The Prince in the Tower

by Lydia M Sheridan

  Kate cut her off ruthlessly. “If his display just now was an example of his kindness, I pity whomever arouses his anger.”

  “You make fun of his beliefs. Adam truly wants to make the world a better place. And I want to be by his side to help.”

  Kate just shook her head, speechless.

  “Lucy, you are not well. Let me call Dr. Doggett --” Truly concerned, Kate reached out to feel her sister's forehead.

  Lucy shied away from Kate’s hand. “I’m not feverish! Just because I don’t like to be made fun of as one of those wild Thoreaus? Because I don’t like being pointed at and talked about behind my back? I’m not like you, Kate. I just want peace and quiet and to do good things. Adam can give me that.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “Yes. Adam going to take holy orders.”

  “Well, you are wrong,” Kate raged. “And you will only marry Adam Weilmunster over my dead body.”

  She slammed the door as she left. Behind her, she heard the crash as something shattered the mirror. Lucy burst into tears.

  “You did not handle that at all well.”

  Kate shrieked. Mr. Dalrymple grabbed her hand, pulling her into the alcove off the landing.

  “How long have you been standing there eavesdropping?”

  He grinned and rocked back on his silver-tasseled boots. “Not long.”

  “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  “Trust me. I have two sisters. If I’m not mistaken, Lady Lucy had already begun to get over her attachment to our delightful Mr. Weilmunster at the assembly the other evening. But now that you’re raging at him, trying to break them apart, she feels guilty at having thought about ending the engagement.”

  “Why in heaven’s name would she feel guilty about getting rid of such a smarmy little man?”

  Mr. Dalrymple raised his eyebrows. “It’s called compassion. A quality some people have.”

  Kate set her jaw. “I have compassion.”

  “You, my dear girl,” he crossed his arms, leaning casually against the wall, “have many fine qualities.”

  Kate stared, a blush sweeping over her face. A certain something shimmered, unspoken in the air between them. Her breath came quicker and she couldn’t tear her gaze from his.

  “What you should have done,” Mr. Dalrymple began, breaking the spell. Kate cleared her throat and looked away, faintly embarrassed. “Is give her permission to marry the blighter. Once your opposition is gone, Juliet will find her passion for Romeo has disappeared.”

  Kate frowned. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Why, thank you.”

  “It might work.” She turned to go back to Lucy’s bedchamber, but Mr. Dalrymple dodged in her way. Placing his hand on the wall behind her, he leaned down, closer and closer. Kate nervously licked her lips. He grinned.

  “Let it wait for a few days. It would look suspicious if you barged in now to give your permission.”

  “I don’t barge.”

  Mr. Dalrymple grinned and leaned closer. Kate held her breath.

  Bong! A booming gong reverberated up the stairs.

  “What the devil is that?”

  “Dinner is served,” intoned Curtis.

  The meal that evening was a rather merry affair, if one was able to overlook the exquisite politeness between Lucy and Kate. If Lucy’s smile was a shade less serene, and Kate’s brow more thunderous than the occasion called for, they all pretended not to notice. The children pelted Mr. Dalrymple with questions. The adults cast anxious looks at the sisters.

  Mr. Dalrymple, Kate noticed, threw off his dandified airs, answering the questions with aplomb. Yes, he had been to Astley’s often. No, he couldn’t ride standing on a horse’s back. Yes, he had to admit he was the best cartwheeler in England. Simon, much to Kate’s consternation, asked if he was truly the Grey Cavalier, but Mr. Dalrymple was truthfully able to deny this.

  “But you are going to play him in the pageant,” he stated as a matter of course.

  “I beg your pardon?” Mr. Dalrymple raised his eyebrows. At the end of the table, he caught Kate shake her head ever so slightly at her brother. The instincts of a cornered man kicked in and he knew a moment of apprehension.

  “Auntie Alice said you were picked to be the Cavalier.” Meg’s eyes were shining that her new hero had been given such an honor.

  “No, really--”

  “I can’t wait!” said Bertie enthusiastically. “Katie said we’ll get to shoot cannon and fight with real swords!”

  Lady Alice, and Mr. Dalrymple looked disapprovingly at Kate. “No, that’s not precisely what I--”

  “Yes, you did, Katie. You said we’d have a real coach robbery and soldiers galloping through the town.”

  Once more the spectacle took shape in her mind. “It’s going to be wonderful! Except not real swords or real cannons.” Bertie looked disappointed, so Kate compromised. “Alright, real cannons, but no cannon balls.”

  “Powder blanks,” supplied Edmund. The moment he opened his mouth he wished he hadn’t, for once more little Meg was beaming up at him and Simon looked as if he expected him to walk on water any moment. “No. Really. I cannot be in the pageant. But I promise I shall come and cheer for you all.”

  Edmund tried a reassuring smile, but he’d seriously underestimated the persuasive power of youngsters and, surprisingly, Lady Alice. Not for nothing had she survived, humor intact, the escapades of her family and the shenanigans of the Ladies Aid Society, under the iron fist of the Countess of Malford. Kate sat back, not uttering a word. She didn’t have to. Edmund found he was helpless in front of Lady Alice’s reasoned arguments and the pleading of the worshipful youngsters.

  In less than five minutes he was flushed out, shot, and bagged.

  “Good,” Lady Alice said briskly. “We shall see you at rehearsal, then. Nine of the clock, isn’t that correct, Katherine?”

  Kate smirked. “Yes, it is, Aunt. Would you care for more cherry tart, Mr. Dalrymple?”

  “Thank you, no.” Under his breath, he hissed, “May I have a word with you, Lady Katherine?”

  “No, you may not, Lord Granville,” she murmured back.

  Lady Alice rose. “Perhaps we shall leave Mr. Dalrymple to his port.”

  Edmund rose as they began to troop out. Bertie lingered uncertainly behind.

  “Won’t you join me, Bertie? It’s dull work finishing this tart alone.”

  Bertie’s chest swelled. “Certainly, sir.”

  The smile that Kate threw him as she left the dining room was so unaffectedly warm it took his breath away.

  As he sat down, he shook his head. Two levelers in less than a minute.

  “Women, Bertie, can be the very devil.”

  “I know, sir,” he agreed fervently.

  And they busied themselves with the more important task of finishing Cook’s excellent cherry tart.

  ***

  “No, no, no! First the Roundheads rush in, then the Royalists.”

  From behind the Rectory, Edmund could hear Kate as she directed the first rehearsal of the pageant. Ordinarily, his chivalrous instincts might nudge him to help a lady in distress, but it was clear at first glance that Kate was in her element, bossing people around, in complete authority, even over the Countess of Malford. In a village containing such characters as Oaksley, that was a feat indeed.

  He himself, on the other hand, was taking full advantage of everyone’s preoccupation with the pageant. Though it was high noon, half the village was milling about the square. Edmund had no worries about getting caught snooping. Father Flannery was safely, if haplessly, at a makeshift desk on the green, a moth-eaten wig on his head, rehearsing his role as the heartless judge who sentenced Harry to have his neck stretched. Those who were not actively involved in the pageant were either touring the village or indulging in a light nuncheon on the green in order to better watch the excitement. The landlord and his wife rushed back and forth to serve their al fr
esco guests. Jasper Jackson had set up an easel on the green, rapidly sketching portraits of those who wanted a keepsake of their visit to Captain Harrison’s lair. On the far side of the pond, the antics of Oscar, The Amazing Prancing Pig delighted a group of children and adults.

  In his pocket, Edmund had the small glass bead he’d found in the cavern. It was not that the bead itself would be proof positive enough to hang and convict the man, woman, or priest for counterfeiting and high treason. It could just as easily have come from a woman’s gown. However, Edmund had not been first cousin to Alphonse, a dandy of such fame that his Christian name sufficed, without knowing a thing or two about accoutrements to a fop’s wardrobe. If this wasn’t contraband blue glass directly from Venice he’d eat his parasol. It was a rare and fine rich turquoise color, never duplicated anywhere else. It was highly prized by the truly fashionable, and virtually impossible to come by during this war. Without a doubt it had been smuggled in, and Edmund was so certain he’d seen such beads on one of the hassocks favored by the priest, he was willing to risk publicly accusing a man of the cloth of felonious behavior of the highest order.

  Edmund slipped through the back door of the Rectory. At the top of the kitchen stairs, he listened for movement, then spied the Flannery’s housekeeper having her portrait drawn in front of the stocks. Closing the door behind him, he slipped across the hall to the stairs, bending almost double so he wouldn’t be seen from the windows.

  All was clear. Swiftly he looked about the ground floor of the tiny house, but the small sitting room and dining room clearly held nothing. The noise from the green grew louder and subsided. Kate seemed to be having trouble with either countesses or carriages, he couldn’t make out which.

  The dark boards of the ancient staircase creaked as he crept upstairs. The autumn sun streamed through the diamond-paned windows, catching the dust motes in the air. Two doors led off from the landing. Edmund peeked into the first. Books lined the walls. Several were open on the desk. A quill and paper were tossed on the blotter. The good father obviously was in the midst of composing his sermon for the coming Sunday.

  Edmund pushed open the door of the room opposite, Father Flannery’s bedchamber. It was sparsely furnished, with a crucifix hanging over the bed, the only decoration in the plain, neat room. A bible rested on the bedside table, small bureau in the corner, a wardrobe against the far wall.

  Ah, now that was more like it.

  He closed the door behind him and with one ear cocked for possible intruders, began a methodical search of the room.

  The bedside table contained nothing save a perspiration-stained collar and a tin box of cough drops. Nothing under the mattress, save for a few racy prints of scantily-clad women. Purely for professional reasons, Edmund held them up for closer examination. Ahem. Father Flannery had very good taste.

  But, alas, business before pleasure. He stuffed the prints back under the mattress and turned to the chest by the window. It also revealed nothing, but as he turned back, the window seat caught his eye. It gaped open ever so slightly. Edmund flung back the seat and pawed through the various vestments. On the bottom, crammed into a corner, was a red robe. Edmund pulled it out. Sure enough, amongst the elaborate embroidery were a handful of turquoise beads, and a bare spot with hanging threads where several were missing.

  A creak on the stair made him freeze. Swiftly he rolled the robe up and stuffed it back down into the window seat. With any luck, Flannery wouldn’t notice it had been disturbed until Edmund had a chance to follow him. There was no sense in arresting Flannery if he was nothing but a cog in the machinery. For all anyone knew, there were pockets of counterfeiters all over England. They all had to be taken together, or the next gang or the next would still be able to wreak havoc on the country.

  The footsteps got closer. Edmund slid behind the door. Through the crack between the wall and the door, he saw a bewigged figure trudging up the stairs.

  Mumbling a curse, he tip-toed to the window, but the casement was too small for a man of his size to squeeze through. The bed was too high and too narrow to be a good hiding place.

  The creaks turned into footsteps. The doorknob turned. Edmund dodged into the wardrobe, pulling the doors closed behind him. The second door he had to hold shut with his finger. Through the crack he watched as Father Flannery ripped off the wig, tossing it carelessly on the night table. He ran a brush through his hair, shook out his shirt-sleeves, and reached for the black hassock. Pulling it over his head, he turned to leave. Edmund had just sighed with relief, when the wardrobe door flew open and he came face-to-face with a very startled priest.

  “What --? What the devil --?” he sputtered.

  “My good man,” Edmund oozed out of the wardrobe in full fop mode. “These costumes will not do, not at all.” With a flick of the wrist, he opened his quizzing glass. He directed a pained look at the selection of black or white hassocks hanging neatly on the hooks. Waving his handkerchief, he continued, “Color, my dear sir! I picture vivid blues and reds, with yard -- simply yards--of gold braid.”

  Flannery opened his mouth, but Edmund ran ruthlessly over him on a wave of loquaciousness.

  “Plumes! Grey plumes in honor of our beloved Cavalier would be a charming touch, don’t you agree?”

  “You are trespassing in my bedchamber, sir!”

  “And so glad I am! What wonders you’ve done to the place.” He waved his arms as if to embrace the room. “Clean, spare lines, modeled on a monk’s cell, am I right? Marvelous. I shall devote all my time to bringing it to fashion when I return to London. I predict it shall be all the crack!” He closed his eyes, clasping his hands in apparent ecstasy. Father Flannery, looked dazed with such ruthless eloquence.

  “Now, you mustn’t keep me here chatting, sir, for my dear Kate has need of me.” He lowered his voice, confiding, “Such a charming girl, yet oh, so scatterbrained, I fear.”

  Edmund turned and gaily twinkled down the staircase, Flannery trailing behind.

  “Now see here --”

  Edmund came to a sudden stop on the landing. Flannery bumped into him from behind. Edmund appeared not to notice, as his whole attention was focused on a rather murky painting of Jesus on the Mount.

  “Exquisite,” he breathed. Assuming a posture of reverence, he flicked open his quizzing glass. “I believe, and do correct me if I am wrong, but I do believe I detect the school of von Lampi the Elder. Or do I?” He flicked his handkerchief and continued on down the stairs, calling over his shoulder, “Immediately, I promise, dear sir, I shall write a dear friend, oh, an expert, I assure you, no one knows more about Lampi’s work, and report to you directly.”

  “But --”

  Edmund threw up his hand. “Nonsense. I am happy to do so. Don’t give it another thought. My reward, as always, will be the exquisite pleasure of discovering for the world a heretofore forgotten masterpiece.” He struck a noble pose, the sunlight shining (he hoped) like a halo on his blond hair. With a kiss of his fingertips to a very pedestrian carved cabinet, he threw open the door with a flourish and toddled out, leaving the priest sputtering in confusion in his front hall.

  Exhausted by his own eloquence, Edmund tottered around the Rectory, mopped his brow, and ambled toward the green as if he hadn't just been rifling the personal belongings of one of the most beloved members of the village. As he ambled, he could hear Kate haranguing her players.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, everyone in places for the hanging scene. Now, please. No, Ethan, we will not be drawing and quartering the Cavalier. Marchioness, over here, please. Maid, behind her, just a bit to your left. Cavalier? Has anyone seen Mr. Dalrymple?”

  Edmund sighed and debated the wisdom of making a mad dash for freedom. Unfortunately, the rules of gentlemanly conduct weighed heavily on his conscience. Not to mention Kate, standing in front of the platform, tapping her toe in irritation. But when she saw him and beamed, her face lit up with unaffected warmth.

  Edmund stopped in his tracks, stunned. Her smile
hit him like a cudgel to the skull. Like an oaf, he stood, smiling back at her as the sun streamed down, lighting an orange halo above her head and her eyes sparkled only for him. For a fraction of a moment, the world spun about them, the only two people in the world. Then Kate shook her head, cleared her throat, and scowled.

  "Are we all ready to begin at last? Cavalier, mount the stage just here--"

  Edmund paused as he walked past her and winked. Kate did a double-take.

  "What in heaven's name are you doing?" she hissed.

  "Enjoying a beautiful day, my Kate."

  Kate glared blushed as hot as a summer sun. Edmund whistled as he strolled to the platform.

  ***

  Kate watched in a combination of embarrassment and suspicion as her protagonist minced his way across the grass. He’d probably been out flirting instead of learning his lines, but he certainly did look the part. Perhaps the Ladies Aid had been correct after all. The whole scheme was against her better judgment, but he'd been just as manipulated as had she. Not to mention that after he’d taken up arms against Adam Weilmunster, and treated Bertie so kindly, she couldn’t quite summon up as much spleen against him as before.

  Unfortunately, her warm feelings were soon to vanish.

  Clapping her hands for attention, she called, "Alright, places please, everyone. Marchioness, remember to speak up. Townsfolk, a little more liveliness, if you will. Remember, this is your hero, your savior from Cromwell who is being put to death. Cavalier, no hanging until Mr. Rigby is able to rig up a device which probably won't kill you.”

  “Thank you,” Mr. Dalrymple replied, visibly moved.

  “Alright, let’s begin. Places, please. Cavalier, remember to be at your most noble. You are dying for that cause which is most dear to your heart.”

  The scene began well, but as it wore on, Kate frequently pausing the action in order to move people about the stage, she became aware of a slight tension in Mr. Dalrymple. His mind seemed to be on other things.

  She wondered furiously what he was up to. Finally, Father Flannery wandered across the Rectory grounds. Mr. Dalrymple followed his progress with just the flick of his eyes. If Kate hadn’t been alert, she would have missed it. She swiveled her head in the priest’s direction. Sure enough, he too sent a glance Mr. Dalrymple's way before he opened the door to the church.