A Scandalous Journey: The Amberley Chronicles

by May Burnett

  “Ah. That is a long way from here. You were going to ride the whole way?”

  “Yes, in easy stages.”

  “I wish I could travel so freely. You see how many attendants were deemed necessary for my journey, though none of them would be the slightest use if we were attacked now.”

  “You still have a protector at your side,” he said drily. “But I feel certain that your fears are unfounded, Ma’am. Logic and common sense suggest that a careless cook has endangered your retinue, and not any kind of deliberate attacker.”

  Monique did not reply. When gentlemen started to talk of logic and common sense they had already made up their minds, and no arguments were likely to sway them. Nor was she sure of her case. Perhaps the fumes of vomit from the carriage and the intermittent, heart-rending groans were addling her mind. She had not slept well on this journey, in unfamiliar beds, and was hardly at her best.

  As the road passed through a wooded area between two hills a shot rang out, violently shattering the stillness of the night. Monique started. She heard the carriage’s roof splinter just behind her back and for a heart-stopping moment feared that the shot had hit the young man at her side. A quick glance showed him unhurt, even as a plaintive cry emerged from the carriage underneath.

  “Rita!” Monique cried out in horror, recognizing the voice of her maid.

  The outrider gasped, loud enough to hear through roof, “It’s not a fatal wound, Miss. For God’s sake, get us away from here!”

  Kinninmont gave the horses their head, and despite their fatigue they responded valiantly. Monique held on to his arm with her right hand, while the left raised the pistol once again as she frantically scrutinized the trees.

  “That was a rifle, from up that hill,” Kinninmont told her with icy calm. “You won’t get them with the pistol, unless they come much closer.”

  They sat in tense silence. To Monique’s relief there was no second shot, only the clatter of hooves and tired snorting of the horses.

  “We are well away,” she said after a few minutes, still feeling breathless. “I rest my case, Sir. That was no accident.”

  “No indeed, it went right past my ear. A fraction of an inch closer, and you could wipe my brains from this seat. I only hope your woman’s wound is indeed a trifling one.”

  Monique repressed a shiver. “We cannot afford to stop now.”

  “I agree.” He slowed the tired horses, talked to them soothingly. Now the immediate danger was past, she was beginning to tremble, and cautiously put the pistol away under the seat.

  They came to a crossroads, and the Captain turned at an oblique angle.

  “Why this direction?” she managed to ask without betraying her shaken state.

  “There are more trees ahead that may hide us from pursuit, and the direction is unexpected,” he explained. “Otherwise it makes little difference. I don’t know this county. You kept your head admirably well, Miss Towers.”

  Did he need to sound so surprised? Her ancestors had held castles in sieges, and fought in countless battles. “It was still a shock,” she said. “You too kept calm and acted quickly.”

  “In an officer, anything less would be reprehensible. We are trained to keep going when someone is taking pot shots at our heads. But in a young lady, panic or hysterics would be more expected.”

  “Not that young.” She did not hide her annoyance. People kept taking her for a child, simply because of her short stature. “I am past twenty-one.”

  “Ah. That would explain it then,” he said. “I beg your pardon if I took you for younger. The light is not good, and that hat shadows your features.”

  “That’s what it is supposed to do. I found it in the attic, and like to wear it when travelling.”

  “I suspect it was originally a man’s.”

  “No doubt.” To dress up in costume made her sound like a fanciful child, but she hardly cared for his opinion on her headgear. “Never mind about that. Do you admit now that you were wrong, that someone is trying to kill me?”

  “Someone shot at us, that much is certain. As difficult as it is to imagine, I must suppose your suspicion is justified. What do you know about this enemy? Why is he after you? What could be the purpose in hunting you like this?”

  “Vengeance,” she said bleakly. “I won’t go into the sordid details, but he blames me for a grim situation that he ultimately brought on his own head.”

  Not only was Alain de Manteil a worthless opportunist, he was in great part responsible for Monique’s distrust of libertine noblemen. When one had the figure of a waif with no bosom to speak of, combined with a large fortune, it was natural to suspect the motives of one’s admirers. Sometimes she wished she were quit of her wealth. That would quickly winnow the number of her suitors to a more manageable handful, or perhaps none would be left at all… Even so, it might be better to know the truth.

  “Where does this man live?”

  “In France, and he does not speak much English, nor is he fond of travelling abroad. On the other hand he is very rich. If he is behind this, he would have retained someone who will kill for money, whose actions cannot easily be traced back to the person who gave the order.”

  “Such hirelings exist, but one who would poison a whole inn would have to be exceptionally ruthless even for a criminal. So your enemy is French? But you are English, from your name and speech?”

  “My parents were both born in England,” she evaded a direct answer, “but I do have family in France, and have spent much of my life there.”

  He pulled on the reins, slowing the team. “I thought I saw a light over there. Does that look like an inn to you, Miss Towers?”

  She peered into the distance. The moon had once again half hidden behind the wispy clouds. “If so, it is even more modest than the one where we had the dreadful fish stew,” she said doubtfully. “But any port in a storm.”

  “Indeed.” They slowly approached the building. A dog began to bark furiously.

  The carriage came to a stop in front of a large wooden portal. Before she could offer to climb down and knock, or hold the reins while the Captain did so, a head poked out of a window-like opening to the side, and a surly voice asked, “Who is it, so late at night?”

  “Travellers,” the Captain said.

  “We pay well,” Monique added. That promise did the trick, for the man opened the portal wide without additional prompting, and the carriage proceeded into a courtyard that proved larger than Monique had expected.

  “What is that godawful smell?” the man asked as he barred the entrance again.

  “My travelling companions ate something harmful,” Monique explained apologetically. “We need five beds, and my, ah, courier here will ride for the next physician. Is it far?”

  “I don’t know about that,” the man said. “You’ll have to pay extra for any dirty sheets and cleaning. It’s not anything contagious, is it?”

  “Of course not,” the Captain said imperiously. “Don’t keep the lady standing out here. Is there nobody else to help us with the invalids? Who are you?”

  It turned out the surly fellow was the landlord himself, rather than a servant as Monique had assumed. While he and the Captain were consulting about the needs of the sick, a large dog came hurtling out of the stables and jumped up at Monique, nearly knocking her over. Her hat fell down to the ground. Impatiently she shook out her hair.

  The Captain stopped talking to the innkeeper. Both men stared at her.

  “Who did you say the lady was?” the impertinent landlord asked the Captain.

  “Miss Towers, a lady travelling with her maid and a female companion. The two women need care most urgently, I imagine.”

  “Let me fetch my wife, and the stable hand,” the landlord muttered.

  The dog attempted to lick Monique’s face. She turned sideways to evade the unwelcome tribute.

  The Captain was still looking at her with a strange expression. His own face was pleasant and open, though not outstandingl
y handsome, let alone beautiful. His shoulders were broad, but otherwise he was slender.

  This was not the time to admire anyone’s physique. She had to see to her poor servants and companion.

  “Help me carry them inside,” she commanded.

  Chapter 3

  Monique had never before cleaned a person who had been violently sick, and did not care for the task now; a messy, highly unpleasant business. She forced herself to the work because the small inn was overwhelmed with so many sudden arrivals, and the Captain had ridden off in search of a physician on that big roan of his. He’d tried to persuade the landlord to send someone else, even offering to lend his horse for the purpose, but had met with blank refusal. They were shorthanded, and that was that.

  “Keep your pistol near,” he had whispered as he took his leave of Monique. “I don’t think that shooter can find you here before my return, or would dare attack before all these witnesses, but beware.”

  She had nodded, and watched his departing back with an absurd degree of regret. He was only one man, but as soon as he was gone from sight, she felt vulnerable.

  The gate was locked and barred, and that slobbery dog would give alarm if there were any intruders. She ought to worry about her companion and servants rather than herself.

  Monique sacrificed two clean cotton petticoats from her trunk to wipe down Miss Maynard and Rita, after the worst of the damage had been removed with straw. Her poor maid also had a graze on her arm from that bullet. Where had the projectile passed afterwards? As full as the coach had been, it was a miracle none of their party had been killed. Monique cleaned and bound Rita’s wound, though presumably the physician would want to inspect it when he arrived. How much good could a provincial doctor be? She could only hope for the best.

  Rita was whimpering and did not respond to her soothing words, but Miss Maynard was merely pale and very weak. “Thank God you did not touch that stew,” she murmured in a faint voice when Monique pressed a damp cloth on her brow. Monique felt humbled that the companion would think of another’s welfare at such a moment. “You’ll soon be well,” she said bracingly, hiding her inward doubts. “Help is on the way. I have sent for the nearest physician.”

  “Good,” Miss Maynard whispered and closed her eyes, weary after the short exchange. She had been Monique’s governess before her charge’s come-out, over three years ago, and had stayed on as companion, particularly for those occasions when Monique travelled without her watchful parents. Such as the previous autumn, when Monique had been summoned for three months to Louis Philippe’s court, as lady-in-waiting for Princess Clementine.

  Rita was breathing heavily, her brow damp and clammy.

  Monique was less concerned about the men. Her coachman was tough and strong, and she hardly knew the other two. The outrider had been hired in Portsmouth the previous morning, together with the coach, and the postilion had come with the team. She never wanted to board this particular coach again, even if it could be cleaned so the smell went completely away. She would ride, or hire a gig for the remaining five or six hours to her friends’ estate.

  Nobody would worry about the delay, since Uncle James and Aunt Charlotte were unaware of her impending arrival. There had been no time to send a message ahead, and she was always welcome in their household. But would they be in residence? The Ellsworthy family spent part of each summer at their other estate in Cornwall, or with Uncle George and Aunt Marianne at Amberley. Uncle James would protect her, and catch this vile criminal who had aimed a rifle at her. From a distance, with the coach moving and the light so dim, that shot had come appallingly close. Was her pursuer a sharp-shooter, a professional? Perhaps an ex-soldier, like Captain Kinninmont?

  The Blue Boar, as their hostelry was called, did not have an abundance of rooms to let. When all the sick had been allotted beds, the men sharing the largest room, one small chamber was left for Monique, and none at all for the Captain, when he returned. She felt guilty at taking the last room, even with the badly mended sheets and lumpy mattress. Exhaustion was stronger than guilt, however. She lay down for a short while, without undressing, as she waited for the physician.

  ***

  The directions Duncan had been given by the landlord proved clear enough, but when he knocked at the door of “The Hollyhocks,” as Doctor Grimsby’s house was styled, there was no answer for several minutes. Surely a medical man often had to deal with emergencies? Duncan hoped the fellow was not out on some other errand, like delivering a difficult birth.

  At long last a gruff voice shouted, “Stop that infernal knocking! It is the middle of the night!”

  About three in the morning, by Duncan’s reckoning. He shouted back, “Is the doctor here? He’s wanted, it’s an emergency!”

  After a few minutes shuffling noises inside the house gave him hope. Emperor, tired from the long ride, began to munch on the flowers in the front garden. Duncan let him, he had earned the treat.

  When the door opened at last, a fussy, elderly man in a limp jacket, with greying sideburns and a bald spot on top, eyed him with disfavour.

  “What kind of emergency?” The physician asked without greeting.

  “Five people who partook of a fish stew were taken desperately sick, with heavy vomiting, unconsciousness, clamminess, nausea,” Duncan recited. When he’d helped carry the victims into the Blue Boar he had been able to observe their state all too closely.

  “Were there mushrooms in the stew?”

  “I doubt it, this early in the year,” Duncan said, “but I don’t know for certain. I was not there.”

  “Then what do you have to do with them?”

  “I came upon the party of travellers, and the coachman was one of the stricken. I merely offered my assistance, as a passer-by, to fetch help.”

  The physician frowned. “Will they be able to pay my bill?”

  “Undoubtedly. Their mistress, who is hale, does not look poor to me.”

  “Very well, wait out here. I’ll fetch my bag and the gig,” Doctor Grimsby said grudgingly. It still took the better part of ten minutes until they were underway, Emperor trotting behind the gig. The doctor drove himself. A faint lightness in the east foretold the approaching dawn.

  They arrived at the inn and once again, the landlord opened for them. Like Duncan, he was getting no sleep this night.

  “Is everyone still alive?” Duncan asked.

  “Aye, Sir, but one of the women seems very low. This way.” He led the physician and Duncan to the room where the three men were resting, two on one bed and the third on a narrow cot too short for his frame; his feet were protruding over its edge. They had been undressed and cleaned with straw, judging by the remnants clinging to the rough wool blankets, but a noisome smell lingered in the air.

  “A fish stew, was it?” The doctor said disapprovingly, looking from one patient to the other. “What did you put in it, Gormin?”

  “Twasn’t here! My wife’s cooking is perfectly fine,” the indignant landlord protested. “They arrived like this, near onto death. If I weren’t a Christian I’d have refused them entry.” He added with a note of anxiety, “They assured me it wasn’t contagious.”

  “We cannot know that,” the physician pronounced, shaking his head. “Even if this dire state comes merely from bad food, the miasma of the sickness can still touch you.”

  “What is to be done, then?” Duncan asked impatiently. “They are here now, and need treatment.”

  “Liquids, as much as they can take,” the physician advised. “Barley water to start with, and chicken broth once they keep that down. Weak tea. No solid food for two days, mind, and then only dry toast and boiled apples for the first day.”

  “And this miasma, how can we protect ourselves from it?” The landlord asked as the physician put his hand on the neck of the coachman, and pulled open his right eyelid to stare at the pupil.

  “Burn all their soiled clothing, and the bedding, as soon as they stop vomiting. If any of them die, don’t let your peo
ple touch the body, and pack it in lime as soon as may be.”

  The coachman groaned loudly at hearing this, proving he was not as unconscious as he appeared.

  “It’s not anthrax they have,” Duncan said indignantly, “merely food poisoning. Or some other poison. Is there no potion, medicine, or antidote, doctor?”

  The two men turned to stare at him. “Poison?” The physician asked sharply. “Do you have any reason to suspect it, Sir?”

  “No, I was not there when they ate the cursed stew, but I have been a soldier. I have seen people sick from food, but never this many at once, and so badly. I am just wondering what it could have been.”

  “Leave such speculations to the experts,” Grimsby said shortly. “There have been enough cases where whole groups of diners were stricken, and even died. A wrongly cured ham or adulterated drink could be enough. What was the name of that other inn?”

  “I have no idea,” Duncan said, “I only came across their coach later, on the road. The lady, Miss Towers, might remember.”

  “The Four Vixens,” the coachman moaned. “May lightning strike the place.”

  “I have heard of the inn,” the landlord said, “about two hours south of here, in the direction of Portsmouth.”

  “This man can still reason and talk, a hopeful sign.” Grimsby sharply prodded the hapless coachman’s abdomen. A loud cry was the reaction. “Without knowing exactly what they ingested, any remedy might do more harm than good. It will come down to the strength of their constitutions.”

  “There are the two women as well,” Duncan reminded him. “Come, have a look at them.”

  They found the females in voluminous nightdresses, cleaner than the men. Miss Towers entered as the physician was examining them, her blond locks dishevelled. “Ah, you came! Can you help my companion and maid?”

  The doctor explained the regimen he had already outlined for the men. “Three days’ rest, at the very least,” he added. “This young woman – your maid, Ma’am? – is the sickest of the lot. Pray for her, she needs it.”