by K. M. Grant
Dan’s shoulder was throbbing but he responded to Alice’s prodding as best he could. Cautiously, they made their way to the parapet and peered over. It was impossible, from this angle, to see if any windows were open, so Alice, raising her eyebrows, pulled off the two underskirts she was wearing, then ripped and twisted them into the longest rope they could make. She tied one end around her own waist and the other end around Dan’s. Now she could lean over a little farther.
The nearest windows were tightly closed, but one a little way along was open at the top, with heavy curtains drawn over it. She tugged the rope and, when Dan pulled her back toward him, whispered that this was the one.
The plan seemed full of danger to them both, and by Alice’s calculations they also needed more rope, so to Dan’s acute embarrassment, since the petticoat rope was almost too much for him, Alice hitched up her skirts again and took off both her stockings. Using one to attach the wig bag to her belt, she gave the other to Dan to wedge anywhere he could find to help him climb down after her. Thank goodness Johanna can’t see me now, Dan thought.
Even though firmly attached to Dan’s immovable middle, it was perilous easing onto the window ledge, particularly with Uncle Frank swinging beside her, and Alice’s fingers scrabbled against the wall as she bumped her knees. It seemed ages before she found the comforting solidity of the ledge. The wig bag bruised her hip as she steadied herself, but Alice made no sound. Carefully, she put two hands on the sash and leaned her weight against it. It slid down so smoothly that she momentarily lost her balance and her feet swung up behind her. Then she righted herself and slithered over, dragging Uncle Frank behind her. She could not get farther into the room because the petticoat rope was not long enough, but through the divide in the curtains she could see that she was in a bedroom. What was more, the snores that were causing the oak four-poster to quiver were louder than any noise two fugitives were likely to make breaking in. Luckier still, the bed’s occupants, clearly nervous of drafts, were cocooned behind thick hangings garishly embroidered with naked cherubs.
She turned to see how Dan was getting on. After a moment or two, she heard his toes scuff the window ledge. Alice grasped an ankle and guided it toward the sill. Dan was grunting terribly and Alice longed to tell him to be quiet, but before she could put her fingers to her lips she herself cried out as she was almost whisked back through the window. Dan’s other foot missed the sill and, with a terrible “Oio! Oio!,” he began to topple backward. At once Alice found herself jerked upward by the petticoat rope. Clinging to the curtains until they threatened to come down on top of her, she just managed to spread-eagle herself against the window frame, praying that this would give Dan enough leverage to pull himself back. Every sinew objected as she stretched out, muscles pulled beyond endurance, to provide a bulwark for Dan’s body, which was now swaying like a bag of flour. She could hear him swearing, but what good was that? The pressure around her middle grew intolerable. She was going to be squeezed in half! Tighter and tighter grew the rope until Alice saw only red. Surely her waist could get no smaller? But it did. Then, just as her legs dissolved into mush, the pressure relaxed and she found Dan on the other side of the glass, his mouth open and his eyes wide. He trembled like a great tree in autumn as he fumbled his way clumsily over the window frame and into the bedroom. It was not a noiseless maneuver, but Alice no longer cared. When he finally galumphed onto the floor, she threw her arms around his neck as though she would never let him go. The couple in the bed snored on.
When they managed to regain some composure, Dan undid the petticoat rope and hid it under a large commode. Then he took the wig bag from Alice because her arms felt too weak to carry it and they crept together across the room. A floorboard creaked and Dan and Alice crouched down as oaths were muttered in a deep, throaty voice, followed by higher-pitched womanish grumbles. Somebody belched but nothing more. When the snoring was firmly re-established, Alice scrutinized the monograms embroidered on the clothes draped untidily over an overflowing laundry basket. She began tugging them out, pointing excitedly. Dan looked unconvinced but Alice nodded her head vigorously and soon both they and Uncle Frank were buried deep inside the basket under mounds of aristocratic dirty linen.
“I know the people in the bed—or at least one of them,” Alice whispered, her lips against Dan’s cheek. “This is the Duke of Mimsdale’s house. I don’t know who is in bed with him but it’s certainly not his wife. She’s away. So I bet the maids will come in the morning and load anything that might tell a naughty tale onto a cart for the laundryman. If we’re lucky, this basket will be transported miles away from here. We might even be able to jump out as it goes on its way.”
“And what happens if the duchess isn’t due back for weeks and the housekeeper decides the laundry can wait?” Dan hissed back. Alice never seemed to think of these things. “I don’t think I can stay scrunched up in here for days, with all these unsavory undergarments and sweaty sheets, even if they do belong to a duke.”
“Well,” Alice said, taking the wig bag and making a nest for it as she settled herself against Dan’s shoulder, “I think it is our best chance.”
Dan could not dispute this and after a while, in the peaceful warmth of ruffles and petticoats, both of them fell into a much deeper sleep than either would have thought possible under the circumstances.
A good jolting woke them. It was broad daylight and the laundry basket was being pushed across the floor by two female servants, amazed at its weight.
“What’s the duke put in here?” one asked the other, “’er Grace’s body?”
The other, between pants, bade her friend be silent. “Never joke about that sort of thing in this house,” she snorted. “Old Mimsy hates his duchess. She may well be in here for all I know, but it won’t do us any good to find her.”
There was no more chat as the basket thudded down the stairs and sailed across the marble floor toward the front door, where it took four footmen to load it onto the flat wagon waiting to receive it.
Hew’s troopers, scattered all over the square, were immediately suspicious. “Open it,” one ordered the laundryman.
“What for?”
“Just do as I say. We’re looking for two criminals who escaped around here and they might be inside.”
The laundryman shrugged and beckoned to the footmen. “Open it for the king’s dragoons,” he said. “They want to see if the duke has criminals in his washing.”
The footmen were reluctant, but the troopers were persistent. One, with youthful arrogance, flicked his sword lazily against the wicker. “Do you want me to open it?” he asked.
The nearest footman looked nervous. If there was damage to the duke’s property, he would be made to pay. He began to fumble and had almost got the strap undone when a cough made him look up.
“Er, excuse me. What do you think you’re doing?” The Duke of Mimsdale, chewing a fat chicken leg, was watching from an upper window. As a rule he cared little for his laundry, but, with his wife in the country, he did not want his sheets displayed to the entire square. “Take the laundry away,” he ordered, waving his hand.
But the troopers were not frightened of old Mimsy. Everybody knew that he had fallen out with the king, and those out of favor with the king were not due any respect. A veteran trooper stood his ground. “Go and get Major Slavering,” he ordered his young colleague. “We’ll see about this.”
Inside the basket, Alice and Dan lay quaking.
Some curious onlookers gathered and when the major, accompanied by Hew, pushed through on horseback, an expectant hush fell. The duke, with his boots on but still not properly dressed, appeared on the doorstep and strode out, hoping to cow everybody with both the size of his paunch and the acres of gold frogging on his red silken dressing gown. Major Slavering and Hew dismounted and handed their horses to the cornet.
“Good day to you,” the duke began, in his grandest voice. “Is there some trouble with my laundry?”
The major
eyed him up and down, noting the nervous tic in the ducal eyelid. “Two criminals, plus a head, are loose in the square. They may be so desperate to escape, Your Grace”—he accentuated the title, making it ridiculous—“that they might even brave your dirty washing. They have slipped through the clutches of Captain Two-Effs Ffrench twice now. This is his last chance.”
The duke flapped the ends of his wig, feeling a little hot. “I can assure you, Major,” he said, “that, as a loyal subject of King George, I would not conceal enemies of His Majesty in my laundry. My laundry is an entirely private affair, not open to criminals or anybody else. I’m sure, being a man of the world yourself”—he bared his teeth queasily at the major—“you understand that I would like to keep it that way.”
“It’s a big laundry basket for a small duke, though.” Major Slavering enjoyed making Mimsy sweat. With a gloved finger, he traced the coronet engraved on the leather strap. “A very big basket indeed. So big”— he trailed his fingers all the way along its length—“that I’m truly impressed. You must be the cleanest man in England and it would be a fine thing for my men to see that clothes and sheets do not have to be crawling with lice before they meet soap and water. Come, sir. Open the basket. Even if we find no criminals, we’ll find something to interest us, I dare say.”
The duke could see the game was up. With a fixed smile, he ordered his footmen to undo the strap and throw back the lid.
There was nothing Dan and Alice could do. They held hands as the top sheets were hauled out and spread on the pavement, along with shirts and other garments that made the duke mutter, “Really, really.” Little by little the basket was emptied, until discovery was imminent. The spectators were laughing uproariously as Alice, who could just about squint through the weave, poked Dan and whispered in his ear. The next sheet slid away from them. Alice’s throat was too dry to shout, but Dan just heard her croak “Now!” before, with nothing left to lose, they sprang up together, extraordinary figures draped in cambric and gauze, with fine woolen bloomers wound about their heads.
Vaulting over the side of the basket, they startled the cornet into dropping the reins of the horses belonging to Hew and Major Slavering, and Alice, gesticulating wildly, clutched a stirrup, and threw herself over one of the saddles. Dan, less elegantly, followed suit. Terrified, the horses took fright and galloped away as fast as they could, with Dan and Alice hanging on for dear life. The crowd scattered before them, and the laundry horse, which had not been out of a walk for a decade, also took to his heels and set off at a spanking trot. Around Grosvenor Square they all pelted, Dan and Alice in front and the lumbering laundry horse behind, spreading stockings and pillowcases like giant confetti. One large, bright-red nightgown, clearly not the property of a duchess, ballooned into the sky before settling gracefully around the shoulders of Major Slavering himself. Livid, he fought it off, but the sleeves clung about his neck and even the troopers could hardly contain their giggles. Whirling like a tornado, the major eventually managed to disentangle himself, but not before being assailed by a woman’s camisole and a nightcap clearly marked “Mimikins.” Now Major Slavering’s blood was really up. He, who had braved the muskets and broadswords of the Scottish rebels without blanching, would not be humiliated by some trumpery hat. He ground his teeth and swore horrible vengeance. Hew would pay for this; by all God’s saints, he would pay.
Lady Widdrington, hearing the rumpus, ordered Ursula to throw open their windows. She was fond of riots and this sounded like a good one. As Alice and Dan galloped by a second time, the old lady recognized them and waved. “That’s my girl,” she cried, imagining that she was at the racecourse. “Did we have a gamble, Ursula?”
But Ursula hardly heard her. “Alice is riding astride, and she’s NO STOCKINGS ON!” she shrieked. “The shame! The shame! What will my poor sister say when she hears of this?”
“Oh, pishy wishy, Ursula. Don’t be such a stick,” scolded her mother. “This is better than being at war!” She pinched her daughter’s cheek and leaned farther out of the window. Now she forgot about the racecourse and saw Alice as a tragic heroine. “Fly, fly to your uncle Frank, Alice my lovely!” she sang out, as if at the theater, and waved her hands, then, feeling this was not enough for such an occasion, she took off her wig and waved that too. “Fly to your uncle Frank!” Purple dust liberally sprinkled the heads and shoulders of those below.
Alice could see her grandmother clearly, but only caught the last echo of her words. Despite the heat of the chase, they made her go cold all over. Uncle Frank’s head! She had left it behind! She glanced over her shoulder. The laundryman had caught his horse and the major was now mounted on another. Hew had charge of the washing basket.
Alice turned. “Dan!” she shouted into the wind, “Dan, we’ve forgotten Uncle Frank!” But Dan could do nothing except twist his hands deeper into his horse’s mane. He had never ridden before and was quite out of control, and anyway there was no going back. Even Alice must know that. They would have to leave Uncle Frank where he was. Alice punched herself with fury. How could she have been so thick? Without Uncle Frank’s head, the point of all this was totally lost.
However, even she had to accept that it would not help Uncle Frank if she and Dan were taken too. Glancing around, she saw with some relief that the spectators, clearly wanting the funfair spectacle to last as long as possible, had closed ranks behind her, keeping the major and the pursuing troopers momentarily at bay. Taking full advantage, Alice pushed her horse as close as she could to Dan’s, seized its flapping rein, and steered both animals helter-skelter up to the main road. Here, all the assorted traffic of a London morning was building up: coaches, wagons, donkeys, children walking in pairs to school. Alice and Dan plunged through the lot, but though people shouted, most were too intent on their own business to pay much attention to a stockingless girl and an ashen-faced man, even if they were going at a pace more commonly seen at Newmarket. People were always fleeing from something or other. Best not to get involved.
Alice kept charge of both horses as well as she could, trying neither to lose Dan nor to knock anybody over. “Passage, passage!” she cried. “Please let us through!”
The crowd grumbled but obliged, and by the time the major managed to get away from Grosvenor Square, she and Dan were heading northward through emptier streets and lanes until they eventually found themselves in the fields beyond Marylebone. The horses’ blood was up and, as the country spread wide in front of them, Hew’s black took the bit between his teeth. The feel of the girl’s bare legs was strange to him, as was her gossamer touch on the bit in his mouth. In the end, Alice had to let go of Dan’s horse, although she could still hear Dan’s groans as his bottom was battered against the army saddle.
Alice steered right away from the main road and into the fields, plunging in and out of woods until, certain that they had outrun their pursuers, she hauled on the reins, aimed the horse into a thicket, and finally managed to bring him to a halt. She leaped off at once and in a second Dan was beside her. He did not leap off, but simply let go and fell to the ground in a style that left his horse distinctly unimpressed.
Alice slumped down next to him, tears streaming down her face. “Uncle Frank,” was all she could say. “How could I have left him behind, Dan Skinslicer? How could I? He’ll be back on Temple Bar before we know it and I’ll have to start all over again.”
It was a while before Dan could answer, but when he did, he was quite emphatic. “You most certainly will not, missy,” he stated, grimacing as he sat up, for the whole of him was in agony. “Are you mad? We’re going nowhere near Temple Bar.”
“But we can’t leave Uncle Frank to Major Slavering. Just imagine what he will do.”
“Well, we’ll have to leave your uncle Frank to get on as best he can for the time being. Gracious! We only just escaped with our heads ourselves. Are you never content?” Dan’s temper was short, not only because of his lively aches and pains, but also because he was starving, having ha
d nothing to eat since before going to the wiggery. He didn’t care if Alice looked mutinous. “I never thought that the laundry basket was a good idea,” he added reasonably, although not very kindly.
“Did you have a better one?”
“Well, no,” he admitted. “But maybe I would have thought of one in time.”
“But we didn’t have any time, Dan Skinslicer. That’s the point.” Alice’s voice was deliberately stinging.
The horses began to graze and Dan got up. “It’s no good blaming each other,” he said. “Let’s look on the bright side. We’ve lost your uncle, but we’ve two fine horses. What we need now is a good breakfast, some different clothes, and a new plan.” He nudged Alice gently, not wanting to see her cross. They were stuck with each other for the time being. “And you never know. Maybe it’ll be that Captain Ffrench who gets charge of Uncle Frank and not Major Slavering,” he said, and this was generous of him, for the thought of Hew was still irksome. “If he puts the colonel’s head back on the Bar, at least he’ll do it nicely.”
Dan’s face was so honest and sensible, and he was trying so hard, Alice was ashamed of herself. She gave him a gentle hug. “You’re right, Dan Skinslicer,” she said, “and what’s more, you are a good man to have in moments of trouble—even if you can’t ride.”
“I can learn,” said Dan stoutly, returning Alice’s hug with an awkwardness that had nothing to do with his injured shoulder. He extricated himself and eyed the major’s horse balefully. “At least, I suppose I could learn. I’m really better with ponies and carts. These horses are too grand for me and this one knows it.”
Alice laughed. “I’ll make a horseman out of you before we get to Towneley,” she promised, swishing her bare legs through the reeds. “Now. Clothes, food—and Uncle Frank’s head. Which will you take charge of?”
Dan sighed. Alice was not going to give up. “All of them,” he said, “but I’ll walk back into town on my own. There’s lots of folk about so nobody will notice a scruffy man on foot and I know my way around better than you. I’ll see what I can pick up.”
