Melinda Hammond

by The Dream Chasers

  ‘You are determined to be cheerful, are you not, Stacey?’ He grinned up at her and drew a smiling response.

  ‘Of course. There is nothing here to make one unhappy.’

  Mr Lagallan knew an impulse to pull the girl down on to his lap, and sternly repressed it. Instead he pulled on his boots again and stood up.

  ‘I will take my coffee in my room, I think. I need to wash -I would advise you to do the same, Stacey - and perhaps to rest until dinner.’

  ‘Have I said something wrong?’

  The harsh look disappeared and he smiled, flicking her cheek with one careless finger.

  ‘Of course not, child, but it has been a long day, and I wish to take advantage of this lull in our activity!’

  * * * *

  As he plunged his hands into the bowl of water so thoughtfully provided by his hostess, Vivyan cursed himself for being so inept. He had seen the hurt in Eustacia’s face as he had left her, but surely she should understand how wrong it was for them to be alone. She was so naive, so trusting; it would be far too easy for him to abuse that trust.

  ‘She is no more than a babe!’ he muttered. ‘And the sooner I hand over responsibility for her, the better!’ Slipping off his coat, he threw himself on the bed. ‘Damnation - the girl is under my protection! Besides, she is in love with another man. And she is so innocent. If I give in to a desire to kiss her, that innocence will be lost for ever!’

  Vivyan dozed fitfully, but after an hour he gave up all attempts to sleep and went downstairs to the parlour. Finding his young companion was not there, Vivyan made his way to Stacey’s room. There was no reply to his knock and when he tried the handle, the door opened easily on to the empty room. Frowning, Mr Lagallan went outside into the yard, where the landlord was busy cutting logs.

  ‘The young gentleman?’ In answer to his question the landlord paused, resting his axe lightly upon one broad shoulder. ‘Why, sir, he went off with our Davy to see a mill.’

  ‘A mill?’

  ‘Aye, sir. At Jenner’s field. The young master being at a loose end, so to speak, and looking so down in the mouth, our Davy asks him if he wanted to go with ‘un.’ Something of Vivyan’s dismay was apparent in his face, for the landlord continued, ‘Lord love you, sir, you’ve no need to worry about the lad - he’ll come to no ‘arm, my boy’ll see to that, and he’ll bring the young master back safe afore dark, never fear.’

  Stifling his misgivings, Mr Lagallan asked directions to the mill and, pausing only to fetch his cane, he set out for Jenner’s field.

  * * * *

  As Eustacia and her young escort trudged along the leafy lane, the innkeeper’s son whiled away the journey with tales of other mills he had seen. Most of these stories were apocryphal and couched in such cant terms that Miss Marchant understood only one word in twenty. Davy was a young man of about fifteen, very sturdily built and with an open, friendly nature. They had struck up a conversation within minutes of Stacey wandering into the inn-yard and, unwilling to appear churlish, Miss Marchant had accepted Davy’s invitation, reasoning that it would at least while away the hours until dinner-time.

  When they reached Jenner’s field, the area was already thronging with spectators and Davy bemoaned the fact that all the best places in the nearby trees were taken. He moved away from the gate, where two men were busy collecting entrance fees, and pushed his way through a gap in the hedge before guiding Stacey to a steep embankment at the far side of the field.

  ‘This be a capital vantage-point,’ he remarked in his slow drawl. ‘We shall see everything from ‘ere.’

  Looking down from her capital vantage-point, Eustacia realized with horror that she was about to witness a prizefight. In the safety of the inn-yard, when her new acquaintance had spoken of a mill and talked of gentlemen, and form, and science, she had visualized some sort of educational talk or exhibition, and it was not until she saw the two men stripped to the waist, their faces already disfigured by years of brutal combat, that she understood the nature of the entertainment she was about to witness.

  Young Davy drew a flask from his pocket, raised it to his lips and afterwards offered it to Stacey. She shook her head, her mind working quickly to think of an excuse to leave the scene without arousing any suspicion. The field was filling up now, and the noise of the crowd rose and fell on the cold, clear air. Davy pointed towards the clearing where the two opponents were limbering up.

  ‘Look - my money’d be on Ted Barker, the man standing nearest that old beech tree. He’s known as the Fox, ‘cos he’s a wily old devil. He ain’t as big as Jameson, but he’s quick, and unless Jameson can get in a well-aimed hit in the first few rounds, it’s ames ace to a monkey the Fox’ll win the day.’

  Following his outstretched arm, Stacey observed the preparations taking place for the contest. Her eyes were drawn to a tall figure in a drab boxcoat, talking to the pugilist Davy had called Ted Barker. He looked vaguely familiar, and she realized it was Nathan MacCauley, the man she and Vivyan had met at The Star. She tried to shrink down between her companions, turning up the collar of her coat and praying that he was too far away to recognize her.

  Listening to Davy’s discourse, Stacey nodded and tried to look interested. Across the field, she saw several smart carriages pulled up alongside the farm wagons, and she realized with some surprise that a large number of gentlemen were in attendance. She shivered. Even in the bright afternoon sun the spring air was cold, and her thin wool jacket was not as warm as the thick homespuns worn by most of the other spectators. The crowd was growing restless, waiting for the fight to begin, with catcalls and curses filling the air. Eustacia began to feel very uneasy.

  ‘So there you are!’

  The hand upon her shoulder made her jump, and she looked round guiltily.

  ‘Vivyan!’ At the sight of his stern face she almost cried with relief.

  Pulling her to her feet, he said roughly, ‘Come along, young man. I promised your mama I’d keep you out of mischief until you were safe at home again.’

  Young Davy jumped up, looking anxious.

  ‘Sir - there’s nothin’ amiss, is there? I didn’t see no ‘arm in bringin’ the young master to a mill, honest I didn’t.’

  ‘No, the fault’s not yours, I’m sure,’ Mr Lagallan assured him. ‘My young friend is far too ready for any spree, but not while under my care!’

  There were several sympathetic murmurs from those nearby for Vivyan to let the lad be, and one or two mutters that he was blocking the view. Mr Lagallan threw Davy an apologetic glance, then turned back to Miss Marchant.

  ‘An oath is an oath, Stacey. Your friend can stay and enjoy the mill, but you had best come with me.’ He gripped her elbow and guided her through the crowd and out of the field.

  * * * *

  When they reached the lane, Eustacia gave a huge sigh.

  ‘I was so glad to see you. Vivyan, it is a prizefight!’

  ‘Well, what were you expecting?’

  ‘I don’t know - a fair, perhaps, or some sort of lecture.’ She looked offended when he threw back his head and laughed. ‘Well, how was I to know what it would be?’

  They began to walk back towards the inn.

  ‘You were not to know at all, my innocent. I hope you have learned your lesson and will not go off with strangers again.’

  ‘Oh I have, Vivyan, truly! But when you went off to your room, I did not know what to do, and I went out into the yard, and Davy and I started talking, and, and here I am.’ She took his arm, and leaned against him. ‘I was never so relieved to see anyone in my life! How did you find me?’

  ‘Easily. That carrot-top of yours proved very useful on this occasion.’

  ‘My wretched hair! How I wish it were dark, or even better - fashionably fair.’

  Vivyan stopped. ‘That is the first missish thing I have heard you say, and let me tell you, it don’t become you. You have beautiful hair. It’s my favourite colour.’

  Eustacia blushed. ‘Truly, Vivy
an? Y-you like it?’

  ‘Truly.’ He grinned, touching her nose with the tip of one finger. ‘And I think freckles are very . . . enchanting.’

  For a moment she gazed up at him, her eyes shining, then with a sigh she shook her head and turned to walk on.

  ‘No,’ she said sadly. ‘It is very kind of you to say so, Vivyan, but I know that red hair is not at all fashionable. And that makes it all the more wonderful that Rupert should love me, don’t you think?’

  ‘No,’ murmured Vivyan, looking at the slim figure striding ahead of him. ‘No, it is not wonderful at all.’

  * * * *

  After a substantial dinner, Eustacia suggested they should take a stroll in the lane. She quickly brushed aside Mr Lagallan’s objections.

  ‘I am not at all sleepy, Vivyan, and there is nothing to do here. No games or books — and there is nothing worse than tossing and turning all night because one is not tired!’

  Mr Lagallan tried one last objection.

  ‘You have no coat, brat.’

  ‘But the wind has dropped, and I promise you I will not feel the cold, as long as we keep moving.’

  So Mr Lagallan stifled his conscience and accompanied Miss Marchant outside. The rising moon was just high enough to light their way, and Vivyan pointed out to his companion the stars and planets that were still visible in the clear sky. Eustacia, her hand tucked into his arm, sighed.

  ‘How I wish I had learned astronomy. Miss Frobisher was very good, but she was concerned that we should learn to draw, and paint, and play the pianoforte.’

  ‘But they are very necessary accomplishments, child.’

  ‘Perhaps, but if I had learned astronomy, I would be able to navigate my way around the world.’ She laughed and glanced up at him. ‘You think that very fanciful, I suppose, but apart from my one season in London, I have never been away from home before, and I would so love to travel. That is why I am enjoying this adventure so much. But I expect it seems very tame to you, for you have been adventuring all over Europe, and I have no doubt you found yourself in situations far more perilous than a quiet country lane!’

  ‘Yet I can assure you, nymph, that I have rarely enjoyed myself more.’

  Miss Marchant did not reply to this. She merely squeezed his arm and walked on beside him.

  Presently she spoke again. ‘I noticed any number of very modish carriages at Jenner’s field today. Do gentlemen enjoy watching such things, Vivyan?’

  ‘In the main, I think they do.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Sometimes, but I much prefer to take part.’

  She stared at him. ‘You like to fight? What if you should be hurt?’

  ‘Ah, the skill is to avoid such a thing.’ He smiled down at her. ‘I practise regularly at Jackson’s parlour in London.’

  She frowned. ‘Well, I think it is a horrid thing to do. Why should you wish to hurt a fellow human being?’

  ‘I think I must be sadly decadent,’ he responded meekly.

  They were approaching a crossroads. The trees on each side of the road threw out thick black branches across the highway, plunging the road into deepest shadow. Vivyan was about to suggest they should turn back, when they heard voices ahead. They stopped and Vivyan put his hand on Stacey’s lips to silence her inevitable question. The voices grew louder, as if in argument. Vivyan drew Eustacia deeper into the shadows as the voices were replaced by a series of sharp thuds and grunts. Eustacia tried to move, but Vivyan held her fast.

  ‘Not yet!’ he hissed.

  The scuffling continued, then there was a sharp cry. Unable to bear the inactivity, Eustacia wrenched herself free and set off towards the sounds of the mêlée.

  ‘This way, lads!’ she called, her voice as loud and gruff as she could make it. ‘John, bring up the dogs - Reuben, hand me my pistol!’

  With an oath Vivyan followed, catching up with Stacey just as she reached the crossroads, where she stopped. The trees and bushes had been cut back from the road at this point, and in the pale gleam of the moonlight they saw a black shape crumpled on the ground, while two figures were running away, disappearing into the darkness.

  ‘It’s all right,’ gasped Eustacia, breathing heavily, ‘they’ve gone.’

  She hurried towards the figure on the ground, Vivyan beside her, muttering furiously.

  ‘You damned little fool! You do not know what you might have found around this corner!’

  ‘Admit it, Vivyan, if I had not been here, you would not have held back.’

  ‘Perhaps, but—’

  Stacey was not listening. They had reached the body and Eustacia fell to her knees, searching for signs of life.

  ‘He breathes!’ she exclaimed, and gasped as Vivyan turned the man over to expose his face to the moonlight.

  ‘It’s the man we saw in Reading!’ Eustacia stared down at the unconscious figure. Blood had darkened his long fair hair, and trickled from his mouth and nose. There was a cut on his cheek, and a livid bruise was already forming around one eye.

  ‘We can’t leave him here, Vivyan. We must get him to the inn.’ She rose unsteadily to her feet.

  ‘I’ll carry him,’ said Mr Lagallan. ‘Here, you take his hat and cane.’

  ‘I could run back and fetch help—’

  ‘No! I’m not letting you out of my sight if there are footpads on the prowl. Stay with me.’

  Obediently, Stacey picked up the hat and cane, and walked silently beside Vivyan, who had hoisted the unconscious figure over his shoulder and was striding back to The Golden Cockerel. As they reached the inn, she ran before him, shouting for the landlord. That worthy came bustling out, his eyes widening as Mr Lagallan staggered in.

  ‘Quick, man! Help me get him upstairs to a bed. Footpads.’

  ‘B-but we’ve no more rooms free, sir!’

  ‘Then put him in mine.’ Gently, Vivyan lowered MacCauley into the arms of the landlord and his tapster. Miss Marchant was about to follow the little group up the stairs when Vivyan gave her a curt command to wait for him in the parlour. Alone in the little room, she threw more logs on to the fire and sat down at the table, suddenly feeling very weak. She chided herself for her sudden desire to cry: she had wanted adventure, and she must not disappoint Vivyan. Thus when Mr Lagallan came down stairs some time later, he found Miss Marchant finishing a cup of hot milk. She was very pale, but composed.

  ‘I ordered you some brandy, sir.’ She managed a small smile. ‘I did not think you would want milk.’

  ‘True, brat. Thank you.’

  ‘How is Mr MacCauley?’

  ‘Unconscious. He has been badly beaten, but there are no bones broken, save perhaps a couple of ribs. The landlord will send for the doctor in the morning, and I’ll leave enough money to pay his shot.’

  ‘You will not leave him here!’

  ‘I must get you to London, Stacey.’

  She looked as if she would argue, but the entrance of the landlord made her bite her tongue.

  ‘Beggin’ your pardon, sir. The gentleman’s as comfortable as we can make ‘im now, sir. I’ll send my lad for the doctor first thing. And I’ve set up a truckle-bed for you in the little room at the end of the passage, sir, though the young master’s bed is big enough for two . . .’

  ‘No, no, my cousin is such a dashed fidget I’d get no sleep at all! The small room will do very well for me, thank you.’

  As the landlord withdrew, Eustacia gave a little smile.

  ‘A truckle-bed! Poor Vivyan.’

  He laughed and finished the rest of the brandy. ‘I’ve slept on worse!’ He stood up. ‘Now, brat, get yourself off to bed. We make an early start in the morning.’

  Chapter Four

  Eustacia tossed and turned in the hard bed, listening to the noises outside her door. Footsteps padded up and down the passage, and once she heard the landlord berating one of his minions in the hallway below. However, The Golden Cockerel was not a coaching-inn, nor was it on a main road, and as the night wore on th
e inn fell silent, with only the creaking of the timbers or a mouse gnawing at the wainscot to disturb the peace. Still Eustacia could not sleep: she did not know whether it was because of the strange surroundings or the excitement of the evening, but she was wide awake. The moon, climbing in a cloudless sky, shone in through the little casement window and she lay still in the semi-darkness, allowing her mind to drift over the events of the day. After a while her attention was caught by a noise coming from the next room. Through the thin partition she heard a violent coughing, then a long, drawn-out groan. She knew it must be the man MacCauley and she listened, hoping that Vivyan or the landlord would attend him, but there was only silence, then a few moments later she heard another groan.

  It was not in Miss Marchant’s nature to ignore any creature in distress, and although her heart was thudding so heavily she could hardly breathe, she slipped out of bed, pulled on her boy’s shirt and breeches and tiptoed to the door. An oil-lamp burned on the landing and in its pale light she could see the length of the passage. All the doors were shut and she hesitated, wondering which one was Vivyan’s. She heard another cough and a stifled curse from MacCauley’s room and, with sudden decision, she opened the door and peered cautiously in. The room was lit only by the moon, but it was sufficient for Stacey to see the figure on the bed. MacCauley turned his head and peered towards the door.

  ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘It’s — it’s me, sir. Mr Lagallan and I found you and brought you here, to the inn.’

  There was a pause. Stacey wondered if MacCauley remembered her.

  ‘Ah, yes, by heaven. Saw you at The Star, did I not? ‘Fore Gad I hurt! Fetch me a light, boy.’

  Straining her eyes against the darkness, Stacey found the tinderbox and managed to light the candle in its holder beside the bed. Signs of the night’s activity still remained:

  MacCauley’s clothes had been hastily removed and thrown over a chair beside the bed, and a grey cloth floated in the wash-bowl on a side table, next to a pile of ragged bandages that had been prepared but not used. Stacey hesitated, staring down at the bruised and beaten face of Nathan MacCauley.