She was not wearing so much as a corselet under her gown. …