THE DUKE’S AGENT
Rebecca Jenkins
New York • London
© 1997 by Rebecca Jenkins
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e-ISBN 978-1-62365-520-4
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, institutions, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
www.quercus.com
THE DUKE’S AGENT
An early fan of Georgette Heyer’s Regency romances, Rebecca Jenkins began collecting diaries and journals from Georgian England as a child. Her passion for the period led her to study history at Somerville College, Oxford, from where she went on to become an accomplished journalist and broadcaster. The Duke’s Agent is her first novel.
Also by Rebecca Jenkins
NON-FICTION
Fanny Kemble – the Reluctant Celebrity
The First London Olympics – 1908
Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
EPILOGUE
THE DUKE’S AGENT
CHAPTER ONE
It was early evening in late July. The vast sky was brushed with clouds. Pinks intermixed with soft blues and dim charcoal all hung against a luminous satin ground. A rider plodded along the path that ran through the wide expanse of wheat grass spreading out to the horizon. Both man and horse bore themselves with that air of detached resignation common to travellers who know it is a steady pace that goes the distance. The road crept up a broad flank of land then dropped towards a squat manor house tucked away in a dell. At the shoulder of the rise the rider checked his horse. Straightening his back and rubbing the aching muscle at his neck he sat contemplating the scene before him.
Along the sweep of the road every leaf and blade stood out as the sun painted it with exquisite definition. The house was old. The light acted on its bricks like linseed oil rubbed on fine wood, illuminating them with a ruddy glow that seemed to come from within. Five yew trees stood before the house. When they were planted their severe, dense lines had no doubt been a fashionable elegance, but with the years they had grown proud until their height overbore the house, blocking its mullioned windows. There was an air of abandoned shabbiness about the place, and the treacle light flooding over the valley touched the scene with mystery.
‘No one home, eh, Walcheren?’ said the man, patting the neck of his horse. The big bay raised his head a few inches from the grass, his attention fixed elsewhere. The man sighed and collected the animal, forcing its head up from its feed. ‘Onward, old friend, there’s a way to go yet.’
The iron gates were rusted back against their posts and weeds overran the gravel carriage circle. The house seemed to huddle over the yard. The stranger could not make up his mind whether the atmosphere was threatening or merely truculent. He halloed twice but no response broke the watchful stillness of the place.
‘Quite forces a man to talk to himself,’ he remarked and swung a booted foot over the animal’s head to dismount. The horse, used to this unconventional descent, stood calmly, content to be abandoned.
The man standing looking up at the house was of medium height. He dressed in the fashion of a gentleman, nothing shabby, nothing flash, nothing very remarkable. He was the kind of man you might pass on the street and not notice unless your eyes happened to alight on his face. It bore examination, gaining in interest the closer you looked. Blue-grey eyes remarkably bright against tanned skin, in contrast to his hair which was the colour of ripening wheat. A straight nose, and lean cheeks marked out with strong parallel lines. A reserved, watchful face.
The studded oak door that sheltered under a stone vault was formidable, but on inspection proved to stand a little open. The stranger advanced into a hall where the light from the windows barely seeped in. His skin sensed damp. He called out, his voice falling dead on the air. The empty house was alive with a dull hum which seemed the audible embodiment of the stench of rotting things that thickened the air. A cramped staircase curved up to the left. As his eyes were adjusting to the lack of light it was the buzz of the flies that drew his attention. A large dog lay sprawled at the foot of the stairs, its bared fangs a dull gleam in the rictus of death. The lupine head lolled, part severed from the heaped body. The blood that had pumped from its dying flesh had dried to a sticky stain that heaved with blue flies.
Holding a handkerchief to his face, the man took stock of his surroundings. To the right was a low doorway. He crossed to it, his firm step ringing out cleanly on the stone flags. The doorway led into a large, oblong room looking out over gardens to the rear of the house. Through high old windows he caught a glimpse of an ancient parterre clogged with weeds. Heavy tapestries covered the walls. One was half torn away; the tattered remainder hung askew, dangling perilously from a rusty nail. The remains of a wood fire, a few days old perhaps, stirred in the draught. The mantel above the fireplace was blackened with smoke.
The stranger contemplated the comfortable wing chair that stood by the cold hearth, newspapers strewn about it. He flicked up the corner of one. It was folded back to the central section bearing the despatches from the war and reports of the prices at the London Corn Exchange. It was easy to imagine some person perusing them there of a night. His booted foot dislodged a square brown bottle from a pile that lay half-concealed behind a log basket. It lolled heavily on to its side, the noise making him start. All around was the debris of a male, solitary life – a discarded glove, a scuffed riding crop, a rack of pipes and a near-empty tobacco jar with a cracked lid.
There was nothing to interest him here. The stranger continued his search. He came to a room that had been a library, though there was little more left now than the ghost of the books that once filled its shelves. A small collection bore signs of use. With a gloved hand he tipped their spines one by one towards the light. A Young Farmer’s Calendar, Tull and Miller on tillage. A handbill floated free from between pages. It extolled the virtues of a Complete Guide to Landlords, Tenants and Lodgers – ‘being a methodical Arrangement of the whole law respecting the taking or letting of Lands, Houses, or Apartments’. He returned the sheet to its place. The remaining books were mostly a collection of sporting volumes. He struck his hands together to rid his gloves of dust.
Whereas the rest of the house was greatly neglected, the disarray in this room was more systematic. A chair lay on its back and the desk that stood in the window had been disembowelled. Its drawers lay about it in a sea of trampled and torn paper. The stranger’s manner grew alert, his interest focused on the desk. He righted the chair and set to sifting the debris of
paper. During his search he abstracted a few sheets which he folded up and put in his coat. After a while he stood a moment, scanning the room. He drew up a pair of library steps and made a swift and efficient search of the higher shelves and other crannies where something might have been overlooked. At last he gave up. The shadows were pressing in on the room, the sun near setting.
Brushing a cobweb off his coat, he retraced his steps to the front yard. His horse, who had wandered off in search of fresher grass, trotted up at his master’s appearance as if glad of the company.
‘Rum set-up, old boy,’ the stranger commented, rubbing the animal’s velvet nose. ‘Our man’s housekeeping left something to be desired. Dirty camp, rotten unit, d’you think?’
The gelding merely tossed his head, eager to be gone. The man laughed and, mounting once more, turned the animal out of the gate. Passing through a plantation of large-leaved limes and oaks below the house, they picked up a winding track marked by a small white boulder bearing the words ‘Woolbridge, 2 miles’.
The high grasses and dropping ground soon hid the house from view. The rider took a deep breath of the fragrant air. The track skirted a hay-field, then inclined sharply downwards into an old wood clothing the steep banks of a gorge that channelled a fast-moving stream. A quaint bridge spanned the water, on the far side of which was a little house of dressed grey stone. Since there was no grand house in sight for which it might crown a perspective, the rider guessed it had been built as a fashionable eye-catcher by some landscape-improver of the last generation. The teahouse had an elegantly wrought-iron balcony that overhung the gorge, an ideal place to set up an easel, he thought. The setting was dramatic. The mellow stone bridge, the white falling away of precipitous rocks, the rushing torrent below, the over-arching trees with trailing green boughs – there was enough interest and composition to delight any admirer of the picturesque.
‘Fair makes the heart leap up,’ murmured the traveller. The horse danced a step or two, tossing his head against the reins. ‘Walcheren, you have no eye,’ his master told him. ‘Never fear, I know there is no time to take a sketch – more’s the pity.’
Casting a final appreciative look over his shoulder, the man spurred his horse at a trot on into the wood.
The dying sun was not strong enough to penetrate the forest. The light filtered in grey-green as he rode along the track. Tree stumps loomed over the path, grotesque outlines textured with obscene funguses growing liver-spotted and luminous. Through the tangle of branches the powerful presence of the brown water made itself felt as it tumbled over white square slabs of rock below. The dwindling path grew slick with clay mud. The horse whinnied nervously, his hooves sliding on the treacherous surface. The rider began to doubt that this could be the right path.
*
Ezekiel Duffin hung his weight on a branch and slithered down the bank. He was tired. His boots pinched and his attention was fixed on reaching the sheep hut where he planned to spend the night. He would build a fire, free his bruised feet and spend the evening working at the leather of his boots with the ball of goose fat he kept in his knapsack. His stomach rumbled and he adjusted the rush bag that hung under his long coat. The two trout that rested there would make a fine supper. Cheered by the thought, he made a clicking noise to his dog and cut through the undergrowth towards the old track that ran down by the river.
There was a crashing sound, as if a large and none too sure-footed deer or stag bounded through the undergrowth, and a figure propelled himself on to the path almost directly under the horse’s hooves. Walcheren rose up in fright on his hind legs, his eyes rolling.
‘God save me!’ Duffin cried, throwing up his arms to protect his head.
‘Reason would be a better aid. What the devil do you mean jumping out like that?’ cursed the rider as he struggled to calm his mount.
A yellow dog was barking and dashing about between the horse’s feet. Walcheren reared up again, stretching every sinew to bolt away from this terrifying place. The rider wrenched him around in a circle to distract him from this purpose. He shouted at the man to get the dog away. The large bay, whipping about with unexpected speed, struck the man from the narrow path.
His arms flailing, Ezekiel Duffin snatched vainly around him for something to stop his fall. The treacherous undergrowth gave way under his bulk and he rolled down the bank into the river, a branch knocking his head with a glancing blow as he fell. He came to rest with the upper half of his body on land, but his legs lost their purchase. The vast weight of water pressed sleek and brawny about them, willing him to join the river’s course. Duffin cast his strong arms about the freezing surface of the rock. Buffeted by the immense load of the water, his lower body swung out into the stream. On the bank, his dog ran backwards and forwards, barking uncontrollably.
‘Shut your yap, ya daft bugger,’ Duffin mumbled irritably through his haze.
The rider regained control of his mount and, anchoring him to a branch, moved swiftly down the bank calling out, ‘Hold fast. I’m on my way.’
‘I’m holding,’ responded the poacher in a dour tone. What did the fool think he’d be doing? he muttered to himself, aggrieved.
A strong grip took hold of his wrists and the rider dragged Duffin on to the rocky ground. Duffin clambered to his feet, shaking himself like a large bear. He batted a not unfriendly hand at his dog, which leapt up at him whimpering with relief.
‘Hold your peace, Bob, bloody animal.’ He accepted the proffered arm, and the stranger helped to haul his stocky figure back up to the path. ‘Well now, sir, I don’t rightly know whether to thank you or curse you – you and your horse. Mind you, fine one, he is,’ he said admiring the handsome Cleveland bay, his polished oak coat set off by black legs, mane and tail. Ezekiel put up a confident hand to the horse’s neck. Walcheren dropped his head to have his nose rubbed. ‘Well, no harm done, eh? And I beg your pardon, boy, for startling you so,’ he told the horse. ‘But you gave me a bit of a frit, too. That you did.’
The rider climbed back down the bank and returned with Duffin’s rush bag which had broken loose in his fall. The nose of a trout peeped coyly out through a gap in the weave. Duffin’s eyes grew wary. His rescuer was a gentleman, that was clear.
‘You’re new in these parts, sir. Passing through?’
‘I’m on my way to Woolbridge. Am I on the right road? Though road would seem an extravagant term for this blasted track.’ The gentleman swatted at an insect that pitched its high whine into his ear. ‘This is yours, I believe.’ He handed over the bag and leant down briefly to acknowledge the dog, Bob, who was making overtures of friendship at his knee. ‘Fresh trout make a good dish for a hungry man,’ he commented blandly.
He swung himself up on to his bay, gathering the reins. Duffin stepped back from the horse’s head. His dark face broke into a crooked smile.
‘This track’s not much used these days, but it’ll take you to Woolbridge, given time. You’ve not much longer in the wood. Hurry and I’d reckon you’ll make the bridge before sundown.’
‘I’d best be gone then.’ The gentleman hesitated. ‘May I make some reparation?’ He made as if to take money from his purse, but stopped at Duffin’s dismissive wave.
‘I’m in no need of charity, your honour. It was an accident pure and simple. No harm done.’
He looked about him and spotted a shape stuck in a branch to the side of the cut made by his recent descent. ‘I even see me hat. Well now, God is gracious!’
‘Good evening to you. I hope you make a warm fire soon and dry those clothes,’ the gentleman called after him as he set off.
‘Aye, I will, never fear,’ came the reply.
Glancing back, the rider saw the poacher’s stocky figure stepping cautiously through the undergrowth to retrieve his hat, followed by his yellow mongrel.
*
The man had not misled him. The green vault of trees soon began to open out. The woods thinned and the path climbed up to a wide plateau of newly enclo
sed common. The fledgling hedgerows and fresh-cut fencing wobbled across the land, as if uncertain of their permanence. In the cut below, the river broadened, growing more civilised in measure with the taming of its banks. Its surface composed itself to a glassy smoothness and there, as the river bent, was Woolbridge, a market town of some five thousand souls.
At last he approached the ancient bridge. Across it, the town sprawled before him in the setting sun. Down stream the river was stained purple, red and ochre with the dye from the woollen works at the water’s edge. The houses clotted together around yards in growing density along the alleyways threaded around the mills and tanning pits that scarred the lower town.
The mud rose up the gelding’s legs as they passed through the cramped alleys of the working quarter. The stench from the tanning yards and the rotting sewage in the sinks between the tenements made it an unhealthy place. No one lingered there unless they had to. The buildings piling up the hill grew better spaced. The street broadened and began to show elements of graciousness as it approached the brow of the hill. It was here, beyond the market place, that the leading citizens of Woolbridge had their dwellings, fine stone houses built on plots spiralling out about the parish church, whose medieval tower crested the town.
The lamps were being lit outside the houses as the rider turned his tired horse into the stable yard of the Queen’s Head. Standing opposite the church at the junction of the main eastern and southern roads into Woolbridge, this was the town’s finest hostelry. Here Jasper Bedlington, innkeeper, was honoured to cater to the gentry (Fine Assembly Rooms – Dances held twice a month in the Winter Season). The postboy had just brought the papers from the posting house at Greta Bridge, so the front parlour was unexpectedly busy. Captain Adams had that moment arrived to collect his copy of the Newcastle Courant and was making conversation with Mr Gilbert, the surgeon, who, on the same pretext, had come to take a glass of wine in company.
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